This is a great letter, but I can't help picturing Langley yelling these words while running around in the glare of a police spotlight, wearing stonewashed jeans, no shirt, and a mullet.

It sounds like you were fortunate enough to have some fantastic teachers. It must be equally gratifying to a teacher to discover children gobbling up reading and 'rithmatic like there's no tomorrow.

I think this is my favorite comment ever:

"It is certainly not a "party" drug. There is no social context when you believe you are a tall marble statue, on the corner of some grand avenue, the sun shining down on your polished, white stone exterior, the birds flying and frolicking around, as you keep silent watch over your domain.."

also: wow, I had no idea you people were such incorrigible druggies. You're never going to make the varsity squad if you keep this up.

After years of doing drugs and hanging out with druggies, it's clear that there certain drugs that affect people differently. Some people are not going to enjoy salvia. I suspect I'd be one. Some aren't going to experience much at all. A disassociative high which makes an introspective person flip out may make someone else just feel funny.

Try Staying Anonymous

The Slow Autocracy

Thou Standeth Accused

It seems that one of the most consistent violations of civil liberties comes not from changes in the law but from in-the-field law enforcement who have no clue what the law actually is.

Would it be too conspiratorial of me to suggest that having undertrained police who misunderstand and overstep their authority puts the burden of reclaiming one's freedom and proving one's innocence onto the populace; that most of the populace will either welcome this stern hand or will be too intimidated/busy to respond to most of the violations; and that this state of affairs might be exactly what an authoritarian state might wish for: an authoritarian state without visible authoritarian laws?

Too tinfoil-y?

Dirtymoney is absolutely right. This guy was arrested for being disrespectful to a policeman. And that's not illegal.

Custodian:
did you happen to overlook the ones in Amsterdam that someone referred to in this thread? It doesn't really fit your theory about American culture of violence. So what caused it? America has a pretty bizarre culture, but we don't have a monopoly on lunatics, by a long shot. There are crazy people everywhere.

It's always been my impression that obsession with homosexuality is a clear sign of a closet case.

I'm glad BoingBoing is keeping abreast of the new shit that's come to light.

Wait, wait: I just thought of the perfect comment!

Hello?

Aw, nuts...

This is what I get for dressing like a vegetable. There were chicken leg costumes at the shop as well. They were pretty nice. why didn't I grab one? I was getting fancy. Pigs don't eat chicken. I think.

But of course they eat corn. I'm a fool.

My therapist used to tell me that every week. Sometimes she'd call me in the wee hours, while I was lying in my bed, unable to sleep. The phone would ring and I'd slowly reach for it and put the receiver to my ear.

I didn't have to ask who it was.

"...you're a fool."
"Thank you, Doctor Sharvin."
"Don't thank me. When are you gonna wise up?"
"I really don't know. I'm sorry."
"Meathead." Click.

That went on for a year, and then I found out she wasn't the actual therapist but one of his patients, who had stolen a key, and had been letting herself in on the doctor's day off and seeing patients. I felt bad when they caught her. She was cruel, but I felt like she had a pretty good handle on my problems.

So now I'm sitting in a cell, and there's a pig outside the door, looking in every few minutes to grin at me and laugh. He made himself a bib out of a paper towel, and lkeeps licking his lips and wiping his mouth with his little hoof, even though I'm no longer dressed as a corncob. They took that away right quick.

I suppose I'm lucky I'm in here instead of some stoned surf pig's belly, but I don't realy know where here is, or what's going to happen.

Is this still the same big room? I feel like I keep dropping in and out of focus, and it feels like it doesn't matter. I miss that dog. Walter. Mr. Cronkite.

He was avuncular.

Here's my philosophy, better than I could ever put it:

POLONIUS: My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

HAMLET: God's bodikin, man, much better. Use every man after his desert, and who shall 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.

MDHatter:

Fair enough.

TNH;
I'm not sure what you're defending yourself against. He was a hate-filled person, and a lot of the commenters are pointing out exactly how, which is as it should be; my comments were directed toward some of the more gleefully vindictive comments, such as rot in hell, c*cks*kr, etc.

Your implication that I'm responding because you haven't printed a "pious or polite" obit mischaracterizes what I said completely.

I'm not sure what the rhetorical term is for dramatically rejecting a point that wasn't actually made, but whatever it is, you've just done it.

Being honest about the terrible things he did and said is a necessary corrective to the soothing obits in the MSM, but mocking the death of a human being, no matter how poorly they lived, lowers you.

Jesse Helms made no attempt to rise above his darker impulses. That was his mistake. It doesn't have to be yours as well.

I'm going to try to believe that flaming phone book is pushing buttons and doesn't actually believe what s/he's saying.

"how do we go back and retroactively apply the punishment that he should have been suffering during the investigation and trial?" actually tops your previous statement for sheer lunacy. Again, well done. Smashing your own limits. You, Sir and/or Madam, are the Natalie Coughlin of trolls.

"By the same token, some number of them are guilty. It's just as wrong to fail to torture those people as it is to torture the innocent."

Even for the internet, this is remarkably foolish. I congratulate you.

Would any of the pro-torture commenters care to explain why so many of these tortured prisoners have been released? Were they just too strong for us? Were they innocent? Were we just bluffing? Did we get bored?

If they're in Gitmo, they must be guilty. And if they're guilty, they should be in Gitmo. Right?

Someone above mentioned lack of empathy as a factor here, and I think that's dead on.

Hitchens needed to experience it himself to call it torture. The abundantly available detailed descriptions didn't convince him, because they hadn't happened to him.

What's interesting to me is why he thinks this addition to the literature of people who can now attest that "yes, it is torture", will convince anyone else.

For those who can't relate, it will simply be one more detailed description that happened to some other guy, who obviously couldn't handle it, and to which they can't relate.

But that's how egomania works, I guess. What's the saying? Other people are a foreign country, something, something, la la la....

I'm dressed as a partially eaten corncob and moving through the crowd of fake surf-pigs as surreptitiously as one can when one is dressed as a 6 foot corncob. I'm hoping that the lack of edible kernels will make me less of a target, and so far it seems to be working. I'm something of a perfectionist when it comes to costumes, so in the interest of versimilitude, I took care to smear the cob with a little butter and salt, and since I love Mexican food, I scattered a bit of chili powder and some Oaxacan cheese and lime on as well.
To be honest with you, I'm a little insulted I'm not getting more attention. I look amazing, and I smell incredible. I can hardly keep from eating myself, but that would be foolhardy, and, if I remember correctly, it's also a mortal sin.

There's not much conversation amongst the crowd; there's a lot of snuffling, and self-conscious giggling. I think I smell cannabis. It smells nice, and makes me hungry. I hope it doesn't have that effect on the pigs.

Hang on. One of them is looking at me.

Hang on.

He's coming over.

Hang on.

Wait.

Christ. I better think this quietly. I don't know if you can see my thoughts, but if you can, you can see that I'm looking over what appears to be a large river valley, and in that valley, teeming from horizon to horizon, are people wearing pig costumes and carrying surfboards.

It's an unusual sight, if I may be frank.

I like pigs, but not in large numbers. I've never been certain exactly where I stand on the issue of surfing, and those who perform the act in question.
I'm a freshwater man, myself. Give me a visibly enclosed body of water, and I will give you a dollar, as the saying goes.

After an hour of observation, there doesn't seem to be any great change in the scene before me. I can't go back. I might as well see what this is all about. If all goes well, I should be able to cross the valley and be on my way. To wherever it is I'm going.

I've been climbing gradually for the last two days. the air seems lighter, and i feel like there's a glow in the distance. It might be the altitude, or my lack of sleep. Those donuts certainly made me jittery for a while.

They also made me mis my old neighborhood, Greenpoint, Brooklyn. There was a donut shop there called Peter Pan Donuts that made the best damn donuts I've ever had. Their waitresses wore very short green skirts, which is what drew me in initially, but once I had my first taste of what they were selling, it was clear that they were merely using a perfect belnd of advertising and product.

My legs are getting tired. I fell as thought the incline might be steeper than it seems. The glow I see in front of me was at first a square, filling the passageway, but now is shrinking vertically, as though someone were pulling a shade from the bottom up.

It's also getting brighter. And I swear I hear something that sounds like a giant pig snuffling or grunting, or whatever that sound is. I love pigs, but I know better than to mess with an unfriendly one. Those fuckers are dangerous.

I wonder who they're voting for (If they're allowed to vote. Are they felons?). Also, it looks to me as though they each have a little tear tattoo beside the eye. Which is reassuring; it's nice to know some grown men aren't afraid of showing emotion.

this is some of awe.

Vandal solution: Throwing rocks at moving buses is fun, too.

Holy cow!

If memory serves, this means I have 2 wishes left.

The Amsterdam automats are called FEBO, which is like the McDonald's of the Netherlands; ubiquitous, inexpensive fast food. There are indeed people in back preparing the food; it would be a stretch, however, to call them cooks, as the food is, unfortunately, remarkably bad: dense, greasy, and inscrutable. It soaks up the beer, though, and is a fun mechanical experience.

I wish there were still Automats in NYC.

When I woke up this morning there was a bakery box of donuts sitting beside me, and all of the contents of my backpack were lined up neatly alongside me. Whoever did it stacked the onions into a little pyramid, like they do in grocery stores. I've always been impressed by that.

It makes me wonder if this is what Hitler and Stalin and Mao saw when they looked out over crowds; vast numbers of manipulable vegetables. I wonder if they looked like limes or apples or something more exotic, like durians or starfruit? Anyway, I tried a donut, and it was still warm, which freaked me out a little. It was one of those eggy twisty ones, with incredible dark chocolate glazing.

I may have taken the Lord's name in vain as I bit into it. It's hard to remember. It was so good. I hope that the Good Lord will understand. After all, we are all his creations, and I've always felt that those times when he contemplates the donut must make him especially proud.
Not that I'm a churchgoing man, but the way I see it, I've never met Wimlliam F. Buckley, Jr, either, but I'm willing to accept that there's a possibility he actually exists, however bizarre it may seem.

whew. I thought I was going to have to put you two in a chokehold for a second, there....

As the poster above pointed out, a policeman is a public servant. His job is not to enforce respect for the police force. It's not against the law to show disrespect to a policeman. It's against the law to cause him harm, or resist him when being arrested.

If he is unable to deal calmly with a nonviolent situation, even though he feels he's being disrespected, then he has ego problems too big for the public position he occupies.

The safety, honor and purity of the body public is not contained within the bodies of its armed enforcers

GreatMiddlewest:
it was in my sleepy local onesheet, the new york times, two days ago.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/04/business/worldbusiness/04cnd-cable.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

I may just a cockeyed optimist (especially after seeing that green and flaccid land), but I think, Motisbeard, that you are not being instructed to find it beautiful, but rather being invited to look at something that the author finds beautiful. Sharing with others the things that give you pleasure is one of the best social actions around. You're welcome to share the opinion or not. But your sense of violation seem a bit misplaced, and somewhat sad.

The water tastes good. I had some a while ago and feel fine. walter Cronkite is taking a nap, and I'm thinking of doing the same. It's strange how i'm not hungry. Usually I'm always thinking about food; but I live in the city, surrounded by restaurants and advertising, so it might be that i'm just very impressionable.

There's something in the water. It looks like a prescription bottle. That's exactly what it is. How the hell did it make it under the wall?
It doesn't say what kind of medicine is in it, and it doesn't say the doctor's name, but the patient name is "Jody". That's a girl's name, isn;t it? Although growing up in Vermont there was a kid I knew named Jody who later changed his name to Jon, probably because he got tired of being teased. It didn't help that he had long hair and was a wee slip of a lad.

There was also that kid in The Yearling. And come to think of it there were two other Jodys in Vermont. The really strange thing is that as I picture them, they all had those cowlick things that make their hair do a scoopy curve off the side of their forehead, and so, come to think of it, did the kid in The Yearling. Every single one of them. Does the name cause the cowlick or does the cowlick cause the name? Is that even possible?

The bottle is empty. But the label is loose. I peel it off, and on the other side is printed "Don't drink the water. Just kidding!"
Someone is being funny. It is actually kind of funny, so I try laughing, but it sounds forced, and I stop abruptly, which makes me laugh a bit, for real.

Walter Cronkite wakes up and looks at me, then heads down the hall. I guess break time's over.

What was a polished concrete floor has given way to flagstones, then crushed gravel, and finally packed dirt. I estimate I've been walking for three or four days, although since my cellphone's battery died, I don't know exactly what time it is, and I'm sure my sleep cycle is all fraggle-rocked. I haven't seen anyone else, although i did find a pair of oakley sunglasses, which I decided not to take.

Walter Cronkite has acted, from time to time, like there was something disturbing him, and yesterday, or the day before, he began growling stradily, and didn't stop for quite a while, pressing himself close to my legs as we walked. I really don't want to run into anything that would scare a dog of his size, but at this point, I feel like I might as well keep going forward.

Okay, this is weird. There's a stream crossing the path. I mean, I'm thinking of it as a path, even though it's just this insanely long narow room or corridor; but the stream comes right under the wall and disappears right under the opposite wall. I don't feel any leaves or twigs or flotsam, so I gues it's being filtered. I wonder if I should drink it. walter Cronkite is, and I'm guessing that it's safe for me, too.

Food poisoning is not an attractive option in the middle of wherever the hell I am, but I have this inexorable urge to take these chances here, almost as though this is part of the quest I'm on. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when my food runs out; so far, I'm not going through supplies as fast as I thought I would, and I think it's because I don't have much of an appetite. In fact now that I come to think of it, I don't recall eating today, or yesterday, for that matter. But I don't feel particulary hungry. And I have plenty of energy. How can that be?

Goddammit, if this is a dream, I'm going to be pissed.

Wow. It's really hard not to make a joke about Paris Hilton and giant salamanders. But I'm trying, Lord; I'm trying.

Trendy socialite pet alert. Quick, someone photoshop Paris Hilton holding that Giant Salamander.

It's Walter Cronkite! What a good dog.

I saw the real Walter Cronkite once, during my lunch break, back when I worked for a major weekly news magazine whose name rhymes with "Thyme". He was standing on the corner of 57th street and 6th ave, wearing a yachting cap and eating a hot dog. I really wanted to say hello, but he looked like he was enjoying his meal anonymously, so I restrained myself.

Walter Cronkite is bleeding. The dog, not the former newsman. His fur is matted around his neck. He's very patient, though, letting me examine him with only the mildest of whimpering. I imagine that the real Walter Cronkite would be just as stoic, were I to discover him in a similar state. It looks like someone had him on a too-tight chain. There are abrasions, but not too bad. I give him a piece of jerky from my pocket, and we push on into the darkness. I don't really know where we're going, but I'm glad to have the company.

And that's the way it is.

Ripping off? Mr. Blue Sky is a great song in its own right. ELO was clearly, admittedly, massively (and almost exclusively) influenced by the Beatles, and that's perfectly fine. Originality is a relatively recent cultural obsession, and overvalued, in my opinion. No artist creates art from nothing. It's all variations.

If you bite into an onion in the dark, it glows. I think. It might be a kind of kinaesthesia, where the flavor and crunch are stimulating other senses. It might also be that tiny droplets of onion juice are strikiing my eyes, and my nerves are mistranslating the impact.

Anyway, a raw onion in the dark tastes very bold and bright. So sharp though. I wonder if they have aniseptic properties? They burn like liquor, almost. I should have had some the other nighht, when the cut on my head was starting to fester, and the rich, orange pus was beginning to form. Six days of misery, washing my pillows in the morning so they'd be dry in time to stained and befouled once again.

It's interesting what happens to your sense of vanity when you have open sores on your forehead. You stop worrying about your hair, or yyour weight. all you want is for the woulnd to look like a normal, scabby wound, and not something out of a medieval textbook on punishments for the wicked.

Man. I've been walking for about three hours. Is that possible? There's nothing to see down here. It's just a hallway. But every once in a while I pass by a section of wall that sounds like there's something behind it. It could be machinery, could be a road; could be water or a subway. I have no idea. I'm just thinking out loud.

Not really out loud, though. You know what I mean.

I've stopped here, to rest and to eat an orange. I don't quite know what to do with the peel. Maybe I should eat them. That's marmalade, right? I wish I liked marmalade. I've always wanted to. But I hate it. It's one of the great sorrows of my life.

I could swear I heard barking just now.

The dark part of the room extends back quite a ways. I can tell you that. I'm moving slowly, trying not to bump into anything whil my hands are full of supplies. I don't to have a repeat of New Years. I was running down a hallway with some friends. we were in the boiler room of the art school. Someone had set up a steam calliope in the quad that operated on the steam from the machinery in the boiler room. The night was dark and cold; the calliope was like a fungus growing from the ground; one pipe here, one pipe there; steam blooming from the apertures as each hinkoing tone sounded. It was cool.

After the crowd thinned out, we headed down to the basement to get a look at the machinery, which was very old, very well preserved, and very beautiful. We were not alone in our admiration; the hundreds of people who had been pressed up against the hooting pipe organ were now mingling among the flywheels and crescent wrenches, their coats and hair damp from condensation.

We took a good look and marvelled, then headed toward the darker areas. Down a hallway went my friends, as I lagged behind, trying to resend my New Years' greeings to freinds and family, which inexplicably had been returned unsent.

I pressed "send" and ran to cath up.

The sound of my head hitting the pipe was loud in the hallway; I was immobilized, dropping to the ground and clapping a hand to my head in a panic to see if my skull had broken apart. I laughed in disbelief at my stupidity, and at my luck, good and bad, reckless yet still alive, with both my eyes intact.

No, I thought, adjusting the bag of onions on my shoulder, I would not want to repeat that night. Nor the misery that followed just a few days later, when a straighforward injury was gradually transformed into a remarkable and nauseating biological event.

Sleeping bag.
Onions.
Powdered eggs.
Powdered milk.
Oranges.
Hunting knife.
Antibiotics.
Bandages.
Generator.

Okay. I'm ready.

Long underwear.

Okay. Now I'm really ready.

Porn.

Okay. Okay.

Okay.

I'm going in.

@DMCK;
bingo on the sensible explanation re: why is it always a dumb hick that sees these things and not a sophisticated urbanite such as moi?

I grew up in VT but live in NYC, and I can tell you that I've seen way more odd things in the sky in VT than I ever do in NYC because:

A: In NYC there's a lot more going on at street level after dark than there is out in the countryside.

B: when you do look up in NYC, it's much harder to see the sky, because of all the lights.

A flying saucer could park itself over my building and go trout fishing,and neither I nor my neighbors would notice.

I slept here the last two nights. It gets cold in the morning, but I'm afraid if I light a fire someone will see the smoke. At about 5 Am this morning I woke up. At first I wasn't sure why, but then I realized I could hear breathing from close by. I could see nothing in the blackness, and so I lay still, trying to breathe as slowly and shallowly as possible.

In spite of my fear, I must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew, it was getting light, and I could make out the shape of a large dog curled up on the floor beside the couch. I moved to sit up, and he awoke and stretched, looking at me sideways, then came over to me and sniffed me up and down. He was even bigger than he had seemed, and all black, with a long, wolflike head. After memorizing my scent he stood with his face up to mine, hot breath reeking past massive white teeth, and stared for a long, long time. In a sudden motion, he took my wrist in his jaws and tugged, so strongly I was pulled off the couch in an instant. He backed off and stood at a short distance, regarding me.

I got to my feet and warily took a step toward him, whereupon he gave a rough bark and dashed off, loping hugely out the door. I could hear the fading sound of his toenails clattering along the hallway.

I waited an hour for him to come back. Then I went home. There's a show on tonight I want to see, about people trying to become models. I don't understand it, but they're very pretty.

I think will name the dog Walter Cronkite. He seems dependable.

There's a takeout cup of coffee on the floor in front of the couch that hasn't yet turned that weird color that old coffee turns, so I have to assume that someone's been here recently.

I like this place. I've been coming here in the afternoons and just sitting and thinking on the couch. I drew a thing on the wall this morning that looks like a cartoon version of the Rape of the Sabine Women, but I can't draw heads very well, so all the soldiers looked like Tintin.

That got me wondering if the Northern half of Belgium hates Tintin for being a French-speaking Belgian like their Southern compatriots, and whether if, as seems likely, the country were to split, the North would sue for partial custody of the intrepid boy reporter.

I thought about that for a while, maybe two hours or so, and then I stretched my legs, and accidentally kicked the takeout cup of coffee, which flew clear across the room toward the back, where it's dark.

I didn't hear it hit, though. How big is this place?

Okay.

I didn't bring a sleeping bag, but I borrowed my brother's Jeep, and brought a foldout couch and a coleman lantern. I picked up a couple of paperbacks from the thrift store, too; I got Future Shock, by Alvin Toffler, and something by Maeve Binchy. It looks like it's for ladies. Also, I found a coffeemaker, which is sweet.

So, you know, mi casa, etc. Just clean up after yourself. If you bring milk for your coffee, either finish it or take it with you. And I wouldn't mind if you left a beer or something, for my trouble.

Geez, I guess I must have fallen asleep. It's kind of cool in here after everyone leaves. The ceilings are low, but there's a little bit of an echo, so I stayed up singing Tom Petty songs for a while. They're fun to sing, especially "You're So Bad". Great song.

I thought I heard something at about 4 AM, like a giant electric razor, but I couldn't figure out if it was inside or outside the room, so I went back to sleep. I might do it again. I have to go to Vermont for a couple of days, but I'll be back. Maybe I'll bring a flashlight and a sleeping bag next time. And marshmallows.

What a great story. He's absolutely right when he tells his dad that this is exactly what the internet was invented for.

I know I promised to retire from commenting, but I've thought about it over the holiday week, and I guess I feel like I still have something to offer. So I'll probably keep commenting. I can'tpromise they'll all be great, but I'll do my best.

Seriously.

Hello?

Hey, a quarter!

You guys are just mad that while you're wearily sashaying though the same tired polemical foxtrot, my (previous) comment (although an admittedly ridiculous non-sequitor) not only eschews racism, religious intolerance, and luddite-ism, but manages to make its puns (incredibly) on BOTH terminii of the stanza; finally, for those of you not in on the hip(hop) tip(top) the lyrics were from a hit song by (drum roll).......

big pun.

I have a feeling that this comment represents the pinnacle of my brief commenting career, so I've decided to officially retire. Any mistakes have been my own; my triumphs I owe to you, the public.

I'm not a prayer
I just crush a lot

After all the talk about how unwatchable this is, I decided that nothing was too unwatchable for me, dammit, so I watched it. Now I feel tough. And sick. The only good thing about it is that it's mercifully short.

The thing that kept running through my head was: what are those two actresses being punished for? Who took a dislike to them? Were they forced to do this again, or was once enough? I guess I can't conceive of a person who could do this willingly, even as a porn actress performing an exaggeration of an already extreme kink.

The only thing I could come up with to explain their participation that was able to satisfy my sense of human beings as relatively self-serving creatures was that someone must be holding their loved ones hostage. Does that make me narrow minded? Have I become a conservative? Christ, next thing you know, I'll be trying to outlaw Santorum.

NIck D.;
I probably should have been more explicit: I was explaining why I chose not to watch it. What anyone else chooses to look at or not look at is their own business, as far as I'm concerned, as are their reasons for doing so.

I can also understand why his family might want people to see it at this point, although I suspect that in time they may come to wish they had the power to turn it off.

I was a news photo editor during the first years of the Iraq war, and consequently was required to watch the Pearl and Berg beheading videos. I never felt that having witnessed the actual footage added anything substantial to my understanding of the event. It just made me feel bad for their families to know that these films were out there.

To the poster above who smells bias in the negative reactions: do you really want to live in a world where people's first reaction to the death of another person is positive? The man was alone, and unarmed. He was throwing a tantrum, but was he acting like he was going to kill people? It takes an interesting worldview to see a tantrum as a capital offense.

Police officers are trained to deal with exactly this kind of situation in such a way that no one is killed. Tasers are, unfortunately, being used automatically in situations where normal restraining techniques would work.

It's lazy and lethal, two approaches rejected by any good cop (and there are many).

Expecting that an ironical attitude toward one of the world's great religions (one that is at least culturally threaded through the lives of the majority of the earth's population) be balanced by an ironical attitude toward a minor cult is to forget that one of the fundamental reasons for satire is to tweak the powerful.

The reason the flying spaghetti monster (or any joke about christianity) is funny is because it reflects secular (or alternative faith) acknowledgement and resistance to the stranglehold that Christianity continues to exert on this supposedly secular nation's cultural discourse.

Until an American politician has to pander to the (TM, Mormon, Jew, Confucian, etc.) base to get elected, crying "Poor Christian" just seems silly.

There are a couple of blank spots in this story.

Was her husband with her in the car?

Did the cop have prior knowledge that she was married to a black man?

If the answer to either of these questions is no, than she may just be bonkers. If the answer is yes, maybe she's onto something, but only if she said sue, not shoot.

His drawings are impressive at that stage, but his writing is not. It's almost a relief to see that he didn't spring forth fully formed...

The reward was originally offered when the painting was valued at 500k; since its value has doubled since then, it seems the minimally fair thing would be to double the reward. I say minimally, since (if you read the NY Times story) she seems to have done an enormous amount of work to get it back to the rightful owners, which would seem to merit something more than a basic finder's fee. Also, according to the Times, the Sotheby's fee is substantially less than 15k.

That's my 2k worth.

Count me among the awed-by-the-awesome.

It's shouldn't be so unusual for someone to announce that at least one part of their life is A-OK, but it is, and that makes it all the more welcome.

And yes, that is one self-satisfied canine.

(V)irtual (D)espot;

Homophobia, like racism and sexism, is widespread without being universal. Just because someone isn't attuned to your particular needs doesn't make them homophobic.

Three points:
I did indeed offer fear as one possible reason. It's interesting that you ignore that.

The phrase: "If I'd known it would make you this happy" is used to indicate surprise that something is very important to another, not surprise that it wouldn't make them sad. There's a big difference. It's interesting that you interpret it as you do.

Finally, since you seem to be fixated on the notion that she's using this information in a cynical way; she was asked about this in a public forum by someone who was wondering about it (as had, apparently, a number of people) and she responded to the question. It's interesting that you interpret that as bragging or being a provocateur, etc.

V(irtual) D(espot);

Don't be so paranoid. In no way was I implying that gay people should keep their sexuality under wraps. Be as demonstrative as you want, when you want, and where you want, and I and all my friends, straight and gay, will cheer you on, if we can be bothered to tear our attention away from our own lives. But you're living in real life, with real human rights.

We're talking about an authors choices about the structure of a work of fiction. And this particular author seems to have decided that this particular facet of this particular character's story didn't need to be in the foreground of this particular story she was telling. Why? Was she afraid? Was she bored? Was she made overly horny? I don't know and neither do you. It's a book. Author's choice. Sorry, Charlie.

There are lots of chracteristics, positive and negative, that might be important to some readers, and not to others, that never make it out of the author's head and onto the page. Someone's an alcoholic. Someone writes beautiful poems. Someone's moonlighting in another book altogether.

She was asked about it, and she readily and simply agreed that it was part of his backstory, without over- or de- emphasizing it. Call it cowardice if you want, but I think you're getting somewhat overly serious about a fictional wizard in a kid's book.

What exactly is it that you wanted anyway?

Dan, it didn't sound like she was trying to impress anyone. It sounds like it was something she thought of as a backstory, and unnecessary to broadcast.

Also, I'm not sure gay people need to be informed of their normalcy as much as people who think that gays are not normal. Need to. Be informed, that is. Of normalcy. Theirs.

Help.

I, too, was thrilled to see a sign of life from Watterson.
When I happen to see the comics these days, it always makes me miss C&H, and then I wonder how many potential schulz's and Wattersons are out there making great, funny daily strips in some little town paper, waiting for their big break, while I'm reading my paper, wishing they were in it.

ls, snc th rsl K. LGn thng cm p, thght Cry's vry pblc plgy hd mr t d wth th hgh prsnl stm n whch h hlds Ms. LGn, whch cn flly rlt t. Cnsqntly, t ls smd fttng tht, s prsnl plgy, thr wr n cmmnts ncssry. t lst tht's hw tk t.

Shouldn't that be lol catz?

@David Biedny:
"Now that Radiohead has taken this step, I hope they figure out that there are MANY of us that would be happy to pay them $10 a month to have access to all the studio outtakes, throw-aways, aural experiments, meanderings, songs that have never seen the light of day..."

From your lips to Thom's ears, let us hope. This is exactly what that gaping record-company-shaped hole should be filled with.

Terrorists groups can't hid? That's goods to knew.

Picking the worst thing someone's written doesn't mean they never wrote good things. The same thing could be done with anyone.

a) my love she speaks like silence
without ideals or violence
she doesn't have to say she's faithful
yet she's true like ice, like fire

b) perhaps it's the color of the sun caught flat
and covering the crossroads I'm standing at
or maybe it's the weather, or something like that
but mama, you've been on my mind

c) God said to Abraham, kill me a son
Abe said man you must be putting me on
God said no; Abe said what;
God said do what you want to, but
next time you see me coming
you better run

I just tried to purchase the download; had problems finalizing purchase, don't know if it worked.
Maybe they were just mad at me for only spending a dollar...

after this comes out,
all those other versions

will be lost

like tears

in rain

Someone must have told Nike about all those casinos. I don't recall them spending this kind of energy on research when Native American economies were uniformly miserable.