No, I don’t intend to watch tonight’s bit of performance art from DeeCee. If I wanted a shameless, savagely incompetent liar sounding off in my living room, on my dime, I’d have a 14-year-old son.
State of the Sty
Tag: State of the Union
Abbey Road, or Downton Funk
Herself and I settled down before the Eye last night with plates of salad and chicken quesadillas to enjoy the president’s final State of the Union address, only to find that the local PBS affiliate was airing “Masterpiece.”
Commies.
And worse, Limey commies, as the show was “Downton Abbey.”
So we switched to the White House website and caught most of Obama’s act, though the Mini spazzed out at the end, pre-empting him with The Spinning Beach Ball of Doom just as he cranked up the volume, and thus we missed the big denouement.
I enjoyed the departure from traditional practice, which has come to elevate ritual over substance. As the prez took the long view, it was particularly amusing to note the discomfiture of the clappers, who were mostly denied easy applause lines.
But I was surprised that he still seems surprised that the other team won’t play ball with him simply because he’s a Kenyan Mooslim National Socialist sissypants.
Still, I felt his pain. I’ve been preaching a gospel of equal parts socialism and substance abuse for years and not one of yis has opened a free-booze-and-bike-parts outlet.
How ’bout them Mazamas?
See that? No, not the nifty red Novara Mazama — the non-blue sky.
Yup. It started snowing on me during today’s ride. Snowing! And in late January, too. Who knew?
Naturally, I kept riding. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and deadlines are deadlines. That Mazama review for Adventure Cyclist ain’t gonna write itself.
But when I got home I didn’t sit down at the iMac. Nossir. I got right in the kitchen and whipped up a steaming pot of posole.
Did I mention it’s snowing?
In unrelated news, we watched the State of the Union last night, as is our habit. The prez — when he wasn’t giving off a strong subtextual whiff of “Fuck all y’all!” — reminded me of the future Sen. John “Bluto” Blutarsky trying to rouse the Deltas with stirring oratory.
But the prez wasn’t speaking to Delta House. He was addressing Omega Theta Pi.
The State of Disunion
Well, here we go again. Time for the annual call-and-response comedy that pits Repug against Donk and man against booze.
I thought about a drinking game that involved taking a snort every time Weepy John Boehner pulls a frowny face, rolls his eyes or nods off from martini and/or tanning-bed poisoning, but I don’t think my liver could take the pounding. I’d be drunk-dialing Callista Gingrich 15 minutes into the speech: “C’mon, all I wanna know is what’s he make ya wear? Hah? Does he make ya dress up like Michelle Obama and then chase ya ’round the water bed with a riding crop, callin’ ya uppity? You can trust me, I’m a media elite.”
SOTU addresses drive me to drink far too easily already. Especially when the Congress pulls some monkey-spank bullshit like encouraging “bipartisan seating.” That’s about as far as bipartisanship extends with this lot: “I’ll sit with you, but I won’t put out.” Right. Saving themselves for Wall Street.
Me, I like watching the Repugs squat like dyspeptic toads as the prez delivers applause lines and the Donks rise theatrically to their lightly loafered feet, smacking their limp wrists together in a mimicry of human applause. And I pay taxes at a higher rate than either Newt or Mittens, so I should get what I want.
More after the jabberwocky.
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