Reasonable Compensation

"We Hope To Grow a Whole President Eventually"

According to Jack Cashill, the photo on the left is a fake, and the one in the center is genuine. In spite of its still having young Obama's knee in it.

http://pandagon.net/index.php/site/comments/friday_genius_ten_obamas_knee_is_a_citizen_edition/

I say that the photo on the right, which I made in just over 30 minutes with a squirming three year old on my lap, is a better fake than Cashill's.

I leave it to you to decide who is right.

[UPDATE: Upon the recommendation of several people, I have now hidden my signature within my version of this photo to discourage its reuse by Cashill or other clowns.]

She Said "Don't Retreat, Reload!"

So he did.

http://www.cnn.com/2011/POLITICS/01/09/arizona.giffords.chairman/

Dogs Playing Poker, Presidents Playing Dumb

I found this pic awhile back, and was inspired to create a modified version that more accurately depicts the modern Republican party's relationship with its roots.
Today I saw it figuring in a post on Balloon Juice, so I am posting them here.

http://www.balloon-juice.com/2010/11/08/art-appreciation-101/#comments

The Good Guys Won

It just happens that I had a really good day today.

And it ends with the health care reform bill passing.

Thank you, Mister President.

Thank you, House and Senate.

Thank you all.

Mount Flushmore

Earth-349: Crisis on Earth-348

Earth-349: Crisis on Earth-348
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.

Crisis on Earth-348Disclaimer #1: This story is set on a hypothetical
parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in
Superman #349, but is not limited by that story or any other.

Disclaimer #2: Some characters appearing in this story are based on
copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and
others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those
copyrights.

Disclaimer #3: This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or
the easily offended.



Outwardly, the minibus in the left northbound lane of the Pacific Coast Highway
could have been any one of millions of Volkswagens driven by young people all
over the world. Better-kept than most, with no rust or dents, and perhaps its
motor sounded deeper and quieter than the sewing-machine rattle of the usual
VW, but at a glance it was just another Type 2, with four well-groomed kids
inside.

In fact, only the hood ornament and some of the exterior panels had been made
at Wolfsburg. From its tires (which would not go flat even if punctured by
bullets) to its windows (which bullets would not penetrate at all), it had
been custom-built from exotic materials by brilliant craftsmen at the Dugan
Motor Works. Its young owners called it the Type 2000. It had absorbed almost
half of the two million dollars Roberta Wayne and Jolene Dodds had allotted to
the group.

Dick Gordon was driving. Dick always drove. He rarely let them forget that he
was Batwoman's partner, or how much of the Teen Titans' budget came from his
patroness. In jeans and a red turtleneck, he still looked like a boy wonder.

Jenny West was riding shotgun, in purple bellbottoms and a white peasant
blouse. A red and gold medallion that dangled between her small breasts
concealed the tightly-compressed costume of Impulse, the Flash's young
protegee.

Behind them sat Danny Dunbar and Paula Manning (known to the Atom and Green
Lantern, respectively, as Dyna-Mite and Lamplighter). They sat well apart, to
avoid Jenny's teasing, waiting impatiently for a stop so they could make out.

The Teen Titans were on their way to Coast City.

Barely a year before, Robin had gotten together with Impulse and Sandy the
Golden Boy, just for a lark. They'd brought a minor criminal to justice. More
importantly to their way of thinking, they'd hit it off as friends and decided
to get together on a regular basis. Their respective guardians had loved the
idea and bankrolled it quite generously; Dodds had persuaded the other adults
not to try to run the group themselves, letting the kids find their own way.

Their way hadn't been easy to find. By the time they moved into their New
Jersey headquarters (an old artillery emplacement they called "the cave"), they
had been joined by Aqualass and Dyna-Mite, who had quickly become an item. A
rude remark by Sandy about "interracial" romances had led to a fight between
the two boys, Sandy had been expelled from the group and Aqualass had
resigned. Since then, Lamplighter had joined, Ant Boy had come and gone, and
the team had been on the verge of disbanding at least twice.

It hadn't been easy keeping up interest in the team during the school year, but
they'd spent an exciting summer together, travelling around the country
helping teenagers in one bad scene after another. Now they hoped to get in one
more good session in Coast City before heading back East.

In the city people called "The City", trouble was brewing between the adult
authorities and the local non-conformist kids. Dick talked easily
about "calming things down", as though the four of them could make peace
between generations in a single busy weekend. Danny wasn't talking about the
mission at all, a sign that he expected trouble . Jenny was mainly interested
in finding out what these "hippies" were really like. She suspected that Paula
would fit right in.

The highway was an endless series of curves and loops, hugging the coast. Now
the van was following a long curve to the right, and a dense fogbank loomed
ahead of them.

"Look at that," Dick said happily, "good old Pelican Bay fog. We must be almost
there. Whoa!"

Dick exclaimed aloud as the fog enveloped them, and proved so thick he could
see almost nothing, not even the road under them. He flicked on the
headlights, then threw the switch that boosted them to floodlight level, but
still the gray fog swallowed them.

"Slow down, Dick," Paula urged, holding up her chinese-lantern pendant to send
a beam of green light out into the fog.

Dick braked, then braked more sharply as a human figure suddenly appeared
before them. He brought the van to a stop and noticed that the shape remained
some ten feet in front of them, and that its feet did not appear to touch the
ground.

"It's some super-type," Jenny observed, and the figure did appear to be a woman
in a white skintight bodysuit, accented with a small green skirt, green
slippers, gloves and a hooded cloak.

Then Jenny noticed that the woman had a white face, and white nipples with
white areoles. The white was not skintight fabric but deathly pale skin.

"Spectre," Paula whispered.

"Huh?" said Danny, still goggling at the woman's pale but shapely knockers.

"There was a policewoman named Bridget Corrigan --"

"There may well have been," said a deep female voice that seemed to come as
much from within the van as from the figure floating in the fog before it. "Or
an acrobat named Phoenix Brand, or a florist named Alicia Simmons. Speak
whatever mortal name you please, it matters not to the Spectre."

A chill that had nothing to do with fog settled over the Titans as the voice
reached them.

"What matters is the task that awaits you in the great city on the bay. The
future of Earth Three Hundred and Forty-Eight depends upon what the Teen
Titans do in the next twenty-four hours."

The Spectre lifted her cloak and it billowed out enormously beside her. The van
rolled forward unbidden, driving into the darkness of the cloak as though it
were a tunnel entrance. Dick seized the wheel as they rolled into darkness and
then suddenly into daylight again as they left the fogbank, rounded another
curve and saw the city, the bay and the bridge laid out before them.

But instead of the graceful white curves of the world-famous Sunset Bridge,
they saw the tall square towers of a span that was painted, of all colors, a
brilliant bright orange.

The shaken young heroes sat around a table at the first coffee shop they had
seen beside the road. Danny had paid for four sodas with his lucky silver
dollar (Dick had advised against trying to spend any of their more modern
money), and Paula was holding her lantern over a handful of change, discreetly
trying to turn their own coins into the Woodrow Wilson dimes and Ulysses Grant
quarters Danny had been given. Dick joined them with a tabloid-sized books with
a cardboard cover that read "Inventorum for 1944". Apparently it was something
like an almanac.

"Okay, Dick," Danny said, sipping an odd cola drink, "you seem to have some
idea what's happened to Coast City, so let's rap."

Dick opened up the "Inventorum" to what appeared to be a map of the United
States and put his finger on the West Coast.

"Nothing's happened to Coast City. It's just that this isn't Coast City,
Califia. It's Golden Gate City, in the state of Eldorado, on a parallel world
called Earth-348. Also, the date on the calendar over there is June 5th, 1944."

"The day before D-Day?"

"Dummy up, Dan-o! I'll explain about that in a minute."

"Earth-348. The Spectre used that term," Paula said. "So, you've been to this
other world before?"

"Not me personally, no. But two years ago, the Flash was chasing three of her
enemies when they tried to escape through a sort of portal into another
dimension. She followed them here, to a world similar but not identical to our
own."

"She met up with a super-speedster of this world, called Quicksilver," Jenny
put in.

Dick glared at her but she went on. "Together they defeated them, and three of
Quicksilver's foes they'd teamed up with. Flash took hers back to our world and
back to prison. Quicksilver, um, killed hers."

Dick took over. "Last year, Batwoman and the Flash and some other heroes
visited their world again. I guess it's something that can happen every year
around this time."

"Is this, like, an alternate history kind of thing?" Danny asked. "Like it's
the world the way it would have been if the South had won Civil War II?"

"More like a parallel history," Dick said. "Things happen differently, but tend
to come out the same in the long run."

He pointed to the map, with its unfamiliar state boundaries.

"Like, they have 48 stars on their flag, the same as we did in '44, but they're
not the same 48 states. And they never had a Civil War I, but there was
something like a second War of Independence a few years later, and Jackson was
the Army leader and wound up as President, and they had what they call the War
Between the States in the 1860s, almost the same as on our Earth."

"So they're still gonna beat Hitler on this world, right?" asked Paula, a bit
anxiously.

"Probably. But it might take another two years here, or there might be a coup
in Germany and the war be over tomorrow. No way of knowing exactly how the
parallel history will work out. So don't go around making any predictions to
people, or talking about some secret military operation before it's even begun."

Paula leaned over and punched Danny's shoulder.

"Or making any bets at the racetrack."

A gray-haired man walked past their table, looking them up and down, lingering
on Paula's minidress. Their clothes were fairly conservative, but obviously not
for Earth-348 in 1944.

"Crazy kids. Dressed like circus clowns. The Justice Battallion is in town,
they'll straighten you out."

The young heroes exchanged glances.

"Justice Battallion?"

Dick shrugged.

"I guess we're about to meet the home team."

They were driving down yet another of Golden Gate City's impossibly steep,
absurdly straight boulevards (had they laid out the streets without even
looking at the hills?) when Danny spotted the odd-looking aircraft with a
fireball flying rings around it. It was hovering over a large plaza just ahead
of them, preparing to land.

Green energy flooded the Type 2000 and all four Titans were instantly in
costume. Dick parked hastily and they got out. Paula, in the green Asian dress
and purple domino mask of Lamplighter, formed a green platform to carry them
onto the plaza, over the heads of the quickly-gathering crowd.

"Susan?" Lamplighter called to the flaming figure that still flew overhead.
"Susan Storm, is that you?"

The flaming figure landed and the flames vanished from around her, revealing a
tall blonde woman in a red bodysuit.

"Oh, sorry. I thought you were the Human Torch, a hero from our world."

"I am called the Human Torch," the woman replied in a well-modulated voice,
"but my real name is Galatea Horton, and I'm afraid I've never met you."

"There are a lot of people, heroes especially it seems, who are near-matches
between our world and this one," Robin explained to his comrades. "If we're
here long enough, you'll run into a lot of familiar names: Hercules, Black
Widow, the Falcon, the Vision. . . ."

The aircraft's hatch opened. A broad silhouette filled the darkened opening.

"And who might you be?"

If the contralto voice had been any deeper, it would have been considered
freakishly low for a woman's. The tone was that of an officer who could get a
dozen princes to march in step. The owner of the voice was tall and broad-
shouldered, with muscles that again were almost too much for a woman, though
subtantial breasts distorted the white star at the center of her blue scale-
mailed shirt.

"Uh, I'm called Robin, and these are Impulse, Lamplighter and Dyna-Mite. We're
from the same world as Batwoman and Aquawoman and those guys."

Impulse stared at Robin. She'd never seen his air of calm, assured authority
crack so badly, except when Batwoman had been present.

The flag-draped woman smiled.

"Oh, yes, visitors from the future or something. Wasn't in on that caper, but I
heard about it."

She shot out a red-gloved hand.

"Captain America. You've already met the Human Torch, and here's --"

A tall, lean man, dressed only in a pair of scaly green swimming trunks,
stepped from the aircraft. He raised one long eyebrow, regarding the young
heroes skeptically.

"Prince Namor, the Sub-Mariner."

Robin stared at the strange, prick-eared apparition (his near-nudity
reminiscent of the Spectre) for a moment before hastily grasping Captain
America's hand.

"Wow, Captain America, for real? There was a Captain America on our world in
the '40s, sort of. But she was a symbolic figure like Uncle Sam, not a real
person. Just something they used to sell bonds."

Cap laughed ruefully.

"Sometimes it seems like that's all I ever do."

A few minutes later, the seven costumed heroes were gathered in a meeting room
in City Hall. The Justice Battallion had been expected, and the unfamiliar
young heroes were accepted by the authorities as merely some new recruits.
While they waited for the police captain who would brief them, the heroes of
two worlds made further introductions and explained their respective missions,
which turned out to be strangely parallel.

On Earth-348, there was a subculture named for the weirdly-cut "zoot suits"
worn by the young men. A few days before, in another El Dorado city, there had
been a riot for which the zoot suiters had been blamed, though apparently it
was common knowledge that it had really been an unprovoked attack by sailors on
liberty.

"The situation is complicated because the zoot suiters are Mexicans, who aren't
the most popular people in El Dorado," Captain America explained. "And those
sailors in Todos Santos, well, with a war on, folks are very reluctant to
criticize servicemen."

Dick saw how uncomfortable his teammates were looking, especially Lamplighter.
He began talking rapidly, trying to keep the Titans from saying anything to
alienate the Justice Battallion heroes. He explained how they faced a similar
situation on their own world, and how they had hoped to mingle with the young
people and learn more about them, before taking action.

"An excellent plan," Cap said crisply, "and workable of we can only move fast
enough. We're operating under a deadline, you see. John Hoover, the National
Ombudsman, wants to shut down the dance clubs, ban jazz music, round up all the
zoot suiters and stick them in the camps."

Paula gaped, appalled.

"Camps? Like, concentration camps?"

Namor shrugged.

"The same camps where they're keeping the Japs."

"So like, Japanese nationals have been interned for the duration," Dick said
uncertainly.

"Them," Cap admitted, "and native-born Americans of Japanese descent, and
anybody else whose loyalty has been questioned. The camps were built before the
war to house the refugees from the midwestern drought."

Paula opened her mouth. Jenny squeezed her hand to silence her. Dick took a
deep breath and said, "We never had . . . such camps in our America."

The three heroes of Earth-348 exchanged glances, suggesting that they envied
the Titans their youth, and their world, which seemed happier than their own.

"So, how about if we, the Titans, go out tonight, try to gather some
impressions," Dick pressed. "Maybe the police have some young-looking rookies
they could lend us."

Cap smiled.

"I can pass for 17 when I have to."

Her smile broadened at Dick's dubious look. She removed a glove and raised her
hand to her throat, as though reading her own pulse. For a moment she just
stared, eyes glazed, into the distance. Then she shrank within her costume,
until it hung on her like a tent. The young woman Dick now saw was shorter than
himself, with no noticable muscle and not much of a figure. She smiled at him
shyly, showing slightly irregular teeth.

"That is, if you don't mind being seen with the real me."

It was still before seven when they got there, so the club was pretty quiet.
Dick looked acceptable in a jacket from a police evidence locker and the one
pair of slacks in his suitcase that wasn't flared. Gloria Rogers, the
unenhanced version of Captain America, was perfect in a fuzzy blue sweater, a
calf-length pleated skirt, white socks and saddle shoes. Dick paid at the door
and they drifted towards the bar.

Dick looked over the unfamiliar list of soft drinks.

"What looks good to you, Glory?"

The kid behind the counter smirked, and Gloria said softly, "I'm dying for a
Hi-Ho, if that's all right with you, Dick."

Dick bought two bottles of a frighteningly red liquid. The bartender opened
them both and dropped in paper straws without being asked, handing Gloria hers
first, then giving the other to Dick with a raised eyebrow.

As they moved away, Gloria whispered, "You should have ordered for both of us
without consulting me. When he handed me my own bottle instead of giving them
both to you and you didn't snatch it from his hand to give to me, you confirmed
that you're a rube who doesn't know enough to treat a girl like dirt. I'm
afraid you've just lost some credibility."

"Shut up, girl, you're boring me."

Gloria smiled.

"That's the idea."

There was no amplification to the music, and Dick knew that Rock&Roll was a
good decade away, but the band beat their instruments with energy and style,
and the place was alive with what he could only call good vibrations. He saw
Danny and Paula dancing off to one side with more energy than grace. Jenny and
a tall rookie cop were doing a better job, since the cop knew the steps and
Jenny was a fast learner. Applying the skills of observation Batwoman had
taught him, Dick had figured out the most common steps and set about applying
them with Gloria. After the first number, it was less of an effort, and he
began to enjoy the activity for its own sake. And Gloria's.

The entrance doors burst open, and a dozen cops waving nightsticks burst in.
The exits to either side of the stage opened, and more uniforms appeared there.

The music stopped. The kids drew back, crowding together, backing away from the
cops but still defiant. Jenny had vanished, probably vibrating into
invisibility to try to intervene unseen. Her dance partner was looking around
for her, fumbling in his pocket for his badge. Dick couldn't see what Danny or
Paula were doing.

One boy stepped forward, almost nose to nose with a particularly large officer.
His face was pale under dark coloring, but he stood up to the big man.

"We ain't doin' nothin', man! We don't got to take this from you!"

The cop raised his stick and snarled, "You'll take whatever we --"

"WAIT!"

On the stage, Lamplighter had materialized a microphone and loudspeaker from
green energy. The crowd goggled at the apparition, and at her amplified voice.
Everyone paused, and Dick prayed that she would find the right words to say.

Then she began to sing, and Dick's heart sank.

She doesn't understand, Dick thought, she thinks these kids are squares because
their clothes and their music seem old-fashioned to her. But they're not
squares, they're not old farts -- they won't buy it!

Then he looked around the room, and saw that they were buying it. They were
listening. And then he understood.

It was new to them. They'd never heard it before. The song had never been
written on Earth-348.

They listened, while she sang about a wonderful country, a country with land as
beautiful and resources as rich as the souls of its people, a country where a
new civilization was rising that would outshine anything that had ever existed
before. And gradually they understood that Lamplighter wasn't singing about the
flawed and fearful country they lived in, but the country they could have one
day, if they -- all of them -- were worthy of it.

They listened, and they listened, through all four verses, and everyone --
kids, cops, the band, and Dick, too -- were in tears by the time Paula reached
the last refrain:

"And crown thy good with brotherhood

"From sea to shining sea."

In the silence that followed, Paula said softly, but clearly thanks to her
amplifier, "This is our city, our country. It belongs to all of us. In war or
in peace, we're all in this together. We don't have to fight with each other."

The sticks were holstered. Cops and kids were talking now, some of them
smiling. In the back, Dick saw the manager talking with a plainclothesman.
Photographers were preserving the moment of amity between cultures and
generations, creating images that would be in papers all over the country the
next day. So, he suspected, would the words to that memorable new song.

Dick turned towards Gloria, who was still watching Lamplighter as she dissolved
the amplifier and tried to make her escape.

"I think, Dick, that we just saw what you kids came here for."

He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

"No. What she came here for. Paula's the hero this time; we were just along for
the ride."

The music started up again.

"Dick, do you like this kind of music?"

"Not much, to tell the truth."

"Me neither. Let's go some place quieter."

They stopped at the police station. The department had rented rooms for the
Justice Battallion group, and Gloria picked up a room key from the desk
sergeant. They walked the few blocks to the hotel.

Dick looked up at the building.

"What do you know? The Dominion Hotel. They have this same place in Coast City."

"Were you going to stay there?"

"Nah. We're almost out of money. A Motel Five, most likely."

The room was expensively furnished, but lacked the amenities of a first-class
hotel room on Earth-349 in 1964: no refrigerator, a simple AM radio instead of
a stereo system, and of course there was no TV. But Dick didn't mind a bit,
once they were settled on the couch, soft music playing, room service drinks in
front of them.

Gloria tugged at the sleeve of his jacket.

"You look good in those clothes."

"Thanks. It's never been the style back home, but I can see how it could catch
on."

"Your Robin costume, it, well . . . ."

"Makes me look stupid?"

"I was going to say, it doesn't flatter your build."

Dick laughed.

"That's a very polite way of putting it. Yeah, well, when I first became Robin,
three years ago, I was just a skinny kid, built kind of like a dancer."

Gloria reached up and squeezed his left biceps.

"Now you're built like a football player."

Dick stared, then burst out laughing.

"I hope that means on this Earth boys play football!"

Gloria's hand was still on Dick's arm. He put his hand over hers and returned
her smile. They moved closer, and in a moment were kissing.

Dick was surprised to feel Gloria's tongue in his mouth, but he adapted
quickly. He held her for a long time, enjoying the feel of her body against
his, through their clothes. When they broke, she stepped back and placed a hand
at her throat.

"Just a minute, and I'll change back to Cap."

Dick frowned.

"What for?"

Startled, Gloria dropped her hand.

"Well, don't you want me at my best?"

Dick took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.

"Am I complaining?"

Gloria blushed and ducked her head.

"Do you really want me . . . the way I am?"

He raised her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Absolutely."

she shuddered.

"I've only ever done it as Cap, never as Gloria."

Dick stroked her cheek.

"Want to know a secret? I've never done it at all."

Like two virgins, they made love slowly, cautiously, but with only a little
clumsiness. Gloria surprised him by whipping out a condom and opening it with
her teeth.

"On my world there's a pill women can take for birth control."

She chuckled.

"Does it keep the clap away, too?"

Dick had to admit that it didn't.

"Then this way is better, isn't it?" she smiled, expertly rolling it onto him.

"Sure feels nicer."

Later, she did change to Captain America, and rode him hard to climax. His
hands gripped her steely thighs, his neck craning so he could reach her nipples
with his lips and try to suck an entire breast into his mouth.

"You'd have better luck trying that with Glory!"

Dick had intended to go out to look for more signs of trouble afterwards, but
it felt so good to just lie there, his muscular limbs tangled with Cap's, and
he was so tired, besides . . . .

It was broad daylight when they were awakened by a pounding on the door. Dick
dove for the bathroom with his pants while Gloria calmly answered the knock,
pulling a sheet around herself.

From the bathroom, Dick heard Namor's voice at the door, excitedly telling Cap
that they needed to get to back to England immediately. When he emerged,
dressed, Namor gave him a thumbs-up, ignoring Cap as she pulled on her chain
mail.

"There's something big going on over in Europe, they've invaded France or
something."

Dick nodded grimly.

"Or something."

The early reports would be confused, of course, but soon enough they would know
the truth: on Earth-348, as on Earth-349, this was D-Day: Dust Day, the day
Allied planes dropped a load of radioactive powder on Berlin. As on Earth-349,
over a hundred thousand Berliners would die (though Hitler would escape), and
all of the city's millions would become homeless.

After the war, the Allies would enclose the poisoned city in a high concrete
barrier. The Berlin Wall would stand for decades, until the deadly dust had
finally decayed to a safe level, and the grandchildren of present-day Germans
could reclaim their ancient capital.

D-Day would ensure an eventual Allied victory, but a victory that was tainted,
as surely as Berlin was tainted, a victory that would burden the whole human
race with horror.

Well, it was their problem, their history, to deal with as best they could, just as Earth-349 had.

Robin shook himself and smiled at Cap.

"I think that's our cue for an exit."

The others had also spent the night at the Dominion, and Dick had them gathered
quickly at the Type 2000.

Impulse was reluctant to go.

"We haven't really solved anything, you know."

Robin nodded.

"But we helped. They'll all see things from a new perspective: the authorities,
the kids, maybe even the great and terrible National Ombudsman."

"But will that be enough?"

"It'll have to be. 24 hours is all the Spectre gave us."

Jenny nodded, knowing that would have to do.

With their seat belts fastened, Robin started the engine.

"Back to the highway, I guess."

But before he had driven out of the plaza, the black fog suddenly enveloped
them again. Dick wondered for a moment what their departure looked like to the
people left behind on Earth-348, then his attention was drawn to the oncoming
headlights of a huge bus with a rounded rear end. He caught a glimpse of people
in the vehicle, people who seemed to be dressed for winter, and then it was
gone.

"Do you think something's wrong," Jenny asked as another pair of headlights
loomed. "There wasn't any, um, traffic the other time. Maybe I should get out
and scout at super-speed."

"No! That sounds like a great way to get lost but good."

Dick drove on through the fog, which seemed to go on forever, passing a stream
of traffic that included a mammoth old truck hauling a passenger trailer,
something that looked like a 1920s touring charabanc, and a flying saucer with
Minnesota plates.

"Hey!" cried Danny. "Did you see that lady in the red T-shirt driving that old
car? She looked just like Tom Smart, except instead of that Egyptian thingie,
she had a Greek letter on her shirt!"

"Duesenberg," Dick muttered.

"Eye of Horus," Paula said softly.

"Psi," Jenny finished.

Danny chuckled.

"Maybe the next Human Torch we run into will be a guy!"

Just then the fog parted, and Dick was driving along a lonely stretch of highway
that he guessed was part of the agricultural region south of Coast City. Then a
highway sign informed the travellers that they were actually just outside
Piscataway, about 40 miles from the "Cave".

"Well," Jenny observed, "I guess the Spectre gave us a lift. Better than no
reward at all."

They spent a few hours relaxing in their headquarters, showering and snacking,
but then it was getting late, time for the young heroes to call in to their
respective guardians, parents and mentors.

Danny, in an Aztec Gold suit, was combing his hair before hopping into his
Mustang for the long drive to Ivy Town.

"Hey, guys, what are your plans for the month? Anything big in mind?"

"Not me," Jenny declared. "Just decompressing before school starts."

"Green Lantern wants me to go along on a trip to Alpha Centauri," Paula said.
"I probably won't have time for any big projects after that."

Jenny turned to Dick.

"How about you, Dick?"

"I was thinking of dumping the Robin schtick and developing something more
grown-up."

Jenny sighed.

"I suppose you're going to start dressing all in black and gray, like all the
other Bat-types in Gotham."

"No, I like wearing bright colors, staying upbeat.

"What'll you call yourself, then, the Rainbow Batman?"

"No. I was thinking of a name more like, I don't know . . . Captain America."

Possession of Condoms With Intent

According to police in San Francisco, New York and the District of Columbia, condoms in a woman's purse may be cited as evidence that she is

[ ] sexually active, or may be in the future.
[ ] concerned about her health.
[x] a prostitute.

http://www.change.org/actions/view/tell_dc_san_francisco_and_new_york_condoms_arent_a_crime?js_twit

Thanks, as is often the case, to Amanda Marcotte:

http://pandagon.net/index.php/site/comments/tiger_cubs_really/

Assassins Can Fail In More Ways Than One

This is my fair warning for those who think that bullets can trump ballots.

What Has been Seen Cannot be Unseen

Earth-349: Aquawoman

Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not limited by that story or any other.
Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those copyrights.
Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the easily offended, especially those who are uncomfortable with such topics as transgender, transformation, polyfidelity and participatory democracy.

Gloriana Curry, known to the land-dwelling public as Aquawoman, considered her reflection in her bedroom mirror. She liked the mirror very much: oval, a meter and a half tall, an ormolu frame, salvaged from the wreck of the Antilie (sank in a storm, July 23rd, 1911, near Bermuda). She thought the reflection was...adequate: 421 moons old (32.2 years, land-reckoning), blonde hair, fair skin (evenly colored but not very smooth), tall and muscular (chest very broad, making her breasts look smaller than they really were), belly firm enough that she could still wear her unforgiving shirt of orichalcum scale mail. No scars, thanks to the excellent Atlantean healing capacity. Her right hand was still a little pale, and the wrist would probably always be slightly crooked where it had grown from the stump of the one she'd lost, but it was no longer so noticable that she felt the need for gloves. Absolutely stunning legs, by the standards of either land people or Atlanteans (did they look better bare, or in the green tights? Tights today). She would do for a routine appearance as the Queen of Atlantis. Queen of Atlantis was a very fanciful translation of her actual title. A better one would be First Speaker of the Executive Council of the Poseidonis Reach. Her executive position was an elective one (though it did involve wearing a crown and carrying a ceremonial trident), and her territory did not by any means cover all of Atlantis. The city of Poseidonis and its environs, plus its assorted vassal city-states and allied settlements and nomadic tribes, accounted for only about half of the population, and maybe a third of the inhabited area of the Atlantic Ocean basin (the Reach was defined by tides and currents, not lines drawn on the seafloor). Still, calling her a Queen did no harm, and calling the Poseidonis Reach "Atlantis" harmed only those insufferable merfolk in Tritonis, so what the hell?

Aquawoman thought of a Quaker fishing boat captain she knew, who had recently been named Clerk of the Committee for Ministry and Oversight of the Gulf Coast Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends of Christ. She made a mental note that when next they met, she would address him as "Archbishop of New Orleans".

It was not a ceremonial occasion, just a semi-formal birthday party for the oldest member of the Council, so she would forgo the crown, the trident, the walrus-hide mantle and the tedious riding of an Atlantic Giant Seahorse. There would probably be a good crowd even so, because people would be wanting to see the royal consorts. With a final check of her tights for wrinkles, she swam out the nearest window and down to the plaza, where her husbands and most of the other guests were waiting. It was rare enough for all five of her husbands to be gathered together in one place. They all had their jobs and their private interests, and if it didn’t happen that one or more of them was away from the city, he was likely to be occupied with some project elsewhere in town. For once, though, she found them together: Turth, scion of a Poseidonis family even older than her own. Malco, a legless merman from Tritonis. Glibdup, a clawed and scaly gill-man from the chilly coastal waters of Rhode Island. Blue-skinned Niaremus, an adventurer from Earth-348. And perhaps the oddest of all – “Hey, where’s Todd?” Nobody seemed to know. Turth said, “He was definitely going to be here, but I haven’t seen him all day.” A boy in an Army uniform, barely into puberty, swam into the midst of the royal party, glancing uncomfortably around at the consorts but remembering to salute the queen, and said, “Excuse me, Ma’am, but the Black Manta is approaching from north by northeast, showing truce lights.” Todd Arliss’ family had been shipchandlers for over a century, and had inherited a very substantial business at the age of 19. He had insisted on selling the business and spending almost his entire fortune on illegal experimental treatments intended to give him an Atlantean metabolism, allowing him to live in the sea, go to Atlantis, and plight his troth to Aquawoman. He had been phenomenally lucky. He might have died, or become a mindless Aquabeast, or worse yet from his point of view, been turned into a too-exact duplicate of Aquawoman. Instead, he had wound up as the curly-haired, round-cheeked amphibian the Atlanteans fondly called Aquababy. Even then, there was no guarantee that the adventurer and stateswoman would want anything to do with a somewhat-obsessive admirer. But he’d proven to have many attractive qualities, and in the end had been allowed to become her fifth companion. He’d also proven very popular with the people of Atlantis, who had made him something of a mascot. It had been very clever of the Ocean Master to choose him as a hostage. By the time Aquawoman had reached the dome that covered the city, the Ocean Master’s immense black submarine was holding a position less than fifty fathoms from the glass. It loomed there, resembling nothing so much as an immense sperm whale’s penis, with the Ocean Master himself perched suggestively at its prow. Atlantean soldiers were arrayed in a half-sphere before the vessel, spearguns ready. Aquawoman swam up to the officer in charge. "Has he said yet what he wants?” “Yes, Ma’am. The crown of Queen Clea.” “He can’t have it,” she said automatically. The officer nodded curtly. Moments later the four husbands and most of the Council arrived. Aquawoman told them what the Ocean Master wanted, and assured them that she considered paying the ransom out of the question. Malco was dubious, and tried gently to suggest that they at least consider it. The others all disagreed strongly. Turth spoke smoothly to calm Malco, with a trace of condescension. “We must not, of course, allow...that object...to fall into such hands as those. The Ocean Master is bothersome enough as a science pirate; giving him the power to truly master the world’s oceans would be disastrous. Nevertheless, for our beloved brother’s sake...?” Aquawoman nodded. “For Todd’s sake, we should consider all our options. And what better place to discuss the matter than in the Nameless Vault?” A generation before, Atlantean archaeologists had found an ancient crown once worn by the Wizard-Kings, a hideous thing formed of seven serpents. Everyone who saw it was troubled by the evil power emanating from it, but the silver-haired Queen Clea had dared to place it on her head. After that, she had displayed increasingly spectacular magical powers – and increasing megalomania and depravity. The escalating crimes of Queen Clea, and the civil war that eventually resulted, had nearly destroyed Poseidonis. Once she had been neutralized and the crown secured, it had been stowed in the Nameless Vault, along with other items deemed too dangerous to be used. The Executive Council, Aquawoman and her husbands made a crowd that did not easily fit down the narrow passageways that led below the city to the Nameless Vault. The Vault itself lay in the deepest and oldest of the Palace’s sub-basements, in the natural caverns and chambers hewn from living stone that had underlain the city when Atlantis was still above the surface. Its door was of a kind of steel otherwise unknown on Earth, possibly older than Earth itself. The lock was two years old, from Stark Industries, and required three members of the Council to authorize entry. The Vault-Keeper, a broad-chinned oldster in a red robe, stood by watchfully as they unlocked the massive door. As the door swung open, a perverse corner of Aquawoman’s mind reflected that the term “Nameless Vault” could also be translated as simply “a secure unnamed location”. The contents of the vault seemed deceptively ordinary. On one table stood an insulated steel vial labelled simply “Virus”. On a set of shelves were several boxes of waterproof punchcards, marked “Master PC”. Presumably PC stood for “punchcard”, but what made a computer program so dangerous? A television set, looking to be about ten years old, seemed laughably out of place until it moved, turning toward the visitors as though it were alive. A sealed package offered no clue of its contents, except for being marked “SRU”. It seemed to Aquawoman that the Vault badly needed a catalog. At the very back of the Vault, on a pedestal as though in a museum display – or on a blasphemous altar – a dreadful object waited. Three snakes glared off to the left, three to the right, and the largest looked forward, its eyes projecting a challenge. Come wear me. Come, and have power over the sea and the land. Come and be like Clea, only better, more perfect. Wear me, and be a real queen, feared and loved by the whole world. Not taking her eyes off the crown, Aquawoman said to her companions, “This is what we’re here for. Let’s go.” The Ocean Master had his feet planted on the prow of the Black Manta when Aquawoman returned. It was a strange, nonsensical position to hold underwater, but landsman that he was, he doubtless thought it looked dramatic and authoritative. He remained in position as Aquawoman swam out to meet him. He saw that she did indeed have the Serpent Crown with her. She was wearing it. The Ocean Master spoke through a hydrophone in his ornate helmet, “The Queen of Atlantis will surrender the Serpent Crown to the Ocean Master, and thereby acknowledge him her overlord and the true ruler of all the Earth’s oceans.” “Francis Marion Ormsby, if you think I’m going to let you leave here with Clea’s crown, you’re a dumber sprat than you were when you tried to pants me the first day we swam together!” “I need the crown,” the Ocean Master said coldly, not showing any sign that her backhanded appeal to familial ties had touched him. “I have to have it, Atlantean, in order to fulfill my destiny. Hand it over, now, or I’ll kill your precious Aquababy before your eyes.” She swam toward him, her eyes burning in a manner that suggested red lightning might shoot from them at any moment, or perhaps from the eyes of the serpents in her crown. The ancient and obscene power of the object carried a weight of silent menace. “Yes, you could do that, and it would wound my heart in ways I doubt you can even understand. But with my surviving husbands to console me, I’d manage to go on. I’d retain enough of my self-control to begin the hunt for you right away, and you’d find that 71% of the planet’s surface area is not room enough to hide you from my vengeance.” He remained still for a long moment, his face unreadable in that mask, and then he turned to his nearest henchman, a silver-blonde youth in the ragged remnants of a U.S. Navy enlisted work uniform. “Let him go.” Less than a minute later, Aquababy swam out through an airlock, waved to the crowd as they cheered him, then swam toward his wife. The so-called Ocean Master slipped into his vessel through a different airlock, and the Black Manta began to turn slowly in place, preparing to depart from the city. There was more loud cheering as the invaders fled. Aquababy swam to his wife’s side, but held back at the sight of her wearing the crown. He was not an Atlantean, and had not even been born yet when Queen Clea made it infamous, but he knew its reputation as a corrupting influence. He was clearly wondering whether Aquawoman’s sacrifice had been worth his life. Aquawoman pulled the crown from her head and crushed it between her hands. The baked-clay replica crumbled to powder and dispersed in a muddy cloud. To the people of Atlantis she called out, “The crown of Clea is safely stored away, and that’s where it will stay!” and then kissed her husband very warmly and firmly. They broke from the kiss and began swimming back toward the palace side by side, surrounded by her other husbands and, more distantly, by government officials and the adoring populace. Aquawoman gave a long telepathic sigh. “I swear, I don’t know what it’s going to take to make him put a stop to all this Ocean Master nonsense. I may have to marry him."

Niaremus turned to Malco and raised one long eyebrow.

"Marry him? Isn't he her half-brother?"

"Step-brother. Former step-brother, since her father is divorced from his mother."

"So I suppose a relationship between them would only be..."

"Palimpsest?"

Todd swam close to Aquawoman, bumping against her frequently in an intimate gesture that would only be tolerated between lovers.

"Have I mentioned lately what a really magnificent woman you are?"

"I'm not sure how recently the last time was," she replied lightly, "but feel free anytime it comes up."

"It's relevant right at the moment, hon. When I heard you telling Ormsby, 'Go ahead, there's four more where he came from'--"

"That's not what--"

He shushed her.

"You said what you had to say. I have no complaint. Quite the contrary. I love and admire you more for having had the strength to say it. When you stood him down like that, I think it was the first time I'd ever really seen you look like a queen."

Aquawoman made a dismissive gesture.

"Me, a queen? I'm just a nice girl with five husbands."

More Earth-349 stories can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/earth349

Contact the author at dr_psycho1960@hotmail.com

On the Streets of Portland

KPOJ, "Portland's Only Progressive Talk Station", is sponsoring a team in Portland's Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, called "Get Outta My 'raq", thus demonstrating that multi-layered cultural references don't need to be subtle or clever.

But it does bring to mind this image, which I have not yet been able to expel, of Lady Babylonia entered in the race, going down the streets of Portand with classical draperies over a sports bra that contains her Junoesque though alas occupied bosom.

Her cousin Portlandia hands her a cup of Bull Run water as she passes, while the Dragon of the Ishtar Gate yelps happily at her heels.

I blame Detective Neptune, myself.

"Pro-Sex Feminists" vs. a Feminist who is Pro-Sex

I am so confused. I have been a feminist since before pubefrty (but no, I already knew I was a boy :-), and was never under the impression that there was anything anti-sex about feminism, and yet look at the hassles that a feminist advocate for battered women underwent because she also writes erotica: http://midnightseductionsauthors.blogspot.com/2009/05/being-judged-for-sex-and-erotic-romance.html?zx=a4026484409f9408

I'm confused. I wonder whether Suzie Bright might help me figutre this out. Suzie is my second-favorite horny feminist, after my wife.

It's Only Natural

There is an interesting post on Echidne of the Snakes concerning (alleged) differences between men and women, and the (really alleged) biological causes for them.

Commentor Anthony McCarthy makes an analogous argument, comparing it to suggesting that radio programming could be explained by study of the electromagnetic spectrum. At first glance, this was an amusing and telling argument, but . . . .

Continuing the analogy, though, it is in fact possible to explain the differences between AM and FM radio (talk and news vs. music) by studying the differences between the two forms of transmission: the quality of signal that can be carried, the cost of setting up and running a transmitter, the dates on which AM and FM stations went on the air, &c.
So you can in fact make a case for explaining *part* of the nature of radio programming on the basis of the nature of electromagnetism, and on the nature and history of the technologies which we have developed to make use of it.
What we CANNOT do is justify a law which would REQUIRE all AM stations to stop carrying music because "That's FM work".

Appalling

My thoughts are with the people of Bombay / Mumbai tonight....

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27928718?GT1=43001

For whatever that might be worth.

Reflections

If I had it to do all over again, how would I do things?

If I could rewrite my life so that it did not include the pain I caused to my wife, and to R, and to N, and to others . . . .

But in that case, I would not have had so many good, rewarding experiences, ranging from the birth of R-boy to the simple good times I had with each of my lovers.

So I am in the position of feeling terribly guilty over actions by which I benefitted immensely, some of which I simply could not wish undone.

So what does that make me?

Maybe just...an American.

You Not Read This

The following passage is highly offensive and blasphemous, and you should not read it:

"the pain of consummation soon melted away. Muhammad was so gentle. I hardly felt the scorpion's sting. To be in his arms, skin to skin, was the bliss I had longed for all my life."

You also should not read the rest of the manuscript, which is why Random House is withholding publication.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121797979078815073.html?mod=opinion_main_commentaries

Now say thank you.

The Name Game

I hear tell some people are trying on different possible interpretations of the root meaning of the names "Barack" and "Obama" in hope of embarrassing the man.

I wonder whether supporters of Senator Fratricidal Toilet are really wise to go there.

Honor Veterans -- Even the Inconvenient Ones

Major Alan G. Rogers was the first out gay man to die in the occupation of Iraq.

Not the way he would have wanted to be remembered -- for one thing, I'm sure he wasn't keen on the dying-at-an-early-age part.

But he was, even though the Department of Defense would rather you didn't hear about him.

Know what, DoD? Tough shit.

In The News

Maybe someone has done it, but so far, I at least haven't noticed anyone linking this news item* with this one.**

Just a thought.

[One day these links won't work, so I'll add explanatory footnotes:

* The downfall of Elliot Spitzer.

** Scientific findings indicating that people are more satisfied by something if they think it's expensive -- including not only wine and food, but medications as well.