Blogger's Brew

Inre: My Morning
These are authorities. They carry weapons and they are allowed to do so. They are the Apparatchik of State. And they’ve just waltzed into your house like they own it and busted you like the bank. You’re place, as usual, is absolutely lousy with illicit substances. What do you do? Nothing to do. Nothing you can do. Submit to it. Try not to let it wreck your day. Find a reason to smile on your way to the patrol car. Ask them if they’d mind turning on the radio. Treat ‘em like a cabbie.

Inre: Iraq
Declare victory. Tomorrow. And you get…the…fuck…out. That easy. Sure, the World will know it’s a load but most Americans probably won’t. At most, in time, a generalized and vague recollection of some kind of confusion followed by some kind of victory. And all will be bliss once more in the Land of the free and the Home of the Distracted. The argument will go ‘Yeah, but we won.’ With the obvious response: ‘Won what? How?’ Righty and Lefty will argue about it for years, forever, like IranContra and ultimately, BullGoose Loonie Lefty and Religio-Redneck Righty agree to disagree, and so it goes. And you’re out. Right?

Inre: Fashion Trends, and Other Ways I Suffer for the Whim of the Capricious Masses.
Nobody sells turtlenecks anymore. You notice that? Their not fashionable. But my last one’s shot all to hell and well, shit man, I just like a nice, thick, black, turtleneck sweater. Maybe just tight enough to show the shoulders off a little, y’know? But they don’t sell ‘em. Everything's got zippers. It’s what they think you’re gonna think is hip the next time you’re at the mall. But where the fuck, pray tell, does that leave me? This culture is not adequately servicing my needs and hasn’t for a long time. Maybe it’s time to take off again.

Hmmmm.

Inre: Impeachment.
He ought be. And deep in America’s collective heart of hearts, they all know it, every damned one of them. The deal of the thing is nabbing Cheney first for Halliburton-related war profiteering. Also a Federal Crime. Should be nothing easier to do on earth. But maybe I’m missing something…

Inre: Her
Yeah. I fall in love too easily. But I fall in love for this just barely fathomable ideal. If it were summertime I’d suggest we go to the desert, do huge rails and see what comes out of our mouths. Or into them, for that matter. Yeah. Absolutely. Take ‘er some place fun. Have fun. No pressure with the understanding that I will conspire for a kiss. Powerless not to. It’s entirely in her prerogative to yeah or nay at any point. Yeah. That’s the plan. Something like that. Not summer though. SO what then? Something fun.

Inre: The Finally Dead NeoCon Movement and America Killing It.
Always said the only thing that can save the World from America was Americans. Turns out I was dead-on balls on that one friends and neighbors. This makes the Far Right comes back a little. The big NeoCOn experiment is over, a miserable failure on every count, something we can all agree on. Maybe the whole American Tragicomic experience of GWB spontaneously generates this feeling that regardless of Lefty or Righty leanings, Things are Bollixed and Need to be Fixed. That’s the reality, America. Not only do you have to deal with that reality but you have to deal with the situation. You have to fix it. Sorry. It’s not easy and it’s not something you can just make a phonecall about as you laze on the couch with the remote and that heaping bag of Doritos. Nope, things need to be fixed and they take Time. Your Time.

Inre Alcoholism and Minding Your Own Business.
Am I an alcoholic? Absolutely! And more! I’m all sorts of aholics! I’ll take no stones from anybody for it neither! Kiss my ass! Shuffle on! Yeah! I’ll take a Jack Daniels. On the rocks. In a brandy snifter. To go. And make it a double. Heh heh heh.

Inre My Writing Style and Who the Hell is Spenser Tracy? Why Not Miles Davis?
Some dude called my writing style some kind of cheap, Spencer Tracy ripoff. Had he called me some kinda second-rate Hunter S Thompson hack there woulda been nothing I coulda said. But dude prob’ly doesn't even know who the good doctor even was. Needless to say I wasn't offended. Told him the whole thing's actually a kinda first person narrative, which is old as dust.

Inre: Getting Things Fixed
Like monitoring your elections. And not forgetting it the day after it’s over, regardless of the outcome. Things need to be fixed. The elections are a sham. Machines going home at night with “administrators”? What the hell, pray tell, is that? A great big, yellow button that enables anybody to add as many votes as they like? Ridiculous. Lefty or Righty it is ridiculous. Dubya made his America Votes Act and, for Lefty or Righty, it has proven insufficient. Like everything else he's touched. Needs to be fixed, or rather, needs to be corrected. The fix is already in, Voters. The day after the vote, the week after, the year after, the People need to ensure that Democracy is protected, corrected and they need to not back down, ever, until an election’s result is at least as unimpeachable as the old, pieces-of-paper-in-a-cardboard-box deal that happens to work about a thousand times better than these dubious machines.

Inre: This Little Blog o’ Mine, I’m Gonne Let It SHINE!
Prob’ly I coulda just blogged anyone of these little paragraphs on their own and got reads, comments and whatever else be the coinage of the realm. As it is it’s a big jumbled mess that only the Faithful will read right through but what of it? I like it. Feels like some kinda jagged jazz scene and me and you are rippin’ it up out there, flyin' for a crowd that's snappin' they fingers and bobbin' they heads. Dig on that. Yeah.

Exeunt.