People I Have Mad Crushes On Today

Adam Caulfield Kleinheider–Named after two of Western Civilization’s greatest brats–Mr. "She made me eat the apple!" and Little Lord "My Problems are So Deep and I Care So Much about my Sister"*–Kleinheider cracks me up today with his sass directed at Brit Hume:  "It’s fine, I’m not mad at him, I just wish he’d dispense with the smoke up my hindparts." and he alerts us to this weird ass thing about that hate-monger Michael Savage:  he used to hang with Allen Ginsburg.  And I do mean hang.

Rachel–She goes after Phil Valentine for playing "blame the victim" and she does it with such panache.

Oh, and Phil, she’s a college student and mother of two. Presumably, she’s stripping in order to pull herself up by her bootstraps like you conservatives appreciate so much, and to make a better life for herself and her children.

–And last, but not least, Ann Coulter.  No, no.  I know.  I don’t understand it either, but sometimes when I read her, I think "this is art."  I mean, it must be what some folks feel when they look at Piss Christ.  I’m not a softy when it comes to visual art, but Andrew Hudgins and I are on the same page about it

if we did not know the cross was gimcrack plastic,
we would assume it was too beautiful.
We would assume it was the resurrection,
glory, Christ transformed to light by light

It is one of the most amazingly beautiful, moving–dare I say?–transcendent images of Christ I’ve ever seen.  I look at that and see something that tells me more about the transformative nature of Christ than any book and most ministers.  But I can also see how people find it unbelievably offensive, how they can’t get past the sacrilege and the seeming degradation of a representation of Christ.

That’s how I feel about Coulter.  I look at her columns, like this one, which is so hilariously repulsive that I must share it with you**, and I think, this must just be art that I don’t get.  Especially check out the last part, where Ann Coulter professes her great love for Jesus.  Does anyone in America read that and not see that as deliriously insincere?  I cannot imagine.






*I should, perhaps, point out that I totally made that up.  I have no idea what Kleinheider’s middle name is.  I imagine it’s Charles or Craig or Christopher.  I secretly hope it’s Carlos and that there’s a huge scandal when it turns out that he himself is an illegal immigrant from Mexico taking blogging jobs that should have gone to real Americans.  I guess Carlos Kleinheider would be a weird mix, but no weirder than Carlos O’Kelly and that dude’s got himself some restaurant.

**Thanks to our Wayward Boy Scout for the heads-up.

The Man From GM Has My Number

"So, why aren’t you answering your phone?"


"Don’t even try to lie to me.  I know you.  When you stop answering your phone, something is wrong.  Your brother has done some dumbass thing.  Somebody you put too much faith in has said something shitty to you.  Or you’re fed up with someone at work.  Do you want me to take care of it?  I only have to show a driver’s licence to get a gun."

"You’re going to start shooting people for me."

"No, just scaring them a little bit."


"So, buck up, B.  You think you’ve got it tough, look at my new job."

"That looks like a dream job for you.  What’s so bad about that?"

"The closest I’m going to get to any bunnies is the logo on my shirt."


A Brief Explanation

Listen, y’all.  I know it’s not been very much fun around here lately.  I’m sorry about that.  I know it’s not much fun to watch and that it seems like, if I’d just get my head out of my ass and stop dwelling on the bad shit, things would be fine.  I appreciate that sentiment.

But this is how things go.

Ninety to ninety-five percent of my life is amazingly awesome.  I have good people around me and good luck and a job I love and a cute little place to live at the end of a sunny street and a happy dog.

I’ve also got some unpleasant shit that comes up from time to time and demands I tend to it.  Most people would not tend to wrestle their demons in public.  I respect that, but I find doing it publicly to be one of the best ways for me to see them for their true size and not be overwhelmed by them.

I know it’s not fun to watch.  Again, I’m sorry about that.  But it’s what I have to do to deal with things.  It’s hard right now.  I feel like I’m under a tremendous amount of pressure and I can’t articulate where that pressure’s coming from.  But it’s okay.  It sucks right now, but it’s really going to be fine.  Things will shift and shift again and I’ll get back to normal.

Just hang with me.

The Morning Thunder Storm

I walked home last night and it felt good.  Better than Monday, when I felt like I was dragging something big and ugly behind me the whole way.  Not that it would have been hard to top that.  But it’s good, I think, to get back out there and do what you love as soon as you can after having a lousy time of it.  Otherwise, the lousy time becomes how you think of it, and not the cool shit that makes it worth while.

Like, for instance, last night, as I was crossing the lawn in front of the Parthenon, there was a man in business attire, his suit coat bundled up under his head, but his tie still on straight and his shirt still tucked in, who was laying in the grass, with his legs crossed at the ankle, yakking on his cell phone in some businessman lingo.  He had his cell phone in his right hand.  In his left hand, he was holding a kite to his chest.

Wallace Stevens says:

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.

I kind of don’t know which I prefer–the man in the suit flying a kite at the park or just after.

This morning I got up early to take Mrs. Wigglebottom out for our walk.  She was standing in the front room panting.  I asked, “Why are you panting?  It’s not hot.”

But, of course, she could already hear the distant thunder.

We only got to the stop sign before it was apparent we should turn around.  Still, she looked crushed.  I also love that about her, her enthusiastic commitment to our morning rituals.

Now, she’s laying under my feet, panting and listening to the rain against the windows.

Pet Patterns

I never shut the blinds in my room.  There’s no need to.  We have nobody across the street from us except the interstate and the retaining wall keeps anyone from seeing anything exciting.

I like the way the morning sun comes over the wall and in through the window.  It lands first on the bed and then makes its way onto the floor and then out the doorway into the hall.

The animals migrate with it, always napping in fits and starts so that they can travel with the sunny spot until it’s gone.

Every sunny day they do this.

It makes you wonder.