Alright alright alright. My legions of readers, their brains bloated with the hunger-gas of idea-lack, have not been pestering me to fill this space. Having (somewhat) given up on commenting in the world situation (always hovering between Bad and Sure To Get Worse) and having written (probably) most of what I want to say about Ground Zero (seeing as how it's all cleaned up now and whatnot) I suppose some brief blurt of verbiage regarding the Neurosis In My Head is in order.

I have indeed sort of thrown in the towel as far as politics on Astonished Head goes. It's just too goddamn depressing, for one thing. 'Politics' these days seems to be an endless parade of sterling examples of the worst in human nature: greed, cowardice, incompetence, prevarication, and, above all, thick-wittedness. We live in a system that guarantees representation to the greedy, the cowardly, the incompetent, the dishonest and the thick-witted. A noble idea, but the system failed to compensate for the fact that, inevitably, the worst of us rise to the top. People forget that cream floats because it's nothing but fat, and if you live on fat alone your arteries will clog up and you'll die, strangled by your own indulgence.

I can't play the game that is punditry (not very well, at least). It's all well and good to adopt this or that position...there's more than enough information floating around out there these days to serve any argument you care to make. It's all about research: finding the facts that back up the bits to which you've elected to lend the name of Truth, and then artfully arranging them in a convincing manner. Arguments fly back and forth like bacon grease at Springfield Elementary's first dance. But nothing really gets done, no fundamental changes are really made, and the political game continues on heedless of who plays what position; indeed, the game continues in flagrant spite of those who play it, ensuring that no one of sound, immovable principle can achieve any measure of real power. Arguing about it becomes an exercise in self-indulgence and a neuronal pissing contest. After trying that out, I've decided that I don't have a taste for it.

For another thing (the first 'thing' was mentioned way back there, in Paragraph Two) there are many, many people out there who do have a taste for it, and instead of scrambling after them and pretending like I'm a Clever Fellow Who Likes Punditing I'd rather be the Clever Fellow that I actually am, who is occasionally right about things but has the disturbing ability to sound much more right about things than he actually is, which is a Tremendous Power that must be Used For Good, Not Evil.

'Good,' in this case, will probably consist of bits that are quite a bit lighter than the bits that currently reside here.

The lie will be given to this bit the next time I get ticked off about something, I'm sure. But for now I'm going to sit inside my hollow tree stump and think about what I can write about that actually entertains me.

Read more from the Verbiage Archive
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And what amuses me today? First, I am amused that the New Improved Blogger Pro version replaces all of my " and ' characters with ? characters. I cannot quote anyone without seeming to be very very inquisitive, or an inverted Spaniard. Why are there " and ' characters in this post, you ask? Because I am using the old New Improved Blogger Pro version, which leaves my " and ' characters alone.

I am also amused by this fellow, because he doesn't know what he's talking about. Anyone who can define eschatology as "the spirituality of any religion" and then proceed to write an entire column about out-Islaming the Muslims can only be amusing, and nothing more. My learned response to this bit of nonsense can be found as a comment to this item at VodkaPundit, if you're interested. The thing that gets me about this guy is that he was a deputy undersecretary of Defense for George Bush I. It's a wonder we got out alive...although I suppose that as a mere deputy undersecretary he probably didn't get to make any of the big big decisions, and certainly didn't need to know much about religion.

I am also amused by this Drudge item: "Martha's Vineyard town reverses bar smoking ban." Seems that once the town banned smoking in bars, the smokers moved to the street corners. Says Health Board chairman Joe Alosso: "The (cigarette) butts are a major problem, and so is the language you hear. They've taken the bar atmosphere and put it in the street." So it's not the cigarettes that are the problem, it's the people who smoke them. Better to have those...people...in bars, out of sight, where they can give each other cancer and we won't be subjected to their presence.

Finally: Georges the Dolphin. Pity poor Georges. Not only is he unable get any Dolphin action, which has forced him to harass human females, he has also developed a fascination with spinning things. Namely, boat propellers. I've seen that happen: sexually frustrated drunken fratboys roaming the city, looking for revolving doors to play in. It never ends well, and it probably won't end well for poor Georges either.

Read more from the Verbiage Archive
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Well now. Nothing has caught my interest today, not really. What a world we live in, when a blown-up bus full of charred commuters becomes routine news. Nothing special. Days like today I'm so proud that we came down from the trees and lost our knuckle-callouses. We certainly do put those opposable thumbs to fine and noble use.

In other news, they're looking at a Kuwaiti as the operational planner behind September 11. Ingrate.

A peculiar thing to see at the end of that article:

"Mohammed has not been charged in connection with the attacks, in which hijacked airliners crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and a field in Pennsylvania, leaving more than 3,000 dead."

In case you missed it, or have forgotten. September 11, 2001 has already been encapsulated into its one-sentence summary, ready for the textbooks of the future.

And now, I'm off to do a little dance before the Gods of Relocation, that they may bless me with a humble abode far from this Big Urban Target.

Read more from the September 11 Archive
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Last night, many Sapporos danced upon my head. The Gods may be propitiated. Perhaps not. I don't know. I spent the evening trimming the plastic and foil from two-pack samples of Cipro and one-pack samples of Levaquin. I await the arrival of my supply of Potassium Iodide. Woo-hoo! Two broad-spectrum antibiotics and an iodine compound intended to prevent the absorption of radioative iodine into the thyroid after a nuclear event. I'm assembling a portable ten-day supply of each for myself and my significant other, along with an EAVAC-U8 smoke hood, a mini Maglite, a thousand calories' worth of Clif bars, and a Motorola T289 radio. All of which is intended to lend a helping hand with the odds on the event of yet another ass-Qaeda catastrophe in Manhattan.

The Cipro and Levaquin will help with nasty aerosolized bugs supplied by Iraq. The Potassium Iodide will assist in combating the long-term effects of radioactive fallout from devices supplied by Iran and built with German components. The smoke hood will supply 20 minutes of breathable air should the need to escape down the stairwell of a skyscraper filled with burning jet fuel present itself. The mini Maglight will assist in navigating said stairwell or traversing subsurface subway tunnels to avoid the worst effects of fallout on the way out of Manhattan. Clif bars will supply needed energy in an easily portable form. I can use the radio to talk to my sweetie and arrange meeting places beneath the city (unless the radio gets fried by the EMP.)

Clearly I'm grooving on the doomsday, chuckling into the irrational fear that people who don't live here try to tell me is "What They Want." Whatever, to that I say, whatever. I think that what they want is to kill us. Fear is incidental. Packing up antibiotics and iodine compounds makes me feel better; that's good. I work in a tall building: I'll be able to get down a smoke filled-stairwell. That's good, too, and practical besides. Maglights are handy in all sorts of ways. And the Clif bars may provide a snack some day. All good reasons to carry such items. Not the real reasons, of course. But when I used to commute into Manhattan from Jersey City five years ago, using the PATH line that's now been erased from the PATH system maps, I thought about assembling the exact same group of items, to use if I needed to escape the dread island. Turns out that I might.

Read more from the September 11 Archive
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OK...OK...*hic*...put that one...over there...an' other one...there...an'...*hic*...bring me...bring me...BRING ME THE HEAD OF AFONSE D'AMATO!...yeah...

10 TOOTY FROOTY
20 OH ROOTY
30 TOOTY FROOTY
40 OH ROOTY
50 AWOP BOP A LOO BOP
60 BALIM BAM BOOM
70 GOTO 10

The Style Council met today and decided to disconnect 33% of my neurons and reconnect them to various kitchen appliances. This will result in excellent breakfasts but will most probably cause a marked decrease in the quality and quantity of word-like substances extruded onto these pages.

In other news, NASA has announced that it will send my kidneys on a mission to Mars in 2008. This was greeted with acclaim by the members of the American Pipefitter's Union Local 206, which admitted no involvement.

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What do you mean I posted that? What the hell do I pay you for?

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Q: So...you were a Latino named Jose Padilla?
A: Si.

Q: And you were a Catholic?
A: Si.

Q: And a member of the "Latin Kings?"
A: Si.

Q: And when you were in prison, you converted to Islam, changed your name to Abdullah al Muhajir, and when you were released you decided to go to Afghanistan and learn how to build radiological dispersion devices so that you could blow them up in Washington D.C.?
A: Si. I mean, Allahu Akbar!

Funny old world, ain't it?

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In other, scarier news, buried at the bottom of this related WaPo article is the happy news that thieves stole 19 tubes of medical cesium from a Greensville, NC hospital in 1998. They still don't know what happened to it. 1998 is well within the heavy-duty planning stage of ass-Qaeda's evolution.

Swell! Dee-dee-dee...waiting for my Potassium Iodide to arrive..ho-hum...

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But, on the other hand, check out the WaPo graphic design department's reassuring visuals.

Worst Case Scenario: a cobalt-60 bomb produces a 60-mile cigar-shaped dispersion pattern that, at its core, produces 1 extra cancer death per 100 people inside the Beltway in D.C.

Not an occasion for dancing around in fabulous party hats. But no reason to hide in a bunker, either.

Ho-hum...waiting for my Potassium Iodide to arrive...dee-dee-dee...

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Ah. What's this? Oh. Hang on.

*snap*

There. That's much better.

Anyway: the Relocation Gods have accepted my offering of half a burnt Ballpark frank (they smoke when you char 'em, and did you know that it takes an average of 6.1 bites to eat one?), and have grudgingly initiated the first stage of my transfer to Somewhere That Has Not Exploded. Which is, as Colonel Richard Franklin Babbage declared upon hearing that his troops had managed to massacre 8,000 screaming Hottentots using just three boxes of ammunition and an old boot, a "Vewy, vewy good thing." Kudos to the hated British.

In other news, Ground Zero has remained exactly the same for nearly two weeks. It's surreal: so much commotion, noise, activity, smoke, smell...now all is still. One big concrete-lined hole in the ground, please, and make it snappy! Yes, I want fries with that. Idiot.

We shall see if the Gods bestow further gifts upon me, although they may indeed already be doing so in the form of extra fat about me middle. As it stands now, things are threatening to look up, and we all need that.

Further evidence of the overwhelming power of my own experience: I watched the entire first season of the Sopranos this weekend, which apparently killed John Gotti. I stand in awe of my own synchronicty.

Read more from the Peapod Archive
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Of course, work still continues around Ground Zero. The Wintergarden--the ten-story glass atrium that faced the Hudson and connected to the North Tower--is being repaired in record time. For those who don't know, the Wintergarden is that tiny bubble of multipaned glass that used to squat next to the World Financial Center, facing the Hudson. Inside, it looked like this. All of that shiny marble had to be replaced, along with every pane of glass. I hope they seal the panes a bit better, this time. It looks pretty, but leaked like a sieve when it rained.

The last of the marble that should have taken to years to cut, prepare, and deliver arrived last week from Italy. Listen to this bit about one of the marble craftsmen who are rebuilding floors, Tom Teaman:

"Mr. Teaman, 45, said that he wished he could grab Osama bin Laden 'by the neck.' Instead, he grasped a perfectly honed chunk of grayish Fior de Pesco marble from a quarry in Italy."

That's a beautiful thing, somehow. It is the essence of the difference between Them and Us. We build. They destroy. Very simple. The Italians who quarry, cut, and polish the fine marble know this, too:

"'We didn't consider this a job,' said Ivo Lensi, a vice president at Campolonghi Italia in Montignoso, Italy, which supplied the Winter Garden marbles and granites. 'It is a duty, a responsibility. To show to the world that this crazy guy Osama has done nothing to us. These guys not only attacked the Americans, but they attacked us here in Italy.'"

So the work goes on. And, as always, those who create know what it means to do Good in this world.

Read more from the September 11 Archive
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So: I've just come in from the men's room up the hall, where I didn't wash my hands. This is because the soap in the soapy-pumpy-gizmos there is always watered down to something like two parts soap to eight parts water. It's a New York thing, I think: Building Services profits are maximized here this way. It's not that way in Connecticut. Which doesn’t mean I'm a filthy bastard, mind you, it just means that I wait until I get back to the little kitchenette near my not-quite-a-cubicle to wash my hands with properly thick, rich, cleansing dish soap.

Of course, there isn't any soap in kitchenette A, because the department that's recently moved into this space prefers to use kitchenette B, leaving us up at the front bereft of soap, paper towels, napkins, and so forth. At one point, some vast petty struggle ensued over getting the department--which also has offices four floors below--to supply us with water cooler water. Utter nonsense! Now we've got water cooler water but--as I mentioned--no soap. So, it's off to kitchenette B, the favored kitchenette, to partake of the soap there.

When I arrive, there's a fellow at the sink, washing his single-serving French press coffee maker gizmo-thingy. He notices me, greets me, keeps washing. I wait a minute, standing behind him near the microwave, and notice some danish from the corporate-supplied breakfasty food type stuff they provide here. To kitchenette B, not kitchenette A, of course. I get some afternoon coffee from the Mr. Corporate Drug Of Choice machine, and gingerly slide an apple breakfast pastry whorl of some sort onto a paper plate, barely touching it with my as-yet-unwashed fingers. French press guy is still washing. Very thoroughly. I see suds. Hot water steams.

I wait for a few more minutes, or what seems like a few more minutes, but probably isn't, because living here in this city has destroyed any semblance of patience I might once have had. I read some printouts from Lileks that I had snagged to read in the bathroom. I think about leaving. But I can't really eat my apple pastry whorl thing without washing my hands, can I? I mean, I've already made the commitment to some form of hygiene by securing the pastry whorl without touching it. I could go back, sit down, do something for awhile, and then come back. But that seems silly. I'd be sitting there being mocked by my untouchable apple danish-style thing. So I wait some more, while my disgruntlement grows. Hey! French press guy! What's the deal? You need sterile equipment to make your freakin' joe? Come on! Just as I'm starting to get really worked up, French press guy turns and asks, politely "Am I in your way?"

"No," I lie. "Just need to wash my hands."

"Don't want to hold you up!" He steps aside, hands all a-sudsed. I wash my hands, using the bottle of blue Fast-Acting Dawn dish soap.

It's been diluted with water.

The apple breakfast pastry whorl thing wasn't very good, either.

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These, of course, are the least of the problems a human can face. Look out! It's taking-too-long-to-wash-his-coffee-dingus-man! Duck! and Cover! from the wrath of the stale breakfast-style apple thing. And the watery soap of doom! Not nearly as worrisome as the problems faced by a fellow I saw this afternoon, buying a bunch-of-beef-on-a-stick from the bunch-of-beef-on-a-stick vendor who recently perched his brand-spanking-new cart on the corner outside my apartment building. For a while, everything about that beefstick vending cart was new. All shiny metal surfaces, bright plastic umbrellas...even the ketchup, mustard and Mysterious Hot Sauce squeeze bottles were bright and clean shiny plastic. I've never seen such a sparkling new bunch-of-beef-on-a-stick vending cart. I wish it was somewhere else, though. Not that it matters, because I'm moving soon.

Anyway--this afternoon thin strappy-tee-shirt man bought some beef on a stick, and stood eating it with the small group of people who always seem to hang about the vending cart, eating various foodstuffs. Not just bunch-of-beef-on-a-stick, there's also slices of Mighty Spinning Meat Cone to be had, along with bunch-of-chicken-on-a-stick, and some sort of falafel-style mash. All messily eaten in foil or direct from the stick or occasionally from a styrofoam box. The stuff that comes in the styrofoam box constitutes, I think, a full "meal."

Thin strappy-tee-shirt man had some problems, though...after consuming most of his bunch-of-beef-on-a-stick, he got a funny look on his face, and staggered around a bit. I passed by him on the way to the video store to see about some more Sopranos videos and a Klondike Oreo ice cream sandwich thing. When I came back up the street, everybody around the meat-vending cart was staring up into the air, which I did too, because that's what you do when you see a bunch of folks standing staring up into the air. Thin strappy-tee-shirt man was hanging onto the topmost wire strung along the telephone poles, wailing miserably, his feet towards the sky, as though being pulled upwards...which, it seemed, he was, because just as I set eyes on him he lost his grip. Still wailing, he flew upwards as fast as falling down a well, and was soon lost to sight. On the sidewalk under where he had been hanging onto the wire was a grease-stained stick with a couple of browned cubes of beef still skewered on it, next to a dollop of pigeon shit.

That's why I don't eat at carts like that. I mean, you just never know what you're getting.

Read more from the Verbiage Archive
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We've all heard about those destructive relationships...the ones where you can look at the two of them and just know that nothing good will come of it.

But consider the case of the unfortunate Terry Barton. The results of the collapse of her marriage? 103,000 acres burned. 22 homes incinerated. 5,400 people evacuated, 2,200 lives at risk and $6.7 million taxpayer dollars spent. Amazing!

Mrs. Barton, apparently, set the Colorado wildfire while burning a letter from her husband. Now she faces 10 years in prison and $250,000 in fines.

The real kick in the teeth? She's a U.S. Forest Service ranger.

Personally, I hope the judge cuts her some slack. I can't imagine that she could possibly feel any worse than she already does. Not that that's a reason for leniancy in and of itself, of course, but it's not like she woke up one morning and decided to burn down Colorado.

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To expand further on that theme, and indulge in baseless speculation: check out, if you would, the consequential breadth and depth of the relationship between two human beings. The causal chain of events that led from personal estrangement (to use the wire service's characterization of Mrs. Barton's husband) to fiery conflagration. How's that for a magical parallel? By that I mean (and this is the speculative bit): we can assume that there was, shall we say, a certain amount of anger that day, as Terry Barton burned that letter from her husband. Who knows what was in that letter? Terry, I'm leaving you for a cocktail waitress I met in Vegas...I'm taking the Hummels with me... Words worthy of being eradicated by fire...and then that fire explodes into an inferno that can be seen from outer space.

Weird smackhead mystic Aleister Crowley wrote that magic was "the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will." Was there, perhaps, a bit of unintended magicking going on that day in the forest? An emotive outburst from behind the normally impermeable walls of the skull, sparking outrage into the brittle tinder? Should we all be thankful, perhaps, that Terry Barton wasn't a member of the 90th Space Wing?

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There's a curious breed of office worker I've had my eye on for some time now (Mr. Anderson). They are the Button Challenged, and are readily identified by a singular behavior. The elevator buttons here, like most elevator buttons, light up when pressed. They light up when summoning an elevator. They light up when, once inside the summoned elevator, a floor is chosen. Bright red rings surrounding silver buttons, saying, Look! I have been activated.

But there is a certain sort of person--mostly male, I've noticed--who does not believe the simple button's message. I watch them. In the lobby, wanting to go up, they spy a red-ringed button. And push it. In an elevator, wanting to go to the same floor that someone has already selected, they again push the lighted button. Sometimes I see such persons stop, observe the lit button for a split-second, and press it anyway.

I wonder about the mindset, here. Is it simple iconographic ignorance? The button is lit...but I should push it anyway, because a lit button might mean that it's ready to be pushed. Is it lack of faith in the competence of fellow humans? The button is lit...but whoever pushed it might not have pushed it properly, so I'd better do it, just to make sure. Is it impatience? The button is lit, but there's no elevator here, so I should push it harder so that the elevator will hurry the hell up. Or a lack of fine motor control? The button has been pushed, I see that it's lit, but I've already started my finger, hand and arm towards it, and...I...can't...stop!

There is a related condition, common to those who do not know about the sophisticated nature of the modern elevator. In the morning, they get onto one of the many elevators in the building lobby and punch at the Door Close button, which does nothing. They sigh and are exasperated. What they don't know is that these elevators are controlled by computers, and during the morning, between 8:30 and 10AM, they hold the doors open for 15 seconds or so. They do this so that the efficient movement of workers into the lofty heights will not be impeded by some impatient goon who wants the elevator all to himself.

To what extent this group of impatient types overlaps with the Button Challenged I do not know. But I've got my grant proposals written.

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A number of folks have written over the past few days to say hello, some of whom have linked to Astonished Head. For which I am indeed grateful and appreciative. I haven't had time to send off replies to various e-mails just yet, not because I'm asocial or swamped with Vast Important Projects, but because I'm...well, lazy isn't exactly the right word...call me inertial. Please don't take offense.

At some point I will rouse myself and attempt to respond to communications from the outside world.

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The Mid-East bit in today's Bleat must be read. (So must the rest of it; always. Reading Lileks is like a good hot cup of someone else's happy life each morning...hopeful and helpful. Usually, anyway.)

Lileks knew some Ukranians, who--like many other folks in the Soviet bloc--had experienced their share of oppression. He writes:

"Sixty years of occupation, oppression and mass extermination, and not one of these men would have taken the war to girls on a bus bound for a Moscow high school. Not one. If a Uke had burst into a home of a Russian official and shot his little girl in her bed, they would have been deeply ashamed that their cause had been corrupted thus - the Metropolitan of the church would have condemned it, the activists abroad would have denounced it, the children kept from the news lest they think that opposition to the Soviet occupiers justified splitting open a baby's head in her mother's lap."

That right there is the Palestinian Difference. Their apologists in the West (hey, Chomsky!) and elsewhere want us to believe that terrorism is a desperate measure taken by desperate people to achieve a good and noble end. And yet, as Lileks pointed out: people everywhere have suffered, and have lashed out in organized fashion. Those who support the Palestinian cause seem to think that any resistance to the idea that their noble cause excuses their tactics is a de facto condemnation of violence as a tool of legitimate resistance. It's not. Sometimes violence is, indeed, the only recourse in the face of oppression.

But look at the Palestinians' targets. Their deliberately chosen targets. An Army barracks? Squads of soldiers on patrol? Helicopters? Tanks? No. Pizzerias. Nightclubs. Buses. Markets. Children in their beds.

There's regrettable violence that is a means, and then there's celebrated violence that is an end. Where are the organized Palestinian militias, bravely fighting against the superior firepower of the IDF? Why is it noble to sacrifice oneself by suicidally detonating an explosive packed with nails on a bus instead of raising a rifle against the oppressor, side-by-side with your comrades-in-arms? The answer is clear enough: it is not the sacrifice that is important. It is the killing of the Jews that is important. The goal is not liberation, it is eradication.

Does anyone really believe that a Palestinian state formed at this time could possibly be anything other than murderous, tyrannical and barbaric?

Read more from the Middle East Archive
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Ach, rude, neglectful me. Deb over at Ten Things and Susanna at Cut on the Bias have linked to Astonished Head, which is a groovy, first-time sort of thing. Go have a look-see!

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Apparently, $6 billion a year doesn't buy the American taxpayer clairvoyance. I am outraged! For that much money I expect some precognition, dammit! Among the other phrases that the NSA's Big Ear neglected to connect to the incipient piloting of airliners into buildings:

"The electric yam has got me by the brain banana."

"She must have hidden the plans in the escape pod. Send a detachment down to retrieve them. See to it personally, Commander. There'll be no one to stop us this time."

"The Big Cheese gets his at midnight."

"Mohammed's big wad, peace be upon it, has been loosed."

Come on, people! Could it have been any more obvious?

On the plus side, 20/20 hindsight is available for free from various media outlets and pundits.

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So. It's summer.

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"These are the kinds of questions that are provoked by terror alerts: Answering them more clearly and consistently would allow citizens to respond sensibly to warnings."

So spouts the wisdomfont of the Washington Post today. Not to toot my own horn, but *braaaaaapp* I've been saying that since the beginning of March.

And yet: WaPo still says only "Hey! The Public needs information." Surely with the vast research pool they swim in they could manage to put together some handy preparedness charts and pocket-sized five-point security awareness pamphlets. Show some initiative, I say. Why wait for the Guv'mint to get off its bloated bureaucracy and dust off the old Duck n' Cover how-tos? Pri! Vate! Enterprise!

And now venerable Time magazine jumps into the Apocalyptic fray. *Braaaaaapp* A constant theme here; see the visions of Rabbik and others scattered throughout these pages. Mass media: slow-draw McGraws, all. Bow before my prescience and bloated ego.

Ever'body jump on board the train to Megiddo! Load up your cameras and your palmcorders, focus your lenses on the gathering armies! Gaze upon the sores of the damned, the dead seas, the rivers of blood! Tremble before the burning sun, the darkness, the dry Euphrates! Not to mention the evil frog spirits, the earthquakes, the thunder, the lightning...let's see, what else...oh yeah: the hundred-pound hailstones, the whore upon the red multiheaded horned beast...the shouting multitudes...hmm...oh, and of course the Horsemen...with all that plague and famine stuff...and don't get squashed by the Big-Ass Throne of God when it plops down in the middle of New Jerusalem.

*Yawn*

It's lunchtime.

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*Munch*

And now it's not. In keeping with the entrepreneurial spirit of survival information-sharing, I would advise all of you who work in Big Tall Buildings to go here and get one of these. Why? Because about 75% of deaths in fires are due to smoke inhalation, not burning, and because hundreds of people died on 9/11 because they couldn't get down the single remaining stairwell in the South tower. Not because of fire: because of smoke and toxic gases. The EVAC-U8 smoke hood provides 15-20 minutes of breathable air. It's a chemically reactive filter, which means that it will eliminate carbon monoxide other toxic gasses before you inhale them. The hood itself is transparent and heat resistant. It will keep your eyes clear and prevent your eyebrows from being burned off.

They're $64.95 (I've saved you the research--safehomeproducts.com has the best price at the moment), but if you have to use one in a fire the company will send you another one for free. Also useful for hotels, airplanes, subways...any place that might catch on fire for some reason. I've got one, and it goes where I go.

Now, for those of you near something nuclear (or worried about having something nuclear blown up near you) you can protect your vulnerable thyroid--if nothing else--with Potassium Iodide (KI) tablets. There's a good FAQ on the hows and whys of KI tablets here (basically, it prevents your thyroid from absorbing the damaging radioactive iodine given off during a nuclear event by 'filling it up' with nice happy non-radioactive iodine. This will save you from thyroid cancer ten or twenty years down the road...assuming you survive, of course). You can buy Radblock KI from the ki4u.com site, but they use PayPal which I don't much care for because they require you to submit personal info. I bought my KI from The American Civil Defense Association using a credit card, no problem. The price is about the same, and I didn't have to give my genetic information to PayPal in order to buy it.

There! Astonished Head's Tips For The Practical Paranoid.

Read more from the September 11 Archive
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Oh, and for those of you who are currently in the throes of uncontrollable anxiety, and don't mind pharmaceuticals that sound like they're manufactured elsewhere in the galaxy, I recommend dear old alprazolam, also called Xanax.

Hail! I am Alprazolam from Planet Xanax! Submit to my sleepiness-ray!

Xanax is a benzodiazapine. So don't wash it down with a six-pack or anything. And remember: you're not cured. You're tranquilized. To my mind, that's a bit more temporary and less...well, freaky...than taking a long-term anti-depressant brain-chemical "Ya, it verks but vee don't know vhy, exactly" kind of pill.

Of course, they don't know why Xanax works either. But still.

Read more from the Neuronal Soup Archive
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And before I get slews of "Paxil changed my life" type letters: yes, I know they can work wonders for folks but the one time I tried such a concoction I felt the chemicals changing in my brain.

The brain isn't an organ like your stomach, which you're aware of because it gurgles and twists around and suchlike. It's silent and mysterious and hidden...like your spleen, maybe, or your gall-bladder...but even that's not quite right, because if your spleen goes off you don't start hearing voices and shouting at demons and so forth. To suddenly become acutely aware of my brain in such a systemic and subtle way was quite disturbing.

Didn't like it! No sir.

So I stopped.

That was years ago, and I am now the fabulously well-adjusted and happy camper you all know and love today.

Now, where's that goddamn hammer...

Read more from the Verbiage Archive
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Sullivan calls our attention to this tasty bit of moral corruption from Methodist theologian Stanley Hauerwas:

“On Sept. 11, Americans were confronted by people ready to die as an expression of their profound moral commitments. Their willingness to die stands in stark contrast to a politics that asks of its members in response to Sept. 11 to shop.”

Uh--Stanley? I think the point is that we were confronted by people who were ready to kill 3,000 men, women and children as an expression of their "profound moral commitments." I don't know about you, Stan, but from where I stood on September 11--which was in an all-encompassing cloud of choking skyscraper dust--their willingness to die wasn't nearly as important as their willingness to try and kill me.

Article author Patrick O’Neill writes that Stanley is "not afraid to humanize those who flew jets into buildings on Sept. 11." How brave, Stan! Do go on.

And he does: “A people who have been bred to shop then can quickly become some of the most violent people in the world,” Stan says, “exactly because they’re dying to have something worth dying for.” Oh, wait--I must have missed the 19 shopping-crazed Americans who took out the twin Petronas towers in Malaysia to give their lives meaning. Did I miss that, Stan? Show me, you feisty thinker, you! I also seem to have missed the government-run genetic engineering program that is responsible for the irresistible urge every American feels at all times to buy things.

So this is what a doctorate from Yale gets you. And this, apparently, is what being "holy" means: to be so far removed from anything real or moral that your every utterance is laden with deep respect for murderous fanatics and contempt for the dead of September 11. After all, they were only following their genetic imperative to acquire wealth so that they could continue shopping, like the good little consumer animals that they were.

I encourage you to send a note to the editor of the National Catholic Reporter at ncr_editor@natcath.com.

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I know I promised to (more or less) stay out of politics, but Bush made with the Big Big Words yesterday, so go read it if'n you didn't hear it.

My analysis:

He told the Palestinians: you've been pawns for decades. Straighten up and fly right and we'll help you out.
He told the Syrians: you've supported terrorism for decades. Straighten up and fly right or we'll kick your ass.
He told the Israelis: Bad nascent state. Bad! Be nice.

That's pretty much it.

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Quietly, with no media fanfare, the very last bit of debris was scraped off of a windowsill...and the recovery efforts at Ground Zero are finally, truly, over.

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Well, duh.

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MoDo writes about how it's all about the boomers. Again.

Yes, Ms. Dowd. All you boomers were right! Your struggle was determining the fate of the world! It's all about your worst paranoid fantasies!

Yes, Bobby Rush: the Constitution is being trampled. That's why women can't leave the house, summary public execution is the norm, and any violation of religious law is grounds for immediate punishment. Oh, and I've got news for you, Bobby: using a library card is the least of your surveillance worries. You should cut up your credit cards, disconnect your telephone, cable, and utilities, shred your driver's license, cancel your magazine subscriptions, get off the Internet, keep all your money in cash under the mattress, and wear a mask whenever you go outside so you don't get caught on some random video camera somewhere. Oh no! Where's your privacy, Bobby? In your head, that's where. And, as a Congressman, I'm sure you feel the pain of your disenfranchisement every day.

And Ralph! Nader-boy! Yes, irreversible systemic decay is firmly and irrefutably indicated by budget considerations. That's right! Never mind that they can double the SEC budget next year...the fact that they haven't done it right! now! when! Ralph! says! means, of course, that everything is going to hell in a handbasket.

And perhaps, Ms. Dowd, "those who came of age in the 60's" gave up on John Lennon's wish that they could "imagine no possessions..etc., etc." because Lennon was a multi-millionaire heroin addict and because they decided that Greed was Good when they created those "plum decades" to which you're referring.

Once again, the profound penchant of a certain sort of 60's child for solipsistic navel gazing has reared its graying head. How about lamenting this, Ms. Dowd: you and your revolutionary buddies beat your chests and thought you were changing the world, then grew up and became what you hated.

What exactly, are you trying to point out here? The persistence of boomer paranoia? The complete and utter failure of your vaunted Youth Movement to prevent what it knew was happening? That your drug-fueled utopia wouldn't have done a damn thing to protect us? I'm lost, here. Clue me in.

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Prediction: the next incident of mass destruction will occur because Ted Nugent and David Lee Roth were interviewed in the same room at the same time and accidentally achieved critical mass.

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By now I'm sure you've heard about the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals declaring the Pledge of Allegiance "unconstitutional." Makes for a good headline, doesn't it? But that's not quite the whole story.

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More on Noam Chomsky's babbling foolishness. I particularly like Pejman's characterization of some of his positions as 'morally daft.' I'm stealing those words; they're mine now.

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Glenn Reynolds takes a bite out of the Most Holy Hauerwas.

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Hey hey, kids!

'Tis Sunday, the seventh day, and in that spirit I'm going to attempt a sort of regular Sunday bit of writing, a sort of Homily Spew, if you will. Everybody is under the impression that the Idea we here in the West hold within our packages of neurons when we speak the word "God" rested on the seventh day. Except for the Jewish folks, they've got this thing about Saturday, which is fine for them. I choose to observe both, myself, and rest for two days, which makes me even holier, and that's fine for me.

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