Author: Stacy Horn

I keep hearing people describe the Paris attacks as sophisticated, complicated, brilliant. What is so brilliant about them? The only skills the murderers needed was the ability to tell time and operate a weapon. The plan itself? Be at such and such a place, check your watch, and at such and such a time, kill people. Finding someone who knows how to make bombs? How hard can that be? We have a world full of angry deranged people. Put the word out. The same with buying weapons.

I agree that the attacks are getting increasingly unnerving, but I don’t see them as growing in sophistication so much as variety. They are not criminal masterminds. They’re just more fucked up than anyone else and persistent.

I just read very insightful comments from Susie Bright about the way in which they are fucked up. She was responding to the statement of the group who will now be called Daesh claiming responsibility, and references information about the group from this New York Times article.

Voila, the “manifesto” of the Paris suicide bombers, in their own words (see below).

Their obsession with sexual revenge, the revenge of the sexually rejected, is intense: They referred to the Bataclan nightclub as a place where where hundreds of “apostates” had gathered in a “profligate prostitution party” — that means a rock concert.

Bohemian Paris is on top of ISIS’ target list because it is the country of “obscenity and perversity.” Again, it’s Paris’ mythic reputation for the libertine, for free sexual exchange, for romance and unashamed ecstasy.

This “faith army,” this death cult built on sexual repression masked as religious purity– has a detailed manual about how to run a sex-slave market of their war captives, including rules of inheritance. Essentially, you can’t be a soldier in their army unless you buy into the faith that beautiful women everywhere are taunting and rejecting you, but you will teach them all a lesson by enslaving and raping them all day long — same with young boys. Everything “depraved” is holy when you’re inflicting it upon a slave — makes perfect sense, right?

At some point your Grand Wizard arranges a marriage with an appointed virgin your parents picked out for her dowry. She is of no erotic interest; she is a nonperson except as your baby-receptacle and income source. Siring sons is her husbandry.

Meanwhile, you monitor all the women’s menstrual cycles and the puberty of the young boys and girls in your slave pen so you can be sure to rape the right person on the most advantageous day, repeatedly shouting God’s name when you come.

VOMIT. Vomit. Vomit.

Every fundamentalist religion today is running on the fumes of sexual psychosis. They are huffing and huffing and huffing until they annihilate everything including themselves.

Thank you Susie Bright. From this year’s Gay Pride Parade. Thought this picture was appropriate.

I have no words. This is a horrible, immoral attack. There is no possible justification. The killers have no heart or soul or conscience.

Update: A lot of people are making the point that Beirut endured a terrible attack two days ago, and while it was reported on, they didn’t get the same out-pouring that France is getting now. It’s a valid point. I have ideas about why, but for now I want to add my love and sympathy to the people of Lebanon, and I’m sorry for being so late to express it.

World Trade Center One from my window, lit in solidarity with the people of France.

Ugh. I’m still swollen from dental surgery on Monday! I can’t believe I made it to choir practice the next night, but I was feeling better even though I looked terrible. I got a different antibiotic yesterday, and I look better. I think. I feel a little out of it and dizzy, but I read that this is among the side effects, and not any of the possible bad ones, so we shall see.

Finney and Bleeck kinda curled up together. I took this from across the room. I was too afraid that any kind of movement might spoil the miracle.

I noticed recently that Finney’s right front paw had collapsed, and it looks like he’s walking on … what seems like the equivalent of an elbow. I thought, ‘Jesus, am I the worse cat owner ever and I completely missed that he broke his leg or something??’ I googled it and it turns out this could be a symptom of diabetes, which Finney was diagnosed with last year. My vet confirmed this possibility, and if he doesn’t seem to be in pain and/or is limping it’s probably from the diabetes.

He doesn’t seem at all bothered by it, although his gait is a little lop-sided. PS: My floors needs sanding. And I love the bowl I got when Mobil moved to Virginia, with the Pegasus on it. I have two. I kick myself every once in a while for not grabbing more.

I’m home recovering from dental surgery, so UGH. I was going to go to choir practice anyway, because I need it, but my face is swollen and vanity may win out over my need to sing. I’m even embarrassed to go out and pick up the prescription I need!

A pretty sparkly dress in the window in Cynthia Rowley’s. This is not a dress I wish to possess, I don’t think it would look good on me, but it would look gorgeous on someone else. Can’t you see this at a holiday party?