ABC7 reports that the San Francisco City Council has passed a resolution in support of the Iranian election protestors. They call it “a strong message“, and make a point of emphasizing that the vote passed 11-0, as if this should make President Ahmadinejad sit up and pay particular attention.
In the meantime, security forces are shooting people in the streets,, senior clerics are calling for executions, and The Wall Street Journal reports that the government is charging families $3000 “bullet fees” before allowing them to recover the bodies. Somehow I think that San Francisco’s “strong message” is having slightly less effect than expected. The “activist movement” doesn’t like to admit this, but ultimately, posturing can only change people who are willing to listen. Barring treaty, trade, or threat of war, a people cannot compel a foreign government to heed their concerns, and it’s silly to expect that they could. As Iran too clearly illustrates today, a people cannot even compel their own government to heed their concerns, if it can force them back to silence without fear of reprisal.
槍桿子裡面出政權.
Political power comes from the barrel of a gun.
It was true when Chairman Mao wrote it seventy years ago, and it’s true today.
A small, elderly Japanese lady showed up on my doorstep Sunday afternoon, wanting to discuss the Bible and the possible coming of the End Times. Normally I don’t mind; I have a running joke that I would probably have become a priest if my parents hadn’t insisted on taking me to church. This is another post, for another day (or another month, at the rate I’ve been neglecting this site), but really all you need to know for this story is that I’m a little better at theological gymnastics than most door-to-door evangelists expect. When I’m in the mood for an argument, it can be a lot of fun.
Unfortunately, this Sunday, I was not in the mood for an argument. Fanime is coming up and I am trying (again) to make progress on First and Last and Always, my long-in-coming Tybalt story. Sunday was the first really good chance I’ve had in almost a month to work on it, and this small, elderly Japanese lady was interrupting my efforts to write, well, gay magical catboy sex. I kept trying (and failing) to put sentences together in the back of my mind, and trying to keep the two thought-streams separate was… difficult, to say the least.
There didn’t seem to be a polite way to explain this to her. Does anyone out there have suggestions?
Amy Vanderbilt is curiously silent on this situation.
One day, long ago, in an era now lost beneath the sands of time, a fledgeling wizard by the name of Snickt remembered the stories his grandmother once told, of her grandfather, a hero and a decorated soldier in the Great Rebellion. Growing tired of his studies, he went into the attic and opened the chest of his great-great-grandfather’s things. His ancestor must have been a modest man in his old age, for he was no ordinary soldier, nor even any ordinary hero; young Snickt recognized in that chest the armor and weapon of Feared Erdrick the Kingslayer, the greatest terror of his generation, and indeed of any living memory.
They said that he was part demon, that he had slain even great and noble silver dragons and forged armor from their hides. When finally the last of the old royal line lay exterminated at his feet, they said, he had spat in disgust, turned away, and walked into legend.
And it was true. Even now, the Rebellion turned into a new royalty for over a hundred years, Erdrick’s armor still glittered, bright with malice and enchantment.
In the second room Snickt visited, even before the first combat, he found a chest with a fully-loaded Wand of Wishing. He wished for blessed scrolls of charging, blessed +2 silver dragon scale mail, and blessed fireproof +2 speed boots, then recharged the wand and made some more wishes, for a blessed rustproof +2 helm of brilliance, a blessed +2 Magicbane, and +2 blessed fireproof gauntlets of dexterity. For storytelling purposes I decided that this should be his “starting” equipment.
The fabled Magicbane gleamed in his hand, elemental chaos black. Blood rushed in his head, and he heard the voice of Anhur calling to him.
“Serve me,” it said. “Go forth into the Dungeons of Doom. Bring to me the Amulet of Yendor and you shall become more powerful than Erdrick even dared to dream.”
