Cheap Filler

I'm at the start of what promises to be a very busy week...

...what with my crummy job and writing one stinking line of my protest song every three or four days. Also, I am keeping things brief, as I stated in my previous post.

So. since you were kind enough to come here and see what I had to say, and since I have almost nothing to say, I give you this link to a very funny page of (mis)interpretations of DHS (Dep't. of Homeland Security) signage.

The picture above is a generic hott guy whom I found on Google, using the search term "hot men." Don't try that at work, folks. I really meant, after my callous and beastly previous post, to find a picture of a really hot guy, someone that I myself would find attractive if I found men attractive. But I ran out of time, and thus the quick and dirty Googling. This one's good-looking enough (perhaps a reader can let me know for sure), but he wouldn't be my choice. For one thing, I think he's laughing at me. Uproariously.

Click here for the humor, and remember my love goes with you, but not to the bathroom.

The Soul of Wit

What am I thinking, writing so many words?

When I look at the previous post and realize that I have to scroll down to see it all, even I don't want to read it. This is the Age of Video. Do I think I'm writing for Posterity? Even if Blogger doesn't close up shop and delete everything we've all written, Posterity will have lost the art of reading, so who am I trying to kid?

I'm too long-winded. There are too many revisions. The prose is prolix. I think I'm on the right track using pictures all the time (thus the gratuitous cheesecake above), but when I start writing I must strive for brevity. Discipline, Jones.

So that's all for tonight, except to say that my heart burns with hot, hot love for you all.

Night Life

When there is music and strong drink on a Saturday night, everyone is happy.

I'd half-forgotten the buzz that surrounds these places. The places we gather - the bars, the clubs, the cafés where we drink and mingle and meet and hustle. But there it was, from the moment I walked into the little place on Fourth Street. The cumulative voice of a hundred people, all those many lives breeding all those conversations and melding into the Big Talk that goes on in bars. At any given moment, half of it is lies, and we rarely stay with it long enough to figure out which half we are hearing. I usually believe it all.

But everyone seems happy. They're happy to be there, happy to meet you, happy to be part of the ancient ritual, happy at what could happen, eager for what might happen. I wondered if any of them knew what might happen, or if they were just hoping. Either way, the place was charged.

The woman next to me at the bar was having a hard time ordering her drink. She wanted a straight shot of tequila, but something good, not the well stuff. She didn't know the language, or the brands, had no idea what to say, and the bartender was patient but quizzical, wanting to fill the order, but eyeing her other customers, who evidently knew what they wanted. I wanted everybody to stay happy, so I ordered her a shot of Patron Reposado, neat. The bartender looked relieved and poured a double. As an afterthought I asked for water back. The Patron is mellow, but maybe not that mellow. Jones to the rescue.

The band took a break just as I arrived, a mixed blessing. I'd have to talk to them before I knew what they sounded like. On the other hand, I'd be able to let the singer know I was there to support her. She was a woman I had known for some time not as a professional musician, but as a hairdresser, a wife, a mother. I had no idea at all that she might be musical. All I knew is that she had a sweet and gentle nature, and she smiled most of the time when she wasn't laughing. In the short years I had known her a brother had died at his own hands and her baby was born with Downs Syndrome. She bore these pains in the mysterious way that some women have of growing stronger and more loving with each added burden. Then one day she said she had joined a band, and I knew I'd have to go and pretend to listen and think of some compliment for her. I hoped it wouldn't be too awful, so I could flatter her without blatantly lying.

First the drummer showed up, leaning way too far over the shoulder of Tequila Girl, taking a long time ordering a glass of water, sneaking a peak down her front. I shot him a little happy talk about his playing. Musicians always believe you when you say it sounds good. They have to. They're doing it to sound good. I found out that the band had been around, in various lineups, for at least fifteen years. So they should have been under no illusions about what they were doing and where they were going. They were already there, this little, friendly, happy place. Not a bad life, I thought. Up on the drum riser, keeping time for the comedy below, and sometimes the tragedy.

Tequila Girl took a sip and turned her bar stool around to form a triangle with us. That kept the drummer talking, maybe the half that was lies. All the places he'd worked, the people he knew, the incredible versatility of his band. He told us they could - and would - play anything, but he stumbled when trying to think of titles, eventually coming up with "Crazy," the Willie Nelson song immortalized in 1961 by Patsy Cline. This was good enough for me, and I said so. Tequila Girl agreed that it was an excellent choice.

"You wanna hear that one?" he said, as if I had anxiously requested it. "We'll play it for you, first thing."

I hadn't exactly made a formal request, but at that moment there was nothing to do but thank the man for his generosity. Since they were going to play it, I hoped Peggy would be up to the task of singing it. Before I could get up to go look for her, one of the sax players stopped by, mingling with the crowd, like all good small club bands. She was a fiftyish matron in stage threads, her fine, freckled bosom proudly preceding her. She was wearing some kind of stiff satiny evening gown in gold, looking, like all stage finery, a little tawdry in the closeups. She wanted to know how it sounded. Was it too loud? Could we hear all the instruments? I had no idea, but I murmered reassurances. She gave me a look of appraisal. Maybe I passed, maybe I didn't. We flirted without conviction for a minute before she wandered off. Before I knew it, the break was over, and I missed my chance to let Peggy know I was there for her.

I could see the drummer talking to Peggy and pointing me out at the bar, and while everyone was getting set up and tuned up, she came over to me. She was a somewhat changed Peggy. She had lost some Mommy fat since I'd last seen her, and she had a wholesome Doris Day-sexiness going on, like you'd never talk dirty to her, but if you did she'd wink and know just what you meant. She was wearing a filmy top that you couldn't really see through, but it looked like maybe you could, and white denim pants that started out tight and then loosened up a little around her thigh, ending about half way down her calves, which were wrapped in festive ribbons from her high-heeled sandals. She was surprised and happy to see a familiar face, and she couldn't believe I wanted to hear "Crazy." I continued to act as if I'd requested it - it was too late to back out now.

They didn't start with my request. They were experienced, and they knew enough not to open a set with a tearjerker. Instead, the bass player sang an upbeat old Motown hit. Peggy looked comfortable singing backup, not at all the fifth wheel some singers become when they're not the center of attention. Her body - which I had never even thought of before - was moving almost imperceptibly with the music, her feet making a miniature dance pattern that caused a sensuous swaying of the rump. She was totally tuned in and not faking, and I appreciated the way the music turned her on.

In my mental movie of this scene, the revelers have hit the dance floor, and the Motown song ends with shouts and applause. Then the lights dim and a pin spot hits Peggy, making an angelic halo out of her blonde hair. As the first bars of her song play, she introduces it and calls everyone's attention to me as the one who asked for it. I'm embarrassed only for a moment, before she begins to sing. It is a slower, jazzier version than Patsy's original, and it is astonishing. There is a rush of recognition as she sings the first word, Crazy... then spellbound silence as she continues. Her voice is a sweet contralto, a little husky, with no affectation, no phony curlycues. Crazy for feelin' so lonely... Every note is nailed, every word drenched in real emotion. I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted, and then someday you'd leave me for somebody new... She is not copying anything she's heard before, and I am amazed at the power she wields so calmly. She is in complete command by the time she gets to the bridge. Worry, why do I let myself worry? Wonderin' what in the world did I do? She is motionless, in a trance as she performs this little miracle, and each of us in the room is alone with her. I realize I am holding my breath. Crazy for tryin', crazy for cryin', and I'm crazy... for lovin'...you. For three minutes the chatter has stopped, the lies are on hold, there is no bullshit in the bar. What might have happened is happening. Breathless and in love, we erupt in applause and whistles, all the men and half the women.

I will be gone before the set is over. Peggy won't need me to tell her she "sounded good." She knows.

On the drive home I reflect on the hidden talent that exists, the myriad abilities that might never be exposed, the beauty that we may never see or hear or feel because we don't give ourselves the chance, and the unbelievably high cost of a single shot of Patron.

It's crazy.

Update, 8 AM next morning: I fixed the link to the song.

Banished, Part 2

G.D. left this comment on the previous post:

> There are many brave people who just pick up and go for their dreams...is that the secret to achieve greatness??...Fearless belief in one's dreams? <

Not that I actually know anything about the mysteries of living, but yeah, that's the secret. There's more to it, though.

We all get to roll the dice in life. We are not limited by the rules as to how many times we can roll them, but we have to live with the results each time. So let's say you're Bill Gates and you and your buddy Paul purchase the rights to a computer operating system (DOS) for $10,000, because they love working with computers and software. Paul geeks around with it in his garage for a while, and you go to IBM to see if maybe they'd like to license it for their new "personal computer." Turns out they not only want to license it, but they decide they will not restrict the patents on their machine, thus allowing everybody and his Dutch uncle to build PC clones, all of which need a copy of your operating system. Millions of machines in just a few years, and you are getting thirty bucks for every one of them. Whatever you (Bill) had to do to get that initial ten grand, your roll of the dice has paid off.

But if any number of lucky things had not happened, Bill and Paul would simply be out ten thousand dollars. They would be free to try again, of course, as many times as they wanted, but each time the money would be harder to get, and they would have a little less youthful exuberance. Maybe one of their rolls would work out, and maybe not. You can see that doing what they love to do is no guarantee of success. In this case IBM had to cooperate big time.

We all get the same opportunity to roll. Some are better prepared or bankrolled by their parents, or they happen to try something that they are really good at, or they're just plain lucky. Some roll craps the first time out, and have to roll again. Some roll craps enough times that they have no heart, no money and no time left to roll again.

Often they have taken on more responsibilities in their lives. They have a car payment, rent or mortgage, maybe some kids to feed and care for. If the dice haven't been breaking for them, at some point they simply must stop thinking about whatever the fuck it is they love to do, and get a job with a steady paycheck. You know what we all think of those who don't, right? We think they are lazy, stupid, cheating bums.

Trouble is, these steady paychecks usually are not attached to dream careers. Most of the time they are not careers at all, even though you end up doing them for the rest of your life. They are just useless, boring time-wasters, functions that must be done in order for some store or restaurant or office or landfill to stay in business. Not everybody in these jobs is a dull schlump, either, so don't go jumping to that conclusion. You'll often find fine, creative folks doing crummy jobs, because they can't bring themselves to keep dreaming up new lifequests and rolling again and again, because they can no longer afford to take the chances they could when they were just starting out, because others are depending on them now, or because they simply can't put together a head of steam to make another run, or because they have been burned once too often, and they need to play it safe.

Fearless belief in your dreams is the main ingredient. It makes you willing to do anything to see them fulfilled. But you gotta be lucky with the dice, too.

Banished From the Garden

I have waded through another Monday at My Crummy Job.

I can't believe my life has deteriorated to this. I don't even thank God it's Friday anymore, because on my way home I am already dreading Monday. I need like a year off to unwind, then a year to travel and have a little fun, then a year to get ready to go back. Then I'd like to work half days, from home, for twice as much $$.

I've been struggling with the Protest Song for the past few weeks, thinking this shouldn't be taking so long. I don't remember spending this much time on songwriting before, and I actually wrote a lot of songs. The quality may have been questionable, but there was no arguing with the quantity. Then I remembered: I used to sleep until ten, have breakfast and drink coffee until noon, and do music all afternoon - listening, playing, writing. Then, when it was time to go to work in the evening, guess what? I played and sang until one in the morning. My whole day was music. No wonder I wrote songs faster. And I was having a splendid time, too. These days I have to make an appointment with myself. Songwriting? Well, the whole day is out, until after 6 PM. Maybe I can squeeze you in from 7:20, after the yard work, until 7:55. I'm sorry. That's all the free time we have for you and your protest song.

Whose idea was it for me to spend my last years doing meaningless work that I actively dislike, and doing such a fine job of it, too? I am already performing the work of two-and-a-half people. And the longer I stay at My Crummy Job the more work I do, even though I could not possibly care less about any of it. Why do the jobs that pay well have to be so freakin' crummy?

And what's up with those guys who say "I love my job! I am so happy to be here, I'd do this for free!" In my experience, those guys are either the owners and CEO's, or they have high-powered rifles out in their cars. They are either getting rich off my labor, or they are nutcases planning to blow me and half my co-workers away, including themselves. I only hope their aim is true.

I made a smart remark on Emma Goldman's War On Error blog the other day, and she came back at me with a quote from a book called Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (I am not making this up). Go read the post, because Goldie is quite literate and persuasive and if you play your cards right she might one day make you a French pastry, and I don't mean turn you into an eclair. But here's the quote, anyway:

So much of what we ordinarily do has no value in itself, and we do it only because we have to do it, or because we expect some future benefit from it. Many people feel that the time they spend at work is essentially wasted--they are alienated from it, and the psychic energy invested in the job does nothing to strengthen their self. For quite a few people free time is also wasted. Leisure provides a relaxing respite from work, but it generally consists of passively absorbing information, without using any skills or exploring new opportunities for action. As a result life passes in a sequence of boring and anxious experiences over which a person has little control.

Right on, Mr. Csikszentmihalyi! But what can you do to fix it, once I have become addicted to the money? I have heard that you should "...do what you love. The money will follow." I did that, and the money followed someone else.

OK, sorry. I'll feel better by morning. And I'll feel great on payday. And I'll be walking on air when I finish the Protest Song and record it and post it here. Don't think you can escape this. In fact, you should all start thinking of nice things to say right now. You might want to jot down some thoughts in advance, because if you take too long when the big day arrives, it won't seem spontaneous. It's best to get your awestruck adlibs ready in advance.

The Rise of Evil, Part 2

Not many disagreed with the claim in my previous post that evil always wins.

Maybe it's more obvious than I thought. Everybody knows it, and your reaction upon seeing that I have discovered it, too, is "Duh." On the other hand maybe this bleak side of Jones is too much of a downer. You don't believe me, you think that Good can triumph and you don't have time for an intervention right now.

But Theresa and Emma Goldman (whom I crudely call "Goldie") both stood up for the forces of Good. My first reaction was "What planet are they living on?" Years ago, even before I read Crime and Punishment, I had a theory about how you could have anything you wanted in life. It was so simple I couldn't believe everyone wasn't already implementing it. Here it is: Take whatever you want by force and kill all the witnesses. I had noticed that hard work and talent do not necessarily lead to success in this world, so I was thinking of ways to get stuff, in case my own hard work and talent failed.

Stealing it was one of the options. Hey, it had to be at least considered. In considering it, one of my very first thoughts was "What if I get caught, and go to prison, and end up with a boyfriend?" This line of thinking lead to my theory. Criminals get caught because witnesses tell on them, therefore you should get rid of all the witnesses. Not just bribe them or threaten them, but kill them. That way you get to keep the spoils, and there are no repercussions.

I never put my theory into practice though. I didn't want to kill anybody. I didn't even want to steal the material things I wanted. I wanted to earn my own way and have the respect of others, and as Goldie remarked (sort of) in her comment, I wanted to be able to look in the mirror without cringing at the sleazy, double-dealing murderous thief I had become.

As a result I haven't gotten rich or powerful. Gwyneth Paltrow doesn't return my calls, because she knows in advance that she doesn't want to meet me. Probably if I had followed my theory - with some modifications to account for security cameras and DNA tracing - I could have had Gwyneth in so many ways by now. But I opted for living the good life instead. Damn those Catholic schools.

But even though I am not much of a player, it seems obvious to me that if you're willing to resort to cheating, lying, stealing, threatening and actually causing physical harm to others (in other words, if you're willing to do Evil), you can come out on top in competitive situations, which is what life is. A dope like me would feel so bad about this that he would not be able to do it for long without breaking down and confessing, and then doing prison time. In my previous post I gave four simple examples of how this works, so I won't belabor this here.

I suppose what Theresa and Goldie are trying to say is something along the lines of "If we'd all play fair, carry our own weight and help each other, it would be a better world." Granted, and I'm all for it in principle. But if one guy decides to take what he wants and kill all the witnesses, he can negate a million good deeds.

And sadly, that guy is always out there.

The Rise of Evil

Evil always wins.

Let's say three roommates share a house. Everybody has jobs and schedules, places they have to be, people to meet, things to do. They are just trying to get over. Two of the roommates, because of their upbringing, or their moral superiority or guilt or whatever, do their share of household chores. Nothing too intense. They take out the trash, vacuum occasionally. The third roommate - the evil one - never helps. He never does the dishes or sweeps the kitchen floor. He gets peanut butter out of the refrigerator, eats what he wants and leaves the rest of it out. He spills potato chips on the sofa at night while watching reruns of Saturday Night Live, and the mess is still there in the morning, after he has risen and left the house for the day. The other roommates cover for him, because they are trying to maintain modern civilization, but he blithely goes on in his slobby ways, oblivious to the fact that his roommates are acting as his servants. Eventually, and here is where evil wins, the two roommates give up and stop taking care of their clueless brother. At this point, the house begins to smell funny, and the carpet crunches when you walk on it. Before long, all three roommates are slobs. Dates enter the house, their upper lips curl in revulsion, and people are not getting laid when they should. Pure evil, winning again.

Or consider a bully on a playground. He steals your lunch money, knocks your book bag to the ground and sometimes just bops you for the hell of it. You and the rest of the kids try to appease him, but this doesn't satisfy him. He steps up his demands, telling you to get more lunch money, or else. As you can see, evil is winning here. After a while, you decide to challenge the bully. At this point, I have to warn you: Contrary to what your Uncle Dick told you when you were little, bullies don't fold and run away crying just because you stand up to them. Sometimes they beat the shit out of you, and make you their bitch. But whatever the outcome, you and the bully have escalated the situation into open warfare. If you beat him up, perhaps you will become the bully. Or maybe he will beat you up. Either way, violence and terror are now rampant on the playground. Evil wins.

Maybe you work in a sales job, on commission plus bonuses. (In case you haven't noticed, almost all jobs can be sales jobs to some extent.) You believe in your product, and you are convinced that it is beneficial to most of your customers. You tell your clients the truth, and in some cases the truth prevents them from purchasing, because you help them to understand that the product would not suit their needs, or perhaps they cannot afford it. You lose a sale and a commission, but this is OK with you, because, after all, you are helping people, and you don't have to close every deal in order to put food on your table. But Slick Rick - the evil salesperson on your team - doesn't feel the same. He feels that every client can and should be closed, whether it is good for them or not. Because it is good for him. He leaves out any information that the customer "doesn't need to know," and sometimes obscures the long-term financial consequences of his clients' decision to buy, if that's what it takes to make a deal. Because of these and other shady tactics, he is the top producer, lives extremely well, collects most of the bonuses and sales incentives and is the darling of management. Customers are hurt, but it is possible to prove that they signed the documents of their own free will, so the attitude of the company is "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." You, on the other hand, are repeatedly called in to the manager's office and asked what's wrong, is there trouble at home, we'd really hate to lose you, but you're just not keeping up. Eventually you get fired (evil wins), or you quit in disgust (evil wins and you blame yourself) or you adopt Slick Rick's methods and start shaking down everyone you see (you lose your self-respect, more people get hurt, the integrity of the company is compromised and evil wins big time).

You see how this works?

Or you are a candidate for political office. You and your opponent strongly disagree on solutions to the challenges facing your constituents, and you vigorously present your well-researched and prepared proposals at town meetings throughout the district. Your opponent may have good ideas too, or he may not, but he realizes that the public is unconcerned about the wonkery of good government, and voters won't or can't be educated. So he attacks you personally on the ground that you smoked pot in college, or one of your aides was busted for drunk driving in 1979. Since you bailed him out, you are "soft on crime," and cannot be trusted to deal harshly with child molesters. Blindsided, you deny the charges and say that you hate those kid-rapers too, but it's too late. Your tough stance appears phony, and your supporters abandon you. Evil has won, and in the election you go down 59% to 37%. Your political career is over, unless you jump on the personal attack shitwagon in the next election.

Try to be good, folks. But watch your back, and don't expect too much from the rest of us.

An Unnumbered List

That post below this one has been there long enough.

"Next Blog" visitors here will think that I am using the internet to shop for sex. Heh, heh. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am using the internet to shop for porn. But you have to admit, the person who wrote that ad (see the previous post if you must read it) was pretty clever. I thought about contacting her to tell her that I had used her ad as a blog post, and to let her know that I appreciated her writing. But then she probably would have sued me. Is plagiarism a crime? Even if I acknowledge it right in the plagiarism itself? But I guess you can be sued for things that aren't criminal. Look at O.J.Simpson: Not a criminal according to the court, but so sue-able. So if any of you were thinking about giving the ad writer a jingle, please don't mention me, OK?

I'm writing this to blot out the memory of my previous tawdry post, so I have to think of things to discuss, so as to push that other thing as far down the screen as possible. I usually don't do current events, because I have lived forever already and nothing much surprises me or outrages me, at least not enough to expose my thoughts to the world. Also, as I have mentioned elsewhere on this site, there are professional writers with press credentials and lots of access, not to mention their own personal fact-checkers, who are able to do a better job of punditry than I could, so mostly I stick to trolling for comments from naked women. Some of you have been obliging in that regard, and I can't thank you enough.

Nonetheless, because I am at a creative impasse, let me try a list of stuff:

• THE LONDON BOMBINGS. A lot of people hate us. I'm including the Brits and Americans in the group known as "us." There are other countries that are hated, too, sort of a coalition of the arrogant. Blowing things up and killing people you don't even know really pisses me off. Of course, it must really piss off the people who are blown up and killed. We've been doing it to whomever we want for centuries, so you've got to think they must be angry. So now they're blowing us up and killing us. Everybody in the West wants to know "Why do they hate us?" The real question is "Why did it take them so long?" Get used to it, people. This is not the kind of war you can win. In fact, the very act of engaging this type of adversary sort of guarantees that it won't end. The terrorists, who, let's face it, are fundamentalist Islamic radicals, don't have a political agenda, so we can't even surrender. We can't say, "OK, you win, we give up, you can have what you want." Because they only want to kill infidels. If we give up, they'll kill us all. So we have to take away their incentives to hate us. We have to treat the Arab and Islamic worlds with respect, instead of stealing all their stuff that isn't nailed down, installing murderous dictators in their countries and sneering at their culture and religion. It will take a couple of generations to pull something like this off, and the healing won't start until we in the U.S. dump our current crop of "leaders," who are, not coincidentally, fundamentalist Christian radicals.
• TOM CRUISE. What a terrible spot this poor guy is in! He is as queer as Rock Hudson. A gay Scientologist. You know The Church wouldn't approve. You know his twenty-million-dollar-a-picture career would take a nose dive if he came out. At least you've got to hand it to him for managing to get Nicole Kidman and Penelope Cruz and Katie Holmes to go along with the ruse. All he needs is to be married or paired off, and for that he could use anybody, but he went out and hooked himself three world-class babes. I'm trying to imagine being repulsed by doing the nasty with any one of these women. Not working for me, but I think I can simulate the feeling (of revulsion) by imagining myself with Tom Cruise! So not my type. One night with him and I'd be going on talk shows admitting my heterosexuality. And yet he has posed as lover or husband for these hot women for years! Has he won an Academy award yet? He deserves one for this ongoing performance. Maybe after a couple of years with little Katie he will cop. According to my calculations, sometime in the next 18 months he will have accumulated more money than God, and so who cares about the career anymore? He can "get back to his roots" and do some off-Broadway theater. But whoops! Here comes The Church of Scientology. They will have to lock him in a room and cure him, or else come out themselves. I can hardly wait.
• KARL ROVE. This is a non-story. But first, what kind of name is Plame? I've never known anyone with that name. It sounds made up. Is that the best the CIA can do? Making up names for their secret agents that sound made up? No wonder thay can't catch Bin Laden. Anyway, Bush said he'd fire anyone who leaked information about Valerie Plame two years ago, and now it looks like it was Karl, the guy who sort of created Bush and still pulls most of the strings. So there will be some awkward moments between George and Karl, the President and his mentor. Despite the fact that half the people in Washington already knew about Valerie Plame's job, if it can be proved that Karl did the leaking Bush will have to fire him. And the loyal opposition will grind on this interminably, so if there's any evidence it will be found, and even if there's no evidence the whole thing could bring the government to a standstill. Some of you will say "Good," and you are probably right, but Bush has to think of his legacy, such as it is, and so Karl must be canned. But wait - is this a bad thing? Certainly not for Karl. The Heritage Foundation or some other right-wing "think tank" will gladly pay Rove a million bucks to join them, and once he is free of the fetters of being a "public servant" he should be ble to make twenty grand a night in speaking fees. That's more than I make in a week. He doesn't strike me as a guy who cares if people like him, so even if he faces the public humiliation of an indictment and a trial, he'll still be able to laugh, especially when he is sentenced to six months in some low-security Martha Stewart clink (suspended, of course). Not to mention that he cannot do anything bad enough for the millions of ditto-heads in this country to lose their love for all things Rove. So this is a win-win: Joe Wilson is made an example of and Karl Rove becomes a millionaire. Because I don't have a fact-checker, I have to state here that I don't know if maybe he already is a millionaire. But either way I'm sure he won't mind getting the hell out of D.C., and getting started on his "civilian" life.
  
• THE PROTEST SONG. You thought maybe this was going away, didn't you? Well it's not. I won't bother to link back to the relevant posts about this debacle. If you were here, you know what I'm talking about. If not, you missed a great party. I am actually working on the protest song, using as much of what you sent me as I can, without violating the Hayes Act. When it's finished I will record it and post it here, as I have previously threatened. I only wish I could somehow invade all your computers, you lazy do-nothings who have not helped me with this project, and force you to listen. It will not be pretty, but it will be done.
• THE DA VINCI CODE. Yes, I am reading it. I was forced to. Someone at work bought the book and loaned it to me, against my wishes. But I have to read it now, because I refused to read Atlas Shrugged when this same woman forcibly loaned that one to me a few years ago, and so I owe her one. This book has swept America, and it has been recommended to me vigorously by so many people that I expected it to be, well, really good. I will say this: It is a classic page-turner. Every chapter ends in a cliff-hanger, and since there are three (or four) storylines, you often have to read a couple of chapters to find out the resolution of one of the cliffhangers. But while you are doing that, you discover a couple more cliffhangers, and so on. I am only half way through it, so I don't think I know enough to spoil it for anyone, so for God's sake, don't click away from here. For me the problem with the book is that the descriptions are dull and the characters are simply props. They don't feel like real people, and therefore one does not get involved much with them. I think the world likes this book a lot because it says many bad things about the Roman Catholic Church (hooray), and because it piles on a lot of little "facts" about history and language and philosophy and religion, and makes it seem as if you are learning something by reading it. This is an illusion. Still, I have to say I like all the stuff about Goddess worship, yin and yang, and the sacrament of fucking. In my big-budget blockbuster movie, which will be out late next spring, I will cast Keannu Reeves as Robert Langdon and Isabelle Huppert as Sophie Neveu. The film will flop, but I will get to meet Isabelle Huppert, and share a sacrament.
  
• I APOLOGIZE to any of my blogging buddies whom I may have offended in private email. I didn't mean to, I was thoughtless and crude, and I beg forgiveness.

As always, my heart is filled with love for you all, but tinged with vague unease.