"I just came up from that place down in the canyon..." Paulie snapped his fingers.

"Dunsmuir" I supplied.

"Dunsmuir, right. We stopped to get gasoline since I do not like the prices up here..." I shook my head sadly. Gas under four dollars a gallon was for sissies. "...and I noticed a bunch of people wearing gloves and overcoats sitting around a fire, warming themselves."

I nodded sympathetically. Homelessness was becoming a growing problem up in these parts. Then I frowned. It had to be eighty degrees out, which meant that in Dunsmuir, it was near 100. Paulie saw my sudden frown and nodded, gratified that he did not have to spell it out for me. "So I went over and asked them what they were doing. They explained that when it was cold, they would normally bundle up and sit around a fire in order to stay warm. So they figured that being the case, then if it was warm, it made sense to bundle up and sit around the fire in order to become cool."

Case in point: on the weekends, I often mow the lawn in the early evening. The mountain air cools quickly as the sun goes down, making the chore comfortable, and of course, you want to water the lawn after mowing, and it just makes sense to do it in the evening, when the evaporation rate is much lower and the sun’s rays don’t burn the fragile short bottom grass.

Thanks for the hard pass. I can’t tell you how awed and impressed I am to join the most illustrious, respected, and honorable reporters in the world, The White House Press Corps. I only hope that I can join them in their mission of speaking Truth to Power, and reporting back to our real sovereigns, the People of the United States of America.

Of course, that’s not the only reason my TV has been on a lot lately. There’s a presidential election coming up. You may have heard about it between innings.

Dick Cheney is running for office as an optimist.

If the notion of the dour, cynical little class warrior being our little ray of sunshine strikes you as faintly absurd, consider the fact that this administration (which has bogged us down in a quagmire in Iraq, pissed away trillions of dollars in the national treasury in a giveaway to major corporations, and aroused rage and concern throughout America and the world) is describing itself as being happy, optimistic, and looking forward.

Pretty soon, we’ll have campaign spots of Putsch leading a national sing-along of "If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands." If nothing else, this will answer questions people may have as to whether the President can, in fact, sing and successfully clap his hands at the same time.

And I’ll definitely set my VCR for the one where Ashcroft is singing "I’m a Little Teapot."

She gave me a downward shoulder shrug of resignation. "I’m sorry, but I’m new here, and I don’t know how to turn the furnace down."

I glanced at the furnace. "Stop feeding it wood," I suggested.

"And then what?

In a lot of the old adventure flicks, especially those dealing with ships or the military, a popular theme was that of madmen or incompetents in positions of authority. At some point, the Captain Bligh moment would arrive. An example might go something like this.

The captain hauls the ship’s cabin boy up in front of the first mate. "Number one," the captain growls, "this worthless wastrel failed to shine my boots properly. Have him whipped to death."

There’s a slight pause, and the first mate stammers, "Sir, begging your pardon, but whipping the lad to death is probably a violation of ships’ code, and besides, he’s the only cabin boy we’ve got. Perhaps if we put him on bread and water for two years..."

Putsch was giving a campaign speech in Florida the other day, and the cameras caught him babbling happily away about how less jobs are more jobs and dead forests are healthy forests and bankruptcy is created wealth and all the other mindbenders that make up right wing philosophy. Almost directly behind him was Tyler Crotty, then aged 12, and Tyler, predictably, was bored out of his skull. Contrary to what the happy idiots on Fox like to claim, Putsch is no Churchill – he’s barely a Clement Atlee – and even if he was, most 12 year olds wouldn’t be real thrilled with sitting for three hours at a political function.

"Sam! How are you? It’s been a donkey’s age! How’s Libby and the boy?

"Libby’s fine. As for the boy, well, he’s not dead or in jail, so I guess that counts for something."

"I was. Northwest 15."

Paulie Five Fingers poked at the menu. "This fish and chips. Is it the fish and chips that you remember from your childhood?"

Hmm. Icelandic cod, genuine beer batter, dripping with lard, leaving deep puddles on the London Times used for wrapping, with the newsprint adding its own frisson to the taste of the fish. A cardiovascular feast of doom. The chips, each one a meal in itself, also fried in lard...

Since then, fruitloop military commanders have become something of a staple in movies. A recent example of same was the evil army general in "Storm Tracker", who steals a machine about the size of a bread basket from Luke Perry, and uses it to send hurricanes rampaging into places such as Moscow, and, somewhat incoherently, Los Angeles. The general, (Martin Sheen) gets his paws on the device and cackles to his staff, "At last, Gentlemen, we have a user-friendly weapon of mass destruction!" I was pretty sure that movie would be the end of Sheen’s career, but a few months later "The West Wing" came along. I’m not sure what became of Luke Perry.

It’s a strange time for journalism in America. The "mainstream" press continues to pretend that they are free and open because they don’t have to answer to government for what they write, but they are entirely the creatures of the privatized tyranny of the corporations. Some, like Fox and the Washington Times, don’t even try to pretend that they have no more freedom than a kept mistress.

The GOP wants to spare people that pain.

They want to spare the pain of people like Ken Lay, or the Waltons. Substantial people. People of means.

You just can’t beat our summers.

Right. It’s this sack. In mediaeval England, they called sacks pokes. Obviously, they knew that doing that would mess with the heads of 21st century Americans. They were French, what can I say?

OK, if I wasn’t on the western side of the great divide.

If I wasn’t over 100 miles inland.

If I wasn’t thirty-five hundred feet above sea level.

Then maybe I wouldn’t think it was so cool.

Of course, I live on a volcano. It could blow first. That wouldn’t be cool. Then I would miss out. As the pyroclastic flow engulfed me, stripping the meat from my bones and boiling my brain, my last thought would be, "Nuts. I wanted to see La Palma do its thing."

"Wow." I shook my head ruefully. "And none of the missing people ever turned up?"

I knew it was going to be a pretty off-the-wall day when, first thing this morning, I found myself nodding approvingly at something John Ashcroft did, and thinking that I would have done pretty much the same thing if I were in his shoes.

 For 9/11/02, Ashcroft took his silly color-coded threat assessment and moved it up to orange, which Ashcroftese for “Ohmigawd, there’s a calico cat in the back yard!”  It means everyone should look mildly alarmed and avoid the Statue of Liberty while police are encouraged to detain anyone with a swarthy complexion for questioning for a few years.  It for use only when there is a credible threat for a terrorist attack, or when Putsch drops below a 60% approval rating.

By a 5-4 decision back on August 30th, the Supreme Court ruled that because the expanded roster would be going into effect tomorrow, there would no longer be time to play out the rest of the season, and therefor the standings as of August 29th would be considered the final standings.

 The ruling was met by some objections from San Francisco Giants fans, who pointed out that their team was trailing in the wild card race by only two games, and that with 28 games scheduled, the results were too close to be considered final, and that the continuing count of games should continue.

 Associate Justice “Tony” Lasorda permitted the case to be reviewed by the Supreme Court, stating that to not do so would cause “irreparable harm” to the season of the Los Angeles Dodgers, who were then leading the Giants by two games. 

George is going on vacation, which means Wall Street can heave a sigh of relief. Their problems aren't over, not by a long shot, but every time George gives a speech about how he's going to solve the problems the market is having, the market drops like a butterfly in a flame thrower.

It's got to be embarrassing, for those Republicans capable of embarrassment. Here they are, they are supposed to be the party that is friendly to big business and capitalism, and very supportive. Remember all the self-congratulatory caws from the White House about how now we had a guy in charge who was a CEO (really clawed his way up the corporate ladder to get there, you understand) and understood the needs of businessmen. "The adults have returned to Washington" was the refrain.

Now, Wall Street looks at George and says, "He's one of us. We are SO screwed..."

In one of the most dramatic and compelling moments in the history of the United States, the occupant of the White House stood up and made a ringing declaration against corporate crime, and promised to put an end to it before Americans lost faith in the system that made him president of the United States.

For those of us who were lucky enough to be on hand for this historic occasion (and, strictly speaking, I wasn't one of them, but it's easy enough to imagine being there), the response of the media gathered was instructive.

One reporter compared the performance to the greatest movie of all time, saying in admiring tones, "Shocked! I'm shocked, I tell you, to discover there is illegal gambling in this establishment!"

4/17/02

(Originally written during the 2000 primaries)

A noise at the door of my office caused me to glance up from my computer, where a really exciting game of Solitaire was taking place.
"Oh, crap," I said. "I have got to get me a secretary."
Paulie Five Fingers grinned and tossed his briefcase on my side table. "Zepp, is that how you always greet your friends?"

I have a friend who is a devout Christian and who was home schooled. She pretty much ruins the stereotype that home schooled devout Christians are humorless and ignorant. Of course, a lot of her friends, who tend to be humorless and ignorant, are mildly distressed that she hangs around with a tabernacle-mocker like me, but nonetheless, she is not humorless and ignorant. Home-schooling and a particularly stifling branch of Christianity not withstanding.
So when she saw the Northern Lights roiling and coruscating in our dark mountain skies last night, she thought, "oh, cool!" and made a note to ask me if that was as bright as they got up in Canada and Scotland. (Short answer: Yes. Long answer: I have to depend on photos and anecdotal evidences, because I was screwing around on the computer and missed the show).

Anybody who thinks cats hate water has never lived with a cat.
They’re fascinated by running water. Leave a tap going in a bathroom sink, and a nearby cat will jump up and examine the stream, bat at it with a paw, peer into the drain where the water is going, and if thirsty, might even take a few swings with the old tongue at the water.

"Zepp! Hey, paisan!"
"Paulie? Is that you, Paulie Five Fingers?"

At the suggestion of one of the Weasels, I’ve been talking to an outfit that is hiring columnists. It seemed reasonable enough. I write columns, and they want people who write columns. Sounds like a match made in heaven.
What? Of course I’ll get the job. Hell, if Putsch can be President, then I can do anything I want!

Burning the flag is awful bad

Booga, booga

Folks, first off, I want to commend you on your daring and profoundly patriotic stand against the ultra-left-wing woman who called the police at Chuy’s, a move that clearly was meant to harass and humiliate America’s greatest current President.
Good work! And let me tell you, you really got those pinko gays all stirred up. Here’s what one limp wrist liberal at the left-wing American Political Journal, Pamela Parker, had to say

The old phrase, of course, was "As legal as church on Sunday". However, the times, they is a-changin’.
The religious right, long suffering under the unendurable burden of being legal and unmolested by government and society, has decided to cast aside the shackles of equality and become the dominant force in society. Now that the GOP has stolen the election, they figure it’s time for a religious coup. Under the befuddled but benign gaze of Dubious George, and the less confused but totally unbenign gazes of the dishonest right-wing crackpots infesting the Supine Court, two proposals from the Bush White House have been made that should end, forever and once and for all, the notion that the United States was ever a free and secular nation. Why should the non-Christians who make up a quarter of population be spared subsidizing the church? After all, in other countries like Ireland, and Iran, and Afghanistan, not being a member of the state-sanctioned superstition doesn’t take you off the hook!