It’s my considered opinion that Texas (and the Supremes, and many other jurisdictions, institutions, and individuals) could benefit from the occasional kick up the hole.
That said, this tale about the Austin indie chamber-music group Montopolis and the Texas Workforce Commission Hold Music should remind us that hope remains. Even in Texas.
Another superhero adventure is coming to a messy ending.
The Military-Industrial Complex’s Cinematic Universe isn’t as orderly as Marvel’s, probably because the writers aren’t as good. Neither are the reviews. But hey, that’s show business for you.
It seemed like such a simple story, too. United States is attacked. United States fights back. Boffo box office!
But some nimrod thinking sequels, spinoffs, and merchandise resurrected an old character called “Mission Creep.” The story went sideways but we kept buying the tickets, taking the ride.
“Look, there’s Stan Lee!”
“No, that’s Robert McNamara.”
Remember the old joke about the driver heading up an off ramp by mistake? “What the hell, you’ve come this far. …”
Well, 20 years later, here we are, upside down in the ditch, watching Mission Creep, Captain REMF, and The Incredible Schmuck posturing for the cameras in an endgame that isn’t one. Avengers Dissemble!
* Of course he’s not dead. We’ll keep trotting him out as long as there’s a buck in it.
We New Mexicans should probably apologize to the Pacific Northwest for stealing their climate.
But hey, you left it unlocked with the keys in the ignition, so. …
Puddles on the Duke City trails are as rare as original thought in government. (See the latest iteration of publicly funded downtown stadiums for privately owned sports teams.) This in a town where we have a six-pack of dudes — half of them part-time — to plug holes in the bike paths along which the homeless pitch their festive tents.
In DeeCee, meanwhile … well, the less said about that, the better. But can we at least agree that a few more Republicans would be on board the Investigation Train if the treasonous fucks who invaded the U.S. Capitol, pounding a few John Laws along the way, had been socialist, gay, people of color, or any combination thereof? You know: Democrats?
Jesus H., etc. In Hell Mao is all like, “Damn, and I thought I had a cult of personality going on.” But this feels more like the Israelites and their golden calf, only with “Christians” and a plastic pig from the Dollar Store rattle-canned with metallic-gold Krylon.
This sort of behavior failed to amuse either Moses or the Lord, as I recall. Doesn’t do shit for me, either.
Speaking of things that are a monkey or two short of a full barrel, I see we’re back to wearing our face panties.
Bernalillo County is tagged orange, with a “substantial” level of community transmission, so the CDC would like us to cover up when visiting indoor public spaces, shots or no shots.
Oh, good. I was already sick of seeing smiling faces and understanding the speech emerging from same.
The bright side is that in the past two weeks a half-dozen family members from far and wide have been able to visit Herself the Elder before the portcullis drops again, as seems likely. So, yay, etc.. May yis all be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows you’re dead.
We almost skipped Sleepy Joe’s address to Congress Lite last night.
Our “Northern Exposure” DVD collection has been getting a workout — you’d be surprised how well that series holds up after 30 years — and I already had a pretty good idea of how “The Joe Show” was gonna go. I’ve seen that one before, too.
But we watched ol’ Joe spin his tale, and I’m glad we did.
It was light on chest-thumping and finger-pointing. It felt less like theater and more like a routine business meeting.
“We all know the drill here, ladies and gents. The Old Home Place is in a helluva state. But we can fix it, if we all pitch in and get our hands dirty, and here’s where I think we should start.” Etc.
I particularly liked his attempt to take back “We the people” from the knuckleheads. I’ve said this for years. We are the government. “L’etat, c’est nous.” If it’s a trainwreck, well, we let it go off the rails, didn’t we? Sat there and watched and pitched a bitch because nobody gave us free marshmallows to toast in the subsequent three-alarm fire.
So here comes Sleepy Joe and he sez to ’em he sez: “Fuck me, what a mess. Let’s put out that fire, get this thing back on the rails, and see where we can go with it. Now I think of it, these rails could use a little work. And is that a road or a gravel quarry? Jesus. Call up the pavers. Whaddaya mean you haven’t got any bars on your phone? Well, shit, add that to the list.
“And quit picking on the kid. Who cares what bathroom s/he uses? We don’t do something about the pipes we’re all gonna be shitting behind the bushes before much longer. And the bushes are gonna be on fire because climate change! Hel-lo! Make another note, Kamala. I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t answered your phone when I called you up and asked you to join the ticket, hey?”
Joe knows he has a teeny-tiny window of opportunity here. From what I’ve read, the Richie Riches and Corporate America don’t mind paying a smidge more in taxes at this moment in history because they know it’s tough to do bidness in a burning building while hanging from the rafters in a stylish suit of tar and feathers and the customers are engaged in running gun battles outside, too broke to pay their bills but not broke enough to pawn their guns.
Too, odds are he loses the House in the midterms thanks to all the three-card Monte that took place at our local carnivals while we were focused on The Big Top. He might be a one-termer whether he likes it or not.
So, yeah. That was quite a laundry list of chores he laid out last night. But he wasn’t a dick about it, and you can’t deny the Old Home Place needs a little work. Deferred maintenance has a way of piling up like turds behind bushes. Or in the House of Representatives.
Mad Blog Media 