Thursday, November 18, 2004


I don' feel so gud. And I'm sick of feeling this way. It's been, what, 16 days since {{{please whisper it cos it hurts to hear it outloud}}}, and I haven't passed over into the WE MUST GET THIS DONE! phase yet. Maybe I'm too old, or maybe feeling like this makes me feel too old, but I'm just not chipper, rarin' to go, and sketching out the revolution on napkins at the diner over bad coffee and waffles. I feel more like the crumpled napkin. It's like a perpetual case of bad hair day-car broke down-pen ran out of ink x something as awful as that whispered thing ... like, how are we supposed to start when the entire universe is thwarting our every feeble effort? All I want at the beginning of the day is to play with my dog in the sunshine. Or take a nap. Or go on a looooooooooooooong vacation full of pajamas, quiet, no fluorescent lighting (die, fluorescent lighting, die!), no phones, no people, no commiserating, no strategizing, no cajoling and convincing, no banging my head against the wall, no wondering WTF are these cracker-ass Virgin-Mary-on-a-Grilled-Cheese crackers thinking?!?!?!?. Maybe I just haven't adjusted to being back in public yet, what with all the noise and hustle and bustle of everyone busily ignoring the coming apolcalypse and all. And it's so hard to cough out even the most mordant of chuckles at the DeLayization of Governance. No one's surprised anymore at the level of cheating; it's become the norm. No one can even be bothered to look up, because it's so commonplace, to register their complaint, cos why? To whom? They're all in on the take. We're so inured to it all, permanently dulled, that you could bludgeon us with irony, tattoo us with facts, give us an IV drip of super-clarity, and have Jesus Himself come down to straighten out his gay-bashing, woman-hating, fornicating flock, and still we'd cruise blithely by, oblivious to the truth which has become invisible to us, having so long ago receded so far into the distance. Truth? Define it, please. Somebody look up that relic at the Smithsonian or something next time you're visiting Archie Bunker's chair.

And, like, what? I'm supposed to get the "news" (remember that antique concept?) from ... where? CNN? MSNBC? Tom-Peter-Ted-Dan? Right. Before the "election," when I still thought that moderately free and fair elections were somewhat possible in this country (while knowing full well that "felons" were going to be kicked off the rolls to prevent black people from gettin' whitey, or something), I thought I could glean something of the national pulse by watching what "normal" people watched, seeing what lullabies the nattering nabobs were telling that week to satisfy our ever-thirsting need for validation of our American Exceptionalism. But it's like kryptonite to me now. I wilt at the mention of it. It seems the absolute height of, well, stupidity and a masochism that can know no bounds to sit there dumbly, passively, while being lectured to by a rogue's gallery of true idjits like Russert, Broder, Matthews, the entirety of CNN, and, oh-please-Lord-let-vengeance-be-mine, Andrea F*cking Mitchell. I would rather blow a syphillitic donkey than subject myself to the mind-blowing inanities, the earth-shattering vapidities, and the endless minutiae-privileging of that crew any longer, "research" be damned. I just refuse to operate under the fiction that our televised press has a shred, a modicum, a smidge, an iota of integrity, clarity, or professional dignity left.

Okay, hopelessly wimpy cynicism over. Back to work.

Dear Howard Dean,
I write today with heavy heart and glowing embers, if not yet fire, in my belly. I know Fannie Lou Hamer wouldn't be lying on her kitchen floor curled up in a ball crying, and I am trying to do better, for her memory if nothing else ...