I found this article via Instapundit. Sleep has just received prime billing, so I'll wait until tomorrow.

But I've got to admit - it's electrifying. Fulfillment of every hope I've held regarding strength of the United States against moral blindness and the power of freedom's beacon. Talk of liberating Iran (like a curveball, Bush has let it hang right up until the last second before it activates) and of the United Nations (sharing a "last chance" with Saddam).

Much to ponder.

("Freedom and Culture" is becoming massive, at least for a weblog. I'm having a grand old time adding page after page, and hope to finish it soon. All in good time.)

All I need is a slight thaw - especially when it's late-winter and therefore seasonal - to be ready to bounce off walls. Excitement, vigor; those are my shared possessions with spring and I look forward to their return. Birds are already abound; I can almost smell fertile soil and hear rumbles of April thunder.

With energy comes accomplishment. "Freedom and Culture" is becoming a lengthy essay - well worth the time and research I've put into it. Just a few more days, I'd say.

Gad, I hate those touchy-feely Keirsey ripoffs. Love. Pthppt.

;-) For your information, my Keirsey profile is iNFj. 6/4 Introverted, 17/3 Intuitive, 16/4 Feeling, 18/2 Scheduling.

A gold star and a high-five if you know exactly which Captain Kangaroo jingle happens to fit the entry title.

The first half of "Freedom and Culture" was written off the cuff - the idea is (obviously) my topic of choice, argments were at the fore of my mind and the discussion with aforementioned Baby Boomers had occurred only a few days before. I've set myself up to explain the necessity of spreading democracy: why American foreign policy popularly implemented after the Second World War finally failed; what immediate and otherwise categorical dangers are inherent in a world half-free; and why global democracy, as an ideal, is not only sympathetic but vital to the ever-refined American destiny.

I come from the C.S. Lewis school of dialectic: less numbers and facts, more reason and common sense. In an essay such as this, I will need to assemble my various historical P's and Q's. I may need the rest of the week, but I'm looking forward to a completed statement.

UNRELATED BUT TO THE FIRST PARAGRAPH: As a toddler, I am told, the mere sight of Captain Kangaroo on the television set would propel me into joyous hysteria, shrieking my innocent corruption of the gentleman's nom de télé: "Cahkoo! Cahkoo! Cahkoo!"

I am also aware of my equally animated and inarticulate expression of love for yogurt at the same young age. Upon the presentation of the creamy, fermented stuff, I would enter into another fit, crying out "Yo-yuck! Yo-yuck! Yo-yuck!"

So, then. End of the week, Cahkoo and Yo-Yuck - no, er, Freedom and Culture. Both couplings, perhaps?

So there I was, frittering away a few blocks of twenty minutes before making myself some breakfast; I'd read some biographical information posted by one of the bloggers to whom I've linked and then cruised to another linked blogger, looking for a particular post. As serendipity does, I found a different post to be more interesting: it referred to a PBS segment about - surprise! - blogging in which she'd participated. So I skittered over to that page.

At the bottom of the HTML document, a list of hopefuls had added their blog links. One of them, by virtue of its name, I imagined to be a spoof.

I really don't think it is. Which is, strangely, all at once surprising and yet completely anticipated. Surprising, yes, because one never quite knows if screen actors can sit down long enough to enjoy the amenities of we otherwise-occupied citizens. Star Trek: The Next Generation is and will remain my favorite television show; always a Data fan, never a fan of Wesley - either he was poking buttons on a COMM or expiring/disappearing with a refugee from Dr. Who who was badly in need of a makeover - but I nevertheless took away the impression that, having not seen much of Wheaton since he left the show in ~1990, he was probably quite an average guy. Don't tell me otherwise: my friend who's slugging it out in LA has described the alternate universe and the legions of walking oddities.

But lo: there it is. Funny guy, as told by a quick breeze through his FAQs. Married. Kids, or else on the way. Enjoys Enterprise.

Here's to normalcy!

An absolutely random memory of mine drew attention to itself a short time ago. Pine Elementary School; first or second grade. A couple of classes had been piled into a film room to be shown, underwater-wobbly soundtrack and all, Benjamin Walks the Dog. Yes, I not only remember the name, but I remember the plot - one surrepticiously designed to thwart world leaders of tomorrow from opportunizing on a slap-happy new father's insistence upon offering cigars to anyone who just might happen to be in a room. In plain English: older brother and friend stick kid brother with dog duties. Older brother and friend are obsessed with smoking tobacco in their clubhouse. The necessary materials are serendipitously acquired, and the children in question proceed to puff themselves to the point of critical nausea while kid brother loses/finds dog. Lesson learned, end of film. Back to reading groups.

Caveat: all pre-film reviews offered by teachers insisted that the movie singularly dealt with "dogs." As it were, after about the second or third voiceover by the older brother confiding to the audience his plan to score "some cigarettes," a kid in my class turned and spat to us, "this isn't about dogs. This is about smoking!" Hue and cry! Early elementary trickery gone awry. And I remember the otherwise forgettable short, most likely, because of that.

My sister let the family in on the soft side of my otherwise gruff brother-in-law; he insisted beforehand that neither one need exchange gifts for the occasion. But he did all the same: a jeweler, he crafted a little gemstone ring for my sis and gave it to her before driving off to see his mother and ailing father this weekend.

I do believe this day has been inalterably put in favor for me, no matter where my life might be.

Dah! Now Google's grinning madly at me (and through the eyes of a googly-eyed young lover). I relent. No more faux-maudlin. Straight-up Barry White for me, baby.

Baby.

Don't even get me started on "Sweetest Day."

But apparently Dave Frum is in even-handed skepticism with this syrupy half-holiday. And he doesn't need to emulate rogue pirates to deliver a message, instead generating a bit of wise eloquence:

I’ve never liked the Valentine’s Day holiday. Our culture celebrates romantic love morning, noon, and night 364 days a year – and then sets aside one special day every February to really rub the lovelesses’ noses in it. Not so nice. So: if you are lucky enough to have a sweetheart, of course you must kiss her (or him) today. But if you want to do a good deed, give a thought to the many lonely people around you: the divorced, the widowed, the unlucky – and maybe, if you have a spare dollar or two, you might want to send a small anonymous bouquet to one of them. Oh – and send it to the office, where everybody can see.

364 - thank goodness we're not on a leap year. I consider myself lucky enough to be around people largely of my parents' generation, who have conclusively outgrown showy public affection. If you want my idea of romance, "all I need is for you to be in the same room" ought to explicate pretty well. Cheers!

In my best rogue affectation: Ooh ahr, I haven't got meself time fer a heartbreak, lass. Humbug!