Octopodial Chrome

The Poles have found four French Roland-3 missiles in Iraq. Thy were manufactured in ’03—shortly before we invaded. This should serve as further proof that the real reason the Frogs & Krauts have opposed us is that they made money off of the Hussein régime.

They have since apologised, most likely because they wish to join the New Holy Roman Empire (one would have thought that the Poles would have learnt their lesson with the first one). The French defence—that the missiles haven’t been made in years—strikes me as false: what wouldn’t make sense like continuing to manufacture old-tech weapons to sell to suspect buyers? That way one would always have an advantage, but could still make money.

An animal rights group set loose 10,000 mink—thereby unleashing a frenzy Mink have attacked exotic birds, chickens, fish and even a dog. Those which have been returned have resorted to cannibalism (apparently mink will only leave alone their sibling, and since there’s no way to tell which is which, inevitably the pens have a heterogeneous mixture).

The Fur Commission USA is offering a $100,000 reward information about the crime. Methinks they should offer $1,000,000 for the heads of those responsible. But I’m bloody-minded.

I don’t care about sports (in fact, I consider them akin to short pants: silly in anyone over the age of 13), but the recent furor over Limbaugh’s remark that some quarterback is over-rated because of his colour has reached even me. Allen Barra writes that yes, Limbaugh was right, and further that he didn’t say aught wrong.

They coldcall folks listed in whois. Why am I posting this? Read on for enlightenment.

Reading my brother Thomas’s rant about an article which noted that the name of the Ignobel Prizes is a pun on ignoble reminds me how much we’re alike. I never used to think so; in fact there was a time when I wondered if he might not actually be a changeling (the boy likes sports!). But when he graduated from the US Naval Academy, we went to a party with some of his friends, and they commented that we are incredibly similar. At first we resisted; after all, a large part of our lives has been spent opposing one another in various ways. But eventually we had to admit that it’s true. It’s not so much that we’re alike, as that everyone else is so much different.

What made me realise the truth is that on the drive over we had spent about a quarter hour agreeing that anyone who misuses the apostrophe as in CD’s (it hurts just to write that) should be executed, banished or otherwise dealt with very harshly indeed.

I’ve spent the last two months or so revamping WesternOrthodox.com, the homepage of my parish and an excellent resource regarding Orthodoxy. It’s now all about buzzword compliance: XHTML, CSS, Dublin Core Metadata &c. There’s some really good content therein, and it should be accessible to all, due to my efforts to keep it standards-compliant.

Went small game hunting today up around Georgetown. No luck (my dinner tonight came from the fridge, not the field), but I’d a great time nonetheless. It’s pretty country up there; and the weather was pleasant (overcast, so the sun could not work its evil). I’ve read that half an hour alone in nature can be as rewarding as an hour in psychotherapy; now I’ve experienced it.

Of course, psychotherapy doesn’t give one blisters and sore muscles, but that’s a small price to pay, methinks.

I went to a great concert last night: My Morning Jacket with Patrick Park.

When I write Park opened, I mean it: it was just him, his acoustic guitar, a harmonica and a microphone. A good, earnest musician who obviously enjoys what he’s doing. Keep an eye out for him—he could be big someday. After the show, I bought a CD from him. Unlike the pictures on his website, he’s actually a friendly fellow.

My Morning Jacket were incredibly varied. Their music ranged from country-folk to Skynardesque rock, complete with guitar solo, to Zeppelinnish tunes, to a Grateful Dead-like jam session. The players all have long hair, and for almost the entire evening it covered their faces completely: a nest of hair with a microphone vanishing inside. ’Twas much like being serenaded by Cousin It. The band played for 2¼ hours—about 3 normal-length sets. It was an incredible show.

Lots of pretty girls, but nearly all of them were attached. I managed to speak to almost all the rest, but alas no good news to report on that front. I did manage to get a good conversation going with one girl (on beer, of course: it’s the only thing I know aught about), but just as it was getting interesting the music started.