Mt. St. Helens goes all koo koo for cocoa puffs

KABOOM! Thirty years ago today, our neighborhood volcano erupted in a huge way.







"At 8:32 a.m. May 18, 1980, a magnitude 5.1 earthquake triggered an enormous landslide. The entire north side of the mountain collapsed, releasing a furious sideways explosion that swept away forests in an arc of devastation for miles to the north. Within minutes, a column of volcanic ash reached 15 miles above the Earth. The volcano pumped out ash for more than nine hours, darkening the skies for more than 100 miles.

The world changed. Fifty-seven people died in the eruption. Devastation stretched for 230 square miles. Mudflows disgorged by the volcano swept down rivers, wrecking 27 bridges and 200 homes. Sediment filled shipping channels in the Columbia River, cutting off ports for days as dredgers worked to clear the rivers. Ash pumped into the upper atmosphere circled the Earth in 15 days, lowering global temperatures."

~oregonlive.com/environment/index.ssf/2010/05/30_years_after_mount_st_helens.html

Here's an excellent documentary from public television's NOVA. Will the Beast erupt again? You can watch it online:

http://video.pbs.org/video/1485211138

Let's Just Say It

Thank you, Senator (D-MI )Carl Levin.




Thank you, Overlord Glen Beck.





And thank you Alabama:

The Fiction of Summer

The things that spring to mind when the Sunday morning Bloody Mary at the cafe reignites what should have been extinguished...and paragraphs fall victim valiantly...nice actual pic too...the rest? That's between the author and that elixir avec salade.




Ballantines. Ha! You're taking me back down the loving road of my youth. For a few Summers, the big big (RARE as the day is long) Summer gathering of the Clan actually happened. No negotiation. That designated Saturday was it. Period. Collectively, my Dad, his two younger brothers, three sisters and their husbands/my other uncles , my gaggle of cousins, Nana, Grampa, my great Uncle Matt of incredible founding fathers' sideburns fame (one of three Uncle Matts), my great Granpop (my Grandpa's dad who pretended to be deaf when Nana would yell at him.), and a bunch of great Aunties still would be unrecognizable to me, WOULD TAKE OVER AND OCCUPY a pavilion at Valley State Park in idyllic Upstate New York. Freeze-tag, frisbee, softball, horseshoes, the deadly Jarts, catching little orange newts in the woods with my cousins. Multiple grills cooking spiedies, kielbasa,burgers, hot dogs,tons of salt potatoes, giant burlap sacks and sacks of little-neck clams. Now taboo open vats of macaroni salad and potato salad and big jars of Lithuanian pickled everything(s) and a thousand pies, cakes and the jello with grape eye-balls or carrot shreddings and cookies and strange Old Country sugared somethings,giant garbage can sized tins of chips and pretzels, covered tacky multi-colored picnic table-clothed picnic-tables. My Uncles would scoop-herd up all of the childrens and lead us through the wooded trails down to the combination lake and cement-bottomed swimming area.  Man oh man, State Park was cool. I imagine it still is. We all arrive at the swimming area, gaggle of kids with questionable supervision. The swimming area was some kind of seamless connection to the actual lake. Even at the time, this was a strange but some kind of wonderful WPA idea. My vague understanding of this kingdom can only be related by some kind of silly solitary Lithuanian/Polish dance from the ancient Baltic era. Christ on a motorcycle bike on fire, you have to pee. The dark brown wooden box-huts, the kind of little boy gotta pee waiting line with twenty other little cross-crissed legged dudes squeezing their tiny weenies holding it for mercy hut. Phew. Back to the mythological body of water that you should have whizzed in, hectares of water with pebbles-in-concrete smooth algae-covered bottom with natural lake water all around.The only possible explanation of the slippery algae pebbled gentle slope expanded from a foot deep  A few times, a quiet summer blur when I was a small person, Mom would bring my little baby sister and me to State Park, it had the wood signs with yellow paint inlays lettering designating and directing to the vast environs of the Park's picnic spots and softball fields and the collective acres and acres of picnic magic spots. Us kids would be twitching like baby kangaroos to go swimming. PULEEZE. The most vivid memory, collectively, was swimming or moreorless wading walking from a foot deep all all all the way out until your head would be under water. Under foot is a magical environ of cement with pebbled rock and a thick layer of algae. The water itself was a deep emerald lake green. Swimming with all stages of polliwogs was a science class come to life simply by opening your eyes underwater. Wow, catching and bring home some polliwogs was a boy's dream come true. All Uncles would immediately gravitate toward the super-deep-end. Giant laddered diving springboards lined up across from the canoe and rowboat rental boathouse where all the powerfully cool big people waited in line for a dive. My Uncles who all smoked cigarettes in a remarkably cool way and a few of my big cousins close to their age would duel  with ever increasingly complicated and dangerous dives. Heroes were made and lost. Shivering and wrinkled we'd return to the picnic area, telling stories and spilling our captured polliwog's water. Poor bastards those polliwogs, destined for a brief life in captivity sometimes only until a trip and spill in the parking lot being loaded into the station wagon. Never had one become a full-blown frog. The tables were piled with food, the grilling was in power-mode. Mmmm-smoke. And always. Always always giant ice-filled tin washtubs and coolers packed Eagle brand quart glass bottles of a dozen colors and flavors. Delivered to my grandparent's house weekly, the original recyclable, there wasn't a word for it then. And in those In those  tubs were mountains of cans of Genesee, Genesee Cream Ale, Utica Club,Carling Black Label, Matt's Premium. And Ballantines. Ice cold cans of Ballantines.

Spiedies are a traditional marinated meat skewered and cooked over fire served in a slice of Italian bread. No condiments. Found originally only in the Binghamton, NY area. The annual Spiedie Fest is fun for the whole family. http://www.spiedies.com/. The author falls firmly in the original Lupo's camp, but Salamida State Fair Spiedie Sauce is respectable enough.

Tax You, America!

Portland, Oregon. 4:17 PCT. Dateline: Multnomah County Suburbia. Afraid of of entering Communist Portland for fear of accidental flouride contamination, wearing silly costumes and waving grammatically incorrect signs on highway overpasses provides a dopamine-like release for those who don't like things.













In honor of the Teabag Social Club's favorite day of the year, *shrieking sounds* April 15th,the shrewd ever-vigilant Americas guarding freedoms have decided to come clean *ahem* about the true origins concerning the bond or the glue that holds them together.Their delusions about who pays taxes, how much is paid and the truth concerning lower, yes lower, Federal tax rates this year notwithstanding,openly mocking these radio talk show's dream looneys is almost too easy. Happy Tax Day, TEABAGGERS.

YOU COLLECTIVELY PAID 173 BILLION DOLLARS LESS IN FEDERAL TAXES THAN YOU DID THE YEAR PRIOR YOU MOUTH-BREATHING WACKJOBS.



You can't make this up. This video clip that was recently running on Fox News' website brings the Tea Party out of closet with smiles on their chins. In case you are missing out on what is an inside joke, try an urban dictionary website or consult just about anybody.

Geezus H. Cracker Snack

"I'm almost certain the rodents are laid-back little Franzetta corporate-weaned cranky, snot-ass Mall-thugs parked so low on the refurbished black pleather couch huffin' Hello Kitty nail polish cannot bring a smile to their fevered rectums that pass for faces..." ~Gramm Parsons makes a memorable splash in a chemically triangulated dream event.


DEEP BREATHS.

The telephone woke me up. FedEx is here with my new watch. WOOHOO! I cannot remember what it is because it takes eight days for a ONE lb. package to traverse America via The Disabled Three-legged Aardvark Affirmative Hiring For Shipping Companies program. Mandated by Obamacare (page 2,138 in the footnotes). See? SEE? Told-ja this would happen!

Intercom: {lady FedEx voice}Got a package.
Me: I'll buzz you up. Hey, can you bring it in and toss it to me...
Intercom: No, we have regulations...
Me: I'm a quadriplegic and I'm not feeling well.
Intercom: Well...I...
Me: Kick me in the foot when you come in. Hard as you like...
Intercom: *white noise static*
Me: Shit.

And Cue Barry White. *knock knock* Door opens. "I'm over here." Cute-hottie FedEx babe looks over and laughs, "Well, this is a first." Me smiling avec debonair visage, "Thank you." Uber-cute FedEx fox tosses package onto corner of king size bed. Leaves chuckling and thereby proving Penthouse Forum letters a complete hoax. Again. Pfft... Oh yeah, it's the Swiss Made Stuhrling Original automatic movement skeletonized in a 44mm tonneau-shaped case with a rare green dial and black Italian leather strap with complimentary green stitching inlay. I'd forgotten this as the non-union Aardvarks take their sweet fucking site-seeing time crossing America The Beautiful. Sweet. ShopNBC is an opiate for watch junkies. Sweet, sweet watch.

Boutros Boutros-Ghali. I need to come back down, listen to some actual music played by actual people who have mastered their instrument. Voices honed in tiny holes in walls. Broked-down-side-of-[insert a random East to West/West to East Interstate highway] roulette. Where do we go then, Grip? Maybe this will help. Maybe, just maybe the public access channel in your town is lucid. They're almost bumping up against that dive bar that gets a stray show quality tonight. Road Warriors who'll split your lip if you were to say, "You guys are good, the lead singer should go on American Idol." It's really not an endangered species, known as "Musicians". They are out there, free-range so to speak. Then again, it happens here frequently, other towns not so much. Music is a primordial soup here in Portland. Slopping through the goo is nearly unavoidable.



The ancient dino-mind drifts a bit. A rusty gear shudders to a stop at FM radio. What's a radio? What's a FM? WAAL Binghamton 99.1 Music was thick and meaty juicy sweet. All of FM Radio was a velvety smooth fondue revolution. Can you smell the Land on the Moon groove? At midnight the Whale would spin an entire vinyl album without interruption. Everyone who played a Woodstock, Altamont, Montery Pop, Isle of Wight, Newport, and smooth assorted magic dudes appeared from nowhere, out of thin air. As a young boy on the sidelines, it was as if everything was happening all at once. At the same time. American culture was a wild, dangerous and hard-ugly and beautiful weird fireworks show.

Guest Wench Tears Back Iron Curtain

The GAG Board of Directors has given a key to the executive washroom to our new contributing analyst, and world renowned Doctor of Culture, Guest Wench. Her high fashion sense and innate ability to sniff out the finest Scotch blindfolded brings a grand air of distinction to this otherwise low rent hovel of a blog.

Editor's Note: The opinions expressed by Guest Wench are more than likely to be in agreement with Grip because Guest Wench is damn smoking smart. And odds are she probably thought of it first.


LUDICROUS SPEED AHEAD!

Dark Helmet: Prepare ship for light speed!

Col Sandurz: No, no, no, light speed is too slow!

Dark Helmet: Yes, we’re gonna have to go right to…ludicrous speed!

Col. Sandurz: Ludicrous speed?! Sir, we’ve never gone that fast before. I don’t know if the ship can take it.

Dark Helmet: What’s the matter Colonel Sandurz? Chicken?



And so here we are…2010…traveling ludicrous speed clockwise circling down the giant toilet bowl of the spectacle of society. Worshiping at the holy altar of eternal youth and celebrity, Americans enthusiastically stampede toward anything and everything that promises to make them superficially better people. American Nihilists fervently adhere to their fetishistic rituals – responding lockstep to sermons delivered through the warm glow of snake oil sermons on TV infomercials.

Hey white girl! Have you ever wanted a big, full-of-beans booty instead of that flaccid-milky, pancake ass that vertically droops in your mom jeans? Well NOW with Booty Pop Panties, you can get the perky bottom of a black girl’s tooshy! Absolutely effortless! Pop that booty, pop pop that booty pop! Pop that booty, pop pop that booty pop!



Hey chicken-fried steak, lunch-lady man arms! According to EVERYONE, toned arms are IN! Have you ever dreamed of having arms that look like a woman’s instead of your giant ape, cottage-cheese appendages? Well NOW with the Shake Weight, your dreams can become reality. In only six minutes a day, not only will you shake that pesky fat from the dark side of your dimply, bat wings, but you’ll also bone up (literally) on proper male masturbation techniques. It’s a WIN – WIN!



Hey Lady! Do you find that committing to a healthy lifestyle and exercise regimen just bores you to apathy and inertia? Have you ever wanted be a stripper but were unsure how to learn proper pole and chair-dancing technique? Well prepare for your head to explode NOW that the Flirty Girl Fitness system is here. With the Flirty Girl Fitness system, not only can you lose up to two pant sizes in one week, your new found stripper skills will allow you to change careers. Thanks Flirty Girl, you changed my life!



For under $100, Americans can directly enjoy the benefits of novelty and the accelerated advancement of our hyper-capitalist economy. Why expend time, effort and dedication when you can shortcut via non-sequitur gimmickry that produce immediate results? Why go light speed, when you can rip ass past that shit to ludicrous speed! Fuck YES! Cruise control set.

America, ludicrous speed ahead. Effortlessly as always bobbing up and down like buoys through the Sea of Effluvium…comfortably numb and ensconced by the banality of shiny, disposable and kitsch.

The Guest Wench aka Camille Clingan is an NYC-based comedienne. You can also find her on her own blog where she regularly ruminates on the righteous and the ridiculousness.

http://pilarmonkeybeans-drinks-a-beer.blogspot.com/

The staff is excited the sex industry is making inroads into the 21st Century home sweet home. And when in doubt the Editor falls back on the modern James version. Bond, James Bond. From the 1971 highly underrated masterpiece Diamond Are Forever:

James Bond: Weren't you a blonde when I came in?
Tiffany Case: Could be.
James Bond: I tend to notice little things like that - whether a girl is a blonde or a brunette.
Tiffany Case: Which do you prefer?
James Bond: Well, as long as the collar and cuffs match...

Backwoods Outrage

Not everyone in the hinterlands is a mouth-breathing douchebag. I received this missive via the intellectual secret pipeline, " Message Pigeons for Freedoms". The first few sentences appear to be blurred from teardrops or a shaky hand splashing a Bourbon rocks glass in a moment of political emotion. This much I could decifer:

"It's fucked, it is. All of it. We are so far down the motherfucking RABBIT HOLE that the shit that made no sense fifteen years ago is now de rigueur. Look, dude, every fucking generation since the heady days of Ur has maintained that successive generations have singlehandedly buttfucked the state/nation/world/universe. And they have. But never with such instantaneous far-reaching consequentials. Willful ignorance...WILLFUL. Deliberate. Pig-headed. Xenophobic. America Love It Or Leave It. Here, douchehead, lemme hold the door for ya. Don't forget your sixpack of Ballantines. 25 dead in a fucking mine explosion...the company had been fined up the yin-yang and no solutions implemented.

I am so waiting for the uprising. Torches and sickles. Got me a truckful of Velveeta and pork rinds. Coupla 40s of Old English. Will Shortz' Little Black Book of Sudoko. Air-pumped lounge chair. Raybans. Fuckin' A, Jesus. Siddown, motherfucker...you ain't saving shit. Have a pork rind."

God Bless America. As long as the Pigeons of Freedom fly, we will keep posting your cards and letters.

Sweet Respite

For most of us, it's taxing to maintain a heightened sense of disgust with the seemingly overwhelming number of idiots scurrying around the planet without this making oneself bitter and spiteful. Music and some quality bourbon appear to be the only cures for this rampant stupidity. Thankfully, the Avett Brothers have wandered from North Carolina sharing some dam killer jams and what could only be described as genuine sincerity with their ballads. A couple of fingers of Evan Williams and some of their brilliant songs are an exceptional restorative for the debilitating disease known as people. Gotdam magnificent bastards, thank you Avett Brothers.



Here's a three song NPR gig:



And a brilliant set on Austin City Limits:

http://video.pbs.org/video/1392403650/

Busted Lock at Asylum

Clearing the only explanations for the behavior of these 'Freedomers' is a shortage of anti-psychotic medication or the locks have been tampered with at the Looney Bin.



God Bless America. What is interesting is the concept that we lost America in the span of one year. Dam that Obama, he IS all powerful.

And now it looks like the militia wackjobs have jumped on the bandwagon. An Alabamy douchebag (who lives off his commie SSDI check) is openly advocating violence.



Sometimes they are not amusing.

Fish Kicks

One of the true advantages of living in the Pacific North-West is the that giant fishbowl just down road known as the PACIFIC OCEAN. And this fishbowl is swimming with tasty-fresh freshy-fresh deliciousness. And living in close proximately to a killer good fish department at my Zupans is a stroke of accidental genius.



Here's the triple bonus. Fish is the ultimate meal for the lazy hungry-now gourmet. Crispy some prosciutto. Remove. Same pan, season your Wild-caught halibut quick quick pan-seared in a fruity olive oil, blood oranges. Remove and rest. Same pan, season three different colored carrots 'quicked' (my new word) in some of the blood orange juice and a splash of vino and olive oil, parsley. Wash it down with a PNW pinot gris. Dam. A killer meal in less time than it takes to drink a glass of wine. A few capers would send this into the death row lunch possibility.



What are tasty things from the ocean, Alex?

Counting Chickens -2010 Census

Americans love being counted. 'Count me in.' 'Yesh, count me in too.' American Idol, good Americans, nay great Americans, vote thousands of times for their Idol 'talent'. Florida, nice work Ms. Harris. Ohio. Philadelphia. Data voting into the magical pool in the unmeasurable Internet, a meaningless poll? Yes, yes I answer anything because you are interested in me. You really love me. Vote for your favorite Superbowl commercial. Chicago, the dead vote. Sharing your facebook page with Uzbekistan trollers. Grocery shopper cards that trade you an occasional reward-y coupon for information on EVERYTHING YOU EAT, YOUR SELECTION OF ASS-WIPERY AND WHAT YOU LADIES UTILIZE FOR YOUR HOO-HAA PROTECTORS. And in some parts of the deepest, murkiest spots of the Heartland, some still enjoy being the thirteen caller for White Snake reunion tickets. Counting. Counting. I answer the telephone box at dinner time. You'd expect the purple-face Sesame Street vampire to show up on a three-dollar bill.

Oh ho ho whoa there. Count me in the official United States of America census? THE U.S. Census? I do not fucking think so. All of a sudden Mr. and Mrs. America are frightened of the federal government, or gubmint , it's an intrusion on an American's right to privacy. Unless, you got a funny name. And Lord God Himself forbid them uppity charcoal ACORN-types are stealing our ballots and whatnot. And it's all good if yer scanning every face on every city block fer terrorists, except if I'm running a red light. I didn't count on that.

But dammit we do not want to be counted. Pace Picante IS made in NYC. The Black-hoody Left, paranoid little punks stinking up actual protest. Good Holy St. Christopher, I want to shake these little bastards upside down and swing/smack 'em up against a McDonald's window pane. Ignorant little pukes. And do you think the 3-30 million Mexi-centro-south-American strolled through a turnstile are uncountable? We needs freedoms. And Lesser freedoms. Gun freedoms. And more freedoms. And the proper religious freedoms. Count us in.

Except for the other freedoms. This gotdam U.S. Census. President O'Bobby Seal, shit. Americaniskas are not a proud people it seems. Claims of import as a great civilization, and milk and honey flow from our collective tits and then we do the bumblebee dance. Woo hoo! If you fucking qualify. Shit. Many prefer not to be counted, many are better than others. Why is it so problematic to see who the flying fuck we are? The Constitution, for all you Tea-baggers, requires that we count everyone. EVERYONE. Legal, illegal, short, fat, stupid, you. The Founding Fathers wanted to see the Big Picture. SO THAT AMERICA COULD ALLOCATE RESOURCES EFFECTIVELY TO ENHANCE THE REPUBLIC. Now, in the 21st Century, it's like mice fighting for a Kraft cheese slice. Embarrassing.

A waft of breeze. Ahhh... You assholes are too stupid to vote, and no one wants to count you. Just like junior high gym class. You, the fucking silly-hat-wearing radio host worshiping morons get the wish of a sacrificial State. Barb-wire, your own passports, guns and WalMart. Where is the Nirvana? Doofus America loves their Jesus, conditionally. And the whole Luke and Matthew census who, what, when thing with Quirinius and Joe and Mary going to be counted and the whole Nazareth/Bethlehem Waffle House scenario. So get the fuck out. Oklahoma, you're going to have to take one for the team.

How fucking difficult is it to stand up and say, 'I'm an American'?

Something's fishy

How about an $8 fish sandwich? Say wha??? SHAZAM!!!

A half a pound of fresh wild-caught Halibut will drive the cost of your fishwich up a bit. Bonus: You will never again eat a burger drive-thru 'I did not know cardboard could swim'-wich.

Happy President's Day!

Put down the weekend ad circular, the new mattress can wait. In the 21st Century, our twenty-tens, President's Day revolves around a bank and post office Monday holiday shutdown,a new sets of sheets, sandwiches and assorted random commercially-related anthropomorphized Uncle Sam characters that appeal to an elementary school remembrance of patriotism. Crass? Any more crass than squishing up a few Presidential birthdays to form a pseudo-holiday?

President's Day should be about a moment of reflection. Yes, yes, there should be a Supreme Court Day. Let's ditch that bullshit Columbus Day, the little junior high monkeys should be learning about Court cases that shifted thought about freedoms, the Constitution and little crap such as privacy, voting rights, cripple rights, choice and who gets to learn about shit, where and how. For example, Brown v. Board of Education springs to mind. Fuck Christopher Columbus and the Knights who hold sway so they can have a fucking parade. And Congress is going to have to haul water to get a day until we bring back an occasional Congressman Brooks-style beatdown of a Senator Sumner on the floor.

Here we are, 2010. An African-American is President of the United States of America. Barack Hussein Obama was elected by a minority of Americans to the highest office in the land. Minority? Yes. Given the percentage of registered voters who actually voted, the reality is just that. Potential voters who didn't vote and those who voted against him means that clearly most Americans did not want him in office. Many like myself celebrated his election as the opportunity for the Smart Guys to fix the shit that Bush and Cheney dragged our country into in a most embarrassing fashion. Intellectually, internationally, economically and Constitutionally, the GWB Administration crushed the spirit of a nation with their ideological hubris. Katrina and permanent war and privatization of the whole works, Christ. In eight short years, the damage was and still is disgusting. We celebrated a return to decency in 2008. The joy revealed during the Inauguration was genuine and inspiring for so many reasons. And perhaps that's what is so painful now for many, many people.

Why? The why and what the fuck of what is happening now is a difficult nut to crack. The Democrats control the White House, the House of Representatives, the Senate and a retirement or two from a friendly Supreme Court. It should be simple to enact a bit of healthcare, foreign policy, financial reform and maybe an employment juicebox to get the train back on the tracks. Yes? And as in, what in the bloody Hell is happening here?

The 36th President LBJ, despite screwing up Vietnam, managed to jam through the Civil Rights Act of '64, Voter's Rights Act of '65, Medicare, Medicaid,the space program and a whole slew of fine ideas that we take for granted. All this when a good chunk of the country wanted to tar and feather him. Johnson could crush a man with his will. A meeting with him would be the equivalent of a psychological beating. When he ran for Congress, legend has it he had his campaign adviser spread a rumor that his opponent was a pig fucker. He adviser said to the effect that this wouldn't be true. Johnson said all he wanted was for his opponent to deny he was a pig fucker. LBJ was feared. Hell, even Chester A. Arthur was feared.

What has changed? Where is the sausage from the sausage-making? It's easy to point the finger of the hatred of government at Ronald Reagan's 'welfare-queen-ing' of the Federal government. But the mistrust was solidified by Newt Gingrich. And the Christian Coalition. Congressman Gingrich's Contract eased the way for shutting down the country as a option for leadership. And the Falwell's and Robertson's jihad legitimized religion-based election strategy that still works today among the Idiot class. Throw in the Fox News faux-journalism, and you have the mutated simpleton's path to the Palin/Bachmann form of government. The so-called movement of the Teabaggers is the retarded baby of this three decade-long attack on a civil society.

This is where we stand. What is a free-thinking, decent American supposed to do? From the 2010 State of the Union address, President Barack Obama:

"The spirit that has sustained this nation for more than two centuries lives on in you, its people. We have finished a difficult year. We have come through a difficult decade. But a new year has come. A new decade stretches before us. We don't quit. I don't quit. Let's seize this moment -- to start anew, to carry the dream forward, and to strengthen our union once more."

Happy President's Day.

Enough

Enough is enough. Time for a bit of levity.





For the public record: Journey kicks ass.

The State of the Union

I've been very sick for the last few days, making watching the SOTU address last night even more depressing without booze. President Barack Obama tilting at The Windmills of Chucklehead is difficult to swallow. I watched the post-game Charlie Rose show, and even a depressed David Brooks was talking suicidal, the frustration of systemic national Stupidity and the increasing realization that it's hopeless for rational governance are sinking in. This actually made me laugh.

A quote that seems to get magically attributed to anyone who may have repeated it, or has been wishfully attached to achieve extra juice, comes to mind. I'll run with the Yale Book of Quotations citation despite the fact that alumnus Dubya may have permanently spoiled the University's credibility for intellectual analysis. From YBQ: Joseph de Maistre (1753-1821) from Lettres et Opuscules Inédits, vol. 1, no. 53 (1851) (Letter of 15 August, 1811):

"Toute nation a le gouvernement qu’elle mérite." (Every country has the government it deserves.)

Or my version, "A nation of idiots, by idiots and for idiots." Copyright pending...

I'm embarrassed to admit now that I imagined Barack Obama could make a difference and that smart guys in charge would renew my delusional faith in the power of reason. There are just too many morons. There simply is no reasoning with evangelicals of any ilk -religious, Teadouchebag or greedhead along with (as a friend alluded)their retarded offspring college students who only want to know what's on the test. Why bother with all this harmony-We're-All-Americans bullshit. We are not all equal. I'm equal with this cesspool of jackasses roaming our fucking country? I don't think so. The President was blithering about this 2nd best nonsense. Second? Fucking please. We're not even in the Top Ten. What might renew my faith? President Obama's 2011 SOTU opening,

"America, I'll put this simply and slowly so you'll understand me. The vast majority of you are idiots. A nation of idiots, by idiots and for idiots. Unfortunately, the Founding Fathers didn't count on your ability to fuck your way into a country populated by self-centered, greedy, easily-manipulated irrational churchified imbeciles who joyfully work against their own interests. You just suck too much, you fucking simpletons. I quit."

No one would notice if American Idol or Jersey Shore was showing opposite the Address, but it would sure make me feel better. Who the Hell can deal with this sober?

New Decade Ruminations

A thousand years ago, polyester was invented. And the rise of the talkshow provided us with celebrity banter and hi-jinx that was heretofore unavailable to the common schmuck. Spin this out into its eventual demise, and you have American Pop Culture glancing off creativity and smashing into cross-marketed-ed whorish inanity. Whole clans of worshiping droolers without direction,(The Churchers should despise the talkshow, not American Government), mindlessly drifted blissfully toward false sincerity. Until eventually, casual celebrity shame and shenanigans morphed into a platform for various intellectually-challenged awareness soapboxes and internationally broadcast confessionals. Got a disease or affliction? Good luck, all the cool ones are taken spokes-fluffhead-wise. And yet, FatCouchWalMart America can wag that fucking finger of shame. And then feel superior.

What are we left with? Most of popular media is a gawking sideshow where the 60 Minutes and Springers and the TMZers are on equal footing. And shows that makes shit-gravy about talkshows. Television reality programming and talkshows glorify the boorish, the whorish and the douchebag. How many idiots can pimp their eccentricities? Twenty-four hours a day there are teams of community college dropouts chasing minor celebritantes or office-holders with cameras just waiting for their latest girl-girl kiss or drunken bang. Or minor traffic infraction. All that matters is celebrity. At all costs.

Oprah and Tiger and the Octo-uterus and the Balloon family and clinically-brain dead Regis are canaries in the Media coalmine. The Queen of Bullshit quit and soon no one will give a flying fuck about a golf dude banging cocktail waitresses. Hell, even Tyra Whatthehellqualifiesher bailed. But every mothafooking one of them guest/Marketing 101's in-a-box has a product line to make you look and smeell pretty, whatever will they do to survive? Awwwww... And shit, The rise of the impotent Smug Nation unknowingly mocks itself for its lack of historical perspective. Dam Smuggos. American Idol is your generational legacy.

Yet, the scum that floated to the popular top is grasping the rim of the bowl with potential consequences. The cumulative irrelevance of Leno, O'Brien, Dr. Phil, Dave, Rachel Ray, Kimmel, Oz, Wendy, Beck, Bill O., Sandra Lee, Martha and their assorted lifestyle-shaping ilk along with the endless Franken-vomit guest culture has created a possible vacuous black hole that Hawkins couldn't explain if he was lit up on mushrooms and cheap wine. WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO WITH THESE MUTANTS? And what do we do with their products, lotions and books-on-tape? There's no flush and swirl down a shitter in a swift and painful fashion.

Hope? Hell, the Teabaggers are the new masters of media. Guns, god and gays and WalMart and Maury The Tapeworm glorifying poverty-class infidelity. The days of kind coercion and dignified intellectual debate are gone. Take off your shoes at the airport. Newspapers fold. Global news divisions have been shuttered. And the audacity of new media pimps proclaim 'bloggers', like me, are the new source of NEWS and INFORMATION. Funny. ha-ha funny. Oprah owns the Moon and you are not invited for a weekend getaway.

Somebody get me a gotdam drink.