Or Privateice is with me.

Whatever, we're brainbuds.

These books don't just take us back to the good ol' days. They takes us back to the restrictive ol' roles. When I was a kid, my gender model was the bad ass woman just ahead of me who was already scaling the underground waterfall. I safely assume that there's anything that daring in "The Daring Book for Girls." I infer, from comments I've read about the book, that it's teaching girls to be like girls once were...and girls once had many cool components, but what about girls for whom being daring doesn't constitute a playground ditty? What about girls who like to muck around in the mud and scale rock and bounce about in whitewater? What about girls who want to design airplanes and build skyscrapers and be astronauts? Feminisim once girded such aspirations and gender ranging.

I'm just ranging.

If you always agree with a particular person, you and that person are chained to the same dog(ma)house.

In a world where folks think, we would find ourselves disagreeing and agreeing with the same folks on a regular basis. Rush's dittoheads are the utter antithesis of such folks. I like the wit of the Broadsheet writers, but I think, in the pursuit of copy, that they sometimes strain to be edgy. I think that they sometimes try to grind an edge onto cotton candy.

Or here's another Casablanket metaphor: Some of them thar hills of fulla beans, if you know what I mean, and don't amount to much in this truly dangerous world.

Since I've written for major feminist mags, I've interviewed major feminists and I've found them to be serious, wise, and cogent. Some feminist bloggers strike me as...young. And a little silly. And seriously self-absorbed behind the curtain of "I deeply, deeply care about all women."

I'm going to write a book entitled, "How Oprah ruined everything."

It will be a book about gardening, but people will buy it, eh?

...and "The Daring Book for Girls" and dare to tango with danger. The girls I knew growing up lived such lives. We rapelled off cliffs and into pits, forayed into wilderness, and worked in ghettoes.

But that was a different time.

Children were more plentiful and especially in my family and so if I wanted to sleep in the snow, my parents said, "Go. Don't die."

My sense is that the book tightly observes gender boundaries. Boys risk danger, but girls dare...barely.

Hell, even Barbie dares...to ski...in pink!

I felt like I waited for a morsel. Talk faster, Ms. Clark-Flory. Get to the point and make sure you have a point before standing before the camera.

Now don't you have someone somewhere to torture? This is the playroom.

as it rhymes with angina.

...my torn shirts and "ahem" hems. And sometimes I'm paid, as I was today, to yap at folks in fancy clothes...gawd, I pity those fancy folks, I truly do. When people assess me, it's based utterly upon what I can do rather than what I wear. What's better than that; to be judged on your ability to do whatever you do rather than your ability to shop for shoes or synchronize your shirt.

...smart.

I suspect it's due to the reality that 99.99999% of us, regardless of whether you drive a Prius or a Metro or a scooter or even walk, are consuming the Earth and hurrying along the coming Great Dying. Nearly all of us share the blame for the coming famines, droughts, the ends of various islands and coastlines, etc.

As a writer, I interview various corporate bigshots and if the interview goes well and we go off the record and they get to tell me the truth. The truth is that we're running out of everything: money, metals, energy, hope, and time. Some of us will survive, but we're too fatty a species, in all ways, and Mother Nature is a butcher, who, like Jack Sprat, likes no fat.

"Is there a growing Victorianism lurking in our verbal closet?"

Yep. Times ten. We're all strung too tight. Sex is used to sell us EVERYTHING. At the same time, I can't recall having a single lover who could actually chat about sex...not in the purient, leering, pornified way, but freely and funly. So, sex in media ratchets us tighter and tighter and we have no mature release, thus we squirm for words.

We're pathetic, but hey, hey, hey, those jeans and energy drinks and everything else sure are selling.

...less expensive, fuel-efficient options to the Prius. The Prius is pricey for me. If it isn't for you, well, you're swell, I guess, but don't plink Ms. Clarren for being glad that there are green cars for folks without stacks of greenbacks.

A couple is joined by God, thus a couple can't be split by a person or persons.

One's first spouse is one's only spouse.

Thus, Ronnie Reagan was never truly married to Nancy Reagan. They weren't spouses. They were merely proligate, public adulterers. And so it also goes with the millions of allegedly divorced folks, who especially cluster in the homo-hating red states.

Or so should say the fundies if they were theologically consistent.

Mission accomplished.

Next year, they'll be bronzing brides, so that they'll be pretty forever and ever. Me first!

Hubcap halo!

Very, very.

And Mr. Kamiya is his cognitive cousin.