The Duct Tape Lobby
I hesitate to even write anything about the recent Code Orange matter. Because the temptation is of course to say something somewhat clever, or spin what other like-minded folk (or poke holes in the statements of otherwise-minded folk) have already said in a slightly more yuk-o-rific fashion. And of course the danger in doing this is karmic to the nth degree. Not just on the restating thing. But on the horrible, nearly unthinkable chance that one might make light of the whole situation, and then, you know... something awful happens.
But we live here, in the now, so I'll offer the following.
I just can't believe that an informant would lie to our government. I mean, have we not provided these people wonderful housing down in Guantanamo for more than a year? What would motivate anyone to say something that was not true to, you know, an interrogator? It just goes to show you: you can't trust these terrorists.
Can they puhleeez borrow the keys to the car? I don't think so...
For the record, I don't think this was an elaborate tactic orchestrated by the Administration. I do believe, however, that the Administration has and will milk these kinds of situations to further their Agenda.
It does make one wonder, though. Doesn't it?
And, as I've mentioned elsewhere, the Duct Tape Lobby is very, very powerful. Located in Texas, if I recall correctly.
What else is new? I'm humidfying the crap out of my house. I got two new humidifiers, these "germ-free" kinds, with all of these filtery bits and warm air blowifiers and UV light-type thingies. I'm so enthused and excited by them and the muggy air they doth blow that I'm going to head out in a little while and buy two more. I want it so foggy in here that one could float on a mattress of mist. I want prune hands. I do. It's true.
Here's one of the new muggifiers at work.
I have this humidifier I bought a few years back. I'd been staying in this condo at a ski resort and the forced heat was turning me into oven-baked pizza. Over the last couple of months I've started to doubt its effectiveness. It didn't seem to be getting the job done (based on conclusions derived from two impartial digital hygrometers; see, I'm not crazy, I'm just a freak). And the motor in the thing was making the most horrendous whir/clank. It was like grey noise with magenta mixed in. Unpleasant. So I got these new humidifiers, and they're so upscale. They're made in Canada. If anyone knows how to moisturize the innards of crusty, nearly pinched-off noseholes, it's the bloody Canadians, I say. I'm in your air-blowing hands, O Canada. Do not fail me, you mounted, Molson-swilling, back-bacon chewing, Celine Dion-loving, pretend-French, America Junior.
[A recent check reveals that the relative humidity has gone up from 36% to 41% in the last three hours. This rocks.]
Back to politics. Why not?
I keep swearing I'll stop the madness, but a few nights back I was watching Larry King Live. Again. Yeah, sorry.
So Larry had Clinton on. Say what you want about old Bill, but wouldn't you rather be hearing about Monica, stains and cigars these days? I would.
What struck me about the interview was this: Clinton is smart. Sure, he was prepared. He probably had a lot of responses canned. But he pulled it off. He was having a conversation about things like human genome research, the failure of the Peace Accord (not to be confused with the new Honda), the Columbia disaster and takeoff/re-entry dangers, the AIDS epidemic in Africa in which he has taken an interest and educational role. And lots of other stuff. And he was just talking. Okay, once he slipped and said "square feet" when he meant "vertical feet." But my point is: the man was talking, intelligently, about whatever happened to come up. There was no teleprompter.
So yes, what I'm getting at, is that I can't imagine GWB being able to get through the same hour-long spot. Note that I don't even use the word "conversation" here, because I think it would be beyond our current Commander. I don't think he could do it without a prepared speech, written by handlers, of course. I don't think he could do it without relying on canned rhetoric. This makes me sad.
I sincerely hope, for all of us, Canada included, that this Administration does not lead us into the mouth of irrecoverable madness, evil and ruin. Yes, I realize that throughout history we've done a great many things that have been unfair, unjust, and just plain wrong. But these folks in office... they seem to be a lot more transparent about it. It makes me very, very upset when we have a President who gets up in front of his country and the world, gives a tight-lipped smile and brags about "dealing" with wrongdoers. Even if they might have deserved the dealing with. I'm not happy being led by inarticulate greedheads who seem intent on making the world an enemy, or else.
Yes, these are different times, post-9/11. I want safety and justice just like you do.
These are different times. And then again, they're not.
And look, I know I'm like, the four billionth person to bring it up, but what the hell is it with that dumbass smirk?
Have you ever seen someone more clearly trying to mask incompetence in your life? And now I'm supposed to relax. With this guy at the helm. Swell. Let me get right on that.
Please vote Bush out of office in 2004. Thank you for your time.
The following advertising- and blurb-related factoids are brought to you courtesy of the March 6, 2003 issue of Rolling Stone, No. 917:
That gets you to pg. 9. After that, you're on your own.
There's this college kid downstairs. He has a kind face. He has spikey, colored reddish/blondish (fake) hair. Like not stupid post-post-post-punk post-millenium stick-up hair, like the boys in Sum 41. But that sort of "unkempt but very styled" hair.
Yes, I'm jealous of his hair.
He drives this black Jeep. It has a Badtz Maru sticker on it. For reasons known only to a very few, I think this is cool.
This spikey-haired college kid used to not be around much. I don't know where he was staying. Probably at a spikey-haired college girl's dorm room (I am assuming orientation, perhaps too quickly). But over the last couple of months, he's around all the time. And you know what he does about 90% of that time? He plays his freakin' chunka-tunka-plunka crap-o twanger, with a pick, at all hours of the day and night.
I cannot... freakin'... take it.
- Have you seen the new Polo Jeans ad? With the guy who looks like Evan from "Joe Millionaire?" And the girl next to the guy who looks like Evan from "Joe Millionaire" who also looks a bit like Evan from "Joe Millionaire," with the exception that her breasts appear to be marginally larger. Than Evan's, or the guy who looks like Evan['s].
- Were you aware that "Coca-Cola," the Dynamic Ribbon and the Contour Bottle are registered trademarks of The Coca-Cola Company? I understand registering the shapes of these things, but naming the shapes such immensely pompous names seems really silly to me.
- Phil Spector evidently said, "I would say I'm probably relatively insane." Good for you, Phil. Test that water and call the temperature.
For hours and hours and hours. It's marginally worse than when the folks upstairs had a ping-pong table in their living room and they invited all the kids in the neighborhood over to play Combat Ping-Pong, which involved thunderous dive-bombing crashlandings ad infinitum, morning, noon and night. So that's saying something, I think.
Somebody help me.
A few nights ago I came home and the stairwell was like a goddam auditorium. And the Spiked One had a girl in his apartment and they were singing. I came upstairs and turned on The Clash, at about 50% volume, for two hours. When the discs completed (The Clash Singles and London Calling), the girl was gone, apparently, but the Spiked One hadn't quit.
The night before I got up at 3am to drive to New Hampshire to plod some snow and a little bit of ice, the Spiked One changa-chunka-plucka'd the same changes over and over and over until 12:07am. He had started around 8pm. After an hour of torture and Benadryl dosing to try to get some sleep before an 11-hour drive started at 4am, I found myself on top of the bed, milliseconds from jumping off, diving board style, onto the floor, where, after my grand and profound cratering I planned to pound the floor with wanton and reckless abandon. And then he stopped. I do not know why. I managed to get 45 minutes of sleep before having to get up.
Yes, I could go downstairs and ask him to try to keep it down. But... I have seven guitars, and I play them a lot. It puts me in a bit of a pickle. And what I've been doing lately is just playing my CD (due out in weeks, baby) on the stereo over and over, which saves me the trouble of actually having to play anything. And is probably driving all of the neighbors completely insane. But still, I cannot imagine that I'm as loud as this kid downstairs. I have never heard a guitar cut like the Spiked One's. I'm really just tempted to go downstairs and see what it's made of. It has to be mahogany back and sides. Has to be.
The Spiked One went out an hour or so ago. There is a Major Storm forecast. Perhaps he has sought out higher ground. One can only hope.
Anyway. So I've been getting fanmail. That will probably stop after this, but I wanted to say thanks anyway. Nice of you.
I believe this is the most offensive I've been in some time. I hope you won't hold it against me. Especially you, Canada. Please forgive me, you bark-and-beetle-eating Bob and Dougs.
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