Vault Residue

I found this old posting left over after my eleven day stint as political contributor for Out magazine.
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Surprised by the display of diversity at the Republican National Convention -- some delegates wore red cowboy hats, some did not -- the sparse crowd provided evidence that the offspring of Reagan’s Revolution are indeed a colorful lot: Florida’s tanned delegation displayed just enough patina to avoid unfair comparisons with Big and Rich fans. I’m assuming the giant, digitized American flag waving behind the stage was a reminder that Minnesota is part of the United States. The Mississippi contingent breathed a sigh of relief. Unsure if their folding money was accepted in St. Paul, they chanted “USA!” in celebration after being assured that no confusing currency exchange rate would create nervous uncertainty when paying their bar tabs.

It was disappointing that President Bush couldn’t personally address the convention. Still preoccupied with Hurricane Gustav‘s wet, wind-blown aftermath, he had barely enough time to phone-in a nine minute howdy-do. Vice President Cheney is rumored to be war mongering abroad, which explains his absence from the festivities. Fred Thompson was a pleasant surprise. Reading the speech that Arnold Schwarzenegger was supposed to give, I thought he provided hammy “Petticoat Junction” ambience Arnold has trouble pulling off. Arnold is a gifted actor but I’m not sure if Uncle Joe is in his repertoire. Reminding viewers of yet another reason to embrace Sarah Palin because she can “field dress a moose”, Fred’s observation cleverly put to rest unease about her resume. I’m sure this endearing skill will come in handy when debating Senator Biden in St. Louis.

Speaking of Uncle Joe, Senator Liebermann was in fine form. Although the Alabama delegation wasn’t sure when to grunt “USA!” and when to boo, his appeal to neoconservative Democrats is worth literally a handful of votes for the McCain-Palin ticket. Juxtaposing McCain’s salty unpredictability with Obama’s youthful equanimity went a long way in wresting the “change” mantel away from the flashy upstart. I’m guessing someone possessing McCain’s preternatural ability to pretend he’s never flip-flopped on every major issue is an essential character requirement for restoring honor and integrity back to Washington; but I’m not sure if Washington’s lack of honor and integrity is the fault of the new Congressional majority or the Bush Administration. Perhaps this disconnect explains why the President’s address was eight minutes and fifty seconds longer than the McCain campaign requested.

Strange that the word ’torture’ was never used when the headliners hinted McCain was once ill-treated by the Cong.

Revved and ready for round VIII of the Culture Wars, I’m looking forward to Governor Palin’s oratory. Adler hopes she can do rope tricks that appear authentic and not awkward "Annie Get Your Gun" imitations. We have a five dollar bet riding on her theme song. I say it’s “I Can’t Say No” from "Oklahoma"; Adler is placing his money on Heart’s “Barracuda”.

Shrouds

The Heritage Foundation’s amnesia primer for post-Bush conservatives: Forget the fact that reconciliation has been used 22 times since 1980; forget the fact that Republicans have facilitated the legislative maneuver 17 of those; erase all memory that the “nuclear option” extended the 2006 tax holiday for the wealthy.

Rinse and repeat until uncontrollable drooling seeps evenly from both sides of mouth.

Republicans find reconciliation an abhorrent perversion only when wielded by a Democratic majority. Or perhaps reconciliation is deemed a legitimate exercise if the legislation in question has been thoroughly vetted by Glenn Beck. Glenn, an expert on George Washington’s opinions about 21st century America, is the go-to guy for those who can’t converse with dead people. Senator Jim DeMint doesn’t have Glenn’s “gift”. He must resort to crude historical revisionism when declaring reconciliation an affront to the late General and his deceased contemporaries. As to which General DeMint has in mind when lashing out at simple majority rule remains an open question. Well known for his flighty Confederate sensibilities, there is solid evidence to believe DeMint’s General is Lee.
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LOCAL EDITORIAL
By Hansen B. Babbitt, Jr.
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One out of every three Muslims killed by missiles fired from U.S. drones in Afghanistan isn’t an evil-doer. At first blush I found this number appalling. But after brief reflection, I decided the ratio could be worse. Defeating Terror is messy business: accidentally ruining Afshan’s wedding day just because an errant bomb lands on loved ones is her bad for being in the wrong place and the wrong time -- like me at my first wedding. Although no one was ripped apart or vaporized, a very unhappy violin player’s delicate instrument suffered serious moisture damage after incidental contact with airborne booze.

Horror, like beauty, is the eye (or fret) of the beholder.

Should three out of three goat herders suffer collateral damage, we born-again fiscal conservatives will spray our poseur-flavored spittle all over the criminal misuse of taxpayer dollars.

To further pound home my mastery of common sense, I know that extending unemployment benefits is an outrage. Public money finding its way into the pockets of lazy deadbeats is anathema to the principles of Adam Smith’s free-market. Doling out cash to corporations is, however, an acceptable way to ensure campaign contributions flow into the right coffers; greasing the wheels of freedom and God’s invisible palm is the only way to ensure my offspring will avoid a diet of dirt burritos.

Killing idle Muslims who aren’t ‘jihading’ is wasteful spending. It dishonors the unfunded war against Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction.

Don’t get me started on labor unions, monkeys or footballs. Liberals fail to "get" my "cub bear playing with pecker" lunge at satire.

There, I’ve glued that sucker shut. It's time for cookies and a smoke.

Dance of the Potty in D minor

Senator Jim Bunning (R-Shutter Island) is having quite a week. Jimbo really put the hurt on unemployed goldbrickers and Medicare reimbursement checks. I liked his thoughtful response when asked if he was concerned about the half million or so citizens adversely impacted by such principled devotion to civic duty. His reply was so good it should be the GOP’s 2010 campaign theme: “I Don’t Give a Shit”. The word “shit” conveys passion -- much better than poop or dung -- among the adenocarcinoma of American ‘exceptionalism’.
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Harold Ford II, the former Tennessee Congressman and current stay-at-home Merrill Lynch executive, has withdrawn his New York senatorial bid. Empire State progressives are roiling in tear soaked despair. Reactions from Greenwich Village are mixed as to recent developments detailing the depths of Gov. David Paterson’s idiocy. Rumors are that SNL’s Fred Armisen is ecstatic. It just goes to show that one person’s turd sandwich is another’s Quarter Pounder with cheese.
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Senator John McCain (R-Attends) has stumbled from age-related senility into full blown subcordical dementia. Perhaps David Gregory (tallest member of the Karl Rove Dancers) will conclude that McCain’s run as permanent guest host is a drag on advertising revenues. Not even a talent like J. Fred Muggs could protect Dave Garroway from television land’s fickle attention span. Now that Jim Traficant is out of prison and seeking to revive his political fortunes, Gregory should ask the morally ambivalent ex-con to replace McCain -- assuming Michele Bachmann (R-Seussville) wants to keep her starring role as Debbie Jellinksky in Kevin Smith’s new stage production of “The Addams Family”. (Pat Caddell is simply stirring as Uncle Fester).
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J. D. Hayworth (R-Bedrock), the bumptious former Congressman and Kid Rawhide’s stunt double, has decided that placating Arizona’s unknown contingent of ‘birthers’ isn’t worth the effort. J.D.’s handlers probably concluded that mob appearances with Orly Taitz might cool the jets of voters who breathe through their nose. Then again, the large-browed ex-shock jock could be fearful McCain’s psychiatric nurses will force him to show proof that he’s not a Neanderthal -- even though there is nothing in the Constitution that prohibits Neanderthals from holding public office or firearms.
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The more things change…

Once upon a time I referred to hitting the head as “taking a Nixon”. Years later Nixon was replaced with Newt. I’m still quite fond of approximating Newts’ true essence when flushing doody down the crapper. However, after due deliberation, I’m retiring Newt for another well deserving piece of fecal matter.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to take a big Stupak.

Ice 9

Jonathan Rauch has hit the nail on the head: so-called Tea Bag conservatives have more in common with George Wallace than either Goldwater or Reagan. His piece in The National Journal is well worth reading.
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I’m not sure if KODE’s Justin Lattimer is really a journalist. Ergo fluffing Roy Blunt is business-as-usual. Too bad Carole Parker was busy bothering Branson celebrities. She would have asked Roy whether he prefers ketchup or mustard on his burger. It’s important to know these things. A mustard man, I could never vote for someone who uses ketchup. At least real Globe journalists can provide professional follow-up and pin the lobbyist down on whether or not he’s ever flirted with mayonnaise. Although mustard has Gallic origins, mayonnaise screams post-Vichy French socialism. Of course ketchup is from Latin America and we all know what that means.
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It’s comforting to know that our local newspaper’s editorial writer is broadening his political horizon by watching Sean Hannity. There is nothing like a dose of Sean to keep the natives well-informed. Not every “Great American” has the balls to showcase David Bossie’s public service. I can’t imagine Rachael Maddow giving Bossie free air time to hawk “The Clinton Chronicles 2.0”. But then Maddow is a liberal elitist who thumbs her nose at pikers blaming “dirty fucking hippies” for ruining the Bush Administration’s stellar economic stewardship. Assuming a certain opinion page professional digs “Generation Zero”, he’ll find careful viewing of “Howard the Duck” downright illuminating. Be sure and take notes. A jigger of extraterrestrial foul always gives the average bar stool blow more spangle than banner.
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Sarah Palin didn’t like President Obama telling John McCain to STFU. Calling the president “arrogant” for reminding Maverick that he lost the election is yet another reason why she’s qualified to star as Fox News’ highest paid lap dancer. It was rather uppity of the post-colonial black Marxist to interrupt an ancient, white “Songbird” in mid tweet. After all, McCain did put ‘Country First” when plucking the ambitious beauty pageant flutist from obscurity. Had McCain treated the vice presidency with reckless disregard, Carrie Prejean might be sullying Reagan’s reputation. Choosing Sarah over Carrie is proof that McCain isn’t a mentally unbalanced flake, no matter what Rush Limbaugh thinks.
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Here’s some good news. Rep. Paul Ryan’s plan to restore fiscal accountability means I’ll only be 104 years old when the federal budget is finally balanced. That will give me plenty of time to enjoy my golden years without worrying about the “Death Tax”.

fishy coos

This morning I linked to Sen. Scott Brown’s Facebook page and read the charming comments posted by his ‘former’ admirers. They are unhappy the late Ted Kennedy’s replacement joined four other Republicans in supporting President Obama’s jobs bill. The comments, ranging from threatening to vicious, show little love for the newly elected Senator’s independent streak. I’m guessing Sen. Brown won’t be invited to watch Glenn Beck work his chalkboard magic anytime soon. But then Glenn barks like a dog. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Every so often I oink at Nancy Grace. Unlike Glenn’s barks, my oinks don’t have a point. And they certainly don’t qualify as clever political satire. Sometimes I just like to make pig noises. Once I get my permanent denture partial in place clucking sounds should dramatically improve, adding depth and dexterity to my barnyard symphony.

Now go read my blog at http://thecowgoesmoo.com/ There I ask interesting questions and provide brilliant budgetary analysis using my pocket calculator and George Will column.

CPAC Synopsis

It took some effort but I was finally able to un-clutter my secret stash. The secret stash -- small Amyl Nitrate bottles; generous links of “Washburn Woo-Woo!”; canteen of commemorative “Then Came Bronson” muscatel; and a pretty amber pill Beloved ordered me to swallow if I ever grew another mustache -- is for consumption during emergencies, such as grease fires or tackling routine home maintenance chores. Because I’m blessed, there hasn’t been a valid reason to crack open the stash. Divine Providence, disguised as flaming animal fat, scorched the hovel’s kitchen long before the stash was lovingly assembled and a very rare, unnamed neurological disorder makes gripping tools impossible.

Juan is not burdened with the onus of constructive versatility.

I thought about adding an amendment to include surprise visits from traveling in-laws but feared serious domestic reprisal should popper react poorly with “Woo-Woo!” It goes without saying that channeling Richard Widmark’s breakout performance in “Kiss of Death” does not lead to pleasant family dining. Usually floating on an emotionally even keel, Beloved would become livid if I shoved her wheel chair-bound mother down the basement stairs. And who could blame her? Anyone foolish enough to cross her hormonally-charged Margino Line knows Beloved’s happy-go-lucky smile can quickly morph into tight-lipped violence. No longer owning cow-like reflexes, my abdominal spread is an easy target for stoned-honed butter knife. But what extended exposure to holy matrimony doesn’t have its little twists and turns?

Ozzie Nelson could have been another Cassavetes had he replaced cardigan with black turtleneck. Caving under corporate pressure, he shelved his dream of mining the dysfunctional family zinc buried inside post-World War II mass consumerism. In later years the toothy B team bandleader lamented his lost opportunity. Three months before succumbing to smog-related emphysema, Ozzie was interviewed by Fly Fish America’s Richard Handler. Handler, best known for introducing soft-core pornography into staid sporting magazine fare, 'single-handedly' transferred Fly Fish America from coffee table top to toilet tank lid. Although long out of print, tracking down “The Other Pole: How Richard Handler Yanked Angling Away from the Finaldi Brothers” is worth the effort.

Here’s my favorite exchange between Nelson and Handler:

Handler: Oz, it is true that you wanted Harriet to be the Joan Vollmer to your William Burroughs?

Ozzie: Yeah. I wrote a script where Harriet, high on Benzedrine, is raking imaginary lizards off an orange tree. David and Ricky are crying, freaking out, running around the backyard trying to make her stop. I crash through the glass patio door with my .45, emptying the clip into the pool, yelling at Harriet to get her ass back inside before neighbors called the cops. The squares at ABC didn’t dig the symbolism. The scene was completely rewritten. As I recall, Harriet accidentally runs over Don Defore’s favorite birdbath and hilarity ensues when I try to replace it before he returns home from whatever the fuck he did for a living. I shot that episode drunk, so the birdbath could’ve been a lawn jockey for all I know.

critiquing (sic) just isn't for breakfast anymore

I’m pleased to see Jim Stone has joined the paper’s community blogging corps. Jim’s addition offsets the sadness of losing Ms. Fuller. It appears her busy social life left little time to blog about her busy social life. I’ll always picture Miss C tripping the light fantastic with stubbly soap star or neck kissing 54th Street Romeos while an antique disco ball’s rotating tin bathes Conga Bob’s Bungalow in Baroque bling. Her adventurous appetite for urban sparkle reminded me of my brief fling with big city hustle.

Alas, NYC ate my liver and left me with barely enough coin to cage a slow Greyhound ride home. On the upside, I was the only Carterville poet sporting pointy black boots and skinny yellow tie when unceremoniously de-bussed near the coffin factory. Had not my rival returned from Rangoon in flashy opium den finery, I might have become The Stagger Inn’s in-house Dylan Thomas: denied immortalizing early morning stabs at bad sex in slippery villanelles remains this fading Uranthian's eighth greatest regret.

Once the gals took one look at Jock Lovelace’s embroidered silk dragon jacket, I was toast. Defeated, I limped across Chat Mountain and licked my bloody muse inside a jumpy stripper’s single-wide. To make a long story short, Karla quickly tired of my temperamental languor. Although our parting wasn’t sweet sorrow, it did attract the attention of local law enforcement.

Anson will have to step up his game now that Jim has “joined the fray.” The unlikely editorial writer’s meat cleaver is no match for his scalpel; retreating to the fetid swamp of false equivalence when caught speaking-from-ass ensures a short-lived career. Kicking hippies sticking flowers into gun barrels is like forty years ago, man. The late, great Porter Wittich laid some advice on me that I took to heart.

“Write about stuff you know,” he said. “Or at least have some vague approximation.”

And for the next twenty years I wrote about poverty.

Anson would be better served limiting his public verse to underwater oddities and/or the feminine mystique.

Well, I must feed my “old man pooch.” Damn it, sometimes Johnny Kaje’s barbs sting. I guess I’ll go back to showering in the dark.