I was walking into Walgreens and a man was walking out. He did a double-take and said, “Hey. Hello beautiful woman.” And then he smiled a little embarrassed grin.
What the fuck, America?
How nice is that?
I don’t inspire emotions in many men, I guess, but the emotions I do inspire in the few so inspired seem to be pretty strong.
1. I’m developing a dead-guy crush on Jordan Stokes III. Was he really as cool as he seemed?
2. Christine Kittrell, another dead object of my affections, recorded for Republic in 1953 a song “Gotta Stop Loving You,” and the band backing her seems to be Gay Cross’s Good Humor Six. Is the John Coltrane on alto sax THE John Coltrane?
3. I’m so intrigued by Billie McAllister–‘That’s Miss Billie McAllister” he says after Bill Beasley tries to introduce him as Bill–that I’m now wanting to read a good history of homosexuality in the South. Anyone know of any?
Yep, I do.
Karl Rove, upset by the obvious, impending loss of Joe Lieberman contacted Tony Blair and said "If you’ve got anything, anything at all you can pull out of your ass to shake the American people, now is the time to do it." and Tony Blair said, "Well, we do have these guys under surveillance. We could make a big show of bringing them in." and Rove was all like, "Okay, if Lieberman loses the election and I can’t figure out the best way to spin it to the American people, I’ll send Lieberman a note saying how George Bush has got his back and will be willing to do anything to help him get reelected and that’ll be your cue to act." and Blair was all "Right-o, then, old chap. Toodles."
And so it went.
At least, I wish.
Because, if there’s one thing the past six years have taught us it’s that, in reality, we are a nation governed by semi-competent boobs more concerned with hording power than with much of anything else. And knowing that, as far as I’m concerned, is almost unbearable.
I could take a lot more comfort in thinking that our government is so super competent that it can regularly conspire against the American people and have it work flawlessly.
Brittney could use some advice about shitty commenters and what to do about them.
Tiny Cat Pants 