In Between the Lines Pack More Lines

Whenever S.B. and I travel anywhere, the first thing we do is scout out where we're going to eat. I’m not talking the local Olive Garden or Applebee’s, either. Those we can get at home when we’re in a rush, don’t feel like sushi, or have had enough carne adovada burritos that month to feed a small South American putsch. I’m talking a city, town, or region’s best locally owned and operated restaurants. We want to know where the fish are jumping and the is duck poaching. Whose got the fluffiest pancakes, the juiciest burger, the coldest martinis, and the best bar chatter. High brow or low brow, it doesn’t matter – we just want to see what the locals got in ‘em.

As a result, we've managed to find if not fabulous then at least highly interesting food in places as out of the way as Silver City, New Mexico, Spearfish, South Dakota, Columbia, Missouri, Just Off The Interstate South Louisiana, and Where the Fuck Are We Montana.

But traveling for work is another matter. Usually, mealtimes are all about expediency, which means I end up assaulting my arteries with a crap hotel buffet at breakfast, a crap chain restaurant burger at lunch, and a crap chain restaurant pasta at dinner. Not even the one glass of teeth-staining Merlot I allow myself to wash it all down with can kill the pain. Although, the cheese cake usually does. Sigh. It’s all so cheap and dirty.

Anyway, imagine my joy when on my second day last week, I spotted next door to the client’s plant a little eatery that looked for all the world like something locally owned and operated. Okay, so the name – Helga’s House of Sausage – should have clued me into something essential about the eating habits of those who live and work in the belly of our nation’s industrial parks. But. It didn’t.

Come 12:00 noon and left to my own devices, I headed on over to Helga’s. My next clue that I was unlikely to find anything edible that wouldn’t immediately send my cholesterol frolicking out of control in flip flops and a gypsy skirt? That came courtesy of the hostess, a woman of indeterminate Scandinavian genetics who looked like once upon a time around the year of the Munich Olympics she’d been capable of bench-pressing a cruise ship. I’m not sure even AB could have taken her. Anyway, she blasted me with an ice queen stare and then barked a question no restaurant hostess in a major American city has asked since Jesus roamed the earth: “Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Uh, non-smoking?”

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand. “Table for one?”

“Yes, it’s just me.”

Instead of another barked question, a heavy sigh. As if I were not so much a customer, as yet another burden in her already heavily weighed-down day. As punishment, she ushered me off to a corner table in the back. At least I was out of range of the cigarette smoke.

As for the menu. Well. Although it is one of my firmest held culinary beliefs that I didn’t stagger my way up the food chain in these here high heels to spend my life eating only vegetables, neither do I find it a particularly good sign in a restaurant that the ENTIRE menu is dominated by meat. All of it served in exactly the same way: breaded, fried, gravy slathered, and accompanied by two slices of limp Wonder Bread and a side of iceberg lettuce between which a few quarters of anemic tomatoes are allowed to peak for one brief moment before being suffocated by an entire bottle of Ranch Dressing.

When my waitress finally managed to take my own order, such was her disdain you would have thought I'd asked for roast infant with a side of sauted toddler instead of a Club Sandwich, hold the mayo.

But one good thing did come out of the meal. I had an epiphany. One regarding our country's crisis of health. I don't think the problem lies with lack of gub'ment initiative. Nor with the insurance companies. Or even the drug lords. I think the problem lies with our great big mouths.

Plotting

Although I truly, truly believe that there isn't a government in existence anywhere in this entire universe that can actually do anyone any ding dang good in any way and for any reason whatsoever, and that I can count on three fingers, one-two-three, the only justifiable functions of government in our lives at all, I am nonetheless, in between actual bouts of work, day dreaming about what, exactly, I'd do if I were in fact elected president of these here United States.

Outlaw run on sentences for one.

I know. Sorry.

But other than that, what would I do? Who would be my running mate(s)? Who would sit in my cabinet and advise me on when to go to war and when to say home and lunch it out? Who would furtively fill me in at the last minute on the rebel goings-on in Yetanotherbananarepublicstan or the state of trade affairs with some rising Pacific Rim nation because I'm way too ding dang tired from having partied hearty with Denmark's entire diplomatic corps the night before?

I am giving it serious thought.

It Belongs to Moi. Give it Back.

When They Kick Out Your Front Door, How You Gonna Come?

In a recent post, The Troll said:

The United State's Supreme Court is poised to make their most important ruling on Second Amendment issues in several decades. The basic issue is whether the Second Amendment will be considered an individual right or a collective right granted to the States to maintain militias.

Huh. Well. I for one find it incredibly difficult to believe that the framers of our government would have placed the right to bear arms second only to the right to religion, free speech, a free press, peaceable assembly, and petition of the government for a redress of grievances if they didn't in fact believe it an individual right.

But some of us don't think so. Some of us think guns are dangerous. Some of us think only those who know "best" should control them. Because if they don't, then our society will quickly devolve into a bunch of mullet-headed morons gleefully toting guns into every shopping mall, school yard, and barroom.

Well, let me assure you: Those of us who believe the Second Amendment is indeed about the right to bear arms as an individual also believe it is NOT a sanction of vigilantism.

No, really. I, and millions of gun owners just like myself, are perfectly happy to concede to our local, state, and federal government their right to establish a police force, system of courts, and military to ensure our safety from the criminal actions of both our fellow citizens and from attack and invasion from foreign entities. It is one of the very few justifiable reasons, IMHO, for the existence of government, and I will gladly pay my taxes to support this system.

The Second Amendment is not about that kind of defense.

What the Second Amendment is about, is the right of each of us as individual citizens to protect ourselves against abuse by the government itself. That militia it talks about? That's you and Moi. Each and every one of us is a member of this militia because we the people are ultimately the only ones who can guarantee our freedoms. Therefore I believe it is the duty of each and every adult in this country to own a firearm as a symbolic warning to governments with tyranny on their minds: YOU cannot forcefully and without justification take away my right to my life, my liberty, and my pursuit of happiness.

It's Interesting When People Die

Is it just Moi, or are you also sick to death of the whole cottage industry that's grown up around stories of despair? Every time some nut job packing a grudge and a Glock decides to let loose at a high school or college campus, our media grab hold of the story and shake it loose for everything it's worth. The thing's already bleeding and lying on the floor. But damn, if they don't lie down on it and beat it some more.

What I hate most are the questions:

Matt Lauer: Can you tell us, why did this happen? (Gee, how are we to ever really know? Shit just happens?)

Katie Couric: How did you feel when the gunman stormed the classroom (Scared shitless?)

Dan Rather: Officer, can you tell me how you felt when you arrived on the scene? (Scared shitless?)

One of a dozen similarly glossified CNN reporters: Doctor, can you tell me the situation in the emergency room when they started bringing in the victims? (Chaotic?)

Nancy Grace: Tell me, Mr. Psychiatrist, what can victims expect to experience during the first couple weeks after suffering a trauma like this? (Hours of meetings with lawyers to sue for bazillions?)

And then there are the photos. Of wailing mouths and mothers clutching and fathers accusing. Of blood stained hands and shrouded gurneys. Of people in charge with guilt in their eyes assuring us that they will do something, anything, to guarantee the world that this will never happen again.

Well guess what? There's no way anyone can guarantee that. We can't legislate it away. We can't psychoanalyze it all okay. What we should do is have the utmost respect for the victims and not turn their terrible tragedy into a circus.

Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post #4 Bazillion

I have been wanting to do an "I hate PETA" post for like a bazillion years now, but this one really does all my work for me. If you give money to any animal cause, please, please, please send it to an animal WELFARE group and not, gag, one that positions itself as animal RIGHTS.

Click here for the difference (my, I'm bossy today).

And then here as to why PETA needs a brand new bag.

STUPOR TUESDAY

How utterly ironic that a woman who supports gun control has absolutely no problem shoving the barrel of a great big fat one in the smalls of our backs to force us to do something against our will.

Pop a Fresca, grab a bag of Cheetos, and see if you can stomach all eight minutes of this horseshit. Or, scroll over to time stamp 4:23, where she says it clear as day.



If you're really ADD, basically:

Democrat Hillary Rodham Clinton said Sunday she might be willing to garnish the wages of workers who refuse to buy health insurance to achieve coverage for all Americans.

The New York senator has criticized presidential rival Barack Obama for pushing a health plan that would not require universal coverage. Clinton has not always specified the enforcement measures she would embrace, but when pressed on ABC's "This Week," she said: "I think there are a number of mechanisms" that are possible, including "going after people's wages, automatic enrollment."

Bitch even has the balls to say that the means, no matter how uncomfortable, forceful, or downright unethical, are not as important as achieving and end - one unproven to do any ding dang good at that. Hmmm . . . can you think of any other regimes that regularly use the ol' End Justifies the Means argument?

Smells like Brave New World to Moi.

And I simply do NOT have an outfit for that.

Smells Like Vacation To Moi

Every year out here in the Rocky Mountain Southwest, winter storms blow in from the Pacific, gathering force as they move along across California and Arizona with the result being that, by the time they reach Colorado and New Mexico, more than a few hapless outdoor adventurers manage to lose themselves among all the sound and fury.

Far from being tragic in IMHO (can you say, thin the herd?), these incidents instead inspire mucho chuckling and head shaking from the denizens of this here household. ‘Cause look, Party People, in this day and age of insta Internet access, anyone who ventures out into the wilderness without first checking the forecast on weather.com? Well, Room For Rent simply must be tattooed across their foreheads at the first available opportunity. Just so those of us who encounter these dimwits have sufficient notice to give them wide berth.

Of course, the press just lives for these kinds of stories. Take this recent incident in which a six-person, two-family team of merry funsters got lost snowmobiling in the mountains north of Chama, New Mexico this past Friday. Everyone was in a panic for days.

But yesterday morning, the news broke: Thank gah and glory be. The two families have been found! enthused a shiny-eyed CNN reporter, bundled like an overgrown papoose in her $5 bazillion North Face puffer parka. They put all their survival skills to the test and made it through!

Uh-huh.

Which prompts Moi to ask this Zen-like question: If, in getting lost in a blizzard, you find your way to an abandoned cabin, break in, discover a propane grill, blankets, food, and thus proceed to whittle away the hours cheerfully playing Pictionary and stuffing your face with popcorn until one of you eventually hoists himself out of the cushy cabin sofa to climb the hill at the back of the property to suss out a cell phone signal and call for help, well, now, can you honestly say you survived anything?

I think not.

'Tis Better to Give than to . . . Get Knocked Up?

(Goodness. What a morning. There I was, putting the finishing touches on Moi’s Christmas post, when the Today Show bombarded the airwaves with yet another shock and awe pronouncement: Britney Spear’s sixteen-year-old-sister, Jamie Lynn, has managed to get herself knocked up. Sweet Jeebus in Heaven, these girls are old enough to drop the equivalent of Peru’s GNP on Bottega Veneta bags and oversized Dolce and Gabbana eye wear, but they don’t know from birth control?

It’s taking a great amount of will for Moi to refrain from completely revamping this morning’s post. But because we’re in the middle of Advent here, Party People, a holy, holy time, I will place my commentary on said incident reluctantly on the back burner and save it for a later date [sloppy ass 'ho.])

* * *

The closer I get to the holidays, the more I start thinking about stress. The stress of extra work. Or not enough work because everyone has decided to adopt a cavalier attitude about deadlines (what, suddenly, we’re all European?). The stress of trying, when you have a fractured and far-flung family, to fit in days with the in-laws and days with the parents and days with the niece and days with friends.

Then there’s the stress that builds around gift giving. I know people who find this custom so meaningless, so mired in useless commercial excess, they don’t even stick around for the holidays but instead steal themselves away to some tropical beach or small overseas town where Christmas is more about praising Baby Jesus and stuffing one's face, and not so much about desperate, last minute purchases.

But you can’t escape Christmas. It’s like death and taxes, only sparklier and with more booze.

So I try hard, real hard, to turn the frown upside down and to view the holiday as a time of giving and gratefulness. As a time to honor one’s family, even crazy uncle Charlie with the grubby fingers and the weird politics. To call a long lost friend, even though the last time you spoke, they made fun of your shoes. To spend an afternoon – stone cold sober, mind you – letting a child run wild through Toys ‘R’ Us even if it ultimately means they choose one of those abhorrent Hannah Montana dolls over your suggested gift of an ant farm. And I try to spend even more time in the great outdoors, not just because exercise melts stress, but also to wonder all over again at the magic of creation that constructed itself just fine without concrete and glass. And to marvel at the concrete and glass, too, because they're also beautiful and also part of our world.

I also refuse to pass judgment on any gift I receive. Whether given out of obligation or irony or love, I will honor the fact that someone took the time to think of me, dip into their pocketbooks, and come up with something they think I’ll enjoy. Even if it’s a plastic Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer who poops root beer flavored jellybeans. Even if, for some bizarre reason, something about Moi says Birkenstock rather than Blahnik.

And you know what else I won’t do? I won’t re-gift. Now that's a crass practice, right there. It’s one thing to say, “Hey, I got this laser-powered-toe-nail-clipper-blender-drink-maker-nylon-life-preserver-
sweater last year and you know, I just can’t use it. Would you like it?” And of course, it’s perfectly okay to just give the thing away to a local thrift shop in the hopes that it will become some else’s love at first sight. At a mere $1.99.

But it’s another thing entirely to package the thing up, re-wrap in brightly colored paper, stick a big fat red bow on it and pass it off to someone as something you picked out all by your lonesome. Talk about sin, Party People.

Don’t do it.

There is No Other Pill to Take?

Because I simply refuse to swallow the same ol' one that makes me ill.

For instance:

Same pill, different Armani suit. The woman is beholden, beholden, beholden.


Same pill, only meaner. I don't care that the man is a lapsed Catholic and cheats on his wife. I care that he's a jack-booted fascist pinhead who delights in dreaming up ever more clever ways to whip us into blind obedience.



Kinda the same pill, only much, much cuter. But we all know what happens when we elect cute guys to office, right? They're either assassinated or their names are forever stained by naughty sexual misconductivities. Or both. Barak, honey, go save the world some other way. But stay cute, 'kay?

Gah, then there's THIS guy:

Forget the fact that he's a moron, er, Mormon. I simply refuse to vote for anyone who spends more time on his hair than I do.

But, wait . . . what's this?


Huh. What do you know? Okay, give Moi a glass of Pinot to go with that pill and yeah, I'll swallow it.

Kiss Kiss, You're Dead

Remember when you were a kid and you were afraid to go to sleep at night because you were sure, just sure, that within that cavernous space under your bed lurked a hideous monster lusting to make you a tasty mid evening treat just as soon as you escaped to sleepy-bye land? Or that those creaky noises you heard in the hallway outside your bedroom were the spectral footsteps of long-dead former denizens biding their time until they could suck the life out of your quivering pajama-clad body?

Then you grew up. And realized that there was nothing lurking under your bed except perhaps some dust balls and a few misplaced Barbies or G.I. Joes and that those footsteps outside your room were simply the noises of a house settling as the night air cooled. You came to realize all that because your rational faculties were developing. In other words, you were coming out of the Dark Ages that is childhood and into the Enlightenment of adulthood.

Funny thing, though, many adults still hold onto their myths and their hysterias as tightly and closed mindedly as they did when they were children. And our media, government, and so-called consumer advocate groups just love to feed that hysteria. The result being that behind every dark skinned fellow airplane passenger there lurks a bomb-toting terrorist, behind every block headed-dog, a child chomping beast, etc., etc., into infinity and beyond.

This is the latest frenzy:

For years, an organization called the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics has made it their job to ferret out the chemical boogie men lurking within our lotions, eyeliners, and lipsticks. Their latest findings? Unsafe amounts of lead in our lipsticks. Not all of them, mind you, just 33. They don't know about the rest because you know what? They admit they simply cannot test them all.

So how safe is unsafe? Well, the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics' report uses as their baseline, and I shit you not, the amount of lead found in candy. That's because in order to keep the kiddies (and junkies like Moi) safe, the FDA has placed an allowable limit of lead in candy at .01 ppm. More than half (61 percent) of these 33 lipsticks tested contained detectable levels of lead, with levels ranging from 0.03 to 0.65 parts per million.

But then the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics goes on to state that in their professional opinion, NO AMOUNT of lead in any quantity is safe. So, uh, that would mean NO AMOUNT of candy is safe either, right? The report doesn't touch that with a ten foot pole.

Reading all this led Moi to ask the following:

1. The report's assumption of danger relies on the assumption that women ingest lipstick like it were candy. Which simply isn't true. I mean, yuck! I'm willing to bet that your average child is exposed to more lead during this upcoming holiday than I'm ever likely to be exposed to via my lipstick, despite a lifelong, die hard devotion to its use. And, again, no one's suggesting we reformulate candy . . .

2. Further, the report's assumption of danger relies on the assumption that lead molecules are small enough to penetrate the layers of our skin with regularity. Which simply isn't true. Otherwise, we'd all be long dead and gone from the way higher amounts of lead we're exposed to on a daily basis when we touch a myriad other lead-laden substances.

3. It would seem to me (Pirate?) that we're exposed to more lead by working in our offices and sleeping in our homes, hell, even walking outside or drinking municipal tap water. So wouldn't it behoove us to regularly test our paint, soil, and drinking water? Oh, yeah, we DO.

4. Why didn't the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics do a really real scientific study? I.e. take blood samples from x number of women who have regularly worn lipstick for, say, the past ten years and blood samples from the same x number of those who have not? Then test both groups' blood for lead, and, voila, compare the differences? Perhaps it's because such a test most likely wouldn't show a statistically significant difference between the two groups.

Bottom line question? Why is a consumer advocacy group pedaling misinformation? Is it deliberate? Or is it simply bad science?

The clue lies within their very own Web site:

Personal care products like shampoo, conditioner, after shave, lotion and makeup are not regulated by the FDA or any other government agency. It is perfectly legal and very common for companies to use ingredients that are known or suspected to be carcinogens, mutagens or reproductive toxins in the their products. (Not true. the FDA does not regulate what a cosmetic company can claim about their product. But they do set limits as to what is safe to put in them. In fact, there is a very effective sunscreen that has been used in Europe for years that the FDA has yet to approve for use here in this country.)

We are asking cosmetics and personal care products companies to sign the Compact for Safe Cosmetics (also known as the Compact for the Global Production of Safer Health and Beauty Products), a pledge to remove toxic chemicals and replace them with safer alternatives in every market they serve. (What are these alternatives? By whom are they manufactured? The site doesn't specify. And if you're thinking, no, not more chemicals, the advocacy groups wants us to use natural products, well, natural doesn't necessarily mean safe. Poison ivy is natural, but I don't want it in my moisturizer. And safer according to whom? The FDA? Again, the site doesn't specify.)

Ah, here's the clincher: The Campaign works with endorsing organizations and individuals so that together we can ramp up the pressure on companies that have not signed the Compact and continue to sell us toxic products, including Estee Lauder, L’Oreal, Avon and many others. Our founding organizations also work closely with other allies to reform the chemical policies that allow for toxic ingredients in consumer products in the first place.

Sigh. It seems that behind every motive, and no matter which side of the Party Line it falls, lies one thing and one thing only: $$$.

Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post

This is one of those what I like to call LAEFABP posts: In other words, I'm trying my durndest to keep my content fresh, but sometimes, hell, you know. I just don't have it in me to comment on the train wreck that is Britney Spears' life or Posh Spice's welded-on canteloup boob job or the fact that more children are killed each day by relatives than they are in a whole year by dogs.

Hence, what I like to call my Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post, posts. In which I make instead half-hearted attempts to convince you that your life will be as devoid of light and meaning as a raging black hole if you don't watch, read, or listen to what I tell you.

Ergo:

DOWNLOAD THIS:
"This Wreckage" – Gary Numan










With his grinding moody Moogs and lost-in-psychic-space vocals deadpanning bargain basement existential clichés like And what if God’s dead/we must have done something wrong/This dark façade ends/We’re independent from someone, Numan was a grunge/goth/industrial guilty pleasure way before anyone else (you listening, Trent Reznor?).



READ THIS:
Geronimo: His Own Story: The Autobiography of a Great Patriot Warrior by Geronimo, S. M. Barrett, and Frederick W. Turner

When you're down and feeling blue, just ask yourself: What would Geronimo do?

Bad ass mother fucker (I just put that in here to see if the Censor Police would come after me, too.)








WATCH THIS:

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to feel right.

Yo Ye Pharoahs, Let us Walk Through this Barren Desert, in Search of Truth and Some Pointy Boots

I'm not going to pussyfoot around here. This fall's supposedly fabulous footwear fashion? Uh, not so much. Which has made me stomp my feet in indignation at the butt ass ugliness of it all. And swear off all purchases in favor of a single, trusty dusty pair of multi-purpose boots that go with everything.


And la, la, la, la, la myself until spring. 'Cause NO amount of sex or candy could persuade me to subject my feet to any of these Fall 2007 "trends."

Butt Ugly Fall Trend #1: Dressing Like A Dude

This according to Fashion Windows: Yes, the powerful woman is back, only this time we don’t have to prove it with shoulder pads. This season a huge trend is the powerful woman, weather [sic] it be biker style or menswear inspired [yikes!] the message is the same. We are woman and we are strong!

Spare Moi.















Nor should I have to feel like a target for Jack the Ripper.
Butt Ugly Fall Trend #2: Brocaded Shoes

Nor like Hell is for Children or Love is a Battlefield.
Butt Ugly Fall Trend #3: The Booties That Just Won't Die

Nor do I want to wear anything named after a beast of burden.
Butt Ugly Fall Trend #4: Mules






























Mules are a close second to booties for the Cockroaches of the Shoe World award.



Finally, look, just look at what they've done to my beloved peep toe pump!

Butt Ugly Fall Trend #5: Camouflage

She Needs a New Toy to Keep Her Head Expanding

According to recent news reports Angelina Jolie (shown here greatly improving the plight of yet another underprivileged child by gifting her a matching mother/daughter Valentino handbag) is severely depressed by her inability to change things for the better in the Third World.

I know, huh? We all had such high hopes for her, believing she was the answer to ending world hunger, human rights violations, and child slavery, just by wishing it so.

So I guess I understand the shopping therapy tactic.

But for handbags, Party People.

Not for children.

Revenge of the Nerds

I don't think there's a single one of us who at some point during our childhoods didn't feel bullied or ostracized or inadequate. It's the way of the world and while at times unfortunate, a necessary element I believe in our journey towards adulthood.

For those experiences are not supposed to teach us to lay down and die. They're supposed to teach us stick up for ourselves, figuratively as much as literally, so that we grow up to become people of strength and integrity and compassion. Okay, so some of us grow up to become whiny grump asses, serial killers, and presidents of the United States, but you get my general point.

Like diamonds and steel, those things forged under pressure and fire can become our strongest, most brilliant elements.

Remove the fire and what do you get?

You get Colorado. With my sincerest apologies to Stepherz (who I know had no hand in this), how in the holy heck can this former bastion of the untamed west be on the one hand so breathtakingly wild and on the other so downright lame?

What's next? Banning grades? Outlawing extracurricular sports?

Used to be, you were a nerd, you got revenge by growing up to do something spectacular with your life. Now, you grow up demanding lawyers, guns, and money to get you outta this.

Out of the Mouths of Southern Babes

S.B. has a couple of long-time good friends with whom he's kept contact since his early twenties. They live in South Louisiana and through the course of my and S.B.'s relationship, I've become friendly with the wife half of the couple. I like her husband, too, but it's with her that I have the kind of 2-3 hour bi-monthly phone fests that have you waking up the next day with aching ab muscles because you laughed so hard.

In fact, I'm willing to bet this gal is one of the funniest people on the planet. Here are some for instances:

She goes to Scotland on vacation and I request she send post cards, lots of post cards. She agrees. I wait in anticipation of at least a couple photos of crumbling castles under brooding skies and lush, endless rolling green hills.

Instead, I get this:







Also come to find out last night during our phone call that while there she gave Haggis a try – twice ("Everyone kept assuring me it was better at this other place, and I guess they were right. It was less disgustin'.").

She also got thrown out of two bars, excuse me, pubs, for promoting public indecency. Apparently, she had brought with her a set of pornographic playing cards that she and her other traveling companions amiably whipped out one night in a drunken but well-meaning attempt to further improve Scottish/American relations. And promptly got shown the door.

Her response? "Hell, you'd think if anyone could appreciate some good photos of people butt-fucking it would be the Scots."

And not only is this gal hilarious, she's also extremely smart, with loads of common sense. Which she's gamely earned through plenty of life experiences, including a hell-raising youth, followed by an adulthood spent raising two children and keeping a twenty-plus year marriage not only alive but also kicking. So you bring up anything pop cultural or political and you can bet her cut to the chase is deeper than most.

Which is why I wish she could be in Reno in about 65 minutes to whisper drolly in George Bush's ear: "Where in the hell did we get this idea that any of us deserve anything. Nah, nah, we have to earn it."

The Summertime of their Lives?

Karl Rove and Al Gonzales
Sittin' in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First comes love
Then comes matrimony
Then comes retirement
In a South American country.

I don't know about you all, but I'm having a Miss Teen South Carolina moment. Just where in the friggin' hell is Paraguay anyway?

R.I.P. United States Constitution

Which is the greatest danger facing the United States today?

A. The threat of an outside terrorist attack
B. The threat of an internal terrorist attack

If you said A., well, it must be nice, living down there with your head in all that sand.

If you said B., you hit the nail on the head. Because we don't need to worry 'bout no yippy skippy jihadists undermining our way of life. Dubya is doing a mighty fine job of it all by himself. His recent Executive Order: Blocking Property of Certain Persons Who Threaten Stabilization Efforts in Iraq can only be interpreted, Party People, as no less than an all out attack against the United States Constitution, specifically the Fifth Amendment. If you don't know what I'm talking about in either case, go on, Google 'em. I'll wait.

. . .


. . .


. . .

Done?

Okay, now for a short, sharp history lesson, courtesy Moi:

The absolute stunning beauty of the United States Constitution, the reason why it is without precedent in the entire history of politics, is that it was NOT created to protect the government from the whims of the people; it was created to protect We the People FROM the whims – often dangerous – of the government. How awesome is that?

But with the above decree, Dubya is circumventing the Constitution and everything it stands for and protects us against. What he is saying is this: "Trust ME not your country's laws."

You know what you call a government leader that requires total faith in their irrefutable knowledge and absolute power? A tyrant.

The Bubble-Headed Bleached Blonde Comes on at Five

Oops, sorry. I meant bobble-headed.


Calling all my Pals Across the Pond: Can you take her back now? We're done.

The Shoes I Love to Hate (For Meghan)

Yes, Meghan, I share your pain.

I hate Crocs so much, I won't even link to their ugly ass Web site, which features even more of their ugly ass shoes.

I'm so sorry. Your husband is a cutie and looks like he knows what he's doing fashion-wise in every other instance.

Tell him, "Hon, these are the ugliest ass shoes in the entire known universe. How could your feet NOT sweat like a passel of piglets on the D Train to the Bronx in mid July wearing these things? And do you know who else wears them?"




She's rumored to have one pair in every color.

Enough said.