Oh Joe he didn’t!

28 10 2009

I’ve been sitting here, dithering, if you will, for the past couple of days trying to think of a clever play on Joe Lieberman’s name.

So far I’ve come up with:

Joe Blows
Joe Diddly
Say it ain’t Joe
Not Joe Senator
Joe Shit
Joe-berwokky
No way Joe-se
Sloppy Joe

My favourite, however, is Cock Block.  It’s not a play on words so much as an accurate description of Joe Lieberman’s time in Senate.
He’s the “friend” telling the hot girl that you’ve just gotten to talk to you about that weird infection you had last week.

In this case the hot girl that’s just deigned to grace you with her witty repartee is health care reform with an anemic public option and the Republican filibuster power is the infection that we thought we’d finally rid ourselves of when we finally got Al Franken his seat.

Joe Lieberman is the fucker that finagles it so that all three of you to go home alone and then get all offended when you shoot him a dirty look and a dirty finger when he’s all, “Dude.  Couldn’t close that deal, huh?  Sucks.  She was alright, though.”

But don’t take my word for.  Dr. Rachel Maddow has had her blazers in a bunch over it for the past two nights.  And I don’t blame her.  In the whole history of the Senate no one (NO ONE) has voted with the opposition to prevent cloture for the party they caucus with.  I understand wanting to make a name for yourself, but Benedict Arnold doesn’t seem like the wisest of choices.


In real life, such masterful cock-blockery often results in a five-finger salute to face.  I’m not advocating violence, but I am advocating a swift and decisive response to such disregard for the leadership of the party with which you caucus.  I am advocating that the Democratic party strip him of his leadership, run someone against him and censure him and then call that pretty girl up, beg her pardon and see if you can get her to talk to you again now that your douche-y “friend” is gone.

Democrats, don’t let her get away.

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I was blind but now I see.

27 10 2009

I am not a movie person.

The actor part of me gets really frustrated when I watch them because they are so clearly the director’s and the cinematographer’s medium.
I am neither.

But I do see a movie now and then.  And when I saw Where the Wild Things Are I paid close attention to the trailers while I was waiting for RHS to come back from the bathroom so that I could guilt her into buying me concession.
Trailers can be teaching moments.

What I learned when I watched the trailer for The Blind Side, the new Sandra Bullock vehicle was very eye-opening.


  1. White people are so good and trusting and kind.
  2. Black people are so big and dumb and slow and poor.
  3. White people have beautiful homes.
  4. Black people don’t have homes.
  5. White people are stable.
  6. Black people are unpredictable.
  7. White people coach football.
  8. Black people play football.
  9. White people are the best thing to ever happen to black people.
  10. Black people are the best pets white people can have.

That trailer has been all over the place lately… teaching.
And when you’ve received the lesson, it’s not that hard to make the leap from black people to people of color in general.

And seems that there are certain boys and girls who are eager to lead the class.  Larry Whitten gets a gold star this week for learning the lesson so well.
Forbidding your employees to speak Spanish in your presence – not, mind you, when they’re dealing with customers, but when they are in the same room as you talking to their co-workers – because you don’t trust them.  A+
[Let’s not get it twisted, the fact that Whitten thought they might be talking about him – and who doesn’t talk about their boss? – directly implies that he doesn’t trust that they’re not.  And he doesn’t trust what they are saying about him.  He doesn’t trust them if he can’t understand them.]

Making  your employees change their names for “the satisfaction of [your] guests because people calling from all over America don’t know the Spanish accents or the Spanish culture or Spanish anything.”  A++
I mean, except for the fact that nearly everyone in the Taos knows something of the OUTLANDISHLY FOREIGN Spanish accents, culture and language.  Also, except for the fact that Martin is pronounced exactly in Spanish as it is in French and the American pronunciation of Martin is a nasty-garish derivative.
Asking someone to whiten up their name while simultaneously belittling their language and culture and ignoring the millions of people in America who are a part of that language an culture earns you this nice, pretty dunce cap Mr. Whitten.


Firing your employees because they didn’t kowtow to your white superiority.  Well that just takes the cape.  You get to graduate Grand Dragon Class Valedictorian.

Bravo.
I hope that you thank Sandra Bullock, Warner Bros. Pictures and Alcon Entertainment in your acceptance speech.





He ain’t Dick Cheney. He’s my brother.

23 10 2009

I never thought that I’d say this but, you guys, I’m worried about Dick Cheney.

And not worried in your run of the mill, Holy Mantights Batman, that VeePee Vermin has Struck Again! sort of way.

I’m talking worried like, Sweet Rollerskating Jeebus it’s Friday Night and my Budget Will Only Allow for Beer or Pizza- Not Both.  You know, seriously worried.

At first, I thought that he had a case of the George “It’s not a lie if you believe it” Constanza-s.  But after seeing the footage on Dr. Maddow’s show last night I’m becoming a bit alarmed.


My brother is unwell.  He presents with symptoms concurrent with schizophrenia.  His illness manifests itself in paranoid delusions, anti-social behavior and disordered thoughts.  He has accused me of working in collusion with Them while being part of a vast gay conspiracy to imprison him.  He once told me that he had to stop using the internet because the computer was talking to him and watching him.

He refuses to seek treatment because he believes he is the only okay one in the world.

Listening to the voracity with which Dick Cheney defends and praises the use of torture is like listening to my brother defend and praise his “camouflaging” and admonish me and the rest of my family for suggesting that he might not need to camouflage if he would seek professional help.
When Dick Cheney talks about giving comfort to the enemy, I imagine one of my conversations with my brother when he accuses me and my sister and my cousins of being snitches who are out to get him.
Thinking about the fact that Dick Cheney spent most of the 8 years of the Bush Administration in an undisclosed bunker that could not be imaged on Google satellites reminds me of the fact that not once in the past 6 years has my brother told his address or kept the same phone number for more than six months.
The unwavering sureness of Dick Cheney’s convictions, despite fact, history and public opinion to the contrary is indicative to me of deep and chronic delusion, paranoid in nature.
I think he’s crazy.  And not just racist and mean-spirited crazy like Pat Buchanan, Bill O’Reilly and Glenn Beck.
Really crazy.

You know, when he was in charge I was scared for us.  Now, despite my best intentions, I’m scared for him, as I am scared for my brother.





It’s all fun and games until someone gets married.

21 10 2009

So it occurred to RHS and I on Sunday as we were shoveling awesome breakfasty goodness  into our mouths having a nice Brunch Date to belatedly celebrate our 5 years of being a Team [That’s how we think of ourselves, as a Team. We even have a team name and a secret handshake.  That’s okay.  Take a moment.  It will still be true when you re-read it.] that we were less than a year away from our big come and celebrate the permanence of our relationship and bring us presents¹ party.

So yeah, we’re wedding² planning.

I know that this will be a surprise, but… I have not been planning my wedding since I was a little girl.  I’ve been planning it, seriously planning it, since Sunday.

RHS and I made lists and talked about options and made more lists and suddenly it occurred to me that I might end up with one of those god-awful wedding binders and began to panic a little bit, but then I calmed myself down by telling myself that if I had to have a wedding binder then I’d have to buy a new wedding messenger bag to carry the binder and that and the Bloody Mary made me feel a lot better.  That, and the thought that a god-awful wedding binder is kind of a tiny cost to pay to get hitched to RHS.

So yeah… wedding planning.

This means that every now and then there will be a post about the planning stages.  Posts like, Why can’t we just throw your ethics out of the window so that I can have that nice diamond ring, hunny?  Or the inevitable: People need mini-cheeseburgers more than they need crudites.  It’s a fact.

I hope that you (and RHS) can bear with me.

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¹Go look at the loading graphics of KitchenAid.com.  Those are kind of dirty, right?

²Maine has a big vote on Question 1 coming up.  Get out the word to your friends in Maine to show up and vote NO on Question 1 on November 3rd.





It’s hard to mourn when the red and whites are flashing.

19 10 2009

Across the street from the Pioneer grocery store where they only started stocking fresh vegetables when the hipsters moved in to the neighborhood, a mother’s son was shot and killed last week.

Every night when I walk home I see the NYPD RV and the candles and flowers that have been left to mark the sidewalk where he slipped through the cracks.

I guess the police finally arrived to protect us from our grief.





Wild Rumpus

17 10 2009

RHS and I saw There the Wild Things Are last night.

We laughed, we cried, we told each other which Wild Thing we thought we were and then we went home…

…and the soup was still hot.





I think my search for a theme song may be over.

14 10 2009


When work starts to get to me I channel my inner Barbra.  Specifically this Barbra.


It totally works.  You should try it sometime.


Oh, and by the way… you’re welcome.