(Comments are still disabled. I'm working on it...)

I'm just checking out now and heading for the train station, so I don't have time for a complete recap. I'll try to slap a couple of photos up soon. It was great to meet some of the people I read each day, especially as we hit it off so well.

Okay, I gotta go catch a train.

(Comments are still disabled, as I continue to work through my new MT installation. You can go here to test my new spam fighting system though, if you have something you really have to say. Oooh, my head...)

(via Wizbang)

I'll also be attending the 'Blogfest' happening there Saturday night. Guest of honour is Darcy of Dust my Broom, who will be joined by the best bloggers in the Canadian blogosphere -- plus me and Ian Scott. There is the possibility of it being a hoot.

I was being pulled down the road. The houses here are not closely spaced so we had gone a fair way (for a toddler) when Max pointed to a neighbor who was outside and proudly announced that he had lent his shovel to him. Max's snow shovel is one of his prized possessions, and there it was lying in my neighbor's driveway. I indicated I would pick it up on the way back.

Eventually, we came to another neighbor's house even further up the road. This must be where we were going. He charged up to the front door, walked in and sat on the floor. Then he looked up at me and said, "Ta-ya's gone upstairs with Bianca. I hass to take oss my shoes to go in. Could you untie my laces?"

This is the way the clever people in our world think. And it's not surprising considering the way the media promotes these doomsday scenarios. They also think that the only way to solve these potential catastrophes is to hand over some of their (and of course those blind sheeple's) dwindling supply of autonomy to the even wiser men than they that promise a solution. That those wise men are almost always the same as the prophets of doom doesn't seem to bother them.

The Financial Post is running a series of stories this week dealing with most of the big sources of potential global annihilation. They've asked scientists with in-depth knowledge of these subjects -- but whose views are not bleak enough for the media to quote -- to rebut some of the hysteria. Unfortunately, yesterday's article on Toxic Chemical Hysteria is not online (though Terence Corcoran's editorial on the subject still is), but today's piece on the Peak Oil Panic is very much worth reading:

Proponents of the imminent peak of global oil extraction -- led by Colin Campbell, Jean Laherrere, L.F. Ivanhoe, Richard Duncan and Kenneth Deffeyes -- resort to deliberately alarmist arguments as they mix incontestable facts with caricatures of complex realities, ignoring anything that does not fit their preconceived conclusions about the demise of modern civilization. Ivanhoe sees an early end of the oil era as "the inevitable doomsday," followed by "economic implosion" that will make "many of the world's developed societies look more like today's Russia than the U.S." Duncan's future brings massive unemployment, breadlines, homelessness and a catastrophic end of industrial civilization.

These conclusions are based on interpretations that lack any nuanced understanding of the human quest for energy, disregard the role of prices, ignore any historical perspectives and pre-suppose the end of human inventiveness and adaptability.

I will raise just three key points aimed at dismantling the foundations of this new catastrophist cult. First, these preachings are just the latest installments in a long history of failed peak forecasts. Second, the Peak Oil advocates argue that this time the circumstances are really different and that their forecasts will not fail -- but in order to believe that, one has to ignore a multitude of facts and possibilities that readily counteract their claims. Third, and most importantly, there is no reason why even an early peak of global oil production should trigger any catastrophic events.

I can't help but think that there's some intrinsic religious aspect to these type of fears -- that there's something in humanity that is uncomfortable with an easy life. There's the idea that there's a cost for everything we enjoy -- that we must make sacrifices to balance our blessings. Even though religion is so passé to the clever people, this belief has not died, it has simply morphed into the new junk science cult.

So much of the credit for his murderous successes, and those of other terrorists like him, must be given to the mainstream media -- both East and West. Journalists assiduously advance the terrorist cause, by reporting almost exclusively on allied setbacks and mistakes, and by their ceaseless improvisation of destructive criticism against "Bush" and other Western leaders and allies. Heroic, and largely successful reconstruction efforts in Iraq have been ignored; instead we have an endless spool of meticulously-reported terror hits. The Western media attention to, and celebration of, such unstable characters as Cindy Sheehan and Michael Berg, make their alliances obvious. The New York Times has been the bellwether for this. Almost every news item touching Iraq is spun to maximize its demoralizing effect on the allied war effort. And across America itself, editors look to the Times nightly front-page line-up for clues on how to slant their own coverage.

To an enemy who depends utterly on morale, in the absence of significant military abilities -- who has only such weaponry as he can rig or steal, and only such soldiers as he can recruit in secret; who has no secure territory to which he can retreat and regroup -- this constant and reliable support from the media is indispensable. Without it, the "resistance" in Iraq would have collapsed quickly, saving ten-thousands of lives; and the Afghan "resistance" would be in greater disarray (though it has the benefit of secure pasturage in remote tribal mountain fastnesses).

But Zarqawi's death goes beyond spinning. The very fact touched off huge celebrations across Iraq this week, as did the capture of Saddam Hussein before it. While our Western media are loath to cover these demonstrations -- lest they enhance President Bush's position in U.S. domestic politics -- their effect on the enemy in Iraq is profound. An enemy whose morale depended on Zarqawi's reputation for ruthlessness, against the hard fact of popular detestation, is left staring at a wall. He needs another Zarqawi to emerge, quickly.

(Comments are still disabled -- I'm working on something...)

What's next? Telling us to change our underwear regularly because you never know when you'll get hit by a bus?

Peter Foster has an accompanying piece that looks at the impact this movie is having and the abandonment of reason Gore's followers have taken:

Mr. Gore claims that climate change is, above all, a moral problem, but any search for scientific truth that starts with a moral conviction is severely hampered, if not fatally flawed.

Part of Mr. Gore's rhetoric is to compare his own moral crusade with others, such as the fight against fascism, or the struggles to end slavery or give women the vote. He regards himself as the environment's Ghandi, Mandela or Martin Luther King. In fact, beneath its glib exterior, Mr. Gore's message contains a great threat to personal freedom and prosperity.

In many ways Mr. Gore's crusade is reminiscent of that launched by Marx and Engels in the middle of the 19th century. As they trekked the grim streets of the cotton towns and pored through statistics in the British Museum, they were looking for proof of what they already knew: that capitalism was an evil system based on exploitation and impoverishment, and that the solution was revolution and collectivization. They died before their revolutions came to pass. Students of history can see the results.

Al Gore's crusade is basically against the same enemy. Like Marx, he is driven by a messianic self-image. Like Marx, he is potentially a dangerous man, particularly if he should run again in 2008. Meanwhile, perhaps the most frightening reaction to his film is that it has drawn little but praise.

I am not going to shut down however, as I've enjoyed the work I've done on the blog when the juices were flowing and would like to get into that groove again. Hopefully in a month or so I'll relaunch the site, refreshed and energized.

For now, comments and trackbacks will be shut off to stem the incredible flow of spam onto my old posts.

I'll leave with a photo of the kids as they work to prevent me from building their ultra-cool play structure. See you soon.

Plus I've been kinda lazy.

I now have little memory of anything that happened on the day this is supposed to be describing -- what day was that anyhow? April 25th!!!?? Wow, I've really become a lazy slug! -- but hopefully I'll be able to make something up that sounds plausable.

11:00 We usually have a discussion on what treat they can get while we're shopping. Stores nowadays are crammed with junk and it would be cruel to deny them anything. We have little in the ways of sweets at home -- even juice is a special drink for them. But it's not a good idea to totally disconnect them from the world most other children live in. So they get one thing, and they have to agree on it. A Kinder Egg was their first thought as they entered the store, but along the way they found other goodies that they suddenly realized they couldn't live without. With each one I asked them to consider the loss of the Kinder egg, and after a little deliberation, the eggs alway won out.

11:40 At the check-out I take two Kinder eggs and delicately hand them to the cashier. Max and Talia are clamouring for them, but I tell them they're for after lunch and I put the precious treats in my coat pocket. Outside, it's starting to get very cold and windy. Quite miserable, actually. I had plans to work on a minor carpentry project this afternoon, but I guess that's out.

As I put the kids in the improbabus, I lean against the door and crush both eggs. Oh well.

12:15 We get home. I've got $180 dollars of groceries to put away and two hungry kids. I let them amuse themselves outside while I get the perishables put away and start lunch. Wieners and beans. Crap, I know, but I'll have little hassle from them and it's quick.

As I dash in and out of the house, I notice Max is joyfully playing with his favourite toy, the small snow shovel. He's such a cutie. Just as I've got everything finished and go outside to call them for lunch, I see what he's doing that's making him so happy: he's shovelling the gravel from my driveway into the ditch across the street. "MAAAAAAAXXXXXX!!"

12:35 I've already finished my share and am prodding them to:

1. Scoop food with spoons
2. Lift spoons to mouths
3. Open mouths
4. Insert spoons in mouths
5. Chew
6. Swallow
7. Repeat

12:50 They're eating their Kinder Eggs now. I get no complaints about the shattered shells; it's still chocolate and there's a toy inside! I'm feeling I might need some reinforcements this afternoon, so I call a friend and invite us over. But first I need my second coffee and have to assemble their soon-to-be-forgotten toys.

1:10 I've still been unable to have more than a sip of my coffee. I'm busy refereeing their battles over the Kinder toys and cleaning up lunch.

1:25 I finally finish my coffee just as I hear Max shout, "Talia's pinching me!" for the fifth time. We gotta get out of here. I herd them into the car...

1:35 Where they quickly fall asleep. I still think they need a nap in the afternoon, but it's impossible to get them to agree when they're at home. They just won't do it. But strap them in a moving car and their eyes start drooping and their heads start lolling. Just what I was counting on.

1:55 I leave them in the improbabus when I arrive at Judith's house. (She lives in the country, so they'll not be bothered.) They'll sleep for at least another half hour, giving me a brief opportunity to enjoy some adult conversation.

Judith is an artist, and I caught her painting in her studio. She was deep in reverie over a painting she was having problems with. I played the role of the visitor from Porlock and pulled her out of her trance.

After chatting for a bit, we decide to go inside to have some tea. I check on the kids and, unfortunately, they're starting to wake up. I take them inside too.

2:20 Her son Nelson is there to help entertain the kids. He tries engaging them with some of his toys, but eventually is forced to resort to my favourite tool, TV. He puts a Pingu tape on and they're happy.

2:50 Talia decides I've had enough relaxation and conversation and interrupts us by continually repeating, "I'm hung-ery!", over and over again. I tell her she should have eaten more of her lunch. Judith makes her some popcorn.

3:15 After everyone has snacked, I decide to act on a half-baked plan I hatched before we came over here. We'll fly a kite! I had bought a cheap Wal-Mart kite a couple of weeks before, but had consistently failed to demonstrate my kite mastery to my offspring. Today I could not fail -- there was a big field here and a lot of wind.

Except... there sure were a lot of power lines around here. And the wind was very variable, gusting then stopping, gusting then stopping. And the kite was pretty crappy too, it was obvious. And my helpers are not as big of a help as they think they are. And now it's starting to rain. After a few launches and crashes we gave up. Next time for sure.

4:05 We decide to hit the road. They don't sleep on this car ride, and instead keep up a steady chatter.

4:25 We're home. Max immediatly demands TV. I wearily agree, and they watch Go, Diego, Go, a Dora spinoff.

4:45 Reinforcements arrive. I let Michelle deal with our sweeties while I make supper. Tuna casserole. I'm not a great cook, okay?

She reads to them from the holy book of Cars and Trucks and Things That Go.

5:15 The food's in the oven. I'm feeling like a zombie.

5:50 We finally sit down for supper. After Max's first words of, "Not this again!", I was a little worried how it would go, but they ate every bite. Talia initiated a strange game at the table. She said to Max, "Max, you're Talia, and I'm Max."

Max replied, "No, you're you and I'm me!"

"I'm me and you're me, Max!"

"No..." and so it continued...

6:15 After supper, I try to get them to clean up their toys, but they brazenly ignore my authority, giggling merrily. I use my most serious voice, but it has no effect. I send them up to their room to contemplate their terrible naughtiness.

6:25 Mama lets them out and for some reason Talia has put on her pajamas, even though she still needs to have a bath. Max is wearing his pajama bottoms on his head. But at least they get around to cleaning up.

6:40 Max tells me a knock-knock joke:

Knock Knock!
Who's there?
Tree!
Tree who?
Open the door and let me through!

Knock Knock!
Who's there?
Police car
Police car who?
Open the door and let me through!

6:55 Mama takes them up for their bath. I did this job yesterday when Mama headed off to yoga, so it's only fair that she gets an opportunity. i hear a certain amount of yelling and splashing and crying, but no more than usual.

7:20 Mama takes the story-reading duty as well, and I come up to give them a good-night kiss. Unlike many recent nights, they go to sleep easily. No lame excuses to get up, and no fighting after the lights go down.

7:30 I spend the remaining scraps of my energy in trying to write this thing up.