This One's for FOS (and WOFOS) (A Brief Post)

Must have been a slow news day. The Times devoted a front-page article to a discussion of where the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico ranks on the all-time list of American environmental disasters. Is it the worst? Or was that the Dust Bowl of the 1930's? The Johnstown Flood of 1889? Or simply the long-term deforestation of North America or the decimation of the buffalo?

Pointless.

Besides, until any of these theorists spends some time in a car with FOS after dinner at an Indian restaurant, they have no idea what a true environmental disaster really is.

Put Your Mouth Where Your Money Is

The Solipsist is unlikely ever to vote for a candidate endorsed by the National Rifle Association. To be fair, though, the National Rifle Association is unlikely ever to endorse a candidate that the Solipsist would be likely to vote for. The point is that an endorsement from the NRA essentially means nothing to the Solipsist one way or the other; we suspect that our ideological opposites have similar non-feelings towards endorsements from organized labor or the ACLU. We wonder, then, why groups like the NRA are so opposed to legislation that would require them to identify themselves clearly when they produce advertisements advocating the election or defeat of a candidate.

Back before the Supreme Court ruled last year that corporations could spend unlimited amounts of money to support political candidates, Republicans complained that spending restrictions were effectively unlawful restrictions on (corporate) freedom of speech. In general, they suggested that the remedy for abusive spending was not to limit such spending; instead, corporations, as well as unions and non-profit organizations, should be allowed to spend freely, as long as they engaged in full disclosure. Just like candidates, they would have to provide spokespeople who would come on at the end of advertisements to declare that they approved the message's content. Surprisingly, though, now that the Supreme Court removed spending limits, the Republican caucus has decided that full disclosure is not such a great idea after all.

As Nancy Pelosi says,“I don’t know why, if they’re so proud of their point of view, they don’t want to stand by their ads." Us neither. . . .

Unless. . . .

Maybe it's not about supporting candidates. Maybe it's just about attacking them. It's not that the NRA doesn't want us to know what candidates it supports; they don't want us to know which candidates they oppose, knowing that this would inspire a groundswell of support from the right-thinking majorities of the western world? Seems a little convoluted and round-about to us, but nothing else makes sense. So unless the NRA and its ilk are composed of irrational psychopaths, this is the only explanation we can believe. Right?

Try It, You'll Like It. Or Not.

The sign outside the church reads, "Try Jesus. If you don't like him, the Devil will always take you back."

(DIGRESSION: The sign had neither lower-case letters nor punctuation, so we're perhaps injecting our own editorializing through typography. EOD)

Try Jesus.

If you don't like him, the Devil will always take you back.

A surface reading of this sign suggests that Jesus is a warm, accepting figure--one who welcomes the most abject of sinners into his fold. But does this not also suggest that the Devil is equally welcoming? MORE welcoming, in fact: Not only is he open to new recruits, but he will also welcome people back even if they jilt him for his fiercest rival. Could you be so forgiving? Could Jesus?

Flip the participants: "Try the Devil. If you don't like him, Jesus will always take you back"? We would expect as much from the Prince of Peace. If that sentiment is not true, then Jesus is apparently less conciliatory, less accepting, less forgiving, than Satan. But if the statement is true, it suggests that--in the long run--there is little difference between choosing Jesus or the Devil, at least as it applies to one's final destination. Might as well choose the company that promises the most fun.

Inconvenient Forgetting

We had a truly brilliant idea for a blog post today. Phenomenal. An idea that would put us in "Blogs of Note"--at least! We'd probably be bought out by The Huffington Post or something--if only to keep us from competing with them. That's how good this idea was. Unfortunately, since we had this idea, we've completely forgotten what it was. So you're going to have to use your imagination, Sloppists; think of the most amazing, original, intriguing, and profitable idea you can. Send it to us via private e-mail. It's unlikely to be as great as our idea was, but we will make sure to put it to good use. Thank you for your support.

Odds to No Particular End

Not much to discuss today, folks. We're back in school, teaching our summer crew. Summer's always an interesting mixed bag: You've got your overachievers trying to barrel through their requirements as fast as possible, but you also get--at least at a community college--a sizable portion of high school and even junior high school students. We're not sure what they're doing here. You know, we're flattered that these kids (or, let's face it, their parents) think that surrendering their summer to the Solipsist will be an enriching experience. But lord knows we wouldn't choose to spend the summer with us if we had a choice.

Also, we'd like to give a recommendation to "The Good Guys," Fox's summer replacement for "House" (we think). WOS convinced us to watch it last night, and we're glad she did. It stars Bradley Whitford (from "The West Wing") and Colin Hanks (from Tom Hanks' testicles) (Sorry) as two detectives in Dallas. Hanks is the straightman to Whitford, who plays his boozy, lecherous, and slovenly partner--who nevertheless has an incorruptible sense of mission: "I'll take a day off when the bad guys take a day off," he croaks through a flu-ridden haze in last night's episode. It's a well-written cop dramedy (more "amedy" than "dram"). Check it out.

Escape from Cowtown

En route back to the Bay Area from our semi-vacation in NYC, we had to change planes at a cowtown airport that shall remain nameless (Long Beach, CA). By the time we arrived at around noon local time, we had been up since two o'clock in the morning (what with the vagaries of time zone shifts), so we were a bit out of sorts. Our mental state was not helped by the lack of airport amenities, the fact that a bird (!) was flying around the terminal (which, for good measure, looked less like an airport terminal than the kind of prefab, temporary structure out of which construction projects are managed, only bigger and more crowded), and the fact that random 80's music (think Morris Day and the Time) was being piped in through invisible speakers. By the time the gate agents got around to boarding us, we were feeling downright ornery.

So we got to the gate and presented our boarding pass. This was one of those airports where there are no jetways--you walk across the tarmac to your plane. The gate agent, therefore, advised each passenger to make sure to board the correct plane. We looked out at the one plane idling in the sun and figured we could handle this one. Nothing is simple.

This particular airline, which shall remain nameless (JetBlue), has adorably named all its planes. Each name, we gathered, features a punning use of the word 'blue.' As she directed us through the gate, then, the agent advised us to make sure we got onto "All About Blue." Fair enough. As we approached the plane, though, we saw, stenciled beneath the pilot's window, "It Had to Be Blue."

!!!

We pointed out to the stewardess--sorry, "flight attendant"--sorry "airborne waitress"--the apparent discrepancy between reality and the fantasy world in which the gate agent was apparently living. We suspect we were not the first passenger to point this out to her, as she smiled in that way peculiar to people who have been pushed just a little too far. We took our seat before weapons could be drawn.

After a relatively uneventful flight, we landed and heard the following announcement: "On behalf of the captain and crew, I would like to welcome our passengers to LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA, where the local time is--"

AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH! WE'RE BACK IN THE COWTOWN! WE'RE TRAPPED FOREVER! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

By the way, you know how they always announce that they are beginning the "pre-boarding" process? What the hell is that? Haven't we BEEN "pre-boarding" the whole time we were waiting in the terminal? We certainly haven't BOARDED!!! And why do the infirm and parents with small children get all the perks of pre-boarding? Shouldn't pre-boarding be reserved for the Normals? Just sayin'.

You Are What You Eat? (A Brief Post)

While in NYC last week, we dined with FOS, WOFOS, and SOFOS. A lovely time was had by all, but that's not the point. During dinner (well, actually, AFTER dinner, thankfully), WOFOS mentioned "Modern Toilet Restaurant" in Taiwan. She suggested we blog about it.

Frankly, we have nothing to add. Bon appetit, Sloppists!