Friday, February 17, 2006

"And I'd like to personally apologize to Vice President Cheney for ruining what I'm sure would have been a wonderful Happy Hour."

Not much surprise in the DC Press sitting back on their haunches. Still, I'm amazed that the Rove machine for the Bushies ran Quailgate farther down the "blame the victim" road than ever before in the history of mankind. Whittington just got out of the hospital, but before doing so gave a presser. They gave him an extra layer of mortuary make-up. And one main talking point - Big Dick is blameless. Which he repeated like the loyalest of loyalists. So history must now chew on and taste the moment when the man the Veep shot in the face apologized for what the Cheney family had to go through while he was in the hospital for six days. I don't even want to bring up the whole "heart attack and risk of other trauma due to unrecoverable birdshot near other internal organs" or "shot through many layers of clothing and in such a configuration as to suggest a blast within 20 feet" liberal conspiracies. Even though they're pretty compelling. Nope, the gutless few in control of the big press organs out there leave us with the remote-as-Pluto chance of someone from the Armstrong Ranch episode actually telling the truth. I still expect all those freaky "CSI:" fans out there to pick this carcass apart for the real story. They've gotta be up to something aside from the handful of wasted hours watching all those pseudo-real forensics shows. I'll keep an eye out for what I'm sure will inevitably rise to the surface.

We've been keeping our eye on the Winter Olympics, which everyone seems to agree are largely a bummer for Americans unless they're really stoned and/or really into snowboarding. Personally, I love the over-the-top circus performer gayness of the outfits in figure skating. On fast forward, but I still love it. Oh wait, am I still typing out loud? Anyhoo, I did pay attention to Hanna Teter on Letterman being the coolest 19-year-old on the planet (SNAP! to all you bitches in the Lohan crew). And Seth Westcott winning that crack-up fest moronically misnamed "snowboard cross" was the only compelling competition thus far. The horrible "its like NASCAR on snow" or "its like a cross between NASCAR and Roller Derby" or "its like NASCAR on acid on ice, like the frozen water kind" sportcasty-lexicon cliches have been stuck on this sport by every over-30 talky dooshbag like so many bad "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" stickers on St. Patty's Day. Maybe once hockey gets underway we'll see some stories for the Americans. Even though the entire hockey tourney will be centered on Team Canada and whether Janet Jones puts much down on the medal round. Speaking of which - great piece in "Sports Illustrated" this week on the NHL gambling ring that Janet Jones has been implicated in using to put down some pretty hefty action. Including Five Grand on the cointoss in the Super Bowl. Only people with SERIOUS problems put anything more than 20 bucks on the cointoss. Maybe fiddy with family. I had a lustful connection with Janet Jones way back during her brief window of movie stardom ("American Anthem" anyone?). But I somehow think I don't really know her anymore.

For all you music geeks, two CDs on my heavy rotation the last few days are The Decemberists ("Picaresque") and the new Belle and Sebastian. Entirely different constructions - the theatricality of The Decemberists amazing sound cracks me up and the surprising Brit Pop from Belle and Sebastian sounds like a varied, chunky, full of smart-drugs Beatles progeny. Very interesting discs by very interesting groups. Highly recommended.

We're down to week until Maya's First Birthday. Party in the Park, lots of fun to come. I'd love to rent an elephant. But then I suppose I'd need to rent something for Maya. Kids can be so demanding. Hope you own upcoming social calendar is filled with "No gifts, please" free-foodies. Rock on.

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