Maya laments missing out on a Memorial Day bratwurst the only way she currently can. 

Deep Throat gets some new airtime

Watergate's Deep Throat has apparently been outed by "Vanity Fair." W. Mark Felt, the No. 2 g-man at the FBI in the early 70s. Mr. Felt's still alive so the Washington Post won't truly out him until that's no longer the case. Can't wait to see how this shakes out. But all this means at the moment is that Dubya's latest press conference will be overshadowed on all the political shows today and beyond. Before heading out for a run this morning with Sarah and Maya, we watched Dubya drop some of his more memorable malapropisms and tortured logic in recent memory. Here's a few of the faves I jotted down.

"I view my role as Prezidunt as someone who puts problems on the table."

"Disassemble. That means not tell the truth."

"We have a responsibility to the least of us."

Overall, Dubya looked frustrated by his lack of agenda advancement and tried to blame it all on the Congress. If anyone needs to be questioned for a follow-up, it's "Call me Doctor-Senator" Frist. Not that anything of substance would come from the newly self-proclaimed Mr. NASCAR. Billy's still probably gun-shy given his own slights and lameness in the presumed view of some racing fans after such gaffes as misprounoucing the name of a popular NASCAR driver (Tennessee's own Sterling Marlin not "Martin") at this weekend's Coca-Cola 600. After all, anyone with a clue was tuned in to see new media darling Danica Patrick give the Indy 5-hunnerd a run for its male-dominated past.

Maya and Jack react to news of their arranged marriage.

Maya seems unfazed by being dressed like a boy (her Dad's fault).

Maya testing the flexibility of her faux prison uniform.

"Denim's always a solid fashion choice. Even when it's orange." 

"Daddy said 'don't stick your tongue out' and I feel pretty confident that I'm in compliance." 

Star gazing

It's a very gray Friday proving that the fog has returned to San Francisco. There's surely plenty of Bridge-jumpers out there lamenting this fact. But I, for one, love the comforting dampness of it all. Sarah's got a full clinic schedule today so Maya's on the bottle with her Dad during bizness hours. We were just finishing a bottle and segwaying into a bit of a nap on Maya's part. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was surfing the crapola that dominates TV this time of day and paused for a brief soul-shaking moment on "The View" where the ladies were discussing how they keep the fire lit in their respective arranged marriages or the like. Please don't ever watch that show. But I think we all should be made aware of the fact that Star Jones has lost enough weight to make herself an extra Al Roker. Oh, and she's happiest beneath her hubbie's left armpit. Um...I'll get back to this after I puke up breakfast.

Last night's 826 book event was the chance to showcase a project at Balboa High School where I did some in-school and subsequent editing work. It was a beautiful example of how young writers can grow thanks to a well-designed and lovingly-administered project. Dave Eggers and all the people associated with 826 Valencia do amazing work. That's why I'll be raising cash for them with my own meager efforts to successfully run this summer's San Francisco Marathon. Expect much more on that project soon. But for the time being, I hope you'll check out the expanding 826 orbit of writing centers in major American cities.

DeLay's PAC Treasurer got convicted. But DeLay's still clean? Right.

The Wall Street Journal today features a surprising editorial (subscription required) on their overall disappointment with the 109th Congress and its inability to agree on anything even with a workable Republican majority in both chambers and with Dubya in the White House. There are few times I agree with the WSJ op-ed folks. But in this case I concur completely.

Oops...Maya's nap has ended before it really began. More later, I promise.

Bolton gets the temporary Heisman

Looks like "I'm not Michael" Bolton has been further delayed in his hope to be a surrogate World Dominator. Good. Make that mustache sweat. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got something worthwhile to attend - a book project party for 826 Valencia. More on that later.

Maya offers little faith that this year's NBA Draft Lottery win by the once-marginally-great Bucks will return them to the Promised Land.

"Bo Bice lost? I can't even see the TV but I know he got robbed."

Maya teaches me an important lesson having nothing to do with Congressional filibusters

New parenthood is full of hurdles - some high, some unseen, some that move at the last minute, some that require only the slightest hitch in your giddyup. Yesterday through this morning was one of those slight hitch hurdles for our new famn damily as Sarah worked her first overnight call shift at the hospital leaving Maya without her favorite boobs to fall back on. Aside from her Dad. In short, Maya did great even as she proved yet again that I often know bupkis about her needs. Like last night as we prepped for bedtime - I assumed that she needed to be filled to the gills with milk to ensure a long stretch of slumber. Going on the prior assumption that her extended periods of breastfeeding around that time meant she needed such extended filling. Well, after a walk around the 'hood in between bottles and a frustrated attempt to pour another handful of ounces down her gullet, Maya's protests caused me to harrumph "Fine, Little Missy - so then it's straight to bed for you!" At which point she zonked out as soon as she was laid down and slept for 8 hours. Then when she awoke after 4am, I gave her a bottle in what seemed like 12 seconds and she crashed again for 3 hours. And now after a morning bottle and "Washington Journal" (Maya sure does love her C-SPAN - very nap inducing) she's now sleeping in her bouncy-chair looking as happy as a clam cradled right near an illegal sewage pipe. I suppose the point is that all of us new parents eventually learn to accept our children for what they are - a busload smarter than us when it comes to what they really need.

After a day and a half of listening to all the post-filibuster-busting-deal hooey, I'm still left feeling as though almost everyone lost in the effort. The country will be saddled with 3 lifetime-appointed judges with whom most of us wouldn't even want to share an evening meal. Conservatives fear having left the barndoor open a MILE WIDE for future struggles to rope in a Supreme Court appointment to their liking. Dubya and Cheney must worry that the moderates in their Party still have some limited sway. Harry Reid and his leadership must make letting through the 3 most offensive judges in the Dems opinion look like a victory for an Institution where the inmates are not only running amok but running the show. But the truest, reddest loser in this mess as far as I can see is "please call me Doctor-Senator" Frist. His petulance in losing out to a so-called cabal of moderates was only surpassed in irony by his belief that he somehow could now change his toxic plan's name to "the Constitutional option" on the day that plan went up in smoke. Say buh-bye to your Presidential ambitions, Billy. McCain just kicked your ass in the first Primary. Speaking of which, read the "New Yorker" piece on McCain in '08 - the best political thinkpiece of the week if not this pre-election year.

The second season of "Deadwood" ended on Sunday and I must say that I'm conflicted with regard to how I feel about where the series has gone. For those of you that haven't seen it, you have my condolences because it's the most enigmatic show on TV and entirely worth seeking out even if only on DVD. But the point is that I've seen the storylines get crazily convoluted and main characters that have been the strength of the show wedged into the sidelines. Ian McShane's character Al Swearingen is still the finest work seen on TV in years (his appearance on "Real Time With Bill Maher" a handful of weeks back also convinced me that he's an astonishingly smart man outside of his work on this series). But some of the other stuff used to put lipstick on this season's pig didn't really keep me guessing or hoping what might come next. I read a few months back that the creator, David Milch, may use a 5-season timeline for this series which tracks well with what the actual history and character-arcs of Deadwood, SD experienced in the period that the series is based upon. If that is the case, I'm happy. But if this puppy turns into a "M*A*S*H" count me out as a proponent in the very near future.

Keep an eye on and the Family Buick in the near future for info on my plans to run the San Francisco Marathon and raise cash in doing so for 826 Valencia. I appreciate every one of your visits and you have my word that we'll keep things interesting enough to draw you back. Or at least that's my intention. Rock on.

Maya shows her best side in the morning hours. 

"Do polka dots go with stripes?" 

"Still one of the Top Two Places to snooze in SF." 

Maya dressed for colorful touring in her favorite jacket from Aunt Becca. 

Admiring Juana Alicia's "La Llorona’s Sacred Waters" while on a Mission District murals tour.

My review: Gladly, "Sith" is not an unintended anagram

The fervor over the new "Star Wars" movie inspired us to hand over Maya to a babysitter yesterday and take the matinee plunge. Actually, Maya had two babysitters - the always loving and helpful Meg and Sherry, who unfortunately got Maya on one of those days when the bottle didn't appeal to her and her temperament was a bit more on the Anakin Skywalker side of the Force. They didn't seem to mind, though. So Sarah and I left our darling daughter for a handful of hours on a lovely Saturday afternoon and headed to the multiplex. Granted, we didn't see this latest geek-event-to-end-all-geek-events until a few days after it opened. But I was still hoping to see at least one nerd in a costume amidst all the other suburban sporty-gansta-wear and low-riding, circulation-destroying, 70s-throwback jeans. No such luck. Even though George Lucas has this Episode playing on 3661 screens nation-wide so that you can catch a screening every half hour at most googleplexes, we still had a well-over half-filled theatre around us at 1:10pm. Just before the movie began, a haggard father with three sugar-charged kids squeezed into our row. That meant that I got to sit right next to a 10-ish-year-old boy with encyclopedic "Star Wars" knowledge bubbling over, an overactive need to prove his mastery to his slightly older sister sitting next to him and absolutely no shame about his hyperactivity. It was perfect - the only way to see one of these bloated digi-dramas is in direct proximity to someone who actually is still mesmerized by it all. As far as the movie goes...I give it a B-minus. Hayden Christensen is horrid and George Lucas hasn't written natural-feeling dialogue since the Nixon administration. Natalie Portman works her butt off to add some life to her groaners, to only marginally-better effect. But she's a much better actor and I predict her foxy futuristic maternity wear will soon be seen in some of the swankier coffeehouses and urban spas near you. For my spacebucks, the real star is unquestionably Ewan McGregor who delivers all his throwaway shtick with enough swagger and smirking charm to make even Harrison Ford look like a wooden duck decoy in comparison. The rest of the character actors do what actors in these sorts of things usually do - maniacally try to wrestle some screen time from the special effects by chewing the scenery throughout. Less evocatively, Jimmy Smits looked confused and decidedly unstatesman-like for someone supposedly saving the future of the galaxy or something within a few parsecs of that intent. The little digital Yoda is wonderfully imagined but somehow tiresome (although Sarah saw some endearing bits o' Maya in him, so I'll defer to her opinion on his screen time). The other Jedis were as ineffective and easily disposed of as an entire cloned Army of Tom Daschles. But the saving grace of this and the other Lucas extravaganzas are the always fascinating new worlds conjured up to encompass a seemingly endless array of physical possibilites. A planet of Wookies that appears to be entirely clothing-optional. A planet of funky friendly dinosaurs and their fishy-faced masters. An endlessly erupting volcanic planet used as the stage for a steamy final battle between Obi Wan and Darth Vader. For all the other distractions and bad dialogue and underlying tortured love story that NEVER worked, the overall mythology of "Star Wars" works as prescribed in this Episode. And there are some unintentionally hilarious moments (especially Darth Vader's "Noooooo!" Franken-scream at the almost very end - don't worry, I've given away nothing). So if you care even a tiny bit about these sorts of movies, see it on the biggest screen available with all the junk food and good humor you can carry. We did and are glad to have done so. But be prepared for the fact that these are empty calories and you'll be hungry for something else just a few hours thereafter. Here endeth my revieweth.

Another gorgeous day in SF. We're doing a walking tour of the public murals in the Mission for a few midday hours later. A run in the Park before then. Hope y'all have similar Sunday fun awaiting. Rock on.

Yet again, my choice of boxers looks like the right one. 

In tribute to the John Travolta movie "The Boy In The Plastic Bubble."

"All this affection can get to a kid after a while, ya know." 

A few filibuster-free items

Maya's post-vaccinations reaction was very comforting. A few hours of marginal fussiness and then a LONG night's sleep. She seems to be as content as ever this morning. Another bridge crossed for her and her admittedly naive 'rents.

The Chili Finger Bandit's digit donor has named his price - $50. The cruelest irony is buried in the story which notes that the president of the paving firm that the Bandit's husband and the digit donor worked for called in the tip (pun intended) to Wendy's reward line. That reward was advertised as $100K. Insult VERY much following injury.

Al Franken's post for Ariana Huffington's blog yesterday noted (appropriately) how little attention is being paid to the graft taking place in Iraq with our cashola ($8.8B according to the latest reporting going unnoticed by 99.73% of the Public). Plus he gets in some jabs at that sleazy lit'l grandstander, Norm Coleman (R-MN), which is always good for a few chuckles.

Only the most-depraved newswhores are still paying any attention to the Michael Jackson trial. For those of you, today's big fish is celebrity non-interviewer, Larry King. If you're in Santa Maria covering the trial, take an extra LONG pull off of your flask and kiss your soul good-bye forever while you file your report on what color suspenders Da King wears to court.

In a story that is sure to warm the hearts of irate hockey fans everywhere, the NBA is poised for an off-season lock-out after talks between the owners and players' union broke off yesterday. Can't say that I'd miss the NBA. Although I am rooting for the Sonics this year, in a throwback shout-out to my mid-90s time in GrungeCity. Sadly, my childhood Bucks are as far from competitive as Lamar Alexander reigniting his presidential dreams.

Robert Novak just gets crazier and crazier. No news there. But it's still awfully sad to see him descending into such a state of politically-motivated dementia. Lucky for him there's plenty of company in that wing of the asylum.

While I hate to further the career of the typically awful Hayden Christensen, almost everyone's frothing over with praise for Emperor Lucas' return to mastery. I'll withhold judgment until after acutally viewing the spectacle since we do plan to get a babysitter and see the new "Star Wars" over the weekend. I'll be the one in the Princess Leia slave-girl bikini. Sarah wants to go as an Ewok. Rock on.

Maya's Latest Tale of the Tape

We had yet another of the standard youngin' pediatric check-ups earlier this afternoon. The primary characterization given by our Doc was that Maya is, in a word, "thriving." But her tale of the tape didn't provide the astronomical increases that I'd put my money on with my favorite bookies. For those of you keeping score at home:

Weight: 12 lbs., 13 oz.
Height: 23 inches
Hat size: 40 1/2 cm.

All in all, a very good growth curve. Growth spurts are apparently what we're to be looking forward to in the nearish future. But most importantly, we're looking forward hopefully to a chilled out afternoon with her after the bundle of vaccinations she received set her off momentarily in the office. No surprise - 4 shots into the thigh would even trouble Keith Richards. No adverse effects, as of yet. We'll keep you posted.

And so the Senate has started their filibuster-bitchfest. I love how the Republicans have begun trying to re-cast their plan as the "constitutional option" and how cheesy half-assed talking heads like Judy Woodruff actually introduced the "Inside Politics" reporting-overload by validating that hickville suggestion today (Judy's reportedly retiring, and not a moment too soon). Largely, however, I think this tempest-shoved-up-a-tiger's-tuchas not even begun to turn around on those attempting to unleash it. My only rock-solid prediction is that Frist is a punk. And for people his age, punk ain't even CLOSE to a compliment.

Gawd love Harry Shearer for pointing to two news stories on the latest episode of "Le Show" (I'm a bit delayed in my weekly kudos to his writing staff given the timing of the podcast download). If you haven't checked him out as of yet, these are the sorts of items you're missing. 1) The so-called "#3 Most Wanted Al Queda" figure we grabbed earlier this month that even Dubya went on record as terming a "major general" may have been confused with another Libyan on the FBI watch list. The guy we got was discovered by the British press to be a low-level lackey (characterized as part of the "flotsam and jetsam" streaming into places like Pakistan constantly). The guy we thought he was is wanted for a number of East African bombings. Oops. And 2) Ahmed "The Phoenix" Chalabi may be granted a pardon by King Abdullah of Jordan on the charges of embezzling $300M from a failed Jordanian banking operation. Just try finding that story anywhere but on the BBC in recent major press coverage. Seriously, just try.

We're getting a new fridge today after our lovable but decidedly cheap-ass landlord caved in to our reasoning that melting breast milk from a freezer door that won't close is a bad thing. But as the delivery guys are late, our entire chilled life is melting on the countertops and tables throughout our lit'l SF lovenest. Wish us luck. And with all that matters in your collective tours of life, rock on.

The look of a little girl in love with even the mere mention of eating. 

Maya's rapidly approaching the stage where everthing makes its way into her mouth. 

A Moment to Rant...

I have approximately 17 seconds to get this post up while Maya takes a momentary nap, so I hope you'll excuse me for any perceived lack of decorum. We've had a perfectly non-normal morning here, with a run by the three of us (for the first time AS A FAMILY!) in the early morning and then a late-morning feeding meeting with Sarah between her classes up the hill. Maya's amazing, but napping ain't her thing. Thank gawd for TiVo and the glider chair and the ability to engage with her without ungainly angst.

But my point...I, for one, will not be pulled into this circular firing squad following the NEWSWEEK retraction. If the Bushies want so dearly to cast blame on someone for the mess they've made, I must only ask why they think the Muslim world is so ready to burn and kill and generally pull a wedgie on their respective societies whenever even the most ridiculous examples of (alleged, as of this posting) American abuses hit the fan? If NEWSWEAK is the reason we're being burned in effigy, I'd be the first to suggest flushing them down our society's collective toilet. But they, as a half-assed, probably-guilty-of-incompetence cheese-rag have only inadvertently tapped into the most obvious and available vein of anti-Americanism we've seen in the last few weeks. I'll let all the other item-specific-obsessed maniacs out there (who I love dearly - don't get me wrong) pick this carcass clean and argue over the entrails in the days ahead. I'm just amazed that nothing - I mean NOTHING - has been broadcast about the American troop losses in the last few weeks in Iraq. Scott "I'm Jeff Gannon's Bitch" McClellan and all the Pentagon flunkies can rant about the lives lost in Afghanistan protests all they want. But they're the ones history will hoist on it's collective petard when all this static quiets down.

Shite...Maya just awoke with a crazed streak of "why aren't you hovering over me?" questions. Time to better serve Her Majesty. Rock on.

Maya's cheeks taste oh-so-sweet (with just a hint of barf).

Somewhere deep inside that fleece burrito, Maya soaks in a foggy Bay to Breakers Sunday.

Checkin' out the B2B

Yesterday marked a quirky, insane San Francisco tradition that I experienced for the first time. The Bay to Breakers roadrace, promoted as the oldest consecutively run race in the World, which depending on who's count you trust drew 65K-75K runners. Tens of thousands of unregistered runners joined in on the 7.46 mile jaunt from downtown out to Ocean Beach. And many tens of thousands more used the excuse to party and dress up in costumes and generally act like delightfully drunken fools on what was a foggy, funny Sunday. I volunteered to help at the barricade blocking the first intersection after the official start downtown where people can flood into the course after the elite runners pass. That meant I got in the race for free and could get a good view of the field of crazies from the very beginning. I definitely took it as a fun run and did little to push myself too seriously (I finished in 1:08.46). But for those that went through the official start and drank their way through the course, it took much of the day (all the runners weren't across the starting line for at least 45 minutes). I caught the bus downtown just before 5:30am to meet the volunteer street captains and I was pleasantly amazed to see a large number of old, young and decidedly not hard-core runners accompanying me on the journey to get in on the fun before the sun came up. Most of the other volunteers I met have done so for years and you saw all the personality-types on display - the "cop for a day" power junkies, the old sage hippies, the pseudo-philanthropic professionals looking for a free t-shirt and ready to bolt at the first opportunity, the grandmotherly voyeurs, the strangely-vague prison-release types, the pick-up artists, and me. Far, far too many people lining the course did so seemingly for a relatively recent phenomenon in the Bay to Breakers tradition - the "Bare to Breakers" nudists that strip down and run the race proudly, no matter what sort of body they may be sporting. Along the way, bands of all stripes and levels of skill set up and fill the air with noise. House parties especially up the Hayes Street Hill and along the panhandle of Golden Gate Park had their kegs on the sidewalks and their participants ready to pour beers or shots for the weary and increasingly-bleary on the course. I refrained from such refreshment along the way, although a guy dressed up in a Jose Cuervo bottle costume pouring shots almost unintentionally tackled me at the corner of Fell and Masonic. When the run was over, Sarah and I took Maya in her jogging stroller through the "Footstock" after-party in the Park. And then we all came home, had a filling lunch and took a nap together. In many ways, a perfect way to do my first B2B. Later in the day we watched the re-cap shows on local TV to see helicopter shots of the monstrous throngs of people and close-ups of the pack of elite pros that kicked the course's ass. 5 Kenyan men took the medals for the men (the top American was 10th overall). A Moroccan woman set a new course record and finished 12th overall. No one died, as far as I've heard thus far. A success for the City all around.

On the other side of the world, a very different sort of race in Lahore, Pakistan was shut down after a police raid, beatings and the arrests of the organizers. It seems that an uppitty group of women wanted to stage a protest run to bring attention to the fact that women can't run in marathons not to mention the litany of broader abuses of women in Pakistan and other increasing extremist Islamic countries. But it sounds like they're trying to re-schedule for next weekend. I'll keep you posted.

And it appears that TIME magazine has the first and most direct explanation from Dave Chappelle as to why he's gone missing. Sure beats the NEWSWEEK apology for the week about their "flushing the Koran" story that gave Afghani phreaky-phanatics the excuse to light the newspaper stuck in the kindling throughout the Muslim world last week. Ya win some and lose some in the bidness of mags, I suppose.

Maya shows an early fondness for her wasabi-flavored teething towel. 

Ya still wanna buy some wood?

Sarah's on-call at the hospital today, so Maya and I are doing a 12-hour fest o' all things Saturday-ish. She's currently trying to shove an entire towel into her yap which gives me a few minutes to reflect on the news wafting over the wires this morning.

Remember that crazy moment from one of the Bush-Kerry debates last year when Dubya responded incredulously to mention of his tree farm with the moronic "wanna buy some wood?" And then how it turned out that Dubya COULD actually sell wood given his interest in said tree operation. Well, in yesterday's disclosure of his family's and the Cheneys assets, it turns out that Dubya's version of tree-farming isn't exactly saplings and piles of twigs. Total value - $600K. I grew up on a "farm" in Wisconsin with some interest in Christmas tree farming. Certainly nothing like $600K worth. But I never went to Andover and assorted Ivies either, so maybe my math ain't so hot. Regardless, next time you get invited to one of those pre-packaged Bushie lovefests, I hope you'll ask Dubya if his offer still stands.

The Chili Finger Bandit's "jig is up," according to the San Jose police. Yes, they found the prior owner of the finger that showed in that always-horrific Wendy's 99-cent chili. As luck would have it, it's from a friend of the Bandito's husband. I could have sworn that most of the reporting on the finger indicated that it was a well-manicured probably female finger. This feller's finger got severed in some sort of "industrial" accident. Maybe he's just funny that way. Ya know, really particular about how well-shorn his nails are until the whole digit gets lopped off and then he doesn't care so much. Ya know, just funny.

Base closings, base closings - for all the hoo-ha we'll hear about this you'd think we were planning to actually reduce the size of the military and cut down on foreign deployments. Hardly. As the LATimes points out, this merely looks like part of an overall effort to move major bases from the Northeast and Midwest to the South and, to a lesser degree, the West. Simple power shifting, big Defense-style. The biggest loss I see is that of South Dakota which will lose Ellsworth A.F.B. worth over $2B. Hard to believe that the Bushies would smack S.D. around so soon after dumping Tom Daschle off their enemies list. But maybe the boyish-creepiness that is John Thune has worn out it's usefulness to the broader Bushie agenda.

The towel doesn't appear to be squelching Maya's protestations at the moment. We might be facing a diaper alert, Code Red. Please don't leave your homes, people. At least in this case, we have a plan. Rock on.

DeLay the DeLuded

The big inside-DC story of the morning is how Tom DeLay upped the maniacal-ante last night at a supporters' dinner by saying that "the Opposition" (translation: America) has "no class." The NYTimes buried the lead with regard to how few Republicans actually showed to support their soon-to-be ex-leader. Call DeLay what you will, but he's surely not going down without a pissy, ugly, burn-baby-burn fight. But he's most assuredly going down. By the way, the "no class" reference was meant to attack Harry Reid for calling Dubya a "loser" last week. Hard to say that Reid's comment registered with anyone other than the most anal DC reporters.

Voinovich tried to have it both ways yesterday (no, that's not a Jeff Gannon reference) by rippin' John Bolton a new one while still giving the obligatory nod to dump his carcass on the Senate for a full body vote. Everyone's playing with this seldom-used connundrum, but I'm least amazed by the conservative hack-groups continuing to attack Voinivich for not towing the Bushies' line. Personally, the hack job done by Slate on Lincoln Chaffee struck me as a most over-the-top insta-analysis, but almost all of the ink spilled on this debacle was indelibly dull and forgettable. My one remaining question - how did Chuck Hagel get spun so utterly into the Bushies' camp (read deep into this story for his justification)? Let the vote roll - the results will rattle the Bushies and Bolton's damaged goods no matter what happens. While I hate conceding the UN to the neo-Cons, this one's a loser in the long-term when there are many larger battles looming on the horizon (e.g. when the NYPost is reporting that Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring from the Supreme Court, we should all acknowledge that the shitstorm's yet to begin in DC).

In case you missed it, the pilots that sent all of DC into a tizzy (with the exception of our fearless trail-riding leader) have been interviewed and they will not be charged. So we're winning the War on Terrorism, after all.

For those of you that can access the Wall Street Journal (subscription or newstand purchase required) there's a front-page story posted this morning that truly merits a looksie. It gives great detail on how little class mobility there actually is currently in these United States. My favorite depressing analytical stat is as follows:

Despite the widespread belief that the U.S. remains a more mobile society than Europe, economists and sociologists say that in recent decades the typical child starting out in poverty in continental Europe (or in Canada) has had a better chance at prosperity. Miles Corak, an economist for Canada's national statistical agency who edited a recent Cambridge University Press book on mobility in Europe and North America, tweaked dozens of studies of the U.S., Canada and European countries to make them comparable. "The U.S. and Britain appear to stand out as the least mobile societies among the rich countries studied," he finds. France and Germany are somewhat more mobile than the U.S.; Canada and the Nordic countries are much more so.

On an entirely different level, my earlier mention of George Voinovich makes me miss the days of Pete Vukovich from the once mighty Milwaukee Brewers. Loved him in "Major League" and his crotch-grabbing influenced a generation. Where is he now, I must wonder aloud? So much more fun than to wonder just what might go wrong in this crazy-mixed-up-world over the weekend. Regardless, hope all's well with you and yours. Rock on.

"Please tell me the angle of the mirror makes my head look that wide..." 

Why Not Kinky?

Maya's begun to dig looking at herself in the mirror (Sarah would say she also got that trait from me). Plus she's obviously improving her thumb-sucking skills, with the occasional extra few digits crammed in as a bonus to bolster the taste. The daily wonders never cease to impress us, no matter how mundane. We're so charmingly new-'rentish, doncha think. So yet again today I've posted a few pics that give a sampling of her simple yet oh-so-stunning advances.

The funniest yet most appropriately ridiculous details to arise from yesterday's security scare at the White House and the Capitol relate to Dubya's midday two and a half-hour bikeride (an hour and a half on-trail, the rest in-transit). As Dana Milbank points out in today's Post, this is not the first time that unfortunate attention has been cast on Dubya's workout habits. But, as also noted, past attempts to criticize him have generally fallen flat. Will this time be any different? Well, the fact that Dubya wasn't even told of the evacuation order because the Secret Service didn't see the point of interrupting his ride deserves a bit more ink. To say the very least. Still, Dubya wears a sheet of teflon beneath his spandex, so he's probably safe from any harm that might come from this latest bit of truancy.

Today's the showdown on John Bolton. I pessimistically expect he'll get a pass from all the boneless chicken Republicans on the Foreign Relations Committee. Voinivich gave a most tortuous listing of Bolton's faults this morning, yet inexplicably he still plans to cast a "yes" vote.

While out for a run yesterday, I listened to the latest episode of Harry Shearer's "Le Show" from this past weekend via podcast. If you've not yet heard it, he usually does sketch comedy and newsy rundowns - it's quite generally brilliant. This week's show was a horse of a different color though - he spent essentially the whole hour interviewing Marsha Ball (a bluesy New Orleans standard-bearer who lives in Austin). I mention it for two reasons. 1) She and her band played at the wedding of our friends Grady and Kate in Chappell Hill, TX last month, where she rocked. 2) She mentioned the bumper sticker slogan of Kinky Friedman who's collecting signatures as an independent to run for Governor in Texas. Kinky's hilarious almost always. But his slogan won my vote hands down. "Kinky Friedman. How hard can it be?"

And in news sure to be mourned throughout the land, Dave Chappelle has apparently checked into a mental health facility in South Africa. His show is on indefinite hiatus. Bummer.

Blowing bubbles like a full-time barista. 

Maya's increasing fascination with mirrors is fun for all of us. 

"Why limit myself to the thumb when the other fingers taste just as good?"