Ecclesiastes 1:9

Dr. King's notes on Ecclesiastes 1:9
Courtesy of The King Center

REPOST from August 31, 2009.

January 4, 2015 Introduction:

Many people react as if the "recent" report(s) reclassifying as torture the Bush-era "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques" came out of an unforeseen overhead vista of cerulean blue -- that overlapping and sly sky blue. Perhaps from those interwebs' "cloud" storage devices about which I hear such rumors?

A redacted, unclassified version from the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is available HERE. This short version addresses the years 2001 to 2006, and represents "an executive summary" of the key findings. The complete edition, still classified, was adopted by the SSCI in 2012. The CIA response to the SSCI document, delivered in memorandum form on June 27, 2013, was released in a redacted, unclassified version in early December 2014, and can be found HERE.

Where does the political and media "shock" come from, and the straight faces from which the surprise and awe are delivered?

I don't know.  You've only to have followed the work of the ACLU and the individual FOIA requests of hundreds of reputable organizations and individuals over the years -- and beyond the neatly forgiving endpoint of 2006. The ACLU Torture Database documents their efforts to obtain documentation and is the basis of their document, "U.S. Torture Program: A Blueprint for Accountability," which can be downloaded HERE.

Maybe you recall President Obama's quiet statement from August 2009, summarized this way in the New York Times:

WASHINGTON — The Obama administration will continue the Bush administration’s practice of sending terrorism suspects to third countries for detention and interrogation, but pledges to closely monitor their treatment to ensure that they are not tortured, administration officials said Monday.

Perhaps my skepticism of the tardy, off-Broadway response by the public, the pols, and the Fourth Estate last month can be forgiven if my bouts of hypertension and re-postings of Buckeye Surgeon's blogging on torture and the clear knowledge of it within the Executive Branch of our Esteemed Estate o'er in the United States of America are taken into account. Such interrogation techniques are unheard of in our present home in Tête de Hergé, though I wonder sometimes at the bovine revelations emanating from the Animal Husbandry Division of Marlinspike Hall's Miniature Genetic Project. (Yes, I am something of a Dr. Doolittle.)

I like one of the comments to a related ACLU article on Torture, American Style, left several years ago:

Simple solution.Water board members of the Bush Administration, until they tell us the truth.
"Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally." -- Abraham Lincoln

And, of course, should you, like me, feel that the top of your head may explode any day now (Hey, Congress reconvenes tomorrow!) -- there is always the pointless and yet temporarily invigorating method made popular by the movie Network:

In the oppressive spirit of "[w]hat has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.," then, we republish "Pourri, Pot," and hope you are not terribly jarred by the redundant hodgepodge of cats and Dick Cheney.  Close your eyes and pretend it's August 31, 2009.

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POURRI, POT

Pot pourri (rotten pot). Fitting that the name for a beautifully arranged bowl yielding questionable scents derives from the Spanish designation for olla podrida -- pork&beans. True, the Spanish being Spanish,said pork&beans stew is subject to the rarefying whims of the creative cook, a clay pot, and a long cooking time, and becomes a satisfying culinary hodgepodge.

I learned from reading the entry for potpourri in Wikipedia that,
"(when mixed, you need to enclose the mixture in a bottle or jar,and let it
sit for a few weeks. Towards the middle of the weeks, the soon to be potpourri
may smell rotten. If you wait a little while longer, it will start to smell
better, so don't get discouraged or disappointed." (I particularly relish, and
appreciate, the encouragement to fend off the ravages of clinical depression.)

Yes, indeed. Words to live by, words with which to guide your children: If you wait a little longer, it will start to smell better...

So many unimaginative people of my generation... uh-oh, incoming, incoming! Flying lyrics, flying lyrics!

People try to put us d-down (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Just because we g-g-get around (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Yeah, I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby
-- The Who, "My Generation"

As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, the more anemic among us are humming "Teach Your Children," and feeling oh-so-competent. And organic. You know what I mean -- don't you? Look around you -- aren't there a few competent/organic types lurking in your shadows, obnoxiously humming:

You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye.
-- CSNY, "Teach Your Children"

The men ye shall know by their thin ponytails and receding hairlines. (The women ye shall spot by their insistent middle-of-the-hair part -- a style best reserved for those few of perfect face.)

Pot pourri. Potpourri.

Sadly, we have actual odor issues going on this morning. Fred decided to change cat litter brands -- again -- and I believe there is some sort of intestinal rebellion in the works. He wants to "go green," an impulse we all applaud, in public, but occasionally regret, in private.

I want to be as eco-friendly as possible. Really, I do. Thus far in our kitty greening, we've done recycled paper litter, corn litter, and alfalfa litter. At the moment, I believe we're using a combination of compressed sawdust and alfalfa. [One of the eternal questions: Why are simpler, less-processed products more expensive than standard commercial stuff? Shouldn't the cost of production be lower?] And as often as possible in our upkeep of Captain Haddock's ancestral home, we try to use products original to its construction -- the reason we have two-pound cans of clean sheep tallow tucked in various nooks and crannies, plus a stash of sustainably harvested local wood in [our replica of] the Knoppenburg Manor* Stables.

And should the good Captain Haddock ever depart Bongi-country and approve our plans for expansion, we've opted to employ straw bale in our framing and pneumatically impacted stabilized earth (PISE) -- or rammed earth* -- in the construction of our walls.

* Rammed earth, also known as taipa[1], pisé de terre or simply pisé, is a
technique used in the building of walls using the raw materials of mud, chalk,
lime and gravel. It is an ancient building method that has seen a revival in
recent years as people seek more sustainable building materials and natural
building methods. Because of the nature of the materials used it is
incombustible, thermally insulating and very strong and hardwearing. It also has
the added advantage of being a very low cost and simple way to construct
walls.

Ha! Dobby just came by to give the computer a good sniff.

Dobby is sometimes known as The Nose. Small, pink, and often quivering, his nose misses nothing. He insists on sniffing certain things -- and we participate... because we're weird. For instance, my water bottle. One of the ways in which I supported Hillary Clinton during her bid for the presidency came through the purchase of this 32-ounce water bottle, appropriately festooned with her name and a hint of the American flag. I drink probably 100+ ounces of water a day, so this monster bottle is never far away. I also have a Hillary tee that is totally irksome. I cannot prove it, but I believe it is a factory reject. An ounce too heavy, a few stitches awry.

In the beginning, Dobby was just fascinated with the movement of the water inside the dark blue cylinder, and I would turn it sideways to make "waves." He would slap them with his paws. Then he became curious about what was inside, about whatever it was that drew me so often to the bottle. So I would hold the open bottle in front of his small, pink, and quivering nose, and he would begin the serious task of sniffing.

I am a clean person. Good hygiene, and all that. Almost spotless house. I floss. But Dobby? Dobby is absolutely scrupulous about cleanliness. Dobby is Mr. Clean. Mr. CleanCat. When he encounters something off in his environment, the cat stands and delivers -- loud, obnoxious vocalizations.

No one may rest until all is well in DobbyLand.

I offer The Dobster whiffs from the Hillary Bottle about three times a day. He plants his front paws, approaches the opening with The Nose, and takes about three good sniffs. All is well, I drink the water, and we rewind.

Yesterday, at the first Hillary Bottle offering, he blink-blink-blinked and recoiled in obvious horror. As there had been a break in the water main down the road from Marlinspike Hall, I thought: "Aha! I'm like a miner with a canary. Thanks to Dobby, I've been saved from sure poisoning."

I rinsed it out, and added fresh filtered water. A few hours later, now confident in the quality of my water, I offered the little idiot another whiff. He looked at me in abject terror, then turned and ran, vocalizing a banshee's keening wail.

Everyone's a critic.

Even though the human consensus was that the bottle was clean and that Dobby was touched in the head -- after I scrubbed the Hillary Bottle inside and out with an old toothbrush and ick-smelling lemon detergent, Dobby once again was happy to offer his schnoz.

Pot pourri. Potpourri.

"Maybe I could interest you in a hot cup of shut-the-fuck-up..." (Jon Stewart, 3.18.09)

Oops! Sorry! I didn't mean to write that out loud, much less carefully attribute it by author and date of original production.

I was just sitting here, cozy in the chiaroscuro of pre-dawn, waiting for those rosy fingers, Homer's trope, contemplating Dick Cheney's latest pronouncements.

Obama's decision to authorize Attorney General Eric Holder's investigation "serves as a reminder, if any were needed, of why so many Americans have doubts about this Administration's ability to be responsible for our nation's security." He went on to call it an "outrageous political act that will do great damage, long-term."

"I just think it's an outrageous precedent to set, to have this kind of, I think, intensely partisan, politicized look back at the prior administration," Cheney said in an interview aired on "Fox News Sunday," during which he was peppered with pre-determined, softball-type queries, dotingly, lovingly pitched by Chris Wallace.

A politicized Justice Department? An Attorney General, under the thumb? There's a name that keeps nibbling at my crumbling memory... Who was it? Something guttural... G-g-g-g?

Gonzales?

Oh, and I really want to hear how Cheney and Bush kept us "safe" (for eight years, Cheney qualifies, and even that is wrong). There was that tiny glitch on September 11, 2001 -- and then, Cheney likes to pretend, nothing! Absolute safety, brought to us by virtue of EITs, enhanced interrogation techniques -- some of which qualifies as torture.

John McCain, who perhaps has the most informed opinion on the matter, said this of Cheney's remarks during his appearance on Face the Nation:

"I think the interrogations were in violation of the Geneva Conventions and the convention against torture that we ratified under President Reagan," said the Arizona Republican. "I think these interrogations, once publicized, helped al Qaeda recruit. I got that from an al Qaeda operative in a prison camp in Iraq... I think that the ability of us to work with our allies was harmed. And I believe that information, according go the FBI and others, could have been gained through other members."

There ought to be a Hallmark card. I bet that Chris Wallace has that covered, that and the Whitman Sampler. Andrew Sullivan has a slight opinion about his journalist colleague, though he expresses it in tepid, half-hearted fashion. That's what they're known for at The Atlantic:

When future historians ask how the United States came not only to practice torture but to celebrate it and treat torturers as heroes, a special place in hell among the journalists who embraced and justified it should be reserved for Chris Wallace.

I find it outfrigging outrageous that we continually have to deal with this frustrated little man that is Cheney.




*Knoppenburg Manor is, in fact, for sale. Sad that one of its key selling points is that this area of Belgium has "remained free from the threat of terrorist attacks." Our stable replica is a lovely place in which to relax, chat, contemplate -- at least on warm days. Built some time in the 16th century, the Manor Knoppenburg's charm is in its simplicity and functionality. Make a bid!

REPOST in the wake of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords' Shooting: Pollyanna's Glad Game

When a Congressperson is shot at point blank range in the head, it is time to examine the atmosphere that is informing our political and social makeup.


It is time to talk about these things, it is time to put up our "Polyanna Glad Games," and to pull our collective head out of the sand. Discourse, and its level of civility, matters.


Words matter.


There are desperately angry people who are desperately searching for leadership. The desperation has been increasingly palpable since President Obama took office -- his election having tapped into the barely suppressed rage of racists whose racism has heretofore managed to adequately explain their racist world. They feel intimately violated by the sweeping changes in the United States, no matter how intelligent or necessary that change has been.


It's been all "Don't tread on me" with neverending references to some abstract "Truth" and fantastical "Liberties" that our "Forefathers" apparently secreted from their very pores. 

Already I am reading things like "[t]here aren't many details yet, but whatever they turn out to be, they will be spun hard, and not in favor of liberty," that from Moonbattery on today's shooting. 


It's been nothing but racist, ignorant bullshit for way too long. And there has grown alongside of it a fluorishing political economy of wagging radio tongues and malevolent talking heads.


The sad thing is that those with real points to make on the conservative side of politics and governing have been drowned out, their thoughts and considered points trammeled by demagoguery.


There is a place for the right, the left, and the moderate.


There is no place, or, at least, there ought not be a place, for mindless followers spurred on by meanspirited Machiavellis.


Anyway, I lay the blame for Congress Woman Giffords death squarely on the shoulders of FOX News and those who put gun targets on the backs of public servants.


It will be a while before I play The Glad Game. How about you?

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The editorial below is one of the best, most thought-and-discussion provoking pieces I've come across in a good while. It's reproduced here in its entirety -- please forgive me for that and be sure to follow the link, because the comments are also well worth a read.

I am a Frank Rich fan. He is meticulous. He is candid.

And I usually agree with him -- there's that!

I haven't yet scoped out the responses to this editorial -- I am sure they're mounting -- but will post links to them. Maybe tomorrow! I am having a few days of... I don't know exactly how to characterize it... carefully crafted peace? It took me a week but I managed to trace the source of my acid stomach to all this mess.

We've been laid bare. I've been laid bare. Flailed, thrashed. My mind is bleeding.

And in other, more important news? Fred installed a birdhouse in the huge oak sheltering our suite in the northeast wing of Marlinspike Hall, where we have been living for a decade or so, rent-free but burdened by incredible maintenance cares -- all courtesy of Captain Haddock. Five minutes after hanging the For Rent sign, a robin moved in and began building!

Yes, I am playing the Pollyanna Glad Game, however did you know?

For a moment there was silence. The sky was darkening fast. Pollyanna took a firmer hold of her friend's arm.

"I reckon I'm glad, after all, that you did get scared -- a little, 'cause then you came after me," she shivered.

"Poor little lamb! And you must be hungry, too. I -- I'm afraid you'll have ter have bread and milk in the kitchen with me. Yer aunt didn't like it -- because you didn't come down ter supper, ye know."

"But I couldn't. I was up here."

"Yes; but -- she didn't know that, you see!" observed Nancy, dryly, stifling a chuckle. "I'm sorry about the bread and milk; I am, I am."

"Oh, I'm not. I'm glad."

"Glad! Why?"

"Why, I like bread and milk, and I'd like to eat with you. I don't see any trouble about being glad about that."

"You don't seem ter see any trouble bein' glad about everythin'," retorted Nancy, choking a little over her remembrance of Pollyanna's brave attempts to like the bare little attic room.

Pollyanna laughed softly.

"Well, that's the game, you know, anyway."

"The -- game?"

"Yes; the 'just being glad' game."

"Whatever in the world are you talkin' about?"

"Why, it's a game. Father told it to me, and it's lovely," rejoined Pollyanna. "We've played it always, ever since I was a little, little girl. I told the Ladies' Aid, and they played it -- some of them."

"What is it? I ain't much on games, though."

Pollyanna laughed again, but she sighed, too; and in the gathering twilight her face looked thin and wistful.

"Why, we began it on some crutches that came in a missionary barrel."

"Crutches!"

"Yes. You see I'd wanted a doll, and father had written them so; but when the barrel came the lady wrote that there hadn't any dolls come in, but the little crutches had. So she sent 'em along as they might come in handy for some child, sometime. And that's when we began it."

"Well, I must say I can't see any game about that, about that," declared Nancy, almost irritably.

"Oh, yes; the game was to just find something about everything to be glad about -- no matter what 'twas," rejoined Pollyanna, earnestly. "And we began right then -- on the crutches."

"Well, goodness me! I can't see anythin' ter be glad about -- gettin' a pair of crutches when you wanted a doll!"

Pollyanna clapped her hands.

"There is -- there is," she crowed. "But I couldn't see it, either, Nancy, at first," she added, with quick honesty. "Father had to tell it to me."

"Well, then, suppose you tell me," almost snapped Nancy.

"Goosey! Why, just be glad because you don't - need -- 'em!" exulted Pollyanna, triumphantly. "You see it's just as easy -- when you know how!"

"Well, of all the queer doin's!" breathed Nancy, regarding Pollyanna with almost fearful eyes.

"Oh, but it isn't queer -- it's lovely," maintained Pollyanna enthusiastically. "And we've played it ever since. And the harder 'tis, the more fun 'tis to get 'em out; only -- only sometimes it's almost too hard -- like when your father goes to Heaven, and there isn't anybody but a Ladies' Aid left."

The Rage Is Not About Health Care

By FRANK RICH
Published: March 27, 2010

THERE were times when last Sunday’s great G.O.P. health care implosion threatened to bring the thrill back to reality television. On ABC’s “This Week,” a frothing and filibustering Karl Rove all but lost it in a debate with the Obama strategist David Plouffe. A few hours later, the perennially copper-faced Republican leader John Boehner revved up his “Hell no, you can’t!” incantation in the House chamber — instant fodder for a new viral video remixing his rap with will.i.am’s “Yes, we can!” classic from the campaign. Boehner, having previously likened the health care bill to Armageddon, was now so apoplectic you had to wonder if he had just discovered one of its more obscure revenue-generating provisions, a tax on indoor tanning salons.

But the laughs evaporated soon enough. There’s nothing entertaining about watching goons hurl venomous slurs at congressmen like the civil rights hero John Lewis and the openly gay Barney Frank. And as the week dragged on, and reports of death threats and vandalism stretched from Arizona to Kansas to upstate New York, the F.B.I. and the local police had to get into the act to protect members of Congress and their families.

How curious that a mob fond of likening President Obama to Hitler knows so little about history that it doesn’t recognize its own small-scale mimicry of Kristallnacht. The weapon of choice for vigilante violence at Congressional offices has been a brick hurled through a window. So far.

No less curious is how disproportionate this red-hot anger is to its proximate cause. The historic Obama-Pelosi health care victory is a big deal, all right, so much so it doesn’t need Joe Biden’s adjective to hype it. But the bill does not erect a huge New Deal-Great Society-style government program. In lieu of a public option, it delivers 32 million newly insured Americans to private insurers. As no less a conservative authority than The Wall Street Journal editorial page observed last week, the bill’s prototype is the health care legislation Mitt Romney signed into law in Massachusetts. It contains what used to be considered Republican ideas.

Yet it’s this bill that inspired G.O.P. congressmen on the House floor to egg on disruptive protesters even as they were being evicted from the gallery by the Capitol Police last Sunday. It’s this bill that prompted a congressman to shout “baby killer” at Bart Stupak, a staunch anti-abortion Democrat. It’s this bill that drove a demonstrator to spit on Emanuel Cleaver, a black representative from Missouri. And it’s this “middle-of-the-road” bill, as Obama accurately calls it, that has incited an unglued firestorm of homicidal rhetoric, from “Kill the bill!” to Sarah Palin’s cry for her followers to “reload.” At least four of the House members hit with death threats or vandalism are among the 20 political targets Palin marks with rifle crosshairs on a map on her Facebook page.

When Social Security was passed by Congress in 1935 and Medicare in 1965, there was indeed heated opposition. As Dana Milbank wrote in The Washington Post, Alf Landon built his catastrophic 1936 presidential campaign on a call for repealing Social Security. (Democrats can only pray that the G.O.P. will “go for it” again in 2010, as Obama goaded them on Thursday, and keep demanding repeal of a bill that by September will shower benefits on the elderly and children alike.) When L.B.J. scored his Medicare coup, there were the inevitable cries of “socialism” along with ultimately empty rumblings of a boycott from the American Medical Association.

But there was nothing like this. To find a prototype for the overheated reaction to the health care bill, you have to look a year before Medicare, to the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Both laws passed by similar majorities in Congress; the Civil Rights Act received even more votes in the Senate (73) than Medicare (70). But it was only the civil rights bill that made some Americans run off the rails. That’s because it was the one that signaled an inexorable and immutable change in the very identity of America, not just its governance.

The apocalyptic predictions then, like those about health care now, were all framed in constitutional pieties, of course. Barry Goldwater, running for president in ’64, drew on the counsel of two young legal allies, William Rehnquist and Robert Bork, to characterize the bill as a “threat to the very essence of our basic system” and a “usurpation” of states’ rights that “would force you to admit drunks, a known murderer or an insane person into your place of business.” Richard Russell, the segregationist Democratic senator from Georgia, said the bill “would destroy the free enterprise system.” David Lawrence, a widely syndicated conservative columnist, bemoaned the establishment of “a federal dictatorship.” Meanwhile, three civil rights workers were murdered in Philadelphia, Miss.

That a tsunami of anger is gathering today is illogical, given that what the right calls “Obamacare” is less provocative than either the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or Medicare, an epic entitlement that actually did precipitate a government takeover of a sizable chunk of American health care. But the explanation is plain: the health care bill is not the main source of this anger and never has been. It’s merely a handy excuse. The real source of the over-the-top rage of 2010 is the same kind of national existential reordering that roiled America in 1964.

In fact, the current surge of anger — and the accompanying rise in right-wing extremism — predates the entire health care debate. The first signs were the shrieks of “traitor” and “off with his head” at Palin rallies as Obama’s election became more likely in October 2008. Those passions have spiraled ever since — from Gov. Rick Perry’s kowtowing to secessionists at a Tea Party rally in Texas to the gratuitous brandishing of assault weapons at Obama health care rallies last summer to “You lie!” piercing the president’s address to Congress last fall like an ominous shot.

If Obama’s first legislative priority had been immigration or financial reform or climate change, we would have seen the same trajectory. The conjunction of a black president and a female speaker of the House — topped off by a wise Latina on the Supreme Court and a powerful gay Congressional committee chairman — would sow fears of disenfranchisement among a dwindling and threatened minority in the country no matter what policies were in play. It’s not happenstance that Frank, Lewis and Cleaver — none of them major Democratic players in the health care push — received a major share of last weekend’s abuse. When you hear demonstrators chant the slogan “Take our country back!,” these are the people they want to take the country back from.

They can’t. Demographics are avatars of a change bigger than any bill contemplated by Obama or Congress. The week before the health care vote, The Times reported that births to Asian, black and Hispanic women accounted for 48 percent of all births in America in the 12 months ending in July 2008. By 2012, the next presidential election year, non-Hispanic white births will be in the minority. The Tea Party movement is virtually all white. The Republicans haven’t had a single African-American in the Senate or the House since 2003 and have had only three in total since 1935. Their anxieties about a rapidly changing America are well-grounded.

If Congressional Republicans want to maintain a politburo-like homogeneity in opposition to the Democrats, that’s their right. If they want to replay the petulant Gingrich government shutdown of 1995 by boycotting hearings and, as John McCain has vowed, refusing to cooperate on any legislation, that’s their right too (and a political gift to the Democrats). But they can’t emulate the 1995 G.O.P. by remaining silent as mass hysteria, some of it encompassing armed militias, runs amok in their own precincts. We know the end of that story. And they can’t pretend that we’re talking about “isolated incidents” or a “fringe” utterly divorced from the G.O.P. A Quinnipiac poll last week found that 74 percent of Tea Party members identify themselves as Republicans or Republican-leaning independents, while only 16 percent are aligned with Democrats.

After the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed, some responsible leaders in both parties spoke out to try to put a lid on the resistance and violence. The arch-segregationist Russell of Georgia, concerned about what might happen in his own backyard, declared flatly that the law is “now on the books.” Yet no Republican or conservative leader of stature has taken on Palin, Perry, Boehner or any of the others who have been stoking these fires for a good 17 months now. Last week McCain even endorsed Palin’s “reload” rhetoric.

Are these politicians so frightened of offending anyone in the Tea Party-Glenn Beck base that they would rather fall silent than call out its extremist elements and their enablers? Seemingly so, and if G.O.P. leaders of all stripes, from Romney to Mitch McConnell to Olympia Snowe to Lindsey Graham, are afraid of these forces, that’s the strongest possible indicator that the rest of us have reason to fear them too.

Go read something!

A huge factor in having little to nothing to say? Not reading, and then not discussing what I have not read.

And quality matters.

When I read crap -- such as The Tweets of Stupid People or the intimate machinations of pulp media -- it's not so much that I, in turn, produce crap, but that I fall silent. There is nothing much worth repeating, rehashing, reposting, retweeting, reiterating in any way. The original iteration was failure enough.

I set out to defeat this tendency today. I grabbed some old New Yorkers, read some online articles, including George Packer's Stop the World, and Twitter: A Conversation (as the day went on, I got better with my chronologies!).

Allowing Twitter to stand in for all technology-driven communication, anyone concerned about Twitter, reading, and writing wonders along with Packer:

My question is whether Twitter and its accomplices will yield to some kind of reaction, a backlash, like, say, the reaction against urban sprawl or suburban sprawl. Back then, they sounded like reactionaries who said development is not a good in itself, we need to think about how we’re developing, and maybe there should be some limits on development.
Read more: here.

I moved on to Rolling Stone, thinking to work fast and hard at developing my hep attitudes and contemporary smarts in musical culture. My Darling Brother-Unit, Professor Grader Boob is coming here for Spring Break, after all, and we wants to be up to snuff, we does.

On that front, however, I have not just simple suspicions, but sneaking ones, as well. Grader Boob went and took on a course load of SEVEN classes, which does not bode well for his free time, or for things such as sleep and personal hygiene. His water bed having finally dried up, he has yet to purchase a new bed, and is therefore sleeping on the floor, and then daring to complain about back pain. (I thought the floor would be much better for him than the nightly tsunami that was his water bed, but it seems I am wrong.) So we are luring him onward to The Manor, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) with promises of luxurious bedding, sponge baths administered by our healthy young Swedish neighbor, Helga, and culinary delights of which he has heretofore only dreamed...

Still. SEVEN classes. Maybe I will forgo the cooking of delights, and offer to bring my red pen out of retirement.

Mais je divague... I confess to rereading the 2008 article on John McCain, "The Make Believe Maverick," trying to look at old information in a new light. Not much resulted from that effort except brief muttering and foaming at the mouth. I am sure I have a pill for that but am equally sure that I cannot afford to fill the prescription.

It brought me back to the temper tantrum mode I was in after watching "my Sunday shows" yesterday. I was screaming at the television even though Rachel Maddow ably took dipshit Rep. Aaron Schock to school. I broke. The young whippersnapper had The Technique down Pat (I loved that old joke!). Hell's Bells, go here and read about it, watch the netcast, hoot and holler in your own space, time, and way.

In the meantime, here are two short clips of her training regime for gently slapping Lying Republicans on the snout:




She continues to spank the boy...




We tend to confuse real political conversations with the carefully orchestrated repetition of lies prevalent among the righteous right wing (as well as among the more knee-jerky of the left). Nothing maddens me more. As I age, the certainty that the electorate is full of Stupid People -- most are kind and use the more amenable term sheep -- has become set in stone. The Stupid People are easy targets for this type of bullshit.

Former Rep. Harold Ford Jr. got my ill-fated fist pump (I deliver one per show): "We are in the majority; We have an obligation to govern." I am not a fan of his, in particular, as he is quite the slick trickster and incestuous love-child of Wall Street, but that phrasing summed up my feelings well. As I slowly but surely head to my grave, I could give a Royal Hoot about bipartisanship.

The ever present Dick Cheney also participated in this plot to rob me of functional vocal cords. He is Beyond Scary and it would not be an overstatement were I to say that I wish he would... oh, well, you know. I don't need Halliburton Enforcers and Blackwater Ninjas showing up at my door.

I wasn't surprised to find that one of my favorite bloggers, Buckeye Surgeon, has kept his finger on the pulse (see how deftly I worked in that smooth medical reference?) of the torture issue, and Cheney, torture's greatest advocate, with his post Unabashed Torturer. It is perhaps the shortest and most emotive of what is beginning to be a regular Cheney Series. Poor Buckeye Surgeon sometimes fails to convey with clarity and can get lost in his words. Like here: "Dick Cheney is a criminal." I wish he would pick an opinion and stick with it!

To sample Buckeye's burgeoning Cheney Series, go here.

Ya, so from the McCain article to this little medical blog, my political muscles have been been working hard. It's like tossing perfectly dry split kindling onto the beginnings of a mighty bonfire -- I may well burn up, go up in smoke before the conversations are ever made meaningful, but at least I kept myself in the game.

I CAN'T HELP IT! THE TUBE IS SET TO LES JEUX-O and Bode got his bronze on! I don't think I've ever divulged my love affair with an Olympic Downhiller. Have I? Oh, so much to read, so much to say, so much to do!

See? Tear yourself away from the soaps and Twitter and Dr. Phil -- go read something. Start a freaking conversation.

Joie de vivre!

It's Sunday morning and the fur is flying, as feline jealousies are in high gear. I am a "dog person," and so, of course, we have four cats.

Sam-I-Am considers himself mistreated and abandoned since we took in Uncle Kitty Big Balls back in May. Sammy is an impressive-looking cat, having cultivated a James-Deanesque sort of bemused glower. If there is such a glower.

He has been with us the longest, joining us after Dear Prudence passed away... when? Wow. It's been ten years. He came along to pester Monaghan -- Monaghan deserves a post all his own -- such a gentle giant. He was our Nurse Cat. He loved music. The Fredster brought him home as a "surprise" one Thanksgiving morning -- he appeared to be nothing but long, black, matted hair and proved his quality by enduring his first brushing with dignity. His death was very hard on Fred -- it came at a time when he was dealing with his diagnosis of adult ADHD, the loss of a job, my usual dramas, a new house -- beaucoup de stuff. Monaghan sort of marked the trajectory of his personal journey. Fred could not accept that the sweet thing was very, very ill and I had the awful task of forcing him to the vet, knowing that Monaghan would not come home again.

Among many other Monaghan Mysteries, we could never figure out how he managed to have such cold, minty breath.

Dear Prudence was a great influence on this oh-so-serious animal, as she was just a lovely ditzer. Sadly, she wasn't with us long. She apparently had a stroke that sunny summer day... and the forensic-inclined vet who examined her just minutes after her death opined that she may have had an undiagnosed seizure disorder. I miss the little thing. She was so naturally tiny that the shelter from which we adopted her was unsure of her actual age. Turns out they were a little off, the vet, too -- or Prudy set a record for Youngest Estrus. We were holding off on having her spayed because the vet refused to operate on such a young kitten. Ar ar ar!

The poor thing clawed her way out of a window screen in the middle of the night and when we managed to corral her the next day, she had obviously experienced a great deal of sexual trauma. As in gang rape.

Dear Prudence loved pretending she needed saving -- from trees, rooves, car tops, boulders. Typical girly-girl.

Sam-I-Am was born in a Walmart store. His mother was hit by a car after being chased outside, and her kittens were promptly delivered to the local shelter. Sammy was pitiful -- covered in fleas to an extent I'd not thought possible, really too young and tiny for adoption (but we're so glad they fudged the numbers for us!).

[beep:beep:beep: John McCain is on Meet the Press. His response to the implications of the burgeoning Cheney scandal and the possibility of an investigation: "What's the positive that could come from dragging this out in public when we already know bad things were done?"

Damn straight! Why examine our conscience -- I mean, we *get* it, already: Big goofs, they happen!

As for Sarah Palin and her baling out of the discomforts of governance? "I wasn't shocked. A bit surprised... I am confident she will be a major factor on the national scene..." And, explaining her reasons for resigning, as laid out by Palin in a breathy private phone call: "How can she best serve?" It is all about finding the best place, the most effective position, from which to wield her intricate policies. Warming to his mental notecards, McCain then goes on to blame the media, the ethics charges, and "sustained personal attacks." He does a fine jig when asked why he won't back her candidacy for future office.

Dance, John, dance!

David Gregory: "Knowing everything you know now, would you nominate her again?" Pirouetting, doing a great job of spotting as he whips around, McCain says: "Absolutely, absolutely." Said with the stiffest smile I've ever seen.

She really *owes* this man for his kindness, for his reticence to say what we all already know.

Looking more closely, though, I think he is either suffering eye strain or communicating in dotty dashes of blinking -- yes, Morse code blinking!

Calling on my somewhat rusty code skills, here is McCain's Morse text, translated:

.--. .- .-.. .. -. / - --- .-. .--. . -.. --- . -.. / -- -.-- / -.-. .- -. -.. .. -.. .- -.-. -.-- .-.-.- / ... .... . / .. ... / .- -. .- - .... . -- .- .-.-.- / .-. ..- -. --..-- / .-. ..- -. --..-- / .. / ... .- -.-- --..-- / .. -. / - .... . / --- .--. .--. --- ... .. - . / -.. .. .-. . -.-. - .. --- -. .-.-.- / .. -. / - .... . / .-- --- .-. -.. ... / --- ..-. / ... .- --. .- -.-. .. --- ..- ... / --. .- -. -.. .- .-.. ..-. ---... / ..-. .-.. -.-- --..-- / -.-- --- ..- / ..-. --- --- .-.. ... .-.-.-

On the need for additional troops in Afghanistan: "Let's not go back to a Rumsfeld war..." Hmm. When was the last Rumsfeld sighting? And... John, how are we to avoid the repetition of such errors if we don't give them a good airing, a close and public look? It's not that there is a subset of the citizenry jonesing for some bitchslapping of the Bush administration for its more criminal endeavors... Oh, wait. Yes, there is such a group of reprobates! That's precisely what I want, for instance.

Despite his tendency for duplicity, I still like McCain and will never understand why he shot himself, again, in the foot last time out, reviving doubts about his judgment and temperament.

John, remember to spot as you turn, else all that spinning will make you dizzy. Whip, whip, whip! beep:beep:beep]

Um, anyway. Choo choo?

After Monaghan died, the entire household here at Marlinspike Hall, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé, seemed to age and become somewhat musty. There was a lot of sneezing and blowing-of-the-noses. Sam-I-Am began to put on weight and undertook a deep study of cat-napping.

It was at this point that a rather ragtag pair of siblings began to haunt the moat area of The Manor: now known as Uncle Kitty Big Balls and his sister, the mercurial Marmy. In a creative stretch, they are also known as Little Boy and Little Girl. Okay, and occasionally: Pickle Head and Fluffy Butt. Then there is the ubiquitous unisexual appellation of Stinky Boy/Girl. Trust me, this family line has produced some bodacious foul odor producers.

This served to drive Sammy nuts -- his nose gone into overdrive, haunted by the markings exterior to Marlinspike Hall that easily invaded his space through the as-yet-to-be-repaired late Renaissance chinking, especially pervasive in our wing. (Spring cleaning usually keeps us busy twelve months out of twelve...) We plan to spend the $70 per 3 1/2 gallon bucket next "spring" and use PeneTreat: Log Home Preservative: "PeneTreat by Sashco is a borate-based wood preservative that forms a shell of protection to defend against rot, most wood-destroying insects and fungi." Yes, we are borrowing a page from those intrepid North American pioneers.

C. h. o. o.

And so it went that Miss Marmy turned up preggers. Huge, sway-backed -- a real test of her tiny body and mind. We couldn't let her remain out in the open, struggling to feed herself and escape outdoor dangers. Enter Miss Marmy!

She defies description. I'll not even try.

At eight months old, she delivered a litter of five kittens: Speckle-Belly-White-Foot, Fuzz Bucket, Little Girl, Mascara, and the one, the only Dobby. All were adopted out, eventually, except for Dobby. We kept him -- The Runt, and Our Little Idiot. That'd be him on the far right.



Sammy's head was likely spinning. He went from a staid life with Monaghan, and virtually free reign over a whole section of The Manor, to cohabitating with a Hormone Freak of Nature, to the truly terrifying period of dealing with Marmy -- and her pronounced lack of maternal instincts --
and the cinq chatons.

Once we adopted out the four -- life settled down for our Walmart hero, and life became good. Marmy remained aloof but still was young at heart and soon was racing like an addled nutjob down spiral staircases and leaping among the Caravaggio collection. Dobby proved to be a stellar little guy and definitely came to love Sammy -- seeking him out for play and nuggling.

Um, it was also a time of sexual experimentation for our now completely sterile brood. Sammy and Dobby continue to have periods of confusion about their orientation. Progressive and open-minded as we, of course, are? We don't judge and only intervene when Sammy's weirder efforts begin to elicit cries of fear and pain on the part of his little boy-toy.

Then... Uncle Kitty Big Balls began to come around again. I had thought him dead. And he looked pretty close to dead, closer with every subsequent visit.

In late April, as I lay in the ICU, hooked up to a ventilator, Fred came to my bedside looking all emotional and distraught. "Awww," thought I, "he is really worried about me, poor guy..."

"I need to talk to you about something important," he began. Calling it a "talk" was certainly a stretch, given that I had a tube down my throat...

"Little Boy came by The Manor today, begging for food. He could barely walk. I think one of his back legs is broken. He looks bad, real bad... I want to rescue him. I know you are, really, a dog person (Ha! And here you thought I had totally lost my train of thought -- choo to you!) and that we already have three cats, but I hope you will say it is okay."

After one of the nurses increased my oxygen and suctioned the hell out of my bronchs, gave me a little something for pain, re-positioned me, and fluffed a pillow or two... I held out my thumb, in the "up" position... and so it went. Had I a clue what I was approving? Not really. Some Dilaudid delusion...

Several thousand dollars and a few surgeries later (which NO, we could not afford but *did*, anyway, out of love for this strange little guy fighting for his life), Uncle Kitty Big Balls rounded out the feline contingent. He's almost alien in the depth of his affection for us; He seems to understand that he was at death's door and that The Fredster saved him. Me? I am some sort of side dish that he cannot quite comprehend. He thinks the wheelchair is a demonic vehicle out to run him down. Sometimes he is right.

It warms our hearts to see him playing, to have him curl up as tightly and as close as possible. He has begun to gain weight and his fur is coming back in.

So he is a little over the top in his rough-housing. So he will eat everyone's food so that he won't be hungry ever again. So he didn't seem to understand the point of the litter boxes, at first.

The others need a little toughening up -- and so long as it is done without malice, we let Pickle Head swat at them to his heart's content. It's an invitation to chase, to begin a round of hide-and-seek.

Still, when I wake, as I did this morning, to piles of cat hair all over Captain Haddock's antique Karabagh rug and a whole bunch of waling going on? Especially now, when I can barely move without cursing because the "good" shoulder is even dillydallying with the Pain Scale?

I smile at the intricacies of their relationships, at their liveliness. Sammy looks like a kitten, Dobby is trying out a little assertiveness and is thrilled with himself. Marmy so admires her fluffy butt. And Uncle Kitty Big Balls is simply pure joie-de-vivre!

Rope

Shhh. Don't tell Fred, but I am having a very good morning. I promise to tell him later -- *after* he has brought me another wonderfully brewed cup of coffee, in bed! To me, this is the height of luxury -- to have slept five hours without interruption and to wake without my first thought being that of pain medication, and then to have this sweet man offer me caffeine.

I need a better adjective than "sweet."

It's hard to accept gestures from him.

There is so much in my head and heart right now that I once again wish for Dumbledore's pensieve:

The Pensieve has multiple functions.

At times, when one's head is so full of thoughts that one cannot hear oneself think, it is useful to be able to take some of those thoughts and literally set them aside. The practiced Wizard can extract a thought from his head and store it in a phial or in the
Pensieve for another time. If it is in the Pensieve, it is possible to stir the thoughts stored there together and look for patterns. It appears that the wizard has the choice of extracting an entire memory, leaving no trace of it in his head... It is also apparently possible to edit these extracted memories, though it is a difficult task and one which is often not done well.

If one places one's head within the Pensieve, one becomes immersed in a memory that is stored in the Pensieve, and is able to relive it as if one was living that time over again...

A thought or memory stored in the Pensieve can, with proper stimulus, appear to nearby viewers as if standing on the surface of the basin.

It is also possible to take another person's memories, place them in the Pensieve, and then enter them to relive them as if one were the person whose memories you have just added to the Pensieve...

Most interestingly, the memories viewed by the person watching in the Pensieve are more complete than the person's own observations.

Ah, the coffee? I just dumped a few good gulps down my shirt. It's lovely what the tics and spasms of CRPS can do. I remember making an ambitious meal one evening -- cooking from a wheelchair in a kitchen that isn't handicap-friendly can be a challenge -- and as I was carefully lifting some filet with my spatula -- ticticticspazspazspaz -- and the fish went flying through the air backward over my head, landing with a satisfying *SPLAT* next to the catfood bowl, which of course determined its destiny.

At least the italian roast provides me the incentive to get out of bed, wash up, dress, and put the pensieve back in the closet. Throw in a load of wash --

Ah, the laundry? I have it on the brain. I was up at 3 am doing laundry because Sam-I-Am decided to piss on my dirty clothes again. This threat that he feels from Little Boy is getting serious -- as in: I cannot deal with any more cat piss. There are worse odors in the world but none that can line the sinuses quite the way that acrid, oily smell does. Bleck. Little Boy is the big-balled stray who is Marmy's brother, Dobby's uncle, and who is continually lurking around the exterior of The Manor. He has been injured recently -- it looks, Fred says, like it might be a bite on one of his rear legs -- but he is walking and feeding/drinking well, so I think he will be as "all right" as a stray cat can be in this cold-hearted world.

Marlinspike Hall has a few chinks loose here and there, especially in those wings dating from Medieval Times -- and Little Boy finds every little hole and access and marks, marks, marks with joyful abandon.

Following impeccable feline logic -- it only makes sense that Sammy, threatened by this virile male, would then do the expected: seek out my dirty clothes and piss all over them. No, I don't leave dirty laundry strewn about -- not when Captain Haddock might pop in at any time (for I do NOT believe he's still with that Swearing Bongi, photographic evidence be damned). I keep a clean Manor, thank you very much. But I will be keeping my laundry in some new, highly classified, secret spot.

A FEW HOURS LATER: I was planning to blog a bit about John McCain's performance on Meet the Press. Dick Gregory is doing a great job of making the show his own -- he is comfortable in his own skin, up on the topics -- Tim Russert must be smiling. McCain seems to be somewhat returned to his old self -- the man obviously does not fluorish when under the thumb of those political advisors and bobbly-headed pundits that the presidential campaign forced upon him. Forced upon him? Whatever. So now he thrives as part of the "Loyal Opposition." He is right to be angry about President Obama's failure to pick the pork out of his legislation, for not going with a line-by-line veto, as he promised. It is a bit of a pain, though, to listen to things like how McCain is anxiously waiting for guidance on Obama's plans to revamp immigration policy; Yes, it needs to happen, but can we decide once and for all whether he is doing too much too fast, the wrong things too soon, the right things too slow, or -- O, hilarity! -- whether he is doing everything just right, the Socialist Mad Man? The funniest moment of the show, was Gregory asking McCain if he planned to support Sarah Palin for President in
2012. It was hilarious. I haven't seen lips flap that fast in months. Why, surprise, surprise, it appears that there are many fascinating and qualified potential Republican candidates emerging!

He put the mark of approval on the new administration's foreign policy decisions and gave a smarmy yellow-toothed grin at being reminded that the fundamentals of our economy "are sound."

He plays the statesman well when he is not called upon to lead -- and just as I will never forget to remember that he was a brave man and that he served his country, and now suffers for it, physically, daily, I will also not fail to recall the seamier, steamier details of the man's life. I need to dig out that Rolling Stones' article from last Fall... it was an eye-opener.

Found it. Make-Believe Maverick: A closer look at the life and career of John McCain reveals a disturbing record of recklessness and dishonesty
By TIM DICKINSON, posted October 16, 2008

Yeah, so I was going to say a word about McCain!

Fred has gone to church and is staying afterward to give some sort of guidance about the lighting changes the congregation wants to make. Yes, I still have trouble with meanspirited jealousy. I long for the days when I woke up (Odd. I see myself as *single*, too.) early on Sunday morning, threw on some jeans and walked the grounds for a bit before hopping in the car and going and doing whatever the hell I wanted. But I am doing better in that I know my feelings have nothing to do with The Fredster's doings, nothing to do with him at all.

He helped me out the other day. Hmm. This won't make much sense to you, or seem at all important, but it was A Moment for me, somehow. We were flying down the highway to a doctor's appointment, it was pouring rain, I had not slept, my legs were enjoying some wild myoclonic jerks, and the allotted doses of pain medication had all been taken to little effect. The night before I had made noises about wanting to get my hair cut after the appointment -- since the route we had to take brought us near the hair place that knows how to tame my tangles and love my locks.

After seeing the PA (God forbid PainDude should pop his head in), while we were loading me back into Ruby the Dutiful Honda C-RV, Fred asked if I still wanted to get my hair done -- it was fine with him, said he.

And in that little moment, my world caved in. It just did. The fatigue of -- the shit of -- the large and total crap of it all. I kept hearing the voice in my head repeating ad nauseum -- Why does everything have to be so hard? It's an unfortunate mantra of late. I am trying to keep it unuttered. You know, think before I speak, edit what comes out of the mouth -- that sort of self-improvement [?] project.

I ducked my head and was searching for the ability to just do it (this would be others' mantra for me -- it bleeds out of their eyes, it is so obvious. Shut the fuck up and just do it. Anyway, strength of character can sometimes be found on the car floor mats.)

Ignoring me (or whatever), Fred said, still in that detached but kind monotone: "You just can't do it today. You hurt too much."

You know -- kind of like how you might say, "Well, skinless boneless chicken breasts are on my shopping list but I don't like the looks of these, so we'll just move on. I am more in the mood for a salmon salad, maybe with capers and some really finely minced scallion anyway."

It mattered that he didn't interrupt his movements to make an announcement; It mattered that... what? That he seemed confident that soon I would be able to do it, that soon I would not hurt too much.

He threw me a rope.

As today takes shape, it turns out to be a normally bad day -- which is, oddly enough, fine. The only things making me wince are these damned spasms and jerks (remember the coffee down the shirt?). And the thing fuelling my energy? A fever of 101.2. It really can give me the energy to get a lot done. I think Iwill surprise him with a lovely dinner.

I feel like cooking.

I hope I don't toss the food across the kitchen.

Oh! Do you remember The Turtles song -- no matter how they toss the dice/ it had to be/ the only one for me is you/ and you for me? Being just a wee lass, I "heard" that lyric as "no matter how they toss the tights..." Don't ask. I guess I kept an image in my head of everyone throwing leotards around.

This is a terrible post. Sorry. Maybe I'll come back to it. Likely not. Sufficient unto the day, and all that jazz. My goals remain modest -- a *deep* clean of the kitchen (as in, take off the grill from the bottom of the fridge and wash it; as in, pry the knobs off the stove and soak the suckers; as in, wash the trash cans!) and a lovely supper for the guy that throws me rope.

Barack Obama and William Ayers = John McCain and Charles H. Keating, Jr.

I am sorely disappointed.

Sigh.

The appropriate -- but discouraging in its very appropriateness -- response?

Barack Obama and William Ayers = John McCain and Charles H. Keating, Jr.

The significant difference? McCain, at the time a United States Senator, was determined by the Ethics Committee of exercising "poor judgment" -- poor judgment that contributed to the Savings and Loan debacle of the late 1980s and early 1990s. Barack Obama points out that Bill Ayers is “somebody who engaged in detestable acts 40 years ago, when I was 8.”

Is it noteworthy to point out that McCain's indiscretion occured when he was at the comparative ripe old age of 51 (depending on what date one chooses: I chose 1987 because it marks McCain's maverick-y response to being called a "wimp" -- that is, it marks his participation in the infamous April 1987 meetings with FHLBB members.)

Oh, did I forget to point out that once McCain discovered Keating was under criminal investigation, he ended his involvement? Selon Wikipedia:

On April 2, 1987, a meeting with chairman Gray of the FHLBB was held in DeConcini's Capitol office, with Senators Cranston, Glenn, and McCain also in attendance.[8] The senators requested that no staff be present.[13] DeConcini started the meeting with a mention of "our friend at Lincoln."[8] Gray told the assembled senators that he did not know the particular details of the status of Lincoln Savings and Loan, and that the senators would have to go to the bank regulators in San Francisco that had oversight jurisdiction for the bank. Gray did offer to set up a meeting between those regulators and the senators.[8]

On April 9, 1987, a two-hour meeting[5] with three members of the FHLBB San Francisco branch was held, again in DeConcini's office, to discuss the government's investigation of Lincoln.[12][8] Present were Cranston, DeConcini, Glenn, McCain, and additionally Riegle.[8] The regulators felt that the meeting was very unusual and that they were being pressured by a united front, as the senators presented their reasons for having the meeting.[8] DeConcini began the meeting by saying, "We wanted to meet with you because we have determined that potential actions of yours could injure a constituent."[14] McCain said, "One of our jobs as elected officials is to help constituents in a proper fashion. ACC [American Continental Corporation] is a big employer and important to the local economy. I wouldn't want any special favors for them.... I don't want any part of our conversation to be improper." Glenn said, "To be blunt, you should charge them or get off their backs," while DeConcini said, "What's wrong with this if they're willing to clean up their act? ... It's very unusual for us to have a company that could be put out of business by its regulators."[8] The regulators then revealed that Lincoln was under criminal investigation on a variety of serious charges, at which point McCain severed all relations with Keating.[8]

I am very attracted to people, politicians, especially, who are able to adjust their attitudes and actions when new information comes to light. Nothing proved more disheartening to me than W's constant noise about not changing horses in midstream, not abandoning a stance, even a clearly inappropriate and losing stance.

More than just a sign of intransigeance, his rigidity heralded his cruel stupidity.

Mais je divague... So I admire, to an extent, McCain's retrieval of his good sense from the edge of criminal intent and activity -- back then. What an honest guy. What a maverick. WhooHoo.

Likewise, I am very put off by people, politicians, especially, who figure, and appeal to, some sort of lowest common denominator.

In June, the Washington Wire blog at WSJ.com published this interesting take on current applications of Swift Boat style political attacks:

June 30, 2008, 6:55 pm
McCain Supporter Defends Swift Boat Attacks
Laura Meckler reports on the presidential race from Harrisburg, Pa.

A group of John McCain’s supporters came together today to defend McCain against charges that he was overstating the importance of his military service. Many remember how Democrat John Kerry was wounded by attacks in 2004 on his military record, and the McCain campaign does not want to let any charge go unanswered. More important, the spat gives the McCain campaign a reason to talk about his military service, a topic that serves him well.

The conference call with reporters took an odd turn when the supporters were asked if the anti-McCain comments, including one issued Sunday by retired Gen. Wesley Clark, were analogous to charges issued by Swift Boat Veterans for Truth, the group that attacked Kerry in 2004. The group was condemned in many quarters, and today its very name — swift boat — is used as a synonym for a slimy political attack. Even McCain condemned the Swift Boat group in 2004.

But one McCain supporter, retired Col. Bud Day, who was held prisoner with McCain in Vietnam, said the attacks on McCain were nothing like the swift boat attacks. He helped produce those attacks against Kerry, which were true, he said. The attacks against McCain are not, he added.

Put all of this in the context of Sarah Palin's most recent idiocy -- and we are back to old-school backroom nonsense, made almost intolerable by this bright and shiny, now inane, now astute, new mouthpiece. She is paving the way for another detour from today's problems in order to reintroduce Jeremiah Wright, and -- undoubtedly -- Tony Rezko. God forbid she should address the economy in lieu of "associations" that have been explained and vetted ad nauseum.

Douglass K. Daniel goes beyond pointing out the blatant dishonesty of Palin's lowest-common-denominator approach and notes a frightening racial "subtext" in her golly-gosh-gee remarks:

Palin's words avoid repulsing voters with overt racism. But is there another subtext for creating the false image of a black presidential nominee "palling around" with terrorists while assuring a predominantly white audience that he doesn't see their America?

In a post-Sept. 11 America, terrorists are envisioned as dark-skinned radical Muslims, not the homegrown anarchists of Ayers' day 40 years ago. With Obama a relative unknown when he began his campaign, the Internet hummed with false e-mails about ties to radical Islam of a foreign-born candidate.

Whether intended or not by the McCain campaign, portraying Obama as "not like us" is another potential appeal to racism. It suggests that the Hawaiian-born Christian is, at heart, un-American.

The fact is that when racism creeps into the discussion, it serves a purpose for McCain. As the fallout from Wright's sermons showed earlier this year, forcing Obama to abandon issues to talk about race leads to unresolved arguments about America's promise to treat all people equally.

John McCain occasionally says he looks back on decisions with regret. He has apologized for opposing a holiday to honor Martin Luther King Jr. He has apologized for refusing to call for the removal of a Confederate flag from South Carolina's Capitol.

When the 2008 campaign is over will McCain say he regrets appeals such as Palin's?

I am sorely, sorely disappointed. This was supposed to be the election of all elections, wherein dialogue was to be on point, on policy, and all about respecting the intelligence of the American electorate. Instead we are left with inflammatory analogies that kill the intellectual rigor most had been hungrily anticipating for the presidential elections of 2008.

Barack Obama and William Ayers = John McCain and Charles H. Keating, Jr.

Z on TV

It's hard not to snort-laugh -- forget titter-laughing and simpering guffaws. And, yes, in the snort lies the proof of my political pudding:

http://weblogs.baltimoresun.com/entertainment/zontv/2008/09/couric_letterman_too_much_for.html