Sour Apple: So, Apple is flying high with its iPod and the just-relased iPod Mini (my advice, wait for prices to drop - you can get a 15 Gig iPod for only $50 more than the 4 Gig Mini), which not only look cool, and have great design (as almost all Apple products do), but the fu*kers are actually making Apple tons o' money. Then you throw in iTunes, Apple's proprietary music downloading service, which managed to get good titles at reasonable prices - something no one else could do until Apple did it (another typical Apple move), and you have a nice little product to sell forever and ever. Of course, Apple has made its music files proprietary by using its own coding to keep you beholden to it in the long-run, which isn't very cricket, but helps ensure the $$ keeps coming in, as you provide a closed-loop system. At least that was the thought.

Comes now Real Networks (maker of RealPlayer), the ubiquitous streaming media company and its music downloading software, Harmony. No biggie for Apple, right? It's the 800-pound gorilla in portable digital music, and since you need to convert to its AAC format, piss off Real, right? Well, except for that issue about how Real reverse-engineered the AAC code, and then made it so the Harmony songs could fit onto the iPods; something which Apple has fought tooth-and-nail since hackers started trying.

But as this author points out, maybe Apple wants to hold back the dogs and see if this unintentional partnership might not yield dividends. Because the iPod is the shiznizzle, this move by Real just gives more outlets for people to obtain music to put on their iPods. While competing companies keep running at iPod with promises of more battery time, and superior sound quality, to date, they have fallen short. Even the venerable Sony Walkman brand, which promises all these things and more, is apparently suffering from a lousy interface, and crappy logic, plus the absence of a playlist function (!), from the two reviews I've read so far.

So, if everyone who's anyone is going to be using the iPod, why not expand the market for those users. What you lose in $.99 downloads, you gain in $249 to $400 hardware purchases. Anyway, it's an idea worth pursuing before the lawyers eat up too much in billable hours.

Because I think you should know these things: We've all seen countless airline hijacker movies or movies like "Airforce One" where there's gunplay in an airliner, flying at altitude. Then, some wise guy who can't aim shoots and the bullet goes into and then out of the cabin wall, causing a huge sucking, whooshing sound, followed by flying paper, and then flying people out of a now-gaping hole. And you know the hero will just manage to snag an errant seatbelt at the last moment before he tumbles down 35,000 feet himself.

Come on people, you know you've seen this!

Anyway, there's no way it could happen. So, you're okay; fire away.

Mo' money, mo' money, MO' money: In a post worth noting, Will over at Vodkapundit, shows how the Dems are actually out-spending and out-raising the GOP to the tune of around $30MM.

Will also snarkily, if truthfully, states how if the roles were reversed, every headline would be screaming about how our democracy is grinding to a halt in the wake of special interest fundraising.

Google has no clothes: The backlash is beginning. This is the classic American story. Little start-up, bucks the system, sticks it to the man, and succeeds where others have failed. The people rejoice; the critics swoon. Little start-up becomes the industry standard; more rejoicing, more swooning.

Then, not-so-little start-up starts rubbing your nose in it. First, they do this exclusive Gmail thingy which has people jumping up and down, and selling their self-respect (if not their souls) to get one of these email accounts, which is just...an...email...account. As I've said before, it's cool b/c it's exclusive; not because it means anything.

Then, the now-behemoth, decides it's going IPO, at a strike price of over $100. Well, you don't have to be Jim Cramer to hate the idea, but it helps.

I still think the thing will sell, b/c, hey, it's Google. But, I'm giving the company six months before an SEC investigation is launched, and we finally see Google morph into Microsoft.

Moral? Americans love a success story, until it's too successful.

"...choked my nuts off.":  Yes, it's everyone's favorite tennis player from Down Undah, talking about life after the ATP: Patrick Rafter (the link may be for SI subscribers only, not sure what kind of embedded cookies my browers has currently).  This link has the part of the conversation that was not included in the print-version of SI this past week. 

The above quote refers to the 2000 finals between Raffie and Sampras, and how Pat wishes he could have played it over and not choked his proverbial nuts off. 

So he's not playing pro tennis anymore, just some World Team Tennis (which is barely tennis).  What is he doing then?

SI: Do you keep up with your training at all?

Rafter: I play a sport called Aussie Rules Footie and play for a [Sydney-based] team called the North Shore Bombers. Sydney is a rugby-dominated city. There are two types of rugby in Australia. We have the Rugby Union and Rugby League. This is like the third tier. They're not quite sure where to put me. I'm not a little player, so they think I should be up with the forwards, sort of muscling around a bit. I'm still fit, and I still run pretty quick so they are now putting me in faster positions. The great thing about it is the sport is played in a really good spirit. We go in hard. We tackle hard. We hit hard. But outside of that, there's no cheap shots at the head, and we sit down and have a chat after the game with all the guys. It's done in a really great manner. I just love playing a team sport. The one thing I really missed in tennis was not having that opportunity enough. We had the Davis Cup and that was it.

Other than that, he's playing golf, hanging out with his kid, and enjoying a nice beer and barbie.

We, of course, hate him.

What is it with running backs?:  (I'll just keep this to the modern era).  First, it was Barry Sanders retiring on the eve of having the all time rushing record, then Robert Smith, of the Vikings just when his career was about to break open, now...it's Ricky Williams, he of the wedding dress, dreadlocks, and social anxiety disorder.  At age 27, he's leaving it all behind, to go walk, not run, the earth.

The boy never did quite fit in with the rest of the NFL.  He was quiet, he was introspective, and he never was the dominant force that everyone expected, although he was still very good.  He left the "Aints" in a funk, but seemed to have found equanimity in Miama - he even shaved his head to show his renewal.  But alas, it was for naught.  He was just one of those people who never really wanted to be a football player, but because he was so damn good at it, he felt the need to keep going, probably more to please others than himself.  As he put it, he wasn't strong enough to be without football, now he is.  Good luck Ricky, you can stop running now.

MORE:  Well, I suppose Ricky maybe could have made up his mind earlier than two days before camp opens.  He really did screw his team out of the chance to find a replacement (Eddie George, anyone?).  Yes, it's better than opening day, but not by much.  By all accounts, he was in great shape and all gung ho during the off season meetings.  Peter King says it all better than I (no shock there).

Lesson:  Don't mess with Lance:  It seems that a certain Italian rider, who has dissed Armstrong in the past for his association with a controversial doping doctor, thought he might try to get into the escape riders' pack during Stage 18 of le Tour.  Seems Lance wasn't going to allow that, even though he has the race firmly in hand, and had no stake in winning this stage.

Once the other riders in the escape pack see Lance, they ask the Italian to fall back so they can have a chance to win, knowing if Lance is in the lead pack, they're screwed.  The bastardo then sheepishly limps back into the peloton, Lance at his elbow.  That's fucking awesome.

Here's a lede for the 6 'o-clock news: "For the Greeks, it was almost a social duty for adult males to take adolescent boys as lovers."  I could comment more, but really, what else can I say? 

More Neruda: I mentioned the old ratchet-jaw last week, regarding his 100th birthday.  (Luckily, he's been, er, decomposing for the last several of those anniversaries.)  The Weekly Standard looks closer this week.

Yes, his work is still plagiarized by teenage boys in Latin America, who see his Twenty Love Poems and a Desperate Song and figure there is nothing wrong with borrowing from it--just as one poem in the book is itself stolen from Rabindranath Tagore--and presenting its overwrought lines to their girlfriends. But if those boys grow up to be serious writers, they leave Neruda behind.

Stephen Schwartz quotes this little number, from 1953, an ode to the recently late Stalin:

In recent years the dove,

Peace, the wandering persecuted rose,

Found herself on his shoulders

And Stalin, the giant,

Carried her at the heights of his forehead. . .

Lovely.

A Bill W. Moment?  Jon Last may actually be ready for help.

My name is Jonathan and I'm a Philly fan. In 1995, the Philadelphia Eagles made what was then the biggest free-agent signing in sports, acquiring star running back Ricky Watters for $6.9 million per year. In his first game as an Eagle, Watters found his new team losing in the fourth quarter to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Quarterback Randall Cunningham (I once went trick-or-treating at his house) threw a pass to him over the middle, and as the ball neared, Watters saw defensive backs fast approaching. He put his hands up and, instead of catching the ball, batted it down.

After the game reporters asked Watters why he'd refused to catch the pass. He explained that the Eagles were probably going to lose and he saw no reason to take a hit in the middle of the field. "For who?" Watters asked defiantly. "For what?"

This, says Last, is emblematic of professional sports in Philadelphia.

And one of these days, we'll be up to a whopping two-tenthousandth:  Heheh.  Check out blogshares for this blog's market share currently:  0.000150179 %.  I mean, we're talking serious influence!  You all have our promise, however, not to abuse this great power.  Just like Uncle Ben told Peter Parker:  "With great power comes hot redheads with big bjoobies."  Something like that anyway.  Back to that nuclear fusion project...

What could possibly go wrong?:  SCENE:  A group of scientists digging up ice in the Antarctic.  Cold, nighttime.  Pan to inside the dig tent.  Players:  Rolf, the serious-minded German geologist, who really wanted to join the ballet at a young age, but couldn't muster the courage to tell his father.  Sonya, the sexy paleontologist, just out of grad school, and working on her first dig as a full-fledged member of the team.  She wants to prove to herself that she can do this job, as opposed to what her father wanted her to be:  a ballerina.  Michael, not a scientist, but an experienced guide to far-out places.  A rugged individualist, lives in a cabin on the edge of Alaska in his free time.  No interest in ballet.  Last, we have Carl, the paterfamilias of the scientific community.  His theory is that the earliest intergalactic bodies to have crashed into Earth, di so here, in Antarctica, and spawned life.  He believes that remnants of that early life may still exist, deep under the ice.  Needless to say, he's a pariah in the scientific community.

C:  "Sonya, bring me the portable sonar. Yes, just wheel it over here, I think we may have found something." 

Sonya pushes the cart, the wheels emitting their familiar squeak, and stops before the hole that was just drilled (the tenth of the day), letting Carl and Rolf set up the sonar.

R:  "Ja, just a bit more...ummmph, there.  Mein gott, this thing is heavier each time I am lifting it.  This is the last one today, and then we are to the camping van for the dancing....I mean, I MEAN for the eating, ja, ... essen.  No dancing.  Okay, Herr Doktor?"  Rolf looks around sheepishly.

C:  "Okay, okay Rolf." Carl, not noticing the verbal slip  "Just this once more.  But I have a feeling, I have a feeling about this one."

M:  "That's what you said yesterday, last week, and last year, Doc.  Well, in any event, I'm going outside to look for any of those bears we saw yesterday.  See ya."  Exit, Michael.

*Whoommp!*  *Whoommp!*  The sonar sends its powerful vibrations through the ice crust, into the drilled canal, down deep into the ice core.

C:  "Hmmm, hmmm.  Take a look Sonya, Carl.  This image...doesn't it seem intriguing?"  They all crowd around the green, flickering screen, trying to discern what the image means.  "I think...yes...I think we've found something.  Rolf, quickly, let's lower the claw and bring it up!!"

More mechanical type sound as the three maneuver the claw tripod over the hole, and begin to lower it down into the hole.  Minutes later...

S: "Yes, yes...it's almost to the top.  Quick, Doctor, get the table ready, I'll maneuver it on to the top of it."  Sonya quickly angles the claw device over the table, and with the use of a few switches, lowers the payload onto the table.  It is only approximately fourteen inches square, weighing no more than 1.5 pounds, and is jet black, yet shiny.  They all crowd in, looking... searching.

R: "Do you smell that?  What is it? I am never before smelling this...this.... AGHAGHGHAGHGH!" 

Cut to outside.  Michael is on patrol with his rifle.  He quickly turns as he hears the screams.  He immediately rushes into the scientific tent.

M: "What's going on? I heard a...."  An unseen force hits Michael from behind and knocks him down, unconscious.  Lights cut out.  A wet, chewing sound is heard.  Fade out.

Funny little story, right?  Kind of like "The Thing", right?  Just fiction, right?  Right?!?

Ideal Challenger...disastrous champion:  Kasparov writes about Fischer.  You see, Kasparov is in the midst of creating a six volume series on chess' great champions, which involves re-creating hundreds of each player's matches, move-by-move (Apparently, he has some time on his hands while IBM works on it's next artificial intelligence minion.  If you ask me, and no one has quite yet, I'd get that teddy bear from "A.I." - it was the only quasi-sentinent being in that movie that showed any life or intelligence - yeesh).

As we've heard, Fischer has gone of the deep end (well okay, that was long ago - it's just that he's finally reaching the bottom of the pool), and is currently in custody in Japan; one step removed from being in custody in the U.S.  But Kasparov is more interested in what might have been with young Robert:

Despite his short stay at the top there is little to debate about the chess of Bobby Fischer. He changed the game in a way that hadn't been seen since the late 19th century. The gap between Mr. Fischer and his contemporaries was the largest ever. He singlehandedly revitalized a game that had been stagnating under the control of the Communists of the Soviet sports hierarchy.

For whatever reason, Fischer couldn't hack the limelight, and he began a slow descent into a bizarre pastiche of anti-semitism and paranoia, until he eventually winked out of our consciousness.  But, Kasparov remarks that despite the Salinger-esque retreat from the world, followed by an embarrassing (more of the conspiracies, capped by a tacit approval of 9/11), if decently-played, re-match with Spassky fairly recently, Fischer made chess what it is today. However, Karpov fears that Fischer's re-emergence, albeit unwillingly, into the spotlight may undo some of the good his initial splash made:

An entire generation of top American players learned the game as kids thanks to Mr. Fischer. Today's flourishing scholastic chess movement could be harmed as his woes and beliefs make headlines around the world. People may believe that this is what happens when a genius plays chess--instead of what happens when a fragile mind leaves his life's work behind.

Props to A&L Daily.

More exclusivity...for no apparent reason:  At least these insecure do-nothings are honest about their intentions:  it's exclusive so more people will want to join (even though we won't let them! harhar).  Get that tautology? It's popular because no one's allowed in.  I think Washington D.C. must be the worst place on earth to live - at least if you're even tangentially involved in politics.  Thankfully, Wonkette is all over the muthafucka.

"I still won three purple hearts.":  In case you're one of the few select people who haven't seen "This Land" yet, get a-clicking.  Effing funny.

James Bond unavailable for comment:  The FBI takes gadget weapons seriously.  So much so, they're putting on the web its "Guide to Concealable Weapons" .   Not that we at FauxPolitik condone the use of concealed weapons for any purpose (well, maybe to open bottles of beer), but these are pretty cool and ingenious.

"Looks like you've played a little football.":  Private clubs.  Martha (no, not that Martha, the other Martha), made the news a couple of years back, and has kept her cause going, protesting the right of Augusta National to exclude whole classes of people from its membership.  It was somehow surprising to her that a bunch of men wanted to play golf without a bunch of women around, there being no evidence of this happening daily since golf was invented o'er the craggy moors of Scotland. 
 
Anyway, her annual diatribe brings to the fore, each year, the perennial argument over whether private clubs should be allowed to keep people out, regardless or reason, those they find "not club material".  Morever, these reasons most assuredly include explicit dis-tastes for those of certain genders, sexual persuasions, races, and notably, political bent.  It seems some rather exclusive clubs in San Fran have these traits, and are not only prosperous, they have twenty-year waiting lists.  Some of these male-only clubs compel women, when they're allowed in at all, come in the back door, and eat in side rooms. 
 
Now, the point of this post is hardly to debate whether the clubs should be allowed (they're private, and so, they should), but why one would choose to belong.  I've been a member of exclusionary groups; my fraternity being perhaps the most obvious.  Why did I join?  Well in part, b/c most of my friends did, and I wanted to keep hanging around them.  Also, the nearly endless supply of beer was a nice attraction.  But most of all, you join a group to take on that group's identity.  Our identity was our seemingly limitless capacity for alcohol.  It wasn't, certainly, the ability to attract the largest swath of attractive women (even my now-wife, would usually only end up at our house after making a tour of the other ones with her friends - to her credit). 
 
No, we chose to live together so we could behave like the barbarians we were, taking pleasure in the variety of substances we could consume, and then expel, at regular intervals.  A behavior which we all knew the presence of women would seriously curtail.  Now, I justify what I did on the premise that it was college, and if you're going to get your jollies, that's the time to do it.  You can spend the next 40 to 60 years of adulthood slowing down and acting properly. 
 
The question is, do I want to join a club akin to my fraternity days (albeit one that is better-funded) now, when I'm ten years (or looking forward) 20 years removed?  I think my answer is "no".  Why?  Because it's reality time now.   It's time to rear your children, work at a job, establish your career, and prove to your spouse that s/he made the right choice way back when.  If you have to reguarly shut yourself behind closed doors, so you can wear blackface and sing minstrel tunes, then I think you've failed at the whole adult thing.  10 hours on the fairway and in the clubhouse is not a right, it's a tacit preference for your caddy over your family or friends.  Do it regularly enough and one can righteously question whether being a grown up is something you're really cut out for.  Problem is that many of these members are running our country and it's top corporations. 
 
Again, no one should be allowed to close these clubs, or force a change upon them that they don't want.  And it's not to say that private organizations don't effect great good from time-to-time.  But throwing an annual charity benefit when you let the chicks and the darkies in, doesn't quite make up for the time you've spent hiding from them, or worse, belittling or even seeking to harm them behind your mahogany doors.  As a grown up might say:  "It's important to share and play nicely with others."
 

Don't worry, flourescent orange is the new black:  So, Martha gets 5 mos. in jail, followed by two years of probation.  This is pretty much all she could have hoped for.  The absolute minimum was, I believe, 5 mos probation in addition to 5 mos. jail.  So, all we get is Martha having to call in, for an extra year-and-a-half, when she wants to fly in her own jet from corporate headquarters to one of her villas.  I mean, it will be annoying sure, but not really hamper her lifestyle. 
 
While I wouldn't want to spend even one second in jail, five months is really a blink of an eye, especially since she's going to minimum security, where she'll be surrounded by non-violent offenders, with whom she can share stock tips. 
 
The "other hand" insists on being recognized here, and for this purpose:  to remind everyone that she's going to jail for lying to the Gubernment about something that she did or did not do - which, if she did do it, wasn't a crime!  Imagine being questioned by the FBI over whether you used conditioner with your shampoo and lying about it, and the going to jail for five months.  So, when you hear cries of witch hunt by her camp, you can kind of see the point, even though you're only playing the teensiest violin you can find, as a soundtrack for your sympathy.

Change Afoot: I'm going through a period of transition at work right now -- in fact, today is my last day of helping to phase out my position (though I will stay on as a contractor, but not full time). My editorial duties will slow down, but my childcare and household duties will likely take a bigger bite of time than I am gaining -- and at odder hours. Additionally, I currently sit in front of a computer all day. That will end, too.

For those reasons, my presence here at FauxPolitik can't help but feel the effects. I'll likely be posting fewer pieces, and less specifically "newsy" ones, since I'll be unable to troll the papers and blogs the way I do now. Ideally, I'd like them to be longer pieces, more analysis, fewer snippets and links. We'll see how that works out. I trust our vast readership can be patient while I settle into the new routine, and while I take a well-deserved vacation in early August.

Required Linking: Seems to me that we shouldn't miss a chance to help get this story out. It concerns a Northwest flight, a bunch of shaken passengers, and 14 Syrians with strange looking parcels, shoes, and bags making repeated trips to the bathroom.

Link via Hit & Run.

More: Welcome back to Orin Kerr, who has returned to the Volokh Conspiracy following his clerkship. He notes the story linked above and mentions that

People are thinking: Is it true, in whole or in part? Why haven't major newspapers and TV picked up on it? My guess is that the blogosphere won't let up until there are some answers, and that the pressure will yield some answers sooner rather than later.

I hope so.