The corrupt evil bastards who make up the California Legislature passed AB 1735 into state law which included a quiet maneuvre to ban the production and sale of raw milk starting January 2008. There was no public debate over the bill; producers weren’t notified in advance of this change. The bill won unanimous approval and was signed into law without consumers and producers knowing anything about the ban.
Consumers, not politicians, have the right to choose. Full stop.
How many times must I scream this?
Stay out of our fucking lives!
I finished Part Five tonight . . . once The Wife and Guest Gary fell asleep and I was left alone and awake with a half bottle of Château Val Joanis.
(Written in twenty-three days—howzat, Wade?)
It’s late and I’ll be hurting later on today, but right now I’m happy: one part left.
Thirty-eight months of writing now bears all its weight down on part six: the end.
Another ten- or twenty-thousand words, perhaps? One month? Two? Three? God knows. . . . All I can do is follow my characters (and they’ve been known to change recently).
And I hope to unveil all my novel’s secrets before I’m done. But I’m not convinced that’s possible.
Besides my first blog (now residing somewhere in the binary aether), I’ve tried to rant less with each online presence.
Recently, however, I’ve been ranting more than usual about my usual bête noire: humans. Unfortunately, I’m surrounded by them . . . despite my self-imposed isolation.
We are a fascinatingly stupid and malevolent race given to occasional moments of benevolence. Now I’m not saying I’m going to focus on those good bits—that’s The Wife’s territory—but I may try to point you towards them every so often in the coming year.
My one goal in 2008 is very simple: to finish my manuscript . . . the three-plus years I’ve been working on it courtesy of The Wife’s benevolence. So, once again: Thanks, darling.
Chris Bascombe used to write for the Liverpool Echo; he was considered one of the few journalists who really had the inside scoop on LFC. Now he’s with News of the World which has destroyed his credibility among many Liverpool fans. Still, it’s hard not to be troubled by this story, “Hicks and Gillett arrived with the promise of stability—now they look a pair of LIVERFOOLS”:
Humiliating backtracking over the design of their new stadium and an undignified showdown with their manager Rafa Benitez has been accompanied by revelations the American duo have been struggling to secure a £350million refinancing package.
Now plans are under way for Dubai International Capital to revive their interest in Anfield, oust the Americans and head off a potential catastrophe. . . .
A change of ownership would not only save the manager, more significantly, it will help restore and preserve the traditions of the Merseyside club which are currently under the most serious threat of its 115-year history.
How clueless Yanks are when it comes the beautiful game. Destroy your own worthless sports . . . leave the world’s game alone.
Why can’t all the world’s do-gooders bugger off to another planet? From foie gras to cigarettes, the list of things these self-righteous nannies and whingers want to ban grows exponentially.
Don’t like foie gras, don’t eat it. Don’t like cigarettes, don’t smoke. . . .
Your disgusting attempt to control and regulate other people’s lives only ends up making the rest of the world more fucking miserable that it already is.
From the International Herald Tribune:
PARIS: Every day after work for the past 15 years, Luz Sarfati has made her way to a café down the block for a glass of white wine and a cigarette. It is, for her, one of life’s most pleasurable routines.
But as of Jan. 1, Sarfati will have to find a new way to unwind. Less than one year after France imposed a nationwide ban on smoking in most public places (including hospitals, schools and offices), it will extend the ban to bars, restaurants, hotels, nightclubs—and the most cherished of all spaces: the café. . . .
“All my customers smoke, all my employees smoke. What are we going to do?” wondered Olivier Colombe, 43, owner of Parisian cafés Le Panier and Le Faitout.
What’s most irritating is that these do-gooders are generally so quick to use the F-word: Fascist. Seems to me you’re the real fascists.
A comprehensive Liverpool win, 4-1, at home to Portsmouth.
Blue skies over the Pacific.
Scrambled eggs with black truffles, fingerling potatoes roasted in duck fat, and champagne for breakfast.