Question: "In what country was Mr. Rumsfeld raised?" Answer: Fredonia

Keith Olbermann eviscerated Rummy last night on "Countdown" with an Edward R. Murrow-esque warning to the Nation. The nutjobs both in and out of the Bushie orbit will surely go after Keith for drawing some pretty scary historical parallels. If you haven't watched it, you're missing an inspired (although slightly overwritten) riff. Olbermann's always had the gift, dating back to his years at ESPN. And now I think he's got some wind in his sails. I expect more of this sort o' thang from him in the months ahead.

Hope your own sails are up. Rock on.

"What the 'Merican people need to understand is that it's not like I'm following one of them improve-eration lists of great books..."

Aside from all the world-destroying side effects, ya gotta love Dubya. Poor shmuck's forced to head down to N'Awlins and eat SERIOUS humblepie at every meal for a day. Granted, a day's nothing and he should be forced to live there until something seriously improves. But he agrees in the course of trying to spin Katrina's anniversary to talk with Brian Williams from NBC. Williams is too smug and pseudo-goodguy-ish for my taste. Yet he's got some seriously arrogant balls - just like Dubya - and that's about all it takes to succeed as a newsperson these days. If you haven't seen the interview on MSNBC or NBC, there's a little snippet on YouTube worth checking out. In whatever form, however...Dubya looks like he's lying about his "ek-a-lek-tic" reading habits. The Camus bit from recently is the basis of Williams opening up a line of questioning about Dubya's brain. So just before the Bushies get ready to push the war rhetoric before the 5th anniversary of 9/11, they try to confuse the left with a kinder, more thoughtful Dubya. Don't believe it for a second. If Brian Williams was really worth the cost of tailoring and coiffuring, he'd have read "The Stranger" and asked Dubya a tough question that only someone who'd read the book would know. Personally, I haven't read it. Which makes me a hypocrite to some, I'd imagine. But I'm not running the country and trying to lie about the books I've read while running the country deeper into the ground than at any time in our history. I'm just glad Maya's napping and giving me a minute or two to riff.

Hope your own cathartic moments arrive on time. Rock on.

When Zoo Children Attack

Weh-eh-eh-ell, this morning's previously unannounced visit to the zoo with Maya had a twist I wouldn't have seen coming with a Hubble telescope mounted on my butt. For those of you that merely want a Brew Crew update (won 12-6 in a mudslide, heading to Florida to go Marlins fishin' tonite) - skip the next paragraph of parenting insight and click through. Oh, and call your Mother.

After Maya's barf-o-rama last week on the way to the Woodland Park Zoo, we'd not tried to venture back. Partly blamed, the mornings have been cloudy and comforting close to home. Partly I keep forgetting to stock the car with a bushel of napkins. Or whatever. But on this glorious morning after a newly typical freakishly early wake-up call from Maya, we got it together and made it to Woodland Park. The kids were everywhere - clustering and galavanting like a mad virus strain in a new, undefended host. Maya alternates nowadays between walking/exploring on her own and the time we carry her and talk about the things we see. We'd gotten into the Zoo quickly, and Maya even got to get fawning attention from a dangerously mature bunch of young teenagers just behind us in the line. Through the line in 5 minutes, though. In general, Maya approaches all kids now with interest, veering often toward shyness that gets as warm as an electric blanket when she's secure. And we had a few of those brief intereactions with the random passerbys on both our levels. Soon we saw the zebras, a giraffe and three hippos lounging in their swank Seattle digs. Once again, much of our time was spent walking the trails. So after the hippos, Maya was on a jaunt. I'd seen a woman behind us that I will admit having thought was probably an off-duty stripper - all volcanic push up bra, overpriced custom painted-on jeans, oversized Chanel sunglasses, and cell phone conversation trailing behind a two-year-oldish blonde sci-fi dwarf villian monster. Maya approached the minature Stepford monster. And - I kid you not - the little bitch cross-checked Maya down to the ground. No blood, but a serious scramble from all involved to pull things together. The stripper gave me a "sorry about that" and then tried in vain to scold her seriously-deranged little autistic, churlish, unskilled demon. Maya whimpered a bit as I dusted her off, but seemed in all seriousness trying to deflect the moment. And then I pulled out of my butt what I now believe is the most horrible insult I can offer at this age and not be accused of being a jerk. I told Maya that "she's a mean girl" and that "we don't play with mean boys and girls". The stripper looked like I'd just punched her in the throat. We went our way while Maya nodded along and pontificated in her babble that mean girls are bunk. Soon enough we'd headed further into the animal kingdom and re-directed entirely. Eventually we did see the stripper and freakchild again. But they slunk off on the first trail tributary that presented itself. As a big fan of the teenbeat flick "Mean Girls" I must say that I'm surprised that "mean" has the heft I felt in this Zoo-o-logical study. Regardless, Maya got in a good nap and seems unfazed. Unlike her dad.

Hope you're the smacker not the smackee in any of today's takedowns. Rock on.

Holy Crap - A Happy Brewers Post!

It's taken a month and almost no one cares, but the New Brew Crew's on a slight upswing thanks to a good outing from Ben "Anybody Washed These?" Sheets last nite. They beat the Rockies to pull up to 4 games below .500 (61-65). Sounds pretty lame, I realize. But because the National League is mired in an era of broadening mediocrity, they're still in the Wildcard chase. Hell, they're only 5 games out of the lead in the Central with over a month to play. I've got only a handful of compatriots in this but...I think we're in the hunt. Prince Fielder is getting notice - a random goofball on Greenwood Avenue this weekend noticed my hat and started in with a riff about how Prince hit a smokin' game-winning RBI and "the boy can hit" (NOTICE: Anyone who sees racism in that remark should just cool your jets and look up Prince's dad, Cecil, and his longball career marks both here and in Japan). Derrick Turnbow even had a less-than-disasterous outing. I'm telling you, America - the New Brew Crew is rising. Praise be to hizzoner or such types.

Maya's claiming we gotta hit the road and run some errands. Hope your own riffs are extended all day. Rock on.

Maya models a previously unworn Polo dress that cannot possibly stay this frickin' cute forever.

Maya models a previously unworn Polo dress that cannot possibly stay this frickin' cute forever.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

Maya poorly preps to field a curveball off her face.

Maya poorly preps to field a curveball off her face.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

My blogosphere-mandated "SoaP" post, with bonus splatter

Since the rest of the bloggified world is all aflutter over "Snakes on a Plane" being released today, I'm falling in line with a campy, scary post after my morning with Maya. For those of you that have already traveled down the following road, I expect you'll empathize. For the rest of youse, if you think a plane full of snakes on crack sounds like a mess, just you wait...

Instead of "Snakes on a Plane" ("SoaP") think "Barfing Child in a Moving Car" ("BaC-MoC"). As in an explosively carsick Maya. After a big breakfast of Grape Nuts, fried egg and raspberries. Ewwww. Yes, Maya really outdid herself today with almost no notice in a parenting Pop Quiz for me. We were just north of the U-District on our way to the Woodland Park Zoo on a gorgeous Friday morning. We'd just dropped Sarah off at work. We need to get a second car BAD, but I'm waiting for the new stretch Hummer to come in and you know how that goes. Anyhoo, Maya had been quiet for a bit so I turned to check her mood. Just in time for the show to begin. I think it's called a Code Red if the barfing begins while the vehicle is moving. In Maya's case, breakfast made it more of a Code Magenta. A BIG Code Magenta. Getting off the road became Job #1 for me. Luckily our car is fully stocked with Maya cleaning supplies. So soon we were clean (enough) and after a nice long hug, Maya didn't even object to being put back in the puke seat. By the time we were back home, she'd smiled and giggled as she snacked on a graham cracker before starting to turn a bit green again just as we got home. It faded quickly, and I even tossed her in the bath to fully redirect. Except for the slight lingering smell of puke about her, you'd never think anything askew. The same's been said of Mel Gibson for years.

Hope your own horrors are equally short-term and campy today. Rock on.

Maya's latest ensemble features velour and new kicks Street cred accented by dressy innovation in the use of the necktie.

Maya's latest ensemble features velour and new kicks Street cred accented by dressy innovation in the use of the necktie.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

The first cross I approached in an anti-war memorial on U-Dub's campus.

The first cross I approached in an anti-war memorial on U-Dub's campus.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

A 21-year-old kid from Milwaukee. A completely unjustifiable shame for all of us to bear. A punch in the heart.

An inescapable part of such displays - the crouching photojournalist.

An inescapable part of such displays - the crouching photojournalist.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

The faces most of the media would choose to sum up Veterans for Peace. Myself included.

The faces most of the media would choose to sum up Veterans for Peace. Myself included.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

They were very friendly, generally aware, and pretty obviously tipsy. Salut!

Maya did her best to catch up with the big girls on the train tracks.

Maya did her best to catch up with the big girls on the train tracks.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

In the lot outside the Ballard Locks. An idyllic day.

Maya offers a few questions concerning the operation of the Locks.

Maya offers a few questions concerning the operation of the Locks.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

"Here fishy fishy fishy."

"Here fishy fishy fishy."
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

Maya's view of the salmon going through the fish ladder at the Ballard Locks

Maya's view of the salmon going through the fish ladder at the Ballard Locks
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

For even the most seasoned old schooler, this time of year can be inspiringly bountiful. Plus there's apparently a good run of salmon heading on through this year. But even in a bad year, there's often no more amazing place in Seattle than the public viewing area at the fish ladder along the Hiram Chittenden Locks. A definite A-rating, if you time it right.

For those of you that think there's no crime in Ballard.

For those of you that think there's no crime in Ballard.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

That's a BB hole by my forensic sweep of the scene.

Assessing his Joementum

Apparently, I'm not a part of the so-called tyranny of the blogosphere unless I pile on the Joementum. So here goes. Lowball first off. When I saw this photo, I briefly became sterile.

And then I read that Karl Rove called Joe. For what purpose, there have been claims and denials. Horsehockey. Lieberman is showing that his number one concern is, above Country and Creed, his own tuchus. That stinks. Plus he's whining like a little bitch about partisan attacks, especially from some uninformed view he has of people who run low rent gigs like what I do here at and the Family Buick. Screw him and screw all those dooshbags trying to attack people that have self-published using the free tools in the so-called blogosphere for years. We ain't goin' away. Deal with it. That's the straight shiznit fo shizzle. Or something to that effect.

Hope your own dialect is obvious to even the tardiest of all tards today. Rock on.

Maya pans for gold in the crushed rock she's come to know intimately outside our new Seattle digs.

Maya pans for gold in the crushed rock she's come to know intimately.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

Maya drools over one of the sour apples from the tree on our front lawn.

Maya drools over one of the sour apples from the tree on our front lawn.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.

Trust me, she changed her mind pretty soon hereafter.

The First Bushie admits under oath, "Something did go very wrong..."

Didja ever see the movie "Kingpins" by the Farrelly Brothers? Perfectly brilliant tripe. For me the insurmountably funny joke of a bowling hustler coming from Amish country was only surmounted by the failed infamy of Woody Harrelson's character, Roy Munson. Or more accurately, the cliche` championed by the film of "pulling a Munson" or "being so horribly unlucky, stupid and naive as to threaten your actual ability to survive in the World the rest of us inhabit." On that tangent, Claude Allen should become equally memorable. Even though he won't. We should all be able to joke about "pulling an Allen" or a "pulling a Claude". If you don't recognize the name - Claude Allen was not the low-wattage character actor that disappeared around 1980 after starring in such films as "Battle Stations" (that's Akins, and he's dead). No, this vaguely memorable Claude Allen was Dubya's Chief Domestic Policy Advisor. Until he got busted and fired. Before that, he was even a former Federal Appeals Court Judge nominee (just one step below the Supremes). Everyone given the chance to weigh in on Claude's scuttled nomination deemed him beneath consideration and unsupportable. In other news, Claude was also a sneaky shoplifter with a wacky sense of his own superiority. Basically, Claude would head into Target and buy a bunch of crap. Then he would go to his car and dump the crap to head right back in or he'd wait a few days. Then he'd put the receipt in his pocket and go back to Target, where he'd grab the same things off the shelf and walk up to the "Exchanges/Returns" counter to steal back his money on the crap he walked out with earlier. As if he were the smartest crook in the World. Or that the thought of cameras watching his every move never crossed his mind. Makes you wonder what sort of thefts this chump pulled off at our expense at work. In short, Claude is the embodiment of the Bushies's attempts at domestic policy. Rob, rob, rob. Expect no one is smart enough to see what you're sure as shite doing right there out in the open. And then break down like a little bitch on the stand - which he most certainly did as embodied in the quote in this posting's title. Oh, and for those of you now paying attention that hadn't heard of this creep before, he got probation. After getting cold busted, stealing up to the level of a felony, and getting fired because he was a political detriment. That Claude. Pulled another Allen. Or pulled his Allen. However the lexicon adopts it...that shmuck's a cliche` waiting for a moment to cross over into infamy.

Hope your own sentencing today is also delivered well before Happy Hour. Rock on.

Count out Floyd

So for all those bicycle racing fans pining away for the anchoring of their sport's credibility here in the US o' A, Floyd Landis is your Shoeless Joe Jackson. Except that he's guilty. Or wait - we're all programmed to cart out that whole "innocent until proven guilty" chestnut at times like this. That's so pre-9/11. Bottom line for Floyd Landis (who's name I've found is most delightful when pronounced employing the style used by that "are you ready to rumble" fight annoucer cheeseball) - if the Tour's test comes back as a positive for synthetic testosterone, he loses this year's Title and can't race for two whole years. A frickin' death sentence in the sport. Yikes. If you care, find a Mennonite church and lay, ah, what do I know...a corn husk good voodoo doll. Because that's about the best anyone can do for the poor bastard at the moment.

While most of the country swelters, Seattle's been putting on its best face these last few days. Sorry 'bout that. Cool at night, cloudy in the morning, clearish later in the day. Highs in the 70s. But don't come out here. I'm obligated by membership in the dark forces of exclusivist liberalism to say that it rains all the time out here. Probably not your sort of place. Even though I'm enjoying a perfectly lovely early afternoon out front of the original Caffe Ladro on Queen Anne where I hung (or done hanged) my hat for years while I lived in the neighborhood in the 90s. We like our new place up north - call the neighborhood Blue Ridge if you know of such things. North of Ballard. We've got a great park just up the street (Carkeek Park - or " Carkeek Parkeek" as I prefer) that we never knew about. It's unbelievably raw while nonetheless fully traversed by some great trails. It feels more like the Olympic Peninsula than any park in Seattle that I ever knew. Running along the trails rocks. We can't take along our beloved BOB jogging stroller for Maya since I ran it over with the Volvo. Damn thing was taunting me. In my defense - I actually "backed" over it. Not realizing it was back there. But let that be a lesson to all the kids out there that I know tune in for my safety tips and general humankind user's (or humankind's user) manual pithiness. Please, never, ever back up. Think like that hypothetical shark somebody mentioned recently in either a movie or on the internets or was it the Discovery Channel so we're supposed to take it as one of nature's truisms. If you stop moving forward and you're a shark, you die. Oh, and stay in school.

Hope your own paths today include entirely avoidable obstacles. Rock on.