Pat Dollard

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5:35 A.M.

5:40 A.M.

The Eastern border of Pakistan:

Hindus. Hateful of Muslims.

The Eastern border of India:

11:09 A.M.

I was initially unable, and then concerned for security reasons, to begin the YA pre-sales last week. Final decision as to blast off today after lunch.

3:58 P.M.

Excerpted from a post by Paul Kengor:

Of all the lectures that I do around the country, none seem to rivet the audience as much as my discourse on the horrors of communism. In these lectures, which are usually connected to my books on Ronald Reagan, I do a 10-15 minute backgrounder on the crimes of communists-from their militant attacks on private property, on members of all religious faiths, and on basic civil liberties, to their total death toll of over 100 million bloodied, emaciated corpses in the 20th century.

As I do these presentations, the young people, especially on college campuses, are locked in, amazed at what they are hearing. I think they are especially struck that I always ground every fact and figure in reliable research and authorities — books published by Harvard University Press and Yale University Press, quotes from the likes of Mikhail Gorbachev and Vaclav Havel and Alexander Yakovlev, anti-Soviet appraisals from certain Cold War Democrats like Harry Truman and John F. Kennedy and even early liberals like Woodrow Wilson. I rarely use right-wing sources because I don’t want the professors of these students to be able to later shoot a single hole in my presentation — a potential tactic to undermine the overall thesis.

And speaking of those professors, that gets to my point here: As the young people in my audience are fully engaged, hands in the air with question after question — obviously hearing all of these things for the first time in their lives, from K-12 to college, as they are eager to inform me after my talk — the professors often stare at me with contempt. In one case, a British professor, who could not stop sighing, squirming, and rolling her eyes as I quoted the most heinous assessments of religion by Marx and Lenin, got up and stormed out of the room.

Read the whole damn thing

4:36 P.M.

There is a civil war in America. This, without a doubt, is one of the most violent photographs I’ve ever seen. It’s a shot of an attempted murder which is held in check only by fear of the law, and of a victim who is poised to slash the throat of her attacker, with great joy, malice and contempt, held in check only by the time it would take the attacker to produce a weapon.

There is an abundance of violent photography of the skirmishes and battles of The Second American Civil War which has been raging since the first rebel leader, Al Gore, launched it in an attempt to steal the U.S. Presidency. It’s hard sometimes to spot actual combat photography from this war, since it is yet to include conventional lethal weaponry, but a careful eye can spot it.

6:32 P.M.

All of the highest compliments I’ve ever received, give or take a few, were from Marines who’d been through combat in Iraq. Which is pretty much as it should be. Outside of family, who else’s words should mean more to me than a Marine who’s risked it all over there? I’ve been complimented by the most famous and beautiful women in the world. I’ve been complimented by the richest and most powerful men in the world.

I blew smoke in the face of just about the most powerful man in Hollywood, two weeks after his heart attack and emergency open heart surgery, for two hours straight, non-stop, essentially forcing it up his nostrils, pushing him over the edge of both his nerves and his capacity to remain free of the addiction that had just almost killed him. I did this because I didn’t like him, mostly because he had raped a young actress. He paid me lot of compliments that day, this very famous man, because he needed something from me. Before I left, he had finally accepted, and finished smoking, the fifth cigarette I’d offered. I did this to him in the living room of his own home. I left very satisfied that I’d gotten him back on the path to death. The compliments were worth everything they meant. And they were returned with everything they deserved.