A Modest Proposal...

Oh, hello, bonjour! I just got up this morning and… sacre’poutine! Solved the goddmaned financial crisis, don’t mind if I do! Or, at least part of it, anyway. Look, what if I were to offer you an instant EIGHT BILLION dollars a year on a product you could tax an estimable 6.2 BILLION more all the while shedding something like 5.3 BILLION in legal costs on a statewide level and 2.4 more YOU KNOW HOW MUCH on the federal? What would you do? Why wouldn’t you take it? You know what I’m talking about.

Listen, it won’t do much to quell the financial markets, but not only would the legalization of marijuana give a gigantic boost to our current cash flow problem, it sure as hell would go a long way to quell our national anxiety right now. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest mandatory bong hits for every man and woman on the stock exchange floor right now. E-Traders, ready your ‘enter’ keys, stocks set to Entenmanns!

Listen, I’m not hearing any better suggestions out there right now from these campaigns. McPain is out there staggering like a bull moose with a couple of 30 odd six rounds lodged in its trachea, and, frankly, and I don’t mean this in a bad way, but every second this market tips closer to the shit can of Depression, the better Obama’s chances are looking. I just hope he’s made some clandestine deal with the markets (ala Reagan and the Iranians) and this fucking mess improves after the election!

In the meantime, I am recommending some serious spliff time for every man, woman, and child in America. Our economy depends on it.

My Follow Up Question: WTF?

First of all, I’d like to thank Allen, Oliver, Teresa, Fiora, Langdon, Ingrid, Lindsay, Steve, Katie, and Zenned out Peggy. Your milquetoasty, bland, and probably heavily vetted questions kept the fun out of one more debate, one more time. Not even that old codger, McCain, could sit still for the whole thing without wandering around the room like he’d lost his keys.

“Those of you at home, are not so constrained,” said Tom Brokaw, referring to the television audience’s freedom to howl like goddamned monkeys, if they liked, at the proceedings. Just there was nothing to howl about. Obama got to run, pretty smoothly, through a calm rehash of stump speeches and the Curmudgeon from the Dungeon rattled off the names of a bunch of old fogies he used to pal around with, like Reagan, Tip O’Neil, and Russ Feingold.

It’s no wonder that it’s more fun to follow the Palin side of the campaign. Keeping up with that hillbilly woman’s syntax is like an addiction to Sudoku puzzles, and add to it the fact that her rallies are starting more and more to look like thinly veiled Klan meetings, this the one to watch. At a rally this week, supporters shouted ‘Kill him’ after Palin made comments linking Obama to terrorist activities. An African American AV Tech was menaced, as were reporters of the mainstream media. This is good old fashioned politics!

The Republicans are fading in the polls like an old pair of jeans and you had best be Very Nervous and Wary they don’t try something desperate before the seat gets blown out. These Sinister Hoodlums are capable of anything and not for a moment held back by Conciousness or Civil Liberty. God protect Track Palin is what I’ve got to say. Sacre’Poutine! That’s not good enough! You’ve got to contribute to the Bertie Ernesto(*) “Chasing Track” fund! He’s raising money to buy personal armor and a plane ticket to Diyala in order to keep that piece of Political Canon Fodder safe and sound! I predict something terrible before the next debate if nothing is done!

* Bertie is, apparently, raising funds through treasurer Thomas Foster. Don't ask me why, he's from Manitoba, go figure.

The Great State of my Ass...

It was eight years ago that your country answered the question, “Are we stupid enough and are we complacent enough?” In the resounding consumer quiet of ‘You bet we are’, the forces of religious and corporate mania and greed went to work like hard, pipe hittin thugs on this democrazy of yours. This election isn’t a question for the American people, it’s a big stick poking in your sides, wielded by the Rovian Forces behind the McPain Campaign, just making sure you are still asleep.

Nom Dieu! I suppose we chalk it up to civil discourse that there was no direct confrontation in last night’s debate, no scoffing, sighing, or slinging, but to watch it was like flipping the channels between CSPAN and some Bravo reality show. It’s a good goddamned thing I live in New York and the chances of some rooter tooter telling me that beauty pageant questionnaire Palin orally filled out was a winner debate performance are as slim as me getting a latte in Wasilla. I might resort to violence!

Gwen Ifill was pathetic in asking follow up questions, allowing the Barracuda ample opportunity to wink at the camera and barrage her base with folksy nutbaggery. Biden was capable and competent, but, sacre’poutine!, he was a little too indulgent of Palin; he should have taken a bigger bite.

Obama is up in the polls in almost all of the battleground states, except Missouri, by as much as four-plus points, but if the gloves don’t come off soon, it will be too close. Let’s remember that the question has already been answered for us and that close elections in this country rarely go to the polite and tolerant.

Chasing Track

“Nom Dieu, boy! Calm down! Aren’t you supposed to be with the Nader campaign somewhere?”

My half-brother, Bertie Ernesto, had just crashed into my office, breathless and covered in sweat.

“Forget Nader! Christ man, the fate of the Nation is at stake! I need money!”

“Which Nation, bra? We’re Canadians, remember?”

“By God, you don’t believe that makes a difference, do you? I’ve got to get to Iraq! Diyala, specifically! Man, cut me a check, will you?!”

I sighed, readjusted my crossed feet over the corner of my desk at the New York office. The Chassid has been here recently, but apparently not keeping office hours since the end of the Conventions.
“Sit down, chere frere, and tell me calmly.”

He sat for a moment, but as he began to speak, he was overcome by passion and soon was careening from one end of the room to another.

“They’ve released that Track Palin, son of the GOP VEEP, is being deployed to Diyala, in Iraq! 1st Stryker Brigade! Land mines! Tree cover that prevents Air Support! It’s the most dangerous zone in the country right now and they’re going to send the oldest son of the vice presidential candidate right straight into it! Think of the hostage situations! Think of what might happen if he lost his life, or, God Forbid, lost his legs! This ugly thing has got to be stopped!”

“Surely that kind of information couldn’t be leaked; it’s against OPSEC regulations. Charges could be brought,” I teased open the right desk drawer where I kept my good Canadian Rye.

“You call yourself a journalist?! You Gaspian piece of shit! Check the blogs! Every right-winger from here to Wasilla is fouling their keyboards in spumescent tugs over the news that their boy is going in harm’s way!”

Bertie was actually hunched in the window sill, some thirty floors above 34th Street.

“Twelve points for the big word, Bertie,” I said, snapping open the plastic cap of the flask bottle, “But your boy is going to be doing some cake duty, driving trucks and protecting the big brass; they’ll never see harm’s way if they can help it. On the other hand, I see today that Ron Paul has issued a blanket endorsement of everybody but the Chosen or the Doddering One; he’s encouraged his people to go Barr, Nader, McKinney, and Baldwin. Big deal among the independents.”
“You ass! You scat munching scoundrel! I said give me the money! I’ve got to get to Diyala immediately. This is too important to wait! This boy has to be kept alive; alive and well! I deeply suspect Karl is already over there setting the Traps!”

“In all honesty, boy,” I said, now drinking generously. “I thought when they fired up the Large Haldron Collider this morning, we’d all get mulched into the next burst of Creationism. But it seems there are some kinks to be worked out. You want to go to Iraq? Raise the money yourself. If he ever gets deployed, and there is a great chance it’ll never happen, there are people who’ll help you. Set up a PayPal account, buy some armor. You’ll be just fine.”

Truth was, I was drunk already. The polls, even two months out, carried the reminder of what these Villains are capable of. What we can expect. I vaguely heard the lipstick on a pig coverage from the television hanging in the corner of the office as I slipped off the chair and onto the floor; drifting off into Horrible Visions of Pelosi as Second in Command.

Utter Rove...

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Rage Against the GO Palin...

I was crowd surfing down First Avenue outside the Target Center in Minneapolis after the RATM show when the texts started pouring in. I guess I was going to have to tune into the Palin speech after all. Margaret seemed to be in the throes of another scotch soaked bout with delusion. My little half brother, Bertie Ernesto, twisted in a Naderian Madness, was madly texting corrections to the filthy lies promulgated by the moose-dressing hockey mom. Even the poor, bent Heeb, Wild Bill, who I haven’t seen since he embedded himself in the McCain campaign, was a froth in reactionary bile; luridly swerving through Vaginal Christ Metaphoria and Reagan filmography.

“Sacre’Poutine, boys! I’ve got to go! Let me down! The business of Political Writing is at hand!”

My ears still ringing from tunitis, I made my way to my rooms at the Graves 601, and sat down with a half coffee, half rye to watch the youtube, to see what everyone was upset about.

Ah yes, I realized, the American reaction to the success of an enemy. The bowel shattering crunch of an opponent’s home run. An especially bad ache when mixed with politics, a bio-hazardous Petri dish of economics and moral values. This is a most unwelcome occurrence for the Democratic population, anxiety-ridden and just wanting all this to be over, wanting their team to win so they can stop this eight years of hand-wringing and get back to the Netflix queue where they belong.

There’s nothing the Democratic faithful wanted more than a nervous, flighty backwoods hickette up there on the stage, clutching a Gideon in one hand, a Glock in the other; what they got was a confident, self-assured, Rovian trained Veep Candidate. A bulldog. An attack force and one painted in a true blue collar small town patina. What can I say? I don’t like it any more that you. But getting the thongs in a hizzy, mi bras, ain’t going to do it.

The first thing Dems need to do is keep their heads about them. Nothing Palin said, her stinging barbs at Barack, Michelle, or Joe, the seizing of her personal narrative back from the grasps of the national media was meant for them (outside the schaudenfruede any good GOP wonk gets watching liberal monkeys start the poo flinging). If you must, visualize that there were hundreds upon thousands cringing as you oooed for fifty-six minutes last Thursday. Nothing you can do about that. It’s battle time and reacting to the reactions of a bunch of republicans is like kvetching that Baphomet isn’t getting fair airtime at St. Patrick’s on Sundays.

There’s plenty of time for Lil Sarah to fall down. The media really hasn’t had a chance at her yet and the sooner they drop the business of babies having babies the better. Stick to experience (she doesn’t have any), stick to values (hers are evangelical Christian; she can and will be caught here), and most of all, stick to John (not as good with the teleprompter) McCain. Take the battle to him and the Dems should be fine.

Palin got a chance last night to wrest control of her narrative and sell her story. She did it well, she did it for her people. Not all of it was true or accurate (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/09/04/ap-attacks-praise-stretch_n_123771.html) but that’s a little beside the point when you’re in the church of GOP.

Boring Baby Blues in the Twin Cities

Good Lord. No wonder the press is in New Orleans. Up here in Minneapolis-St. Paul it’s like the cast of F Troop running the show (seriously, no? Imagine GWB as Ken Berry accidentally sneezing himself into office! Nom dieu! Fred Thompson and Joe Lieberman as York and Agar). But really, the “Country First” and “Service” platitudes and the cornflower blue backdrops only dulled beside the droning and ridiculous speeches of America’s Top Old Farts.
So much more going on, I’m going to skip next door to see what Ron Paul’s up to, and then, tomorrow night I’ll have to choose between Rage Against the Machine and Palin.

It will be tough.