The cheap shot first:

The enemy of America … is a radical network of terrorists … Their leaders are self-appointed … These terrorists … disrupt and end a way of life. With every atrocity, they hope that America grows fearful.

We’re not deceived by their pretenses [sic] to piety. We have seen their kind before … And they will follow that path all the way to where it ends in history’s unmarked grave of discarded lies.

Transcript of President Bush’s address to a joint session of Congress on Thursday night, September 20, 2001

All they have is the capacity and the willingness to … create chaos for the cameras. They’re trying to shake our will … This is an enemy without conscience, and they cannot be appeased.

President Bush’s Speech on the War on Terrorism delivered at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, 2005

So, if terrorists are people nobody elected who are trying to take away the hopes, freedoms and livelihoods of millions of Americans, and end a way of life …

And the current financial crisis is headed by people nobody elected who are adversely affecting the hopes, freedoms and livelihoods of millions of Americans, and brutally ending a way of life …

That was too easy. Now, for the more serious stuff.

So far, the most favoured bailout plan has the “golden handshake” for banking executives reduced. Now really, what does that do? When you’re talking about a bailout of a MINIMUM of US700 billion (nobody knows exactly how much the Fed will require, although knowledgeable estimates put it more at US1.2 trillion), will US36 million here or there really matter? And, as I mentioned in my previous blog, I’m positive there’ll be loopholes which will enable those executives to take that money away in other instruments (shares, for example, or some other kind of options; deferred quasi-pension payments; post-employment “consultation” fees; etc.), so it’ll stop exactly diddley-squat.

The other thing that nobody seems to be talking about is that, while MBS (mortgage-backed securities) are being traded at pennies on the dollar (one dollar face value, but sold at, say, seven cents, which appears to be market value for quite a few of them), the Fed will be paying full face value for the toxic MBSs. How does that make sense?

Thirdly, well, let Sen. Kent Conrad (Dem, North Dakota) say something first:

“It’s not just going to be Wall Street. The chairman of the Federal Reserve has told us if the credit lockup continues, three million to four million Americans will lose their jobs in the next six months.”

And nobody asks, HOW? You see, even if the toxic MBSs are bought up, the bad mortgages, and their consequences, still remain. The Fed hasn’t really done anything for “Main Street” at all because homeowners and business owners are still going to be stuck with their debt. The only winners from this are the people who have managed to offload bad debt at original face value. That is, the finance industry. And they also happen to be the ones (still) holding the title deeds. So, they make full-whack off the Fed by offloading stuff that should never have been bundled and sold in the first place and, as icing on the cake, they also demand either (a) mortgage payments from property owners for their loans or, if the person can’t pay, they (b) sell off the property, pocket the proceeds and then essentially claim the losses as offsets on their next tax return. Win, win, win, win.

Meanwhile, the average American loses three ways: their home, their taxes to pay thieves, and the economic downturn yet to come. It’s a case of all those “free market” fowl coming home to roost.

UPDATE: Seems I was wrong about that US1.2 trillion figure:

“The $700 billion is really nothing,” Mark Faber, managing director of Marc Faber Ltd. (Hong Kong) said in a television interview. “The Treasury is just giving out this figure when the end figure may be $5 trillion.”

Paulson really did pull the 700 billion figure out of his ass.

We get occasional blackouts here in our estate. J is not so sure, but I think they’re for maintenance purposes because (a) they always seem to happen at around 8pm, (b) about once a month, (c) for less than an hour.

The last blackout was last night. We escorted the kids to their bedroom and hung around until electricity was restored and firmly vetoed the idea of telling ghost stories. (With two highly-strung children, this is something you do NOT want to indulge in.) A few minutes was taken up by J playing flashlight signals with Mr L, who lives in a house about half a kilometre away, and then it was down to sweating and coming up with another family-inclusive way to pass the time.

Little Dinosaur, it turns out, is a champion at “I Spy” because nobody has yet succeeded in guessing what she can see.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with … P.”
“Pencil.”
“No.”
“Pillow.”
“No.”
“Pillar.”
“No.”
“Poster. Pussy-cat. Pen.”
“Nope, nope, nope.”
“Aw, we give up. What is it?”
“Sharpener.”

The Wast gets abstract.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with … E!”
And it turns out to be electricity, which we have none of at that time.

I just got to the point of putting my fingers over the torch so we [EDIT: cancould] see through them, when the lights came on again. Darn. That trick will have to wait till next month.

PREDICTION: Okay, let’s see how right I’ll be. (So far I’m doing better than 50%.) Paulson’s bail-out will pass. There are just too many vested interests on both sides — Democrat and Republican — for it not to. There may be a little shuffling at the edges — perhaps a cap on banker remuneration (with appropriate loopholes in place of course), and slightly more oversight into Paulson shenanigans — but the banks will get their billions of pounds of flesh.

(The ultra-cynical part of me wonders if the conservative Republicans, in particular, are deliberately acting as lightning rods for the population, drawing all public opposition to the plan. This will leave the other Republicans and Democrats free of censure. Then, when the conservative Republicans cave in, after making some pretty speeches, the blame will only be focused on the few (with some deft sleight-of-hand to dazzle the masses) and everyone at Capitol Hill will end up getting off scot-free.)

There are rumblings about the government taking equity in the firms they bail out — a la the Swedish plan — but I bet it will either be vetoed, or structured in such a way that results in yet more taxpayer money being used to transfer ownership completely back into private hands, sometime in the future. (With the stern admonishment that government “meddling” in the market never works, contrary to a large number of other successful, government-entwined economic policies around the world.)

In another interesting aside, Robert Rubin — who helped engineer this current state of affairs way back during the Clinton era — is now one of Obama’s advisors. And McCain readily admits he knows nothing about the economy. Thief or twit, make your choice.

I hope Morven Westfield forgives me for being so tardy in editing our interview. Which is a roundabout way of saying that a new interview is up! With horror writer, Morven Westfield! We talk geeks, vampires, Wicca, lifestyle, Massachusetts … oh the list goes on and on. Best to just head on over to the Radio Free Bliss site and have a listen.

Secondly, King Rat was gracious enough to mention me in his yearly round-up:

And after I gave K. S. Augustin’s book a pretty bad review, she quoted the part where I wrote that it wasn’t the worst book I’d read in 2007. Just to be clear, I don’t have a problem with that. She ought to get something positive out of risking having me review her work. She’d seen some of my bad reviews.

I hope I haven’t been deceiving everybody by quoting that line on my Dragon of Ankoll Keep page:

… It’s not the worst book I’ve read this year …

I just thought it was a funny take on a book that Rat obviously didn’t like. Along the lines of, “It’s not the worst shirt I’ve ever seen you wear …” Which means, obviously, it’s pretty darn close. But it obviously lost something in the transcription (my immature sense of humour perhaps) and I do apologise for any misunderstandings caused.

And, lastly, it’s another special day. Today marks the last day of my weekly serialisation, War Games. Chapter Twenty already … where did the time go? I won’t put up any favourite quotes or anything like that. If you’ve been following along, click here to get to the War Games page. Hope you’ve enjoyed the read.

I have no great liking for either of the US presidential candidates. They are both far too right-wing for my tastes and I don’t see much changing post-election, regardless of who gets voted in. I think the accessories may differ, but the basic body of policies will remain the same.

What really does make me wonder, though, is this almost religious fervour regarding Barack Obama. Hundreds of thousands of people somehow believe that Obama will “change” things, although what exactly he will change remains a mystery.

Wars of aggression? But he has already promised a much greater military expenditure in Afghanistan and a permanent, though smaller, presence in Iraq to balance this. So the US will be remaining in Iraq and expanding in Afghanistan. How is this meaningful “change”?

Torture? He’s for it, having called Illinois Senator Dick Durbin’s condemnation of Guantanamo Bay “a mistake”.

Universal health care? Nope.

Energy policy? Nope. (See Cracked’s take on this. Which leads me to the question on why I have to go to a freakin’ comedy site to get some sharp insight into election politics?)

Economic reform? Which candidate at whatever level (federal, state, local, church, school, playgroup) doesn’t talk about how their reform is going to be better than the current status quo? What makes up such reforms, though, is a mystery.

Offshore drilling? Seems he likes it now.

The embargo on Cuba? Seems he likes it now.

Building up America’s international reputation again? Yes, lots of words on this, but words only.

Yet, people seem to think that he, single-handedly, is going to change the entire country. There’s no thought of who his advisors are, or might be. (If you don’t know the names, or history, of Zbigniew Brzezinski or Madeline Albright, for example, (not to mention the notorious Robert Rubin) … hell, I’ll even allow two out of three … you shouldn’t be allowed to vote.) No deep analysis of his voting record (he’s voted for every Republican-proposed defence appropriation since January 2005, fyi). No hardball questions about all the corporate money he’s taking….

The advisors thing particularly bothers me.

Unlike, for example, a Westminster-style parliament, the President has a frighteningly larger say in who he’s going to appoint to represent the country’s views overseas, domestically in various guises, and economically. Whereas, with a Prime Minister, you can also take a crack at knowing who’s going to be the Foreign Minister, Treasurer, etc., and vote accordingly, with a President it’s all a blank slate until the person is in power. And, by that time, it’s too late. (We all know that the bipartisan Selection Committees have been snoozing in their chairs lately, or filibustering, so let’s not bring that one up, m’kay?)

The people of the United States have proven themselves not to be blind to how certain unelected personalities have shaped policies, and their aftermath, for the past 8 years. Rumsfeld, Cheney, Perle, Greenspan, Wolfowitz, Powell, Gonzalez, Rice. Did any American citizen actually cast a vote for these people? Yet look at the amount of power that they wielded. (Okay, except for Rice.) Yet, there seems to be a naive belief that it will all be different with Obama because … well, beyond cult-of-personality, I haven’t figured this one out yet.

From where I sit, Americans don’t appear to want a President. They appear to want a King.

(I changed the blog’s theme. Did you notice? Isn’t it purty? Still need to try widgetising it, but couldn’t resist the design. For more such goodies, I recommend regularly perusing (if not adding to your feeds) Smashing Magazine. Good stuff. And now, back to our regular programming.)

Moonrat had a blog this week that detailed the four stages of the Editing Cycle, from the point of initial euphoria to the scepticism at heaps o’ praise. She also referenced Libba Bray’s excellent post on how writing a novel parallels the progression of a love affair. So true, so true. And Moonrat further pondered on whether this cycle was the same for all writers/editors in search of perfection.

Well, I’m here to tell you that, believe it or not, it’s the same with soft furnishings. You’re scoffing, aren’t you? You see, when I ‘come down’ from finishing a novel or story, I somehow, inevitably, get involved with soft furnishings. That is, I read about them, adapt them to a particular niche of the house, and then go about making one/several/hundred. And, dammit, but it follows the same cycle:

Stage 1: You know, this idea has real potential! But instead of putting girly frills all around it, what would it look like if I adapted that second idea from page 78 and had it, gasp!, open and close like a door. But not a door. Just operating like a door. Just to add a playful element to the room.

Stage 2: Okay, so my fingers resemble pincushions from all the pinning and tacking I’m doing. And while I still think the juxtaposition of textures, especially against the afternoon sun, is quite appealing, I realise that it’s going to take waaaaaaaaay too long to handsew those thousands of little beads on the muslin panels to resemble glittering little suns shining their refracted light onto the wide expanse of floor tiles. But what else can I do when I’ve already bought the damn things?

Stage 3: [Beep] [beep] [beep], why can’t those [beep] beads stay put? Who had the [beep] bright [beep] idea of putting stupid [beep] beads on stupid [beep] muslin in the first [beep] place? And don’t you think the muslin looks cheap now? It looks cheap, doesn’t it? Be honest. [Beeeep] Well, too bad, ‘cos we’re stuck with it. [Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep], why couldn’t I have just made one freakin’ cushion cover, instead of trying to furnish an entire [beep] room!

Stage 4: Just one more metre. Just one more metre. Keep saying it and eventually you’ll be done. You can’t give up now, not when you’ve spent all that money buying the raw material. Is it, could it be, 14% finished? That’s more than ten percent, right? Hell, that’s almost twenty percent! I’m almost one-fifth of the way through this godawful project. I’m going to have to tell J to lock me in the bedroom the next time I think of sewing curtains.

Stage 5: Why, thank you, I’m glad you like it. Of course, you can’t see the little glitch there where the sewing machine jammed and I was just too angry and impatient to cut away that knot of snarling thread. And the bead pattern misses a patch of material over in the corner. And, yes, the hem is a little lopsided, but I think it adds to the room’s charm, don’t you? Yes, the material is lovely, although sheers can be a bastard to sew, to be honest.

Stage 6: I’m never, EVER, going to furnish an entire [beep] room again. I mean, I wrote and submitted my last piece in less time than sewing those [beep] curtains. I’ll pay someone else to do it next time, I swear.

Stage 7: [a few weeks/months later] Hey, I saw a really interesting book on embroidery at the bookshop and I’ve been thinking…

So yes, Moonrat, it follows the same stages, and not merely in writing. Meanwhile, J is completely befuddled. “I thought you were doing this to relax?” he asks, as I swear the air blue. “Why do you put yourself through this every time?” Good questions. Pity I don’t have the answers.

Laisen ties up her affairs on Tatrex, severing her links with the Fusion covert service completely. But the service isn’t quite through with her yet. Two years later, her life is still in tatters when she gets a rare, and unexpected, visitor.

FAVOURITE QUOTES

She knew she sounded rude, but the house was only an AI. So what if she hurt its feelings?

She dreamt of Rumis … The nightmares of Koul trying to kill her were trivial by comparison.

I had a piece of my heart ripped out. By you. By Rumis. I’ll be lucky if I can draw a clean breath ever again.

LAST LINES

Menon had turned her into a mess. That was the only reason Laisen could think of for the tears that sprang to her eyes. She shook her head slowly.
“Garza, please, don’t do this to me.”

EDIT: Oh yeah, the War Games page is here.

This is a follow-up on my post about the age of the Portuguese Eurasian race and my comment that, if I wanted to, I could trace my ancestry, certainly back to 1511 and, if there were viable Portuguese and local threads around (either Malay or Chinese, I’m guessing), back even further. If I was so inclined. Which I’m not.

But let’s just take 1511 as the interim deadline for my geneology forays here. Why, when I have a line already drawn in the sand, a concrete date at a concrete place, don’t I pursue this further and construct an entire family tree? I’ll tell you.

Imagine 1511. Imagine standing there on the beach at Malacca, watching eighteen Portuguese ships sail into the port. Imagine … the stench. Imagine the sailors. This ship has been across the ocean for heaven knows how long at a time when Europe (including England) was not renowned for its hygiene standards. The very stink of cramped humanity has soaked into its timbers and wafts across the water to you. And if that’s not bad enough, the sailors aren’t much better. You can see the hunger and greed in their eyes from where you’re standing. And, considering they haven’t washed for months, you’re sure you can smell them too! And if they haven’t washed, they certainly haven’t brushed their teeth or changed clothes, right?

While it may be terribly romantic to think that I may personally be the descendant of the leader of this expedition, Naval Admiral Alfonso d’Albuquerque, I have come to two conclusions. One, d’Alburquerque was probably as stinky as the rest of them, only he had a better standard of wig. And two, probability tells me that I’m more likely to be related to one of the flea-bitten, sex-starved, filthy sailors that either climbed the mast or cleaned the poop (ahem) deck. Continuing with this line of thought, it actually sets me wondering what on earth my female ancestor was thinking when she decided to do the wild thing with one of these louts? Or even whether it was by consent? Hmmmmmm.

And that, I fear, is the most probable outcome from any foray into geneaology. While you may be hoping you’re directly descended from Cleopatra, it’s more likely that your last recognisable ancestor was someone missing several teeth who used to maintain the cess pit at the local village. Which is why I also find “past lives” to be so amusing, especially as most people seem to think, under hypnosis, that they were Marie Antoinette.

I remember a psychic asking me once whether I had dreams of being someone else. No, I replied. Was there a period in history that particularly fascinated me? Yes, World War Two, was my answer. She sat back, satisifed. Ah, then it means you were probably alive in World War Two. Was there any group that especially drew my focus? The Germans, I replied. She literally recoiled from me. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

And I really couldn’t get that. If you truly believe in past lives, then you must believe in it in all its permutations. And that includes the fact that, if the population of today really contains the reincarnation of the people who lived and died in World War Two, then it logically follows that some people must have been soldiers guarding concentration camps, just as some must have been Spitfire aces. And no guesses for how many one outnumbered the other. So, this whole reincarnation thing seems a little cracked because — from what I’ve read — it appears to me that people are, to a large degree, able to cherry-pick who they were in a previous life, and I don’t think that’s the way it’s supposed to work.

But this gets off track, and dangerously close to another blog entry. What I’m trying to say is, the next time someone decides to boreregale you with their family history, just imagine some scratchy illiterate thug cackling by a miasma of extruded biological matter and, chances are, you won’t be far wrong.

In the beginning, God covered the earth with broccoli, cauliflower and spinach, with green, yellow and red vegetables of all kinds so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.

Then using God’s bountiful gifts, Satan created Dairy Ice Cream and Magnums. And Satan said, ‘You want hot fudge with that? And Man said, ‘Yes!’ And Woman said, ‘I’ll have one too with chocolate chips’. And lo they gained 10 pounds.

And God created the healthy yoghurt that woman might keep the figure that man found so fair.

And Satan brought forth white flour from the wheat and sugar from the cane and combined them. And Woman went from size 12 to size 14.

So God said, ‘Try my fresh green salad’. And Satan presented Blue Cheese dressing and garlic croutons on the side. And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.

God then said ‘I have sent you healthy vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them’.

And Satan brought forth deep fried coconut king prawns, butter-dipped lobster chunks and chicken fried steak, so big it needed its own platter, and Man’s cholesterol went through the roof.

Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming with potassium and good nutrition.

Then Satan peeled off the healthy skin and sliced the starchy centre into chips and deep-fried them in animal fats adding copious quantities of salt. And Man put on more pounds. God then brought forth running shoes so that his Children might lose those extra pounds.

And Satan came forth with a cable TV with remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering light and started wearing stretch jogging suits.

Then God gave lean beef so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite.

And Satan created McDonalds and the 99p double cheeseburger. Then Satan said ‘You want fries with that?’ and Man replied, ‘Yes, and super size ‘em’. And Satan said, ‘It is good.’ And Man and Woman went into cardiac arrest.

God sighed ……… and created quadruple bypass surgery.

And then ……….. Satan chuckled and created the National Health Service.

Have a good weekend all!

And we’re definitely in the home stretch with Chapter Eighteen of War Games.

Laisen has been rescued by the Fusion and is now undergoing debriefing of her mission on Menon IV. There is more news of Rumis, no news of Garza, and Laisen is adamant that she’s leaving the Service. However, I’ll leave you with the last lines of the chapter:

So she tied up her affairs on Tatrex, and paid one last visit to the administrative centre. And it was there that her world shattered again.

Happy reading!

I belong to one of the youngest races in south-east Asia. While a lot of people like to talk about the Greek or Roman civilisations, of English battles, of Germanic tribes, the rest of the world seems blind to the fact that the age of races is not the exclusive purview of Western Europe. Just as there were civilisations in Europe for centuries, there were also civilisations in Asia, Africa and the Americas older than that again. I think we forget that. While we concede that China had an empire going back millennia, how many know about the Cambodian Khmer? Or the Thai kingdoms? The fact that Vietnam had already been enslaved by China for one thousand years before they finally achieved independence in 938 CE? Or that Indian astronomy was at the forefront of the world, rivalling the Maya, even as far back as 300 BC?

As an Asian mixed-breed, I’ll be honest and say it’s frustrating to read Western histories while so much of other world histories are ignored. History did not begin two hundred, or two thousand years ago, and it did not only begin in Western Europe and its colonies. Even the Slavs have this same grumble with Western civilisation, and their case is as justified as anybody else’s, with a long and glorious history relegated, not just to the back pages, but to utter extinction. As if the great empire spanning Poland and Lithuania, the bloodthirsty warriors who defeated both the Turks AND the Crusaders, the intrigue with the notorious Italian court as dynastic marriages were consummated, and the first instances of elected monarchy in Europe, did not exist. It galls them, as similar cultural myopia galls us of browner hue.

For those people to whom such things are important, if I really wanted to devote inordinate amounts of time to it, I’m sure I could reasonably easily trace my ancestry back to 1511 plus nine months. 1511, because that’s when the first Portuguese fleet sailed into Malacca and, after vanquishing the reigning Sultan, declared the port to be under Portuguese rule. (The nine months I’ll leave to your imagination.) Like the English did with Australia, and the Americans did in North America, we see another example of tabula rasa, essentially extinguishing the heritage and technology of existing civilisations and imprinting one of its own. And it’s very difficult to avoid the conclusion that, if you can’t trace your roots to Western Europe, you’re worth nothing.

So, as the youngest race in the region, the Portuguese Eurasians are already almost 600 years old. And, you know, we do feel young. In south-east Asia, we rub shoulders mostly with Malays, Chinese and Indians, all of whom had empires, kingdoms and sultanates stretching back, verily, unto the mists of time. It’s the same if you include the Burmese, Thais, Vietnamese and Cambodians. We are the young kids on the block, the rebellious ones, the race that the others view with faint disapproval because they see us as too impetuous, our members too anarchic and (yep) too immoral. We are young in south-east Asia. And we are 600 years old. For me, personally, it helps put history — and current world politics — into perspective a bit.