. . . and I ain't in it.
Namely, I ain't in the, ah, discussion at Pandagon about the draft. Or rather, about Oliver's take on the draft:
I believe a draft is immoral, and doubly so for this war in this situation.
He does expand on that a bit, in comments at Pandagon, but the end result is my liking him even less and disagreeing with him more, so I think I'll just sit this one out.
Will mention that, at the Samuel Delany lecture last week, a woman I met and whose name I promptly forgot said something to the extent that, until you're thirty, you really have nothing worthwhile to say, and should shut the fuck up.
Like I said, "to the extent." That last phrase, in particular, is more my spin on her statement, but I don't think it substantially changes the meaning. . . never mind. And I'd argue my own self that it ain't the years, it's the mileage. Naming no names, as this might cause 'em to appear and then I'd have to add them to my MT Blacklist along with Jeff from Protein Wisdom, there's more than a few bloggers who might have passed that age cutoff for having something to contribute, but as a result of never, ever having left the confines of lily-white suburbia (some of 'em only mentally, some of 'em physically and mentally), still really need to, as they say, STFU.
Yep, that's the 3:30 AM syntax, all right.
Oh, and the woman at the lecture who said that? Works in publishing. As an editor. And no, the irony of this statement, given who we'd just heard speak, was lost on neither of us.
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