Sunday Morning Comin’ Down

Après le deluge edition.

The Mouse Circus and there was little of quote-quality, but the “meta” – watching as the framing of how Conservatives are going to try to download their guilt and complicity for George Bush’s Iraqi War onto the Dirty Hippes come into sharper focus -- was interesting.

In Iraq, There Are No Good Options Left. They’ve all been used as ass-paper by the neocon cabal that rule and ruin America. Traded away for short-termn partisan gain at every decisive juncture as the GOP opted – every single fucking time – to choose Party over Country.

And now, There Are No Good Options Left.

In case you do not know what “There Are No Good Options Left” means, Graham Chapman explains here:


Monty Python Funeral Arrangements - For more funny videos, click here

And yet, increasingly, your MSM Republican water-carrier are digging in and grilling whoever proposes anything other that Stay The Course v3.0 like Ken Starr going after a White House aide.

As if there was some magic, hidden Good Alternative that America Hating Liberals refuse to recognize.

So this is how teevee is going to be for awhile.

Fictional Questioner: So you admit there may be a bloodbath in Iraq if we pull out? There you have it ladies and gentlemen; Senator Verisimilitude say’s he’s “Pro Iraq Bloodbath”. Up next, the mother’s of some disabled veterans explain why they support our noble mission in Iraq.

Because until Jim Webb grabs Chris Wallace or Terry Moran by his festive tie, drags him backwards through the alimentary system of a Brown-throated Three-toed sloth, and then asks him, in his best Dirty Harry voice, “What in the fuck is it about ‘There Are No Good Options Left’ that you don’t understand?”…nothing at all is going to change except for the worse.

Oh and quit bothering to try to find ”The Chris Matthews Show” in your teevee guide anymore.

It’s gone.

Replaced by something called The Hillary Show.

Basically this guy,

apparently hammered on bad county lockup Pruno, waxing slurriedly about All Things Hillurry and jerking angrily off while his paid guests watch, revolted.

But Sunday would have been a day wasted if I hadn't spent it walking, biking, smelling, listening.

Don't let anyone tell you Chicago is walkable. It isn’t; its neighborhoods are.

Today was a day for sudden urban gardens, appearing like little Brigadoons here and there; lavish testaments to what some people can do with Kubla Khan’s ambitions and 25 square feet of sward, invisibly small if you are moving faster than a fat pug can amble.

A day for noticing that the dappling of the noon light as it falls through trees sets up pockets of air which breath alternately fresh-baked bread warm and underside-of-the-pillow cool.

For a dozen languages at picnic along a murmuring beach. Where half the world is a big, bald, blue head, with a rind of sandy yellow hair and a rumpled green collar. For senior couples walking arm interlaces past young gay couples walking arms interlaced.

For the sundial shadows of buildings to coolly nudge drowsy beachgoers, reminding them that suppertime approaches.

For six guys with a video camera and a bunch of reflectors filming who knows what in ass deep water.

For seeing what the storms had done.

For stopping at a door caged open to catch the breeze and hearing a cool dark within. Filled, it seemed, with millions of unseen worshippers, inhaling diesel fumes and urban clatter into the belly of their sacred place, and exhaling incense and cowbells. Ancient mysteries and chants.

For dodging into a hole-in-the wall for noodles.

Inside, judging by the sheet-metal-dying-violently sounds it made, the A/C was technically working.

Practically it drizzled out an incontinent trickle of cool dust that got pushed around like an asthmatic mathlete in a locker room shower.

But the noodles were first rate.