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I would like to call attention to some foolish people and some people who are abrogating their responsibility. Representatives Bob Ney (R-OH) and Walter Jones (R-NC) arranged to remove French fries and French toast from the House of Representatives cafeteria menu. This is about the stupidest symbolic act ever. Duh.

But heck, why stop with Ney and Jones? Ney is Chairman of the Committee on House Administration, which is responsible for this change. The other members of the committee are certainly culpable: Vernon J. Ehlers, (R-MI), John L. Mica (R-FL), John Linder (R-GA), John T. Doolittle (R-CA), Thomas M. Reynolds (R-NY), John B. Larson (D-CT), Juanita Millender-McDonald (D-CA), and Robert Brady (D-PA). (Apparently being named John is one of the criteria for being on this committee.)

I can't quite believe they all happened to be out of the room while Representative Ney was being a blithering idiot.

[Population: One] <A HREF="http://popone.innocence.com/ar

Joshua Marshall has a nice little piece on unilateralism, multilateralism, anti-Americanism, and the UN today. I'm going to offer a couple more points:

Tacitus quite accurately pointed out to me that there was a vein of anti-Americanism even directly after 9/11; it's not as if everyone in the world was our friends. On thinking about that a little more, though, I'm not sure it's a distinctive statement. One could as easily point out that there's always been a vein of anti-French sentiment in the world, and a vein of anti-British sentiment, and a vein of anti-British sentiment. It goes with the territory. Humans have a xenophobic streak. Bush should still be held accountable for fanning the spark of anti-Americanism into a roaring flame.

Second point: Chirac is impressing the hell out of me. Not in a moral sense, but as a politician. I realized the other day that he's put together a coalition consisting of France, Germany, and Russia. France and Germany? Germany and Russia? France and Russia? Wasn't there been some animosity of considerable proportions between those countries not too long ago?

Now, you can say that they're just uniting because they have similar interests, but that kind of begs the question of why they have similar interests in this case. They're not really terribly similar politically. They all have very different problems. And who'd have guessed that France would wind up as the organizer, anyhow?

Chirac's a hell of a diplomat, no matter how much he pisses us off. I hope nobody's underestimating him.

[Population: One] <A HREF="http://popone.innocence.com/ar

I got sick and tired of reading people talking about this cool Steven Erikson guy, so I drifted on over to Chapters.ca and picked up the first three books of his Malazan Empire series.

It's scheduled to be a 10 book series when all is said and done, with each book standing alone to a certain degree. When I got the first three, I found myself with about 2,800 pages of fiction sitting in front of me, which was a bit offputting. Stubborn, I tucked into the first one. Three chapters in and I was totally hooked.

The plotlines echo Glen Cook, and in particular the Black Company and Dread Empire books. Erikson attended the Iowa Writer's Workshop, and Glen Cook hit pretty much every SF convention in that area; I'd be surprised if Erikson wasn't a Cook fan. However, the writing style is quite different: Erikson's prose has an elegant sheen which betrays his history in the mainstream literary arena. (Erikson is a pseudonym; his other publisher asked him to use one for his fantasy work.)

I am in the blissful state that comes with knowing I have around 10,000 pages of this stuff ahead of me. A sample, now:

Tattersail tracked the man as he joined his comrade at Hairlock's side, striving to see through the muck and blood covering his uniform. "Who are you people?"

"Ninth squad, the Second."

"Ninth?" The breath hissed from her teeth. "You're Bridgeburners." Her eyes narrowed on the battered sergeant. "The Ninth. That makes you Whiskeyjack."

He seemed to flinch.

Tattersail found her mouth dry. She cleared her throat. "I've heard of you, of course. I've heard the --"

"Doesn't matter," he interrupted, his voice grating. "Old stories grow like weeds."

She rubbed at her face, feeling grime gather under her nails. Bridgeburners. They'd been the old Emperor's elite, his favorites, but since Laseen's bloody coup nine years ago they'd been pushed hard into every rat's nest in sight. Almost a decade of this had cut them down to a single, undermanned division. Among them, names had emerged. The survivors, mostly squad sergeants, names that pushed their way into the Malazan armies on Genabackis, and beyond. Names, spicing the already sweeping legend of Onearm's Host. Detoran, Antsy, Spindle, Whiskeyjack. Names heavy with glory and bitter with the cynicism that every army feeds on. They carried with them like an emblazoned standard the madness of this unending campaign.