In case you missed it, and you probably did, there were massive student protests in Iran earlier this week, as well as substantial protests in now-Chinese-controlled Hong Kong.
I'm trying to understand the dearth of big media news coverage on these stories. I mean, students demonstrating and calling for regime change in Iran, IRAN!, should make news stands everywhere and be covered by as many networks as there are channels? Why? Because those students need to get the word out; they're relying on the world to pick up on their cause. The pen is mightier than the sword only if the pen finds mass distribution. As it is, it seems, the protests were quickly crushed, and the majority of the world remains mostly oblivious to their courage to speak out and their violent oppression.
Look at those pictures. And then look at these (both links via Andrew Sullivan). Just for a moment, imagine this type of crackdown happening across U.S. campuses (Kent State being an unfortunate exception). It would be splashed across every newspapaper from small town weeklies to the most omnipresent daily. Ah, but this was Iran, IRAN! Who cares? Well, damn it, I care! Here was a chance to encourage revolution from within a country rather than rumbling tanks across the borders. A revolution against an outdated and oppressive Islamic mullah-controlled government. With just a little coverage, we could have dealt a massive blow to their stranglehold on power, all without requiring a shot. But, nothing, or very nearly nothing. Way to drop the ball, guys.
I wonder, sometimes, if the big media organizations have simply gotten lazy, content to sprawl lazily on their lucrative advertising revenue, sacrificing journalistic integrity just so they can have a wealthy pulpit from which to spew their political viewpoints. Most daily newspapers, I think, have become mouthpieces for either the right or the left, with few genuinely interested in maintaining fair and balanced reporting. They've become tools of persuasion rather than disseminators of information. This goes against everything I learned in my journalism classes, and I seethe sometimes when I read editorials and commentary.
But, this was different. This was actual news, big time earth-trembling news. Iranian students demanding change. Hong Kong residents demanding free elections. This was like selective hearing on the part of big media, a twist on the tree falling the woods question. If demonstrations take place in world political hotspots, and no news organizations cover it, do they really happen?
Unfortunately, it seems, in this case, they never really did.
UPDATE: Fascinating (Via Instapundit).
UPDATE: Apologies to the Cheddar X. Once again, I'm leaving work early and cannot blog to the extent to which I'd like. I'll try to get at it on Sunday. Or something.
As anticipated, my site metter is going through the roof with people doing searches on Stripperella in a variety of, uh, interesting ways.
I start my day, usually, with a quick perusal of MSNBC.com. It's not the best source of news, nor is it the worst, but it's pretty well rounded. Today offered up some tidbits that were both funny and irritating.
Apparently, Mike Tyson, the paranormal pugilist with an affinity for earlobes, doesn't like his life much. What a crying shame.
NEW YORK, July 8 — Mike Tyson says he has lost his soul as a human being and hates himself. "Maybe in my next life, I'll have a better life,� Tyson said in an interview for Fox Sports Net's "Beyond the Glory,� to be broadcast July 16.
The guy is a thug. A brainless, raping, unfeeling piece of shit thug. He made millions of dollars because he could throw a punch hard enough to send the Ryan Rhodeses of the world into orbit (quick Google search on my name reveals that, hey, I'm a boxer). The adoring masses of the world elevated this waste of human flesh to the level of a god, showering him with money for no other reason but because he could beat people up. I hope in his next life (assuming he's granted such an honor), he comes back as a 98 lb. weakling with a massive intellect but who gets toilet swirlies every day into his 50s. That's karma.
In other sports-related news, the high school basketball phenom, LeBron James, who sports more tattoos at 18 than most sailors in their 60s, made his pseudo NBA debut last night.
ORLANDO, Fla., July 8 — LeBron James dominated the competition to the delight of his audience, then eyeballed the scoreboard for his own satisfaction. With 14 points, seven rebounds and six assists Tuesday night, the most talked-about high school draft pick in NBA history thrilled a huge crowd that waited several hours to see him make his pro basketball debut.
I'm just guessing here, but if I had millions of dollars at my disposal at 18, combined with an adoring public who thought I was the best and brightest thing since the sun flashed into existence, I'm fairly certain that the darker side of life would have enticed me into a world of drugs, drunkeness and unrestrained libido. That's not because I'm a weak human being. It's because I was a complete and total moron at 18, just like every other 18-year-old who ever lived. I'm just now learning how stupid I was at 18, and in retrospect I wasn't all that bright at 25 either. Giving the keys to the castle to an 18 year old basketball prodigy has certain doom spelled all over it. Just ask Kobe Bryant.
Speaking of not learning a damn thing in 18 years, a man emerged from a 19 year coma last month, which would put his last conscious moment somewhere in 1984. Luckily for him, most of the fashion trends common back then are popular again, so the transition to the new millenium hopefully won't be too difficult.
"It's kind of peculiar. He wrecked on Friday the 13th and 19 years later he started talking on Friday the 13th,� Jerry Wallis said.
Creepy.
President Dubya is all over the news today, which I guess isn't too surprising, seeing as how he's the president and all. Apparently, his popularity is slipping. Although I support our actions in Afghanistan and Iraq, overall I don't particularly like this guy. He tends to bumble everything. economy? Sucks. Homeland Security? I'll take vanilla, thank you. Nation building? Needs work.
Discontent with Bush's efforts to revive the economy rose from 53 percent in May to 62 percent, while 72 percent — including 52 percent of Republicans — said the president was not doing enough to deal with the nation's growing health care problems.
If the Democraps, er, Democrats, could maybe find some focus and offer up a candidate who can chip away at our verbally challenged Commander-in-Chief, they may actually have a chance in '04. Lord knows they have plenty of ammunition to use against the Republican'ts, er, RepublicaNs. What sort of ammunition? Oh, I don't know.
WASHINGTON, July 9 — President Bush on Wednesday defended his use of prewar intelligence on Iraq, saying he is "absolutely confident� in his actions despite the discovery that one claim he made about Saddam Hussein's weapons pursuits was based on false information.
As I opined to Arrancia, I'm not phased much by the lack of WMDs in Iraq. I think the discovery of components for a uranium-enriching centrifuge and mobile bio-toxin labs pretty much speak volumes about the intent of the Hussein regime, and I'm still convinced other such discoveries will come to light. Apparently, Saddam's philosophy was "when the going gets tough, bury the shit in the sand." More and more, however, it's becoming obvious that Bush and company used "fuzzy numbers" to expedite the Iraq invasion. Although I approve of the war and the rebuilding effort, I don't like being lied to. That could be a major sticking point for a lot of voters, myself included.
Finally, we learn that the disgusting puke who opened fire on his assembly line colleagues in Marion, Mississippi yesterday was "mad at the world." As much as I hate to defend Mike Tyson at this juncture, at least he just SAYS he hates his life rather than killing five people because of it.
MARION, Miss., July 8 — Police on Wednesday were trying to determine why an assembly-line worker described as "mad at the world� left a business ethics workshop at an aircraft parts plant only to return and gun down 14 colleagues, killing five. Doug Williams shot himself Tuesday following his rampage at the Lockheed Martin plant.
And so begins another day in the never-ending world of the news cycle.
UPDATE: For DD. I went Here. Here. Here. Here. And here. Of course, for every story you find supporting something, there's one right next door debunking it. More often than not, we tend to favor those accounts that bolster our own preconceptions. But, in either case, centrifuge or mobile labs, the burning question remains: why the hell would you bury either? Something's rotten in Denmark, or Iraq as the case may be.
UPDATE: Apparently, a liar lied about Bush lying. Arrrr, the plot thickens.
ANOTHER UPDATE: This post is too serious, so here's some Jennifer Love Hewitt looking sexy. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Jennifer Love Hewitt is sexy. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Jennifer Love Hewitt nude. Not Jennifer Love Hewitt. Jennifer Love Hewitt has big breasts.
It's time, once again, to visit the site meter and find out what chance Google visitors to this blog were looking for. When last we checked in, "exposed+thongs" held a commanding lead, accounting for virtually 75 percent of all Google hits. As fetishes go, I guess lusting over exposed thongs is pretty tame. Of course you realize, by typing exposed thongs over and over again, I'm bound to boost my site meter hits for Googlers looking for exposed thongs. Hmmmmm. That's a good marketing ploy, as Erik would attest. So, maybe I should dabble in a little shameless self-promotion by writing down a lot of terms that are sure to bring in the sex-starved Googlers.
Stripperella. Stripperella naked. Naked pictures of Stripperella. My penis inserted into Stripperella. Sex with Stripperella. Anal sex with Stripperella.
That should bring 'em in. Heh.
Although searches for exposed thongs may have declined, the slack has been picked up in an unusual place: "Blue+whale+sperm." Seriously, there seems to be a general thirst for blue whale sperm. Er, yuck! Let me reword that. There seems to be a lot of interest in blue whale sperm. Some examples:
"blue+whale+ejaculation"
"blue+whale+sperm"
"whale+sperm+gallons"
"blue+whale+sperm+ejaculation"
And other variations thereof.
Elsewhere in the Googlesphere, people have landed here doing searches on the following:
"condom+rip+cat" -- Sure, buddy, blame it on the cat.
"Tasha+Yar+Wesley+fucking" -- Hmmm, I must have missed that episode. Damn it.
"awaking+morning+ejaculation" -- Sounds like a puberty search to me. Trust me, my lad, it's perfectly normal.
"canine+yoga" -- Variations on this search probably came in a close second behind whale ejaculation. Dog yoga? I still can't fucking believe it.
"Missouri+brothels" -- Planning a trip, are we?
"Fireworks+penis+blown+off" -- *stifling a combination of laugh and cringe*
"Iraqi+thongs" -- Heh, I keep imagining Salam Pax wearing one of these. Scary. Funny, but scary.
"lost+toddler+underwear" -- Just buy the kid a new pair and quit searching already. Then again, I suppose the toddler may be lost, not the underwear.
"Ryan+Rhodes+IBM+slacker" -- Uh oh. That can't be good.
So, let me see if I understand this: prior to the war in Iraq, protesters maintained that the U.S. wasn't interested in rebuilding Iraq, only oil. Now they're upset because we're keeping our troops there to rebuild Iraq? Make up your freakin' mind!
I suppose it was only a matter of time before the term "quagmire" was invoked. After all, here we are about three months into the rebuilding effort and Iraq, strangely enough, hasn't become the next Japan. Throw into the mix the occasional AK-47 or RPG pot shot at our troops, and you simply have to conclude that this is the next Vietnam, only with more sand.
Since when does rebuilding a nation have a timetable? And since when is it expected that, because the actual war is considered over, no further casualties should occur? Hell, this is a civilian population that deems it customary to shoot AK-47 rounds into the air during weddings. They're like the NRA on speed. Everyone and their newborn half-cousin has a rifle laying around somewhere. It's only expected that some disgruntled Saddam loyalists will decide to attack U.S. troops here and there. Am I the only person not surprised by this?
But, according to the nearest anti-war, anti-Bush, anti-everything-but-tofu-and-Robert Fisk individual, all these problems are indicative of an Iraqi population that wants all Americans dead and Saddam back in power, you know, because he was such a nice guy and he managed to keep power up and running for, at least, 18 hours on any given day rather than the paltry eight or so the Americans can provide.
Listen, I know that our presence in Iraq isn't all that popular with the Iraqis. After all, we did invade them and bomb them and make them cower in the corner praying for their lives and all as the jets flew over. War is a bitch like that. However, I don't think the attacks on our troops represent coordinated attacks by the Iraqi population as a whole. If that were the case, our troops wouldn't have a chance. They'd be huddled in their Humvees as angry Iraqi crowds swarmed over them. But, that's not happening. By and large, they are giving us the time we need to fix the shit we broke and make better the land that Saddam ravaged with his meglomaniacal regime.
True, things could be going better. Things could always be going better. Truthfully, though, I don't think the planners that envisioned the grand rebuilding design really took into account the culture of the people. This is the Middle East, after all, an area of the world so fascinated with hatred of the Jews and Americans, it's practically an undeclared sport.
I know, I know, we're supposed to speak highly of the Islamic faith. Fine. Yay Islam! Go Muslims! Allahu Akbar and all that. But, there's Islam, the faith of tolerance, and then there's Islam, the faith that stapled an extra chapter to the Koran that advocates the killing of all Jews and calls for jihad against every infidel that looks at you funny. That brand of Islam seems to have tendrils snaking throughout most of the Middle East. Syria. Iraq. Iran. Saudi Arabia. Afghanistan. You name it. These are nations that feature fanatical mullahs who wave scimitars and call for the beheading of Zionists and those who support them (i.e. the U.S.). When was the last time you saw the a Cardinal or bishop slicing the air to augment a hate-filled diatribe?
The point is, the Middle East sucks, to put it as succinctly as possible. And we've let it suck for years because letting the Middle East suck, quite simply, seemed better than taking any action. It's true, the West hasn't been particularly proactive in getting the Middle East to suck less. We've connived and slithered behind the scenes, making deals to ensure an unimpeded flow of oil, and backing distasteful regimes in the hopes that they'd destroy another distasteful regime. Our hands aren't clean on this one. But since when does past guilt preclude one from trying to rectify things? The problem is, we're trying to rectify things a little late in the game. The Middle East has had plenty of time to build up distrust and hate.
So, they seethed, and they hated, and they grew long beards, and they sat on their asses listening to the dictates of sword-weilding mullahs. The end result is the current stagnant cesspool of no creativity and no innovation. Think about it. Besides oil, name a major export of the Middle East. The greatest minds of the Middle East tend to high tail it out of the area, which is a sign of a great mind. The rest of the folks just kind of sit in a state of limbo, many of them unable to think for themselves any more. They expect others to tell them what to do rather than doing things for themselves. Somewhere along the way, someone told some of them to fly airplanes into buildings and strap bombs on themselves and blow themselves up. And they listened.
That's why this rebuilding effort in Iraq is so important. That's why it's worth all the sweat and blood and violence. That's why I'm willing to give the U.S. all the time it needs to get the country up and running again. Ultimately, if we can get the Iraqis to think for themselves, to act for themselves, to look beyond the shit their lives are now to a more prosperous future where they actually have a voice that matters, to open their eyes to hope rather than hate, then it's all been worth it. More than worth it.
It's a long shot. And it could fail. And the upcoming months won't be pretty. But, we have to try, because it's just too dangerous to allow the Middle East to suck any more.
Bring 'em on.
Why, yes, it is the Monday following the 4th of July weekend. And I have the burns to prove it. I'm sure you're all shaking with anticipatory tingles awaiting my 4th of July redux, so let's begin.
First off, I'm now an official black belt, with all the perks and advantages that come with that status, which are, approximately, none. Except for pride, I suppose. I was very proud. I am very proud. It was a modest black belt presentation ceremony. The head instructor called my name, I jogged up to stand before him, and he told me to remove my red belt. Normally, when a man tells me to remove an article of clothing, I'm in a doctor's office, or there's a gun pointed at me, or I really just need the money. But, I removed my belt and then the head instructor presented me with my new, flashy black belt, which he took it upon himself to tie around my waist. Normally, when a man ties something around my waist, I'm in a doctor's office, or there's a gun pointed at me, or I really just need the money. At any rate, I have my new belt, and I spent the next couple of days glancing over at it because I thought it was cool. It's a little bit rigid, so it doesn't hang like a well-worn belt. Instead, it kind of points at odd angles. Thankfully, there were two other students in my class with new black belts, so I wasn't alone. We looked rather uncomfortable in our new martial arts uniforms and belts, like flexible kicking nuns or something.
After class, I went home and was greeted by Melissa, who wanted to cook fajitas over a campfire. Unfortunately, it was getting late, and no matter how many people I called, I couldn't secure a nice countryside locale where we could camp and launch fireworks. As an unusual compromise, I dragged out the gas grill, and Mel said that would suffice. So, I set about lighting the grill which, like most gas grills, has a broken lighter button. Instead, I simply let the gas hiss out while I threw matches at it from a distance, waiting for one lucky spark to slip between the grate and. . .
PFHOOOOMMMPHFF!!!!
No matter how many times that happens, my butt still puckers. There's the satisfaction of knowing the grill is lit, and the common sense gnome on my shoulder telling me there simply has to be a better way to light a grill. Ultimately, I think that's why I prefer charcoal grills. Lighter fluid is more gradual, more friendly, more relaxed. A gas grill is instant. A charcoal grill reminds you to take a time out. Sit back. Smell the summer. Chill out.
Of course, the pyromaniac in me wouldn't allow me to sit idly while Mel prepared fajitas. I had to run and grab some fireworks: just some small things. Some jumping jacks, a couple of roman candles, and a couple of other things that looked cool but didn't appear large enough to attract the attention of local law enforcement officials.
The instructions on roman candles clearly state that you should not hold them in your hand, so of course I felt compelled to hold them in my hand. After all, you can't make rude masturbation miming motions unless you hold the roman candles in your hand. So, there I was waving a roman candle around, launching firey balls to and fro, a wizard with his magic wand, when suddenly I heard Mel yell "Holy shit." She doesn't yell that very often, and somehow I knew she wasn't yelling it at me, so I turned around to see. . .
The grill was on fire. Yes, yes, I know. . . it's SUPPOSED to be on fire, but not like this. Something besides what was supposed to be on fire was on fire. There was a bright blaze emanating from where the gas valve connects with the main grilling part of the grill. That's not good. That's not even close to good. What was worse was there was something, some sort of insulation foam or tape or something, that was also on fire, and it was dripping flaming drops directly on to the propane tank. On. To. The. Propane. Tank. EEP!
My gut instinct was to break into a dead sprint away from the grill, and not stop running until I heard the inevitable explosion reverberating around the neighborhood. That was my gut instinct, but I suppressed it. Maybe it was the black belt inside me, or more likely the realization that everything I owned on this planet was within a 30 foot radius of the grill. Whatever it was, I ran TOWARDS the grill, launching roman candle balls all the way. With dripping flaming tape falling on my hand, I managed to turn off the gas, and then I started madly blowing at the remaining fingers of flame. It's at moments like that that I'm convinced my guardian angel just stepped away for a quick nap, or to check the sports scores or something. The angel figures "ah, he'll be fine." Then the angel comes back and sees me wrestling with a flaming gas grill and the angel thinks "of all the freakin' people in the world, how did I manage to draw this clown as my protectee?"
Long story short, I managed to put out the fire before the propane tank went supernova.
"Honey, you could have died!" yelled Mel, a hint of admiration mixed with dumbfounded awe at my stupidity in her voice.
"Let's cook fajitas on the stove inside," I suggested as I rolled the grill back into the garage.
Good idea.
Later that night, we managed to track down a secluded spot for an illegal fireworks display. Me, Mel and my friend Marc (today we're learning the letter "M"), armed with enough explosives to subdue a small country, lit up the night sky for over three hours. It was a grand time. Mel likes lighting fireworks, but she doesn't quite grasp the concept of putting the items down on flat ground. I gave her a fairly large item to light and she went skipping down the gravel drive to light it. I thought she may have place it at an unusual angle, but I didn't say anything. She lit it and came skipping back. Behind her, brightly lit balls went flying into the air. And then the brightly lit balls started flying more horizontal because the dang thing had fallen over. Mel dodged to the right as a streaking ball of flame narrowly missed her, another narrowly missed my car, and finally another came at me, skipping over my leg, igniting large patches of leg hair before coming to rest on my thigh.
Every year, without fail, I suffer a fireworks-related burn. This year's installment was rather minor, though the pain was about what I expected. It was a small price to pay for the joy of an unbridled fireworks frenzy. Combined with the burns sustained earlier while battling the grill, my burn tally sat at a respectable three.
The next morning, Mel and I met my friend Troy, his girlfriend Janet, another friend Jim, and his wife Christy. Troy owns a boat, which means I have to like him. We drove to Winona, and we spent the July 4th afternoon entirely on the Mississippi, in one of the most glorious and relaxing holidays I've had since Christmas in Hawaii. We grilled bratwurst during a stop on a sand bar, went swimming, rode an inner tube behind the boat, and just soaked up almost seven hours of sun. Which brings me to burn number four: sunburn. Despite generous slathering of sunscreen, my cranium still endured a slight burn, and it's itchy as hell today, which means a good peeling tonight or tomorrow. It was still an awesome afternoon on the river, and I hope we do it again yet this summer, which, by the way, is now about one third over.
I had to head back to Harmony Friday night at about 9 p.m. so I could make it to my class reunion golf outing the next morning. There is something surreal and magical about driving on a July 4th evening. Traffic is light, and all around I caught glimpses of fireworks going off, both individual shows put on by campers, and distant shows being put on by towns. Everywhere, blossoms of colored flame would emerge and disappear. People celebrating a three day weekend. People celebrating a pleasant evening. People celebrating freedom. People celebrating America.
I'll blog about the reunion later. Or maybe I won't. You'll have to come back to find out.
UPDATE: No, there's nothing here about the reunion. But THIS is the biggest productivity killer of all time.
