Lieberman, Schieberman

I simply cannot believe how screwy the GOP has been over the defeat of their undercover agent, Democrat in Name Only Joe Lieberman in the Connecticut Senate primary.
Big Dick Cheney actually said that Lieberman's defeat helps the terrorists.
Huh?
How does the media allow Big Dick to utter such nonsense without slamming him against the nearest wall and demanding he explain himself?
Seems that Swift Boat strategy the Wile E. Coyote GOP used on the Democratic Roadrunner worked so well, it's become a permanent part of the GOP's dirty playbook.
BushCo has convinced the NASCAR set that anyone who criticizes them is therefore offering succor to the enemy.
Huh? Who's stupid enough to fall for that?
That's like a child molester convincing the kid he's diddling not to tell mommy because it would upset her too much.
It defies common sense.
If any thinking person had doubts about Lieberman's true loyalties, the GOP's overreaction to his loss should permanently remove those doubts.
Lieberman's ouster should be construed as blood in the water for all politicians.
The Democrats should feel energized by this electoral show of force, and the GOP should be getting nervous about their little reign of terror finally coming to an end.

An Inconvenient Incuriosity

I'm almost ashamed to admit it's taken me this long to see Al Gore's wonderful movie slide show, "An Inconvenient Truth."
I saw it this afternoon and found it stimulating, eye-opening and even funny in some parts.
How different our world would have been had Bush, his brother Jeb and Katherine Harris not monkeyed with the polls in Florida and thrown the election results to the Supremes to decide.
The movie sparkled with clever graphics, easily comprehended facts and logical progressions based on established scientific fact.
Bush said he'd probably not watch the movie.
Neo-cons call it the work of an insane, paranoid tree hugger.
Scientists around the globe have hailed it as an honest and precise representation of Global Warming.
Al Gore is a brilliant, caring man who should have been our president.
I'd vote for him again, over any candidate, on either side.
Thanks for a great movie, Al. I miss you.

Airport Security: What's in Your Lipstick?

I read in the New York Times that the GOP plans to make hay out of the recently thwarted attempts by terrorists to smuggle liquid explosives on board U.S.-bound airplanes in Great Britain. Please note that the British police caught the plot, not American cops.
Bush immediately overreacted, clamping down on all carry-on liquids including lipstick, toothpaste, bottled water and even books (on transatlantic flights).
While the right-wing may feel safer by Bush's silly Band-Aid reaction, let's not be fooled into thinking BushCo has our backs in terms of airport security.
Back in 2001, when Bush should have allocated billions to retrofit all American airports to security levels rivaling that of Tel Aviv, he said we couldn't afford the $10 billion it would have cost.
Now he seems to think confiscating your lip glass and bottle of Fiji water will keep us safe.
Had I been Bush back on September 12, 2001, I would have dispatched emissaries to Israel and tracked down their Director of National Airport Security. Then my emissaries would have offered him a deal he couldn't refuse and dragged him back to America to head up a newly created Department of Airline Safety.
And instead of wasting trillions bringing down Saddam Hussein, I would have spent billions on state-of the art screening equipment, bomb sniffing dogs and college-educated (or intensively trained) baggage screeners at all check-points.
Bush thinks nothing of a woman arriving to see her loved ones sans lipstick.
He thinks nothing of travelers stranded for hours in line to be cleared before boarding.
Why should he? He has Air Force One.

This latest thwarted terrorist attack in England shouldn't give Bush even a scintilla of security street cred.
As usual, his solution is too little, too late.

So Long, MoFo Joe

Three-term Senator Joe Lieberman was defeated yesterday in his bid for a fourth run as a Senator representing Connecticut.
Political newcomer Ned Lamont, an anti-war candidate, won by a slim majority (52 percent).
Lieberman plans to run as an Independent.
I don't know why he doesn't just jump ship and run as a Republican. After all, he's consistently been an apologist for Bush's unwinnable war, plus he's cozied up to him in way too many photo ops.
This primary election bodes well for the November elections.
There's blood in the water and people finally are getting to voice their contempt for the status quo, and those who've helped enable this abysmal regime to run rampant over the Constitution and the wishes of the taxpayers.
In another race, Congress Rep. Cynthia Crazy Eyes McKinney lost her primary in Georgia.
She may be remembered as the wild eyed cop slapper who went ballistic when a Capitol police officer failed to recognize her as a member of Congress and tried to deny her access to a House office building.
Oh, well. That suits me fine.
We don't need any zany, loose cannons like McKinney in the Democratic party right now. She only reinforces the wilder side of the inclusionary party, and right now we need some credible reps who can convince mainstream voters they have the competence and composure to dig us out of the hole the GOP has buried us in.
Giving the boot to Joe Lieberman was the first bomb to indirectly hit the GOP, and is a harbinger of good news for the coming general elections.
They've been put on notice: the GOP and their sniveling Democratic sympathizers have to go.

How Convenient

NY Times snippet: "Biggest Oil Field in U.S. Is Forced to Stop Pumping
The emergency at BP's Prudhoe Bay operation in Alaska drove
world crude oil prices to just under $77 a barrel."

I heard about this on NPR yesterday.
Seems British Petroleum's (psst: Tony Blair's reason for cuddling up to Bush) big drilling operation in Alaska has for two years neglected to check on pipeline soundness, resulting in corrosion that suddenly has them shutting down one of their main pipelines for repairs and replacement.
It could take weeks or (more likely) months to get back to normal.
This will cause the West Coast to lose a double digit percentage of its needed petroleum, causing those Blue Staters to have to pony up even more for gas. That'll teach 'em. Naturally, the shortage will soon trickle down to the rest of us in terms of cost per gallon.
Meanwhile, the enormous reserve the U.S. has in oil is located in the Gulf, so it would take a while to get it to the West Coast.
What this means to you and me is a $77 dollar barrel of oil, which will drive up gas prices even more absurdly than Bush and Condi's sweetheart deals with Exxon Mobil and all their buddies.
Two things come to mind.
-If BP legitimately forgot to get their pipelines checked for the last two years, according to petroleum industry regulations, they should be fined whatever the difference is, to be used toward the soaring cost of oil to consumers.
-The idea of Bush holding any petroleum company liable for any mistakes they make is about as likely as my becoming the next White House Press Secretary.

Is there a fix in?
Ha.

The Fish Was as Big as a Chevy Suburban

So...about my fishing trip to the lake.
My friend I'll call Stella and her 26-year-old son Johnny, his girlfriend Kate and the son's huge mutt named Bug and I met up at a little town on Lake Buchanan called Tow.
Tow is pronounced like the 'tow' in towel, not like 'tow' as in towtruck.
On the 90-mile drive up, Stella asked me if I'd seen the appalling new trend on monster pick-up trucks: giant, soft plastic testicles hanging under the back bumpers.
"WHAAAT?" I asked.
"Yeah, these bubbas are hanging big sets of nuts on the back of their trucks now," she said.
"No fucking way," I replied.
"Yeah," she said, "I've seen them on I-10, all through town, and all over the place," she said.
Her news put me on immediate hyper vigilance. With every other vehicle on our route being a monster pick-up, I was determined to spot a set of balls on one of them.
I was all set to be offended, but my search was futile, at least for now.
Stella warned me in advance the cabin was "rustic," but since she's a gazillionaire I figured on Martha Stewart rustic, not meth lab rustic.
I figured wrong.
Stella and I arrived at the camp first.
As we pulled into the compound at Tow, I spied a dirt road dotted with several depression era shacks with tin rooves and asbestos siding. Each cabin featured exterior wainscoting made of scrap rock and odd slabs of polished granite from the nearby quarries at Granite Shoals. Very strange.
Strewn around the dusty grounds were abandoned outboard motors, machinery, oil barrels, old tires and other manly crap.
We parked outside the "lobby," which was an outboard repair shop/marine junk yard.
Our host Mr. Alexander let us know the key was on a hook inside our cabin, lucky number 22. Turns out the key was unneeded. The front door would barely close, much less lock.
We approached our cabin and noticed about a square foot of duct tape covering a corner of the glass in the front window. Apparently Mr. Alexander hadn't gotten around to repairing the huge hole.
Inside the musty cabin were three small, simulated wood paneled rooms with a double bed in each, a kitchen and bathroom.
On the wall in the main room was a mirrored Claritin specialty ad with key hooks at the bottom. On the hooks were a key with a crude wooden tag with "22" written on it in marker and a well-used, pink fly swatter.
Over the bed in the main room was a large air conditioner that served the entire cabin. I quickly chose that bed as mine, regardless of the fact that the grungy A/C cord swung menacingly over the pillows.
Our host had just barely turned on the electricity to the cabin as we had arrived, so the AC wasn't on and the refrigerator was hot and bore olfactory rememberances of many fish caught before us.
In that main room was a small TV. I turned it on, only to find station after station of fuzzy tweed patterns. I spied an antenna cord detached behind it, old and spider webbed from years of inactivity. The TV had a cable connection that clearly was still a virgin.
Stella, being the gracious woman she is and knowing of my TV fetish, promptly trotted to the "lobby" to inquire about the TV.
Mr. Alexander drawled, "Oh, that TV don't work right now."
By then, she and I were relearning the words to the TV theme, "Green Acres."
I sang the Eva Gabor part.
Soon the kids arrived, hungry and impatient.
I made some haphazard quesadillas on the little stove, then when they wanted more I suggested they make their own. Soon the hot little cabin got smoky and smelled of burnt tortillas.
Stella had been on an organic, sugar-free diet all week, but by then she was spotted swilling an icy Mountain Dew from the cooler she'd brought.
After a few hours of settling in at the cabin, their fishing charter was set to begin.
I accompanied them to the ramshackle fishing charter office, where we were met by an enormous bubba named Ken Milam.
Ken was white haired, had a permanent sunburn, jowls like Santa and fingers the size of Kielbasa sausages. His legs were like cedar trunks that just dropped into dirty old tennies, as wide as they were long.
As we entered the office, Ken told Stella & company that his assistant Goober would be their fishing master that day, "taking them out in a pontoon boat a ways up the road, since the lake was purty dried up here at my dock."
He raved about the fishing luck on that morning's charter. The crew had brought back six large stripers.
He said, "With the moon like it is, y'all ourghtta be bringin' back a mess o' good eatin'."
I turned to Goober, who was perched on a stool, dazed and swilling a long neck Budweiser.
"You think y'all will get lucky out there, Goober?" I asked.
"Mwell, ah thank it'll be a mrnwig blwtig wingbling," he replied.
Turns out Goober was sort of on the functional retarded side, so much so I dared not press him with any follow-up questions. I was just glad I had opted not to go.
While my cabin mates were off with Goober for their four-hour adventure, I relaxed a while and read. Bug the giant dog stayed with me, wet and stinky from being in the lake, and pesky from being only 7 months old.
Just to be on the safe side, I whipped up a salad and made a pot of fusilli with sausage, fresh herbs and vodka marinara, in case they failed to catch anything.
At about 7:30 p.m., I went out and lit the grill and read up on how to light a Coleman lantern.
As they returned, the coals were red hot and the lantern was brightening the dusk invitingly.
I was at the stove when they came in, and Stella, who is a femme on the streets and butch in the sheets, apparently appreciated the sight of my wifely duties so much, she murmured to me that I looked so cute cooking their dinner, she (insert semi-lewd comment here).
Stella is usually all made-up, neat and tidy, but the fishing trip had rendered her windblown, wrinkle shirted and tanned. I got a little buzz after her naughty remark, but quickly chalked it up to a brief moment in time and forgot about it.
Though Stella said she had a marvelous time on the boat, the son was cranky because Goober was a control freak who wouldn't allow any of them to cast or even hold any poles. His girlfriend was also slightly cranky, because she follows Johnny's lead in all things.
Turns out they caught only one striper, a 4-pounder that Goober had filleted for them.
Dinner began with the salad, then some delicious grilled corn, then the pasta. The fillet was still stewing on the grill in an aluminum foil boat containing a mix of butter, garlic and lemon.
Never having cooked or eaten striper before, I failed to realize that it was a rather tough fish with no discernible culinary qualities. The butter mixture added nothing to the flavor. Striper bass should be heavily rubbed with Cajun spices, then grilled at kiln temperatures until it surrenders.
We got through dinner and started talking about politics. Johnny, Kate and I are avid Democrats. Stella is, for some odd reason, a Republican. She remained fairly silent through the conversation and I can see why. Johnny allows himself to get way too revved up, and by the end of the political conversation he was standing up, flailing, wild eyed and angry.
He's a real piece of work, that boy.
While the kid walked along the darkened lake with Bug, I leaned over and asked Stella to kiss me. She did and I liked it.
The kids went to bed around midnight and Stella and I stayed outside talking until around 2. The Mountain Dew and coffee has made her wired and chatty. I loved it.
As I got into my bed, Stella went in for a shower.
As she emerged, the bathroom sent out a rush of the most glorious smelling soapy, perfumed mist. She looked clean, sexy and bright eyed as she went to her doorless bedroom about 4 feet from mine.
The cabin was pitch black, and I couldn't resist tiptoeing into her room and into bed with her.
For several minutes we writhed around, until I considered the consequences of Johnny catching me in his mother's bed and beating me to death, so I scampered back to my own bed, suffering a bit of coitus interruptis frustratilingus.
The next morning as the four of us sat around at the picnic table talking and playing dominoes, Bug saw Mr. Alexander near his giant red pick-up about 100 feet away and went after him.
We all called out to him but he wouldn't come, so Kate sprinted over to grab him. Mr. Alexander was obviously unhappy and we were all embarrassed.
Stella muttered that Bug was, "a typical male, ignoring us when we called."
Johnny, sitting next to me, called her an idiot under his breath.
I said, between clenched teeth, "Did I just hear you call your mother an idiot?"
It was then Johnny said she was a man-hater who liked girls, and that he figured I was a lesbian, but I was cool with him because I seemed to like men just fine.
All I could think of was that I might have gotten by with sleeping in his mother's bed the night before without getting killed over it. Damn the luck!
Before long, we broke up camp and left for the drive home.
On the way back, Stella and I stopped at a barbecue joint for a rack of the finest, smokiest babyback ribs ever. Seems Casey's, the barbecue joint, was once blessed with a surprise visit from then-President Bill Clinton. A photo display and a copy of his thank you note on White House letterhead was prominently displayed on the bulletin board. I loved it! Stella, not so much.
We finished the route home and I still didn't spot any pick-ups with truck nuts*. I was sadly disappointed, but not for long.
The moment we pulled into Stella's driveway, the skies opened up and drenched us with a huge, lengthy downpour. After a very long drought, it was a welcome blessing.
We sat on her patio and watched the rain as we cuddled under the awning.
I thought about staying, but it didn't feel like it was the right time. I felt tired and grungy from all that dust and dinge back at the camp.
But, as abysmal as it was, I'll always think of Tow and that cabin as a rundown, dusty, fishy, yet romantic little lakeside spot.
As for Stella, only the shadow knows.

* http://www.prankplace.com/trucknutz.htm?KBID=1103&sub=nutz

When All Else Fails...

I'm going to the lake this weekend.
A friend of mine has rented a cabin and planned a charter fishing trip, where she and her adult son and his girlfriend will angle for striper bass, while I stay at the cabin reading by the water's edge.
I wish fishing interested me but it doesn't.
It's hot, buggy, stinky and if successful, entails too many entrails.
What does interest me is getting far away from the city, enjoying the breeze over the water and cooking whatever they catch...as long as it's filleted and not too creepy.
Here, come with me for a moment:
http://www.highlandlakes.com/lakebuchanan/

Y'all have a good weekend.

Hillary Asks for Rumsfeld's Resignation

It's about time she stopped pandering to the middle, found her Democratic balls and took a stand.
Rumsfeld, like the entire Bush administration, has totally failed in his job as Secretary of Defense. He's a loathesome, arrogant, sniveling bureaucrat whose agenda serves someone, but certainly not the voters or taxpayers.
Hillary said:
"I just don't understand why we can't get new leadership that would give us a fighting chance to turn the situation around before it's too late," the New York Democrat and potential 2008 presidential contender said in an interview with The Associated Press. "I think the president should choose to accept Secretary Rumsfeld's resignation."
"The secretary has lost credibility with the Congress and with the people," she said. "It's time for him to step down and be replaced by someone who can develop an effective strategy and communicate it effectively to the American people and to the world."

Amen, sister, amen.

Project Runway: The INC Fashion Challenge
Tell Us You're Watching

Keith, the smarmy love child of Jacob Dylan and Greg Kinnear, was thrown bluntly off the show for cheating like the sniveling dog he is.
Seems he had some pattern books hidden in his room, discovered by a certain Oklahomo who designs pageant gowns in Norman.
He also went awol from the show for several hours and used the Internet- both verboten.
Though I usually find snoopy little tattletales obnoxious, I think Kayne was right to bust Keith for trying to get an edge on the competition. That just ain't right.
So the Keithless challenge began, and Angela with her reputation for being a talentless hack with an inability to sketch, managed to convince the INC fashion director that her scratchy pencil sketches were viable.
The fashion exec bought her idea, to everyone's astonishment.
She selected as her team Laura, the uptight but elegant architect and Michael from Atlanta who does hiphop bootywear. They both cringed as she selected them...
Then they collaborated very nicely.
Michael and Laura ganged up on Angela and forced her to minimize her trademark rosettes, causing their outfit to be quite refined and beautiful.
So, Team Angela kicked everyone's ass and won the challenge, and the prize: INC will manufacture and retail their winning ensemble at every major Macy's in America.
Angela gets street cred, but she should have publicly praised Laura and Michael for their valuable contributions... and the critics' cocky darling Keith got thrown off the show and into the street. Hotcha!
The guy with the tattooed neck doesn't seem to like women. He's very haughty, for the abandoned son of a biker and a Goodwill jacket designer. Rule of thumb: if someone has a tattoo that would prohibit him from a career in burger sales at McDonald's, he's a nutter.
Meanwhile, Vincent the kvetcher was green around the gills when Angela was selected team leader and won the competition. Who's the team player now, nebbish?
Barbie designer Robert and Kayne teamed with Vincent to produce a total snore of an outfit.
Vincent looked like he was sucking a lemon throughout the collaboration.
But the losers were Team Bonnie, whose brown twill mom jeans and pink floppy cowl neck top bored the judges into comas. Bonnie was the woman who outed Serena Williams as a liar for saying she had designed the tennis outfits Bonnie had designed. Byebyebonnie.

Mel Gibson

I stopped respecting Mel Gibson when he did "The Last Temptation of Christ."
I think he was feasting on the fears and biases of radical fundamental Christians, and he knew it would fetch him several million bucks, which it did.
Now we learn he is not only a drunk, but an anti-Semitic drunk to boot.
Like so many professed religious people, booze figures in all too often.
Take Bush for example. Without a program, alcoholism might lie dormant but the warped thinking stays.
Gibson is just another drunk, like Bush.
Gibson has checked into Betty Ford, but Bush would never think of getting help. He's The Decider, after all.
Mel Gibson's drinking problems won't keep me from seeing his movies.
I stopped seeing his movies years ago.

Don't forget to watch Project Runway tonight!