I apologize for being so quiet, friends, but I took an arrow to the knee.
Oh wait, wrong game. I’ve been deep in the embrace of Star Wars: The Old Republic since mid-December. Will be back as soon as I get to 50 with my Imperial Agent.
I can’t think of a better title for this post, really.
We all know what’s happened: Jerry Sandusky, former assistant coach at Penn State, was popped for raping children. Now it comes out that legendary coach Joe Paterno AND Penn State AD Tim Curley AND, apparently, half the rest of the freaking University, knew about it. It was reported. People even went to the campus police.
And nothing was done until a mother finally went to her local police and swore out a complaint against Sandusky.
Paterno–who was given an eyewitness account by a grad assistant (that we now know was PSU receivers coach Mike McQueary) who walked in on Sandusky raping a 10-year old boy–knew, but did nothing except tell his superiors. He had a chance to do the right thing, to stop the assault and call the police or to just immediately go to the police. But instead, he called his father–who told him to tell Paterno about it. Didn’t tell him to go to the cops and then to Paterno, didn’t tell him to do the right thing.
He told him to go to JoePa. And Paterno effectively did nothing. McQueary–WHO SAW THAT PIECE OF SHIT SANDUSKY RAPING A CHILD–did nothing. Curley–the godsdamned Athletic Director–did nothing. Gary Schultz, PSU’s VP of Business and Finance, University President Graham Spanier did nothing.
None of these people did anything to protect the victims, because they were all more concerned with Penn State’s reputation and with protecting their freaking jobs rather than being concerned with doing the right gods-damned thing.
Joe Paterno was fired last night by Penn State’s Board of Trustees, after refusing to take early retirement. With him went Graham Spanier. The sheer arrogance of Paterno’s refusal to immediately step down and admit his wrongdoing is galling. The excusemaking by Penn State fans and others is galling–that Paterno is somehow untouchable because of his high graduation rate, or because he was only doing his job by passing it up the chain of command.
FUCK. THAT. Those men had a moral obligation to alert the authorities and see to it that Sandusky’s predations were halted IMMEDIATELY, and they decided that instead of doing the right thing they’d do the easy thing and sweep it all under the rug.
I’ve talked about stuff like this before. There was a moral–indeed, a wholly criminal–failing on the part of Penn State University to not only NOT pursue the matter once it was first brought to their attention in 1998 when Sandusky was caught in the showers with young boys, but to cover it up and effectively tell Sandusky “If you want to rape kids, don’t do it on campus.”
Words cannot describe the rage I feel toward these people and toward the people of poor moral character that are defending them. Seeing PSU students rioting over the Paterno firing is making me sick to my stomach–the man protected a child-rapist. He doesn’t deserve anything except excoriation for his part in what happened. McQueary needs to be fired. The DoJ needs to nail that school’s ass to the freaking wall.
Justice needs, at long last, to finally be done–especially if that justice involves Jerry Sandusky being put into Gen Pop at a Maximum Security prison with a sign around his neck saying “I RAPE KIDS”.
The axe is sharp, and I’m ready for war. Let the Day of Rage begin.
OK, time to take a short break from hockey for a moment and talk about my second-favourite thing: cooking.
(Hey, the blog’s name does reference sweet tea and barbecue after all)
I got a wild hair yesterday when Genghis and I went to the store–it’s fall, the weather is getting colder (even here in NC), and it’s time to migrate from the light salads of summer to something more fortifying. So I grabbed a few ingredients, and got up way early this morning to put them all together–and this is what I got:
1 5# pork loin, trimmed and cubed
6-7 ribs celery, sliced
1 yellow onion, diced
6-7 carrots, sliced (you can also use 6oz. baby carrots)
5 medium redskin potatoes, cut into chunks
1 24oz bottle Guinness Extra Stout
2tsp each salt and pepper
3tbsp each ground mustard and ground ginger
4tbsp Montreal Steak Seasoning
1/4c dark brown sugar
(Top Tip: stick the loin in the freezer for a couple hours before cubing it–it’ll make it easier to cut)
Add the cubed pork to a slow-cooker, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Pour the beer over the pork, and braise on low for 4 hours. After 4 hours, add the aromatics, the potatoes, and the remaining spices, then cook for another 3 hours before cranking the slow-cooker to high for 6 hours. Serve with your favourite ale and a nice hunk of crusty bread, and enjoy–preferably with friends.
The blog went away–I’m sure some thought I had gone underground, but no; a spammer had hacked it.
I’m back, the spammer has been hauled out into the street and shot (and I wish all the other spammers on the planet would suffer the same fate) and decided that this was as good a time as any to go with a new theme.
As all seven of you are no doubt aware, Peter Laviolette is still officially in limbo here–will he stay, will he go? Who knows? I’ve got this absolutely sick feeling that Lavi’s going to get the boot and wind up in Atlanta, while we’ll get Chairman Mo back behind our bench. HOPEfully it’s just the mead talking, because if Mo comes back I can about guarantee you that we’ll see triple-digit attendance at the RBC Center if we’re lucky and we’re playing Ottawa on a Tuesday.
If Lavi goes, don’t be surprised if a company man gets the job barring a miracle. Crazy Ron I don’t want to see here–I don’t think he’ll sit well with the populace–though Joel Quenneville (former member of the ’86 Whalers team) would be nice to have, as a nice nod to the team’s past (the Avs’ recent playoff performance notwithstanding–sorry Avs fans, but the Hurricanes kinda roont Jose Theodore for y’all way back in ’02).
The folks at The Hockey Show have put together a fun little video for all y’all–Bret of the Gimpy Hip and his lovely wife Kristi Yamaguchi take the viewer behind the scenes of her rehearsals for Dancing With The Stars (which, unlike EJ Hradek, I do NOT watch), and Gimpy learns to do the Cha Cha.
I’ve really had a hard time getting into the playoffs, since the four teams that are left are teams that I either despise (Detroit, who I hope gets bought and moved to someplace like Apalachicola, FL the instant Mike Ilitch kicks it) or intensely dislike (Dallas, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh). But since Wife 1A is a Pens fan, I’m suckin’ it up and waving a black-and-gold pompom for her.
ECF Game 3 in Philadelphia tonight. Puck drops at 7:30 at the Wachovia Center, and it should be an interesting game. Wonder if the Pflyers will try to get down and dirty with Evgeni “Slewfoot” Malkin?
Today is Primary Day in North Carolina, and voters are heading to the polls to pick who they want to be their party’s nominee for this November’s Presidential election.
Miz Mer, however, is so very (understandably) cheesed off by all the robocalls that she’s received in the last month that she’s chosing to stay home today. I don’t totally agree with her decision, and I feel that there are possibly better ways to complain about robocalling (which, as far as I’m concerned, is a blight on the landscape much like inbound telemarketing calls and spam), but I respect her decision and support her in it…which, sadly, is more than can be said for one of my fellow Obama supporters–who decided to self-righteously lecture her about her civic duty (and got all kinds of butthurt when he got a hammer ‘twixt the peepers from yours truly).
So…yeah. I encourage you to please go exercise your vital powers as a citizen and vote today (and, more importantly, in November), if you’re eligible to. If you decide not to, I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll respect it.
Several Hurricanes (and ex-Canes) have congregated at the RecZone in Raleigh for what fans affectionately call “Camp Brind’amour“; informal drills and skates to help players get ramped back up for training camp. Have I been able to go watch? Not really–work will do that to yer.
And speaking of work: as you all know, I currently work for a convenience store within a 2-mile radius of the RBC Center. Barring some horrific catastrophy, that will all change next month–I’ve accepted a job offer from a prominent national company, and will soon be trading the “ZOMGROBBARY!!!1″ panicbutton for a headset and a desk. And more money. This job is something I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m really looking forward to it. It’ll make the school thing harder to do, but that’s what WebAssign is for.
I texted Tapeleg about the happy news yesterday, and he asked me “What will you do without the adventure?”
I’ll breathe easier, that’s what I’ll do.
There are lots of things that piss me off. The heat, telemarketers, insurance salesmen, the Raleigh PD, any team from Detroit, take your pick.
HOWEVER! One thing is guaranteed to piss me off more than anything else in the world; willful misuse and abuse of English by a native speaker. You people have no idea how hard I have to work to control my visceral urge to beat the ever-lovin’ crap out of some motard that comes before me at my job and proceeds to treat me like I’m as dumb as he is while grossly misusing his mother tongue.
Language is a beautiful thing, children. If you’ve grown up speaking a language, and your IQ is higher than that of your average Barcalounger, you had damn well better learn to use that language well if you don’t want to be seen as a
Sabres fan dim-witted fool.
Let’s start with my favorite Crime Against English: the double-negative. Examples of this include:
Irregardless is NOT a word. Just because it’s the name of a nice eatery here in Raleigh, and just because it’s listed in the Oxford English Dictionary (a copy of which I have on my bookshelf–along with the invaluable Chicago Manual of Style), that does not mean that this double-negative is considered standard (or proper) English.
I can’t get no satisfaction, so the song says–and I can’t listen to that song without wanting to rip Mick Jagger’s balls off and stuff them up his nose.
And then we have the hilarity that ensues when I hear somebody using a word incorrectly–and I KNOW that it’s incorrect. The first commenter in this post to Lord Stanley’s Blog was referring to a magnate, which is “a person of rank, power, influence, or distinction often in a specified area” (e.g. a software magnate). Dictionaries are made for a reason, people. If you are not sure, LOOK IT THE HELL UP BEFORE YOU MAKE YOURSELF LOOK STUPID.
You want to send me into a near-homicidal rage? Use a word incorrectly, and when I politely point out your error look at me like I’m stupid and say “Whatever, you know what I meant”.
Sure, I know what you meant: you’re a blithering idiot, that’s what you meant. I’m going to mock your dumb ass my taking your misusage and running it into the ground, and then I’ll follow it up by grabbing a dictionary and piledriving it into your thick skull with a jackhammer!
Whatever, you know what I meant.
AND ANOTHER THING!
Lolcats is one thing. Meta-neologistic “gamerspeak” words like “pwn” and “lewtz” are one thing (well, one collective thing). That’s intentional linguistic mangling for the purposes of humor. It’s satirical. I let that slide. But the next time I see an out-of-place apostrophe turning a plural into a possessive or “their”, “there”, and “they’re” (for example) used as if they’re interchangeable parts, or see some variant of “ur”, “laf”, or a number used in place of a word or as part of a shortened-for-idiot-comprehension word (e.g. “ne1″), there’s a good chance that I may snap and go on a mad shooting spree! I did not ace the Verbal portion of my SAT (TWICE!) so that I could put up with that kind of slack-assed tomfoolery, people.
I’m not linguistically perfect, but at least I know how to spellcheck and use a damn style manual and dictionary. Sheesh.
Release date unannounced. New features like Level 80 (Woohoo, more grinding!), siege warfare (battlegrounds will never be the same again), NEW CHARACTER DANCES (YES! I no longer have to watch my hunter dance like the French Britney Spears!), new dungeons to explore, and we’ll finally get to see the icy continent of Northrend (home of Arthas the Lich King). I’m such a tourist, I totally geeked out on the idea of new areas to explore. I mean, I’m the person who went along on a Molten Core raid with NO fire resistance AT ALL…just because I wanted to see what it looked like. I’m also the person who tried to get some of her guildies to form a raid group JUST so I could get into Magtheridon’s Lair solo to check it out for myself. And yes, I died horribly both times. I also took advantage of a couple of environmental glitches to get into Hyjal to see where Archimonde bought it in Warcraft III–and got tut-tutted by a GM, who jokingly offered to teleport me into the middle of Blackwing Lair so I could satisfy my curiosity (I think that GM wound up getting fired by Blizzard for actually having a mind of his own and saying something other than “Works as intended, thank you for playing World of Warcraft!”)
Yes, I’m a geek and damn proud of it. I haven’t been this excited about something since Command and Conquer 3 came out (KANE LIVES)!
Off to level my Draenei shammy. See ya on Azeroth!
OK, so I got tagged by The Chief. Topic: My Five Favorite Songs
Man…I don’t think any song after 1991 or so is on this list.
5) Waiting For The Great Leap Forward, by Billy Bragg. Yes, I like Billy Bragg. Yes, I know he sometimes sounds like a braying donkey when he sings. I don’t care–he can still put together a good ‘un, and this song has been one of my favorites since I first saw the video for it in high school (though the “updated” lyrics that BB uses now just don’t flow for me). What will you do when the war is over, tender comrade?
4) Walking In Your Footsteps, by The Police. I’ve always been a huge fan of this group, and for some reason every time I make a mix CD for my car this song winds up on it (along with a random selection of its mate from Synchronicity).
3) In A Big Country, by Big Country. Maybe it’s the way that Stuart Adamson and Bruce Watson made their guitars skirl like bagpipes. Maybe it’s because the video was cool in its very 80′s British Invasion way. Who knows? All I know is that it’s my third-favorite song. Rest easy, Stuart.
2) For What It’s Worth, by Buffalo Springfield. A very young Stephen Stills and Neil Young sportin’ sideburns that The Mighty Forslund would kill for. Gotta love the 60s.
1) Marry The Sea, by New Model Army. I’d comment about why I love this song so much, but it’d be sad and mopey and nobody needs to see what’s left of my dignity roont like that.
Man, who to tag?
Golbez (whenever he comes back from vacation)
Mike Sundheim, (note: I don’t expect him to really do this, for reasons which when you click the link must be all too obvious–but he’s more than welcome to comment here)
Tag! See you guys in a week when the boss comes back from vacation and I can go back to having some free time again.
RBH and CasonBlog have already covered it: Bret Hedican went to have his bum hip looked at, and the ‘Canes are hoping to hear what he’s going to do.
Loyalty is a two-way street.
The ‘Canes have shown a lot of loyalty to Hedi, and JimR is hoping that Hedi will show the ‘Canes some loyalty by telling them if he’s coming back or not…and doing it before 1 July, so that they know whether they can go dippin’ in the UFA pool or not.
Scott Walker has said that he’s going to go poking around the market to see what his skills will command. From his comments regarding Jim Ballsillie buying the Preds with the intent to move them, it’s clear that his heart is still with the team that he helped shepherd through its first seven-odd years in the NHL and that he’s hoping Dave Poile will make him an offer. The Hurricanes’ response is that they’ll not wait to see if he’s signed or not–meanwhile, Glen Wesley quietly re-upped for another season with the team that he helped shepherd through its first ten seasons in North Carolina.
Loyalty is a two-way street.
The store I work at is under siege by a gang of freelance socialists who are making sport of coming in every evening, stealing whatever they want, and doing their best to intimidate whoever’s working that night and isn’t me or my boss–and not only does the Raleigh PD refuse to do anything about it except trespass the miscreants (rather than, say, actually arresting them for larceny and whatever other charges they can throw at them), but our corporate office has made it clear that we’re not to defend ourselves in any way should the situation turn violent…nor can we use the in-store alarm. It doesn’t matter that these low-lifes will come over the counter and beat the ever-lovin’ Chelios out of whoever’s on duty if that clerk picks up the phone–The Company is more concerned with the $500 that the security firm charges for summoning the police than they are with the safety of their employees. So I’m looking for a new yob and being a hell of a lot more diligent about preparing to go back to school (after that 15-year summer vacation I took), because I don’t need my husband freaking out every time I go to work because he’s afraid that this will be the last time he sees me alive.
Loyalty is a two-way street.
See some of you next week in C-bus.
So the hubby’s been on a huge rice kick lately. Every other trip to the store, he buys a 2.5 pound (for those of you who use a real system of measurement: ~1.12 kg) bag of rice.
Rice, rice, rice, rice. All we have is rice. And this stuff called “stir-fry sauce”. And occasionally steak strips–all of which he expects me to make into beef fried rice for him. Well after I make him what he thinks fried rice should be, I still have lots of rice left over. So, what to do with all that left-over cooked rice?
Enter my mom, who used to make this bomb-ass rice pudding when I was a kid. It’s not exactly low-fat, but it’s pretty damn tasty. Even my husband–who is possibly the finickiest eater on the planet–gives it a thumbs-up.
No-egg No-bake rice pudding
3 cups cold cooked rice
~2 cups milk or half-and-half
sweetener of your choice (to taste)
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
Crumble the rice into a saucepan set over a low flame and add ~1c milk. Stir the rice to make sure that any clumps are broken up, then cover and let gently simmer for a few minutes (stirring occasionally to make sure that there’s nothing deciding to stick to the bottom of the pot).
edited to add: The thickening is provided by the rice, which should ideally be allowed to sit in a very loosely covered (with a tea towel) bowl for a day to let some of its moisture evaporate. So the rice will absorb the milk and turn nice and creamy.
When the rice looks creamy and won’t absorb any more milk, it’s ready to roll. Stir in some sweetener of choice–I use honey or Splenda, but that’s just me–and give it a try. When the sweetness level is to your liking, stir in the vanilla and add raisins (if you have them) or other accoutrement and serve. I dig raisins, craisins (dried cranberries), dried cherries, and every once in a while I go for canned mandarin segments that I’ve washed (to get rid of the syrup, which I’ve never been fond of). Whatever’s left can be put in the fridge in a tupperware container of some sort, and keeps for about a week (as if it’ll last that long).
What little life I had before is now gone, thanks to two things:
Reputation farming to get a new pea-shooter so I could farm more rep to get a different pea-shooter (and farming the materiel to make the Felstalker set that the above character is wearing at the moment).
Which is currently downloading from EALink (since I don’t have a DVD drive), and which I’ll be installing and firing up tonight.
“Tower this is Ghostrider, request permission for a flyby.”
Yes, it’s official: I am White and Nerdy.
(starting this with a work rant)
Item the first:
Dear NC Education Lottery:
YOU ARE A BIG FAT THROBBING PAIN IN MY BIG FAT HEATHEN ASS.
Now, I am all for the lottery–when my home state of North Dakota got one, I knew it was but a matter of time before North Carolina got one too. But for the love of Tyr, it is SUCH a pain in the ass dealing with it–especially at my store, which chain is all et up with the paperwork-mania. As the Germans say (when talking about their governmental bureaucracy), “es ist der Inbegriff von Papierkrieg” (the epitome of red-tape). I mean, fook me in the arse-end sideways with a corn cob–it might be more pleasurable than all the paperwork and crap that I have to deal with because of the frickin’ lottery.
And on top of that, we’re not allowed to touch the “quick pick” buttons on our cute little touch-screen terminals–if a customer wants lottery picks, he’s gotta fill out a sheet…even if he wants a quick-pick. Why? Because, some of the people that come into our store apparently feel that they just have to fuck with the clerk and ask for a bunch of lottery picks–and then say “I wanted POWER PLAY! Can’t you listen?”, when they didn’t ask for the Power Play option on their Powerball tickets. So now we make them fill out a playslip–which leads to all kinds of fun, as we get stuff like:
“Can’t you just enter them yourself? I don’t want to fill this out!” I’m sorry, but we have to have everyone fill out a playslip.
“Why I gotta fill this out? I just want quick picks!” Then please mark the “QP” boxes on the sheet.
And, of course, you get the people that fill out their slips WRONG and then don’t want to fix them–they expect you to fix them, even after you explain what they did wrong.
AND THEN…we have the people who come in at like ten minutes to 11 PM (which is when my store’s door locks–and our chain’s stores stop paying on lottery tickets at this time) and expect us to scan and pay out 40 scratch cards that they’ve won with, even though there’s a line of people at the counter already. Do they care? NO! They expect you to tell everyone else at the counter who’s trying to get their shit bought and paid for before the doors are locked at 11 to just step off, and do nothing but pay out their winning scratch tickets. If you people think I get mean in this space, just you come into my store at 5 to 11 with a huge-ass stack of winning scratch tickets and tell me to cash them all out in 5 minutes–not even I can do it, and I’m the fastest clerk in the store when it comes to getting lotto stuff processed and paid out.
But my favorite is when the terminal at the store decides that it doesn’t want to connect to the servers at Lotto HQ down on Yonkers Road–and it’s 9:45 PM on a Powerball night, and I have a line of people at the counter with sheafs and sheafs of Powerball playslips in their hands. Fuck you, GTECH, fuck you and your “we’re aware of the problem and our engineers are working on it, thank you have a nice night and don’t call cos I don’t know jack shit about what’s going on” bulldada right in your collective ear. *I* could get a headset on and bullshit callers better than the yobbos you’ve hired–and it’ll have at least some grain of truth to it!
“It seems that a BellSouth work crew decided to be stupid and cut our fiber line out of the building that houses our servers, and we’ve dispatched the Narn Bat Squad to deal with the miscreants, but unfortunately we have no estimated uptime” sounds about 500 times better than “Uhhh, we’re aware of the problem, and our engineers are working on it. Thank you for calling GTECH.” I had to actually tell the dude on the other end of the phone “So you have no idea if the problem is an internal or external network issue, and you have no estimated uptime?” in order to get a straight answer–which is that a BellSouth (or Progress Energy, the guy wasn’t sure which) work crew decided to be stupid and cut the fiber line out of Lotto HQ on Yonkers Road, amd the Narn Bat Squad had been dispatched to deal with the miscreants and get them to repair the damage.
Item the second:
NOW THAT I’M HOME FROM WORK and now that they’re done with that errant work crew, the Narn Bat Squad is being dispatched to gilooly Maxim Afinogenov before the next Buffalo-Carolina game. Love the guy when he’s humiliating Bobby Clarke’s Barely-Mobile Tree Stumps, hate him to smithereens when he pots the game-winner against us. And that’s the whack-ass thing about the Sabres. They’re a great team and I have a feeling that the Buffalo-Carolina games over the rest of the season are going to be some amazing frickin’ hockey. But I’m totally not feeling the love for the fans as a whole (except for Tom L., who is cool). It’s the reverse of how I feel about Washington. Love the fans, hate the whole team except for Alex Ovechkin (well OK, and Olie Kolzig). Go figure. It’s like the ones that are actually secure in their fandom are the rational ones that I can actually talk with–but unfortunately, they’re overshadowed by all the loudmouthed wankstains with a collective case of Small Penis Syndrome.
There. I’m officially done talking/bitching about SabresFan. That line of commentary is now exiled to join a certain unnamed “Sooper Sekrit Inzydar” on the “Don’t know WTF you’re talking about, doesn’t exist” list, and I shall speak of it no more. The horse is dead, I’m trying to keep it from rising as a Revenant, so let’s move on to the game (which I managed to watch part of on the DVR after I got home, before the hubby pitched a bitch and I had to delete it so he could record a re-showing of a Buffy re-run that he’s watched 234892742 times. Fuck you Joss Whedon, fuck you right in your left ear).
Can we trade David Tanabe again? Please? Seriously, I don’t want him here anymore. Mike Commodore, on the other hand…keeper. Definite keeper. Thank you, Flames, for giving him to us. This makes up for you bastards breaking my heart (with help from Steve Smith) in 1986. And Chancellor Jasmine Liao (the latest addition to the household) approves of him too, so there you go. Cat approval = good thing.
Thank you also to Nashville for Remo Williams–though I had to do a double-take. Sorry Joe, Lord of Evil got broked, guys. I swear, we didn’t break him before we sent him over the Blue Ridge Mountains to you.
The score aside, it was a goalie deathmatch and a frickin’ coin-toss of a game. I think I got another grey hair or three just watching what little I was able to watch.
Item the third:
There’s a new site I’m adding to Ye Olde Blogrolle: Southeast Shootout. Come for the weather, stay for the hockey (though I am a little disturbed at being compared to G. Gordon Liddy–I mean, the man is amusing in his own fanatical dude-switch-to-decaf-and-drop-the-assault-rifle-before-you-hurt-somebody way, but I’m greatly disappointed (heartbroken, even!) that I apparently don’t have enough Fun to be considered the Hunter S. Thompson of the Caniac Nation).
OK, so it was three things. Sue me.
OK, so I got this formletter-esque spam in the mail from some outfit, asking me to join his “sports library”. I filed it in the trash, along with all the Penis Enlargement spams and Nigerian Wire Fraud scam-spams and eBay account phishing spams that I get–because it’s spam, and I loathe spam and the people who send it.
I got a second e-mail today from this outfit:
I previously invited you to have your blog included in Spammer Site‘s sports blog library. Since I have not heard back from you, your site has not been included. The site is more fully developed and will officially be launching on Labor day (in a little less than two weeks). I am inviting you one more time to be part of the sports blog library. In order to entice you to become part of the library, I am providing the URL to show you what it looks like and how it works. Check out URL deleted because I refuse to give a spammer a link. You will see that as a member of the library, people that may be interested in reading your blog, will have a place where they can more easily find it. Be advised that although the rest of the site is operational, most images and articles are space holders at this point. I do hope you contact me and allow me to include your blog in the library.
So I go and check it out–and I see that I’m the only hockey blogger not named Mirtle, Golbez, Kukla, or Cason that hasn’t replied to the guy’s form-spam. Are you people kidding me? Do y’all know something I don’t?
I replied with the following:
I don’t care for impersonal formletter-spam (which is how your initial e-mail and this one have been presented to me). That’s why I didn’t respond. Thanks for the “invitation”, but I’d rather not be seen as condoning unsolicited commercial e-mail.
Have a great day,
If there’s one thing I hate more than a certain Central Conference team from Michigan, it’s UCE/UBE (i.e. spam). I could have been a lot snarkier with the guy (like, for example, telling him that the Nigerians do a better job of trying to disguise a spam as a personal e-mail than he did), but I decided to be polite.
Stop laughing. I can be very polite when I want to be.
Soanyway, he replied with this:
No problem. I will note that you’re not interested. I know that the emails are very impersonal, but unfortunately, unsolicited email is the only way I can create such a community. I respect your choice and your conviction.
Like Hel it’s the only way. Whatever happened to dropping a line to somebody like (for example) Paul Kukla and saying “Hey Paul, I’m trying to get this site set up, can you pass the word along to bloggers that you think would be a good fit?” That’s certainly better and (dare I say it) more ethical than sending out unsolicited bulk e-mail. “Everyone else does it” is no excuse, either–and don’t tell me I’m making too much of this either, because dammit wrong is wrong…and bulk-mailing, no matter how “noble” the motivation, is W to the R to the O-N-G.
Or, as I’ve said about other things that are wrong: “It’s legal to stick a knife down your pants and lop your own nards off in public, but that doesn’t make it right.”
The Pregnant Motie Warrior gave birth to Fletcher Raymond this morning at 10:18 AM EDT. He’s 20.5″ long, 8 pounds 5 ounces, and just cute as a little button.
It’s official: I’m an auntie now.
Mom and baby are doing fine, and I’ve already made plans to buy a little pair of skates and a stick for the kid as soon as he can stand. Someday, when he’s older, I’ll tell him tales about the Warchief that he shares a birthday with.