perfidy

As the clock tolls the end of the year, after five years of delays, millions of pages of secret, top secret and otherwise classified documents will become unclassified, unsecret and un-top secret.

But in theory if not in immediate practice, what was set in motion by the Clinton administration in 1995 is coming to fruition. Executive Order 12958 declared that in 2000, every classified document 25 years of age or older would be automatically declassified unless the classifying agency had already sought and received that document's exemption (anything that could cause an "identifiable" risk to national security, would violate a person's privacy or involves more than one agency is exempt). After two three-year extensions granted by the Bush administration in response to cries from the CIA, FBI, NSA and other agencies that they didn't have the manpower to review all of their papers in time, the final deadline has arrived. And President Bush is enforcing it.

The FBI alone will be declassifying 270 million pages of heretofore secret material. This is a good thing. While I recognize that keeping secrets is necessary, the government has had a nasty habit of classifying basically anything, regardless of whether it truly needed to be secret. I look forward to seeing what people dig out of this staggeringly large treasure trove.

... for Christmas, but I ran across this over at NRO and found it irresistable:

Shi’ites Roasting in a Mosque on Fire
(To the tune “The Christmas Song ”)

Shi’ites roasting in a mosque on fire,
Sunnis bombed in their bazaar.
The U.S. cursed as an occupier
And oil flows still not up to par.

Everybody knows a firefight and an IED
Help make the streets of Baghdad bright.
Suicide fiends with their eyes all aglow
Think victory for them’s in sight.

They know that Baker’s had his say.
His ISG report said we don’t want to stay.
And our Iraqi friends rush to apply
For seats on any airplane that will fly.

And so I'm offering this simple phrase
For Cheney, Bush, and Condi too.
Although its been said many times many ways:
Nation building, we can’t do.

God bless the Derb

It is natural for us to assume that the attractive and wealthy are actually stupid. This is a face saving gesture, for otherwise, how are we to accept the fact that we, with our much greater intelligence and savvy, are not rolling in bling and surrounded by attractive and loose-moralled members of the opposite sex? In at least once case, however, this is not the truth. Witness, Britney Spears' Guide to Semiconductor Physics.

[wik] I have been warned that the above-referenced website may, in places, be unsafe for work. Meaning, there may be tits and whatnot in plain view. I have not perused the entire site, as my interest in semi-conductor physics is only slightly higher than my interest in Ms. Spears. So, take whatever measures you feel are appropriate for your continued safe employment.

The Ministry wishes to extend to all a very Merry Christmas, and best wishes for a happy New Year.

[wik] And thanks to a kindly extension of our bandwidth by our webmistress Kathy, you will even be able to read this.

[alsø wik] If you happen to be Orthodox Christian, Merry Christmas for next week.

[alsø alsø wik] If you do not happen to be Christian, Merry Christmas anyway.

[wi nøt trei a høliday in Sweden this yër?] And be careful around the Mistletoe, it could lead you into heresy or awkward social interactions.

[see the løveli lakes...] Nog! Loot! Lots of colorful scraps of paper! A Jedi craves not these things!

[the wøndërful telephøne system...] And maybe we'll get a little of peace on Earth, and goodwill toward men this year.

The Economist has an interesting bit on Free Will, or the ever decreasing residuum that is all that remains after modern neuroscience has had its way. I've often wondered when drunk whether we really had that much free will. I like the idea of free will, but it seems to me that there is a lot less of it than most people suppose. To the extent that I can look inside my head and determine what goes on, often it seems that consciousness is less a matter of choice, but rather one of explanation. It is a part of my mind that explains or offers a narrative of decisions, impulses or reactions that were happening elsewhere. Not that I ever bought into any sort of Calvinist predestination - I think that's a load of crap. Really, I'm just a self-propelled meat puppet.

For you, dear reader, a Christmas present. Thanks to the ever-watchful eye of Slashdot, we have this heartwarming story of cruelty, cupidity and shortsightedness. A textbook example of how not to attempt to get people to commit crimes for you. If this had resulted in death or sterility rather than embarrassment, this guy would be a shoe-in for a Darwin Award. Sheer, perverse, anti-genius.

This weed can eat pesticide for breakfast, resist the Mexican army for lunch, and kick your ass for dinner.

It took me several hours to finally assemble the table, and to repair the desk. After that intensely annoying labor, my office was looking nice. I was feeling good. So, I took a break from work to go hook up the washer and drier. Turned on the washer, and it leaked through what is apparently a huge hole in the bottom of the washer. It must have broke in the move. And there's no drain in the basement. I am pissed. Mrs. Buckethead is pissed, because she's going to have to go to a laundromat to wash the clothes.

But hey, at least I've got high speed internet.

Unpacking is, I now believe, more draining than packing. When you're packing, things go in boxes. While you can make some effort to ensure that like things end up in the same box, the end result is a constant and familiar. Fill a box til it's full, tape it shut, repeat. There is also the reassuring feeling of progress as you see the ever larger pile of boxes. You can look at the pile of boxes and say, "Look at all that shit I packed!"

The reverse is more daunting. You might think it'd be something like a grand scale Christmas, but you'd be wrong. You open a box. What's in this one? Kitchen stuff. But you opened it in the wrong place. Move the box to the kitchen. Then you've got a pile of boxes and you have to figure out where that stuff goes. You get more boxes, and despite all the stuff you've put away, there are still boxes. And since you've put all the other stuff away, you can't see it and you don't feel like you (or in my case, your wife) have accomplished anything at all.

Then there's the stuff that breaks in the move. I have a nifty correspondance desk that was hand made by my step-grandfather. It is, I discovered, rather fragile, as one of the feet broke when it was unloaded. So, I went to my local hardware store, and got the 4" screws I needed to reattach the foot more strongly than the original wood glue. I got out the drill, drilled the pilot holes, and reattached the foot. I felt all handy and competent. So, I flipped the desk so that the weight of the desk would help the wood glue I also applied set better.

And the leg snapped.

Tonight I get to attach new hoses to the washing machine, and reassemble the table that didn't have any nuts or washers. It didn't have nuts or washers because in an apparent fit of insanity, I did not screw them back onto the table legs after I disassembled it. Instead, I carefully packed them into a ziploc bag, and then lost the bag.

At least I've got high speed internet.

Newsweak is reporting that Iraq's economy, despite all the bombings and blood and death, is booming. According to one measure, 17% this year and projected for 13% next year. Amazing, really. I would imagine that a fair chunk of that healthy growth rate is the result of starting small - the first part of the growth curve is easy. Still and all, the fact that things are getting together enough for this sort of thing to happen is encouraging, especially in the face of the constant reminders that things are very, very bad indeed.

JohnL, from TexasBestGrok, pings me with a meme. He thought he was being all sneaky by doing that after not posting for weeks. However, I read that post on the day he posted it, and the only thing I missed was the fact that he tagged others, including me, for his meme.

So, here is my Christmas Questions post:

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate? Whiskey
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Why bother wrapping coal? Seriously though, Santa wraps presents in attractive post consumer recycled gift bags and places them gently under the tree for the cats to knock over.
3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? I don’t, or at least, haven’t, decorated the outside of my house. Someday, perhaps.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? Never. Kisses are icky, so my son tells me.
5. When do you put your decorations up? Usually somewhere around the first weekend in December. Typically, we are traveling in Ohio over the T-day weekend. This year, decorations will go up this weekend, the delay thanks to an inconveniently timed move.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? Stuffing, the way my Grandmother did, and now my mom and favorite aunt do it.
7. Favorite holiday memory as a child: Depends on what you mean by favorite. Most cherished memory is all the Christmases I spent at my grandparent’s 150 year old farmhouse in the country. There are many others, too numerous to mention. Some are favorite in that they make good stories, but weren't particularly pleasant at the time.
8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? Somewhere around age five, I deduced that Santa was fake. I have hated the world ever since.
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Sometimes
10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? I am a firm believer in the eclectic school of tree decorating. I was given some ornaments by my mom – seed ornaments like John mentioned, and slowly added to that stockpile over the years. When my grandmother died, I also got a bag of ornaments from that tree. Since I’ve been married, my wife and I buy a couple ornaments a year. We did buy a bin of red glass ornaments one year. So first, put on multiple strings of colored lights, then hang about 200 ornaments, then put up the ugly angel on the top. It has a rubberband to hold the wings on, but I wouldn’t trade it for nothing.
11. Snow! Love it or dread it? Love it. Christmas just ain’t right without snow. In Columbus, Ohio, where we usually spend Christmas, it’s about 50-50 chances.
12. Can you ice skate? Barely.
13. Do you remember your favorite gift? I don't know what my favorite gift is. I loved them all, and thank all the people who got them for me. I never did get a BB gun, though.
14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you? Grandma’s sugar cookies, made by me. Seeing the fam. Ruthless competition in the five dollar gift exchange. Watching my son go totally bug eyed at the gifts.
15. What is your favorite holiday dessert? Sugar cookies, made by me. Pumpkin pie, made first by granny, and now by my cousin Marianne. Though the wife's pies are getting better.
16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? Pulling out one of my Nat King Cole Christmas albums (I have backups) and starting to decorate. Baking the cookies. Making the beans. The five dollar gift exchange. I can’t decide.
17. What tops your tree? A hideously ugly half century old plastic angel with a funky hairdo. It was once electric, with lights and shit. Now, its broken and has a fat rubberband holding it together. One year, the ugly angel got impaled a little too much by the top of the tree, and split her up the sides.
18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving? Getting. Though I don’t mine giving. This question reminds me of Rainbow Randolph’s song in Death to Smoochy.
19. What is your favorite Christmas song? Any of the songs on Nat King Cole’s Christmas album. Probably O Tannenbaum, because it's so funky listening to Nat sing German. I’ve also become partial to the Squirrel Nut Zippers Christmas Album, Django Bells, and a couple Aimee Mann Christmas tracks we have on a compilation.
20. Candy canes: Candy sucks.
21. Favorite Christmas movie? Without question, The Christmas Story. You’ll put your eye out, kid. Although Bad Santa left a powerful impression last year. Not good for the kids, though I wouldn’t mind meeting Mrs. Santa’s sister.
22. What do you leave for Santa? Sugar cookies and a glass of milk.

Other Christmas thoughts? It's really all about the food. Most of my fondest memories, and most of the current family traditions, center on food rather than gifts. One of the greatest controversies in my family was over whether it was appropriate to introduce new recipes for traditional dishes. After some acrimony, the traditionalists won out. If you're going to change something, it has to be an addition rather than a replacement, because everyone wants what they expect - something else might be a nice bonus, but there damn well better be the right kinds of stuffing, gravy, rolls, green beans, cookies and pies.

As much as I like, and indeed treasure, the Christmas music that I listen to at home, I despise and detest the never ending crappy Christmas music that everyone else plays.

Sometimes it's hard to find good gifts - and while it is considered a cop out in my family to get gift cards, it is awfully nice to get them.

Having kids makes up for the fact that you're too grown up to get cool toys much anymore.

Traveling over Christmas is too damn expensive, but worth it. This year I won't be travelling, but I am going to really miss the rest of my family that I won't see as a result.

I'm not going to nominate anyone to participate, because that's not my idiom. But feel free to participate.

[wik] Another of JohnL's nominations has put one up.

[alsø wik] Ministry Crony and filthy Druid Rocket Jones has weighed in.

No less august an institution than the Smithsonian has recklessly and without evidence declared me, and by extension the entire ministry, to be SPAM LIKE CONTENT. This is, apparently, a total and permanent judgment, if I am interpreting their missive correctly:

Technical details of permanent failure:
PERM_FAILURE: SMTP Error (state 12): 550 Error: SPAM LIKE CONTENT

Needless to say, I disagree violently with this assessment. Hell, I never send an email to more than five recipients. And it's never about penis enlargement. Okay, very rarely about penis enlargement. But never about Viagra. Even I have standards. Low standards, to be sure. But they are standards.

I think I'll have to write a letter.

This was me, two years ago. [wik] I am pleased to note that this link came from my boss. I am becoming happy with my new work environment.
 

Let me invite you into a magical world of incompetence, omnigorence, and thumb-fingered cluelessness. One of the joys of moving is the task of navigating the treacherous waters of utility company bureaucracy. Before leaving the old house, the Casa de Buckethead, we had to cancel the water, electric, gas, phone and broadband services to the house. This we accomplished with a minimum of fuss, and as we approached closing day on Festung Buckethead, we began the process of scheduling services for the new place.

The first of two services that we needed was electricity, and in a matter of minutes on the phone Mrs. Buckethead successfully set that up, and they – as an added bonus – didn’t even ask for a security deposit. The missus, perhaps foolishly, began to feel a sense of optimism. Water at the new place is from a well, so we don’t need the water utility. There’s no gas, so no more Washington Gas, or any other. We’d decided to forego the landline phone since we both had cell phones, and it seemed an unnecessary expense, especially considering the fact that our Vonage service had gone pear-shaped, and begun connecting our incoming calls to someone in Germany with frightening regularity.

So, with a light heart and brimming with confidence, Mrs. Buckethead began calling local broadband providers to see who amongst them would like to have us as a paying customer. After some time spent waiting on hold, she determined that the local phone companies did not provide DSL service to the area. So be it, we thought! There’s always cable! Then began a parade of staggering ignorance, muddle-headedness and obtusity on a scale I have seldom witnessed.

Week before last, the missus began calling Adelphia. The first yahoo she talked to seemed constitutionally unable to realize that we were not calling for technical assistance.

Idiot: “I’ll have a technician return your call.”
Mrs. B: “We don’t have a technical issue. We want to set up service.”
Idiot: “Oh. Let me see. Okay. I’ll have a technician return your call.”
Mrs. B: “We are not customers. We wish to become customers. Do you provide service to our address?”
Idiot: “Let me transfer your call.”

So she waited on hold for a while. Then called again, and got another idiot.

Idiot #2: “I’ll have a service representative return your call, thank you.”
Mrs. B: “Don’t you need my phone number?”
Idiot #2: “Oh, yeah, that would help.”

That person told us that Adelphia didn’t provide service to our location. Given the paucity of intelligence evident in the Adelphia customer service department, I recommended to my wife that she call again, and see if she couldn’t talk to someone with somewhere north of a small ganglion. Which she did, and no joy. She even called the county planning office, and those people said that yes, sadly, there was no cable service in our area.

So, we resigned ourselves to getting satellite broadband. This was mildly disheartening – while the monthly charges for satellite are about on par with other services, it’s a smaller pipe, and you get horrific latencies, which makes using VoIP or VPNs over satellite connections problematic at best. And, as a special bonus, you get to pay $300 or more upfront to have the satellite installed.

There matters stood as we went into our closing. After we had signed away for an hour, the seller’s agent handed us a sheet of paper that listed some of the information for our property. Among the items listed was, “Adelphia cable installed.”

Homos say, “What?”

Well, if cable was already installed at that address, why hadn’t the tireless and dedicated staff at Adelphia been able to determine that they did, in fact, provide service to that address? We figured, based on the behavior of the seller, that perhaps she was exaggerating, or at best mistaken. It was an investment property for her, after all, and not a place she had ever lived.

So, the next day we moved in. And my mom found a cable outlet in the wall of the master bedroom suite. (I love that phrase.) Well, shit, says I. There is cable. So this morning, I head off to work, and the missus vowed to sort it out. She calls Adelphia, and they reluctantly admit that yes, maybe they provide service to our address. And if you want service, you have to show us a copy of your contract on the house to prove that you aren’t the deadbeats who lived in that house two years ago.

Well, okay. That actually never occurred to me. Run up the utilities, file a change of address, then sign up in a new name. Not a bad idea. Regardless, Mrs. B, the kids, and Grandma B. all pile in the car and head down to Front Royal in search of the Adelphia office. Why? Because no one in the office would admit to having a fax number to which we might fax the contract. Curse this modern era of lightning communications and enhanced productivity!

Of course, it was only fitting and proper that the office should prove to be one of those stealth offices that isn’t actually located on the street they said it was on. But after in excess of five hours on the phone, and one confusing drive into the big city, we are now scheduled to have our broadband hooked up Wednesday afternoon between the hours of noon and two. Given past performance, I am not exactly holding my breath.

You’d think that a cable company – any company, really - would actually like to have customers, rather than setting up near insuperable obstacles for potential clients. But then, I’m just a blogger and not some hot shot cable company owner, so what do I know?

Sometime ago, a long time resident of the Ministry Cronies list apparently dropped off the map. Phil, he of the myriad blog names, was no longer responding to the happy clicky. Now, he had expressed, on his blog, some growing distaste for the whole blogging thing. Sure, and that is to be expected. I feel that about every afternoon around 3:00. But weeks, months, past, and still I was not finding www.phildennison.net. Had he canceled his domain altogether, I wondered? I had, and have, no way of knowing, seeing as how the only email address I had for him used that domain.

So, Phil, drop me a line. If you can - hopefully you've not been trapped under something large and immovable for the last several months, surviving on cat food and just out of reach of the keyboard.

A map of the internet. Sweet.

Casa de Buckethead, our place in the suburbs, has now been replaced by Festung Buckethead, our fastness in the wilderness of Warren County, Virginia. I would like to make special mention of those brave, nay, foolhardy souls who assisted us in loading, carting and unloading our myriad possessions. Jeff, who despite years of captaining a chair for NASA, showed commendable fortitude in the face of very large boxes. Mike, who maintained a cheerful good humor even when forbidden to play any instruments. Mike’s two sons Paul and Andrew, who, for teenagers, were able to focus on the task at hand and not ask for beer or electronics more than every ten minutes or so. Christian, who, having known me for less than a year, still pitched in with admirable vigor. Marcy, who despite being the littlest helper, hardly complained at all. And Gavin, who’s skills at driving a large U-Haul truck left me amazed, but only after being paralyzed with fear. And of course, Mrs. Buckethead, who did most of the packing, and will be doing most of the unpacking. Thanks also to mom, who kept the junior-grade Bucketheads occupied and largely out of the way.

I would also like to express my admiration for the wisdom of all those who did not help us move, even while begrudging their lack of generosity of spirit.

All things considered, the move went surprisingly well. The missus and I had actually packed damn near everything before moving day. I have found from painful personal experience that failure to pack is a serious impediment to efficient moving.

The new place is out in the back of beyond, relative to our nation’s capitol and my workplace. It’s even on a dirt road. And the last turn to get down to our driveway is a little tight. I thought that, with some careful driving, I could get the 26’ U-Haul down the drive. But I decided to consult with Gavin, to see if he had any useful suggestions. He merely replied, “Mind if I drive?” In the face of that sort of certainty, I had no real objection. Gavin hopped in the truck, and without hesitation, barreled down the driveway. He turned left, into the little turnaround, and then proceeded to back the truck around the hairpin turn.

At that moment, Christian had asked for a cigarette. I was unable to comply, because just then Gavin touched the edge of the driveway with the left rear tire and tipped the top-heavy truck noticeably out of vertical. Still he didn’t hesitate, and in seconds had the truck down by the house. Chris asked again for a cigarette. I handed one over, and said, “Sorry, I was paralyzed by fear.”

Gavin said that he was trying to avoid the trees. But then, he also said later that evening that, “If I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist,” so I can only conclude that he was just having fun at my expense.

Other memorable events: Jeff breaking my rake while, to all appearances, trying to use it like a snowboard. Me, twisting my ankle on perfectly level ground. Everyone asking repeatedly, “You say you purged your books before you packed?” after seeing the 60+ boxes. Hey, at least I had the foresight to pack them in little boxes…

Thanks again to everyone who helped, you have dibs on all the goodies when we have the housewarming party.

[wik] A special tiny thanks to GL for coming up with a new name for the Buckethead residence.

As attentive readers will be aware, I am about to buy a house. I suppose it was to be expected that nothing would go smoothly, and more to the point it would not go smoothly at the last moment. I was informed earlier this morning that the down payment was not, as estimated, less than the amount in my bank account. Instead, as a personal consideration to me, it was more. Contemplating this turn of events, I felt the familiar stab of anxiety, that little gremlin grabbing my heart and twisting that I have come to associate with the entire home buying experience. To this feeling was added a small frisson of urgency to give it a little extra punch, since I am closing tomorrow morning.

If this was happening next week, it wouldn't be an issue as I get another paycheck Tuesday. Of course, if it was next week, I'd have to cancel all my moving plans and probably end up with no one to help me move instead of a dozen people helping me move. Happily, dear old mom was there to chip in at the last moment, and wired enough money to cover our sudden short fall. Now, I will spend the balance of the afternoon emulating a crack addicted lab monkey, clicking the refresh button and hoping for a little of what I need.

What particularly galls me is, why the hell didn't the loan people detect this mysterious nearly a grand difference in estimated payments until less than 24 hours before closing?

Not a good plan, to be sure. But certainly too much time on their hands:

The objective of eScrew.com is to destroy Capitalist system of governance. Many people tried to destroy Capitalist system before but all of them failed. The reason for that is their luck of understanding of Capitalist system. If you can find the heart of Capitalist system, you can find a way to destroy it.

Cheap energy is the heart of Capitalist system. Expansion and conquest is the direct result of cheap energy. If we can destroy cheap energy we can destroy Capitalism. In order to destroy cheap energy we must increase the demand for cheap energy to a point where supply will not be able to deliver the goods. As a result energy will become expensive. Expensive energy will decrease the stability of Capitalist system and launch a fatal chain of events which eventually will destroy Capitalism.

Read the whole thing here. I checked out the address, but it only says "Under Construction," with a note that, "I created new religion but I will not tell you anything about it because it is my secret."

[wik] Believe it or not, I happened upon this drivel (entertaining drivel, but still drivel) whilst I was looking for information on gmail. I shouldn't have been surprised, seeing as how the two are so intimately connected.

Well, not really. Mostly I feel... very nice. I do however feel a sort of mild, but by no means overwhelming guilt. I haven't been posting much. That's it, really. I have my reasons of course. Foremost among them is the staggering amount of packing that I have had to undertake over the last couple weeks. So far, fifty three boxes of books. And not done yet! Granted, that is most of the books. My wife says I should get rid of some of them, and use the library. But the librarians insist that I bring the books back, and, well, I just don't dig that. Then there's all the clothes, and the kitchen stuff, and the random knicknacks. We filled up my son's bedroom with all that. And of course you've got all the stuff in the garage. Camping gear. Zombie preparedness kit. Tools. More tools. Pizza boxes. Then, lurking like a dark lurking thing, is the basement. Filled with things that I am sure I got rid of and am certain I never bought. It's the dark subconscious of the house.

But all of this, like good things except for the "good" part, will come to an end. We hope to close on the new Casa de Buckethead a week from tomorrow, and move the following day. Posting will remain a furtive thing as I duck my heavy packing responsibilities.