Not Paid for by the Committee to Elect Bob Krumm

Nashville, I think it’s time we talk frankly about Bob Krumm.

Not about any issues or where he stands on them. But about the man himself.

I have met Bob Krumm on one occasion and my first impression of him was, “Wow. He’s really charismatic and charming.” He’s very personable and has a kind of presence that connotes authority and ease with that authority. In person, Bob Krumm comes across like someone you could not help but vote for*.

If you look at the picture on the front of his website, you can get a hint of that. That’s a photo that says, “Yeah, I’m kind of a cutie in a weird way and the sun is right in my eyes.” But you look at that photo and you kind of get what kind of personal energy he has.


Yes, I think we both knew there was going to be a “however.”

However, the picture on his blog does him no favors. He looks fine; he looks like himself, but he also looks like he’s been caught off-guard and you don’t really get a sense of his charisma.

Bob Krumm, I’m not going to say it again**, but you are an attractive guy. You come across as kind of charming and intriguing. If you can get a photographer to capture that on film…

Well, actually, I don’t know what will happen, but something and I’m sure it will be positive. At the least, if your political career flames out in some drug-addled, floozy-laden, bribe-taking, covert-war starting, baby-kicking, dog-running-over, blaspheming scandal the likes of which Tennessee has never seen before, you would have some fabulous photographs that they can show them on the news.

* Not that I will be voting for him, since I’m not even sure what he’s running for or if I’m even one of his potential constituents.
** I don’t think. I don’t intend to make this an ongoing thing.

Raw Cookie Dough

Even though we are crazier than a box of rabid raccoons and we’re mean and ornery and sometimes burn our eyelashes off while attempting to learn how to breath fire (Butcher), there are still some people left on the planet who enjoy spending time with our family.

Ha, okay, let’s just side-track here for a second. We’re about to talk about chocolate chip cookie dough, but I was thinking about my crazy family and all of a sudden I was reminded of the winter when we lived next door to the church and there was a huge gravel parking lot out behind the church and one wintry Saturday it had completely iced over. There was a good three or four inches of ice on the parking lot, and it was pretty smooth.

So, my dad, who was supposed to be snowblowing, instead put on his ice skates, and–I wish I had the pictures of this–wearing a bright red sweatsuit and a big black fur-lined hat and big black mittens, he skated around the parking lot.

My dad is a showman. It’s part of what makes him a good preacher and also what makes him a difficult person. He’s always got to be the center of attention. But that morning, in the early dawn, he didn’t think he’d be seen at all. We were all supposed to still be asleep.

And there he was, gliding effortlessly across the ice, one large lone Midwesterner looping around a frozen parking lot, lost in his thoughts.

What you learn about men when you see them when they think no one is looking can tell you a lot about them, I think.

Anyway, chocolate chip cookie dough.

From the time I was old enough to grab a spoon, we’ve always eaten a portion of our chocolate chip cookies raw. Even now, it makes me sick as shit to do it and so I don’t do it very often, but there’s nothing that makes me feel more like a member of my family than sitting down with a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough, especially if it has oatmeal in it, and eating it with a big glass of milk.

And, in fact, if one wants to be accepted into our family, one must be happy about eating raw cookie dough. Sure, the raw eggs pose a slight health risk. But that’s what bonds us together–the thrill of staring death in the face and then eating it–or something.

Anyway, I used to think it was the raw egg which would make me feel like shit the next day, but my mom is convinced that it’s actually the baking powder. She says she’s been experimenting, and, if she leaves it out of the dough she intends to eat, it doesn’t make her feel gross.

And, America, that is why I love my mom.

Sure, now, she’s teaching little kids how to read, but in her soul, she’s a scientist, experimenting away on how we can continue out family traditions and feel good about it.

"What About Your Readers?!"

The Butcher accused me of having sucked him into my crazy bloggy universe last night. He feels he’s come to care far too much about your well-being. But, I’m thinking of leaving Blogger, and when I mentioned it to him, the first thing out of his mouth was, “What about your readers?”

Y’all, in my heart, I’ve already left Blogger. In my heart, Tiny Cat Pants lives someplace where I can categorize things, where I can show who’s commented on what last, so that, even if I’ve moved on from a topic, y’all can keep talking about it and see that y’all are still talking about it. And, in my heart, there is a cat wearing tiny pants out where y’all can see him. And there’s red.

I’ve talked to both Sarcastro and Mephistophocles about Squarespace, which they use, and they both are happy with it. And I’ve been kicking some tires and poking around in the CSS and I’m thinking of switching.

Do y’all have any objections?

The Thing at Duke

I keep trying to figure out what to say about it. I’ve got nothing. Check this shit at Pandagon and over at Alas, A Blog. Or follow it in closer detail at Justice 4 Two Sisters.

It wasn’t that long ago when Ivy linked to Flea’s letter to her sons. I keep thinking of that letter when I think about that poor woman in that bathroom in a house full of men.

Flea writes:

It is your responsibility, as a man, to protect those who can not protect themselves. If you fail at this, you have failed as a human being. It is your duty, even when refusing to protect, or even causing the harm yourself, has no visible consequences for you.

The prosecutor who is working on the case says that, even though there were forty men in that house, not one of them is cooperating with police. Not one of them will step forward and say who was in that bathroom with her.

Short and Fat, a guy I like the hell out of, says:

As a guy, unless I knew 100% that a woman had been raped, I’m certain I’d be part wall of silence as well. Particularly, with the DA threatening me with charges and subpeoning me for a DNA sample, despite my innocence.

and I’m at a loss for words. Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine what it would be like to be those guys, but I can imagine all too well what it would be like to be that girl. I cannot help but put myself in her shoes.

Sometimes I wonder what it will take for you all to take us seriously when we rage and grieve over this kind of shit. I know that even the Butcher thinks that rape and attempted rape is something rare and that false accusations are all too common.

But right now, I’m not talking about what happened in that bathroom. I’m talking about what happened in the rest of the house.

There were two women who tried to leave. Someone was concerned enough about them leaving that he was seen by a neighbor talking them into coming back in that house. Someone saw that woman go into the bathroom, either alone or with his teammates. Someone saw her come out of that bathroom.

There are witnesses. There are men who were there who could help this investigation.

And they’re silent.

How can that be? How can they think they are any kind of man at all if they won’t stand up for the truth? How can they be a man and not come forward? How can they live with themselves?

I just don’t understand it.