Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

The War Drags On...

The War in Iraq drags on, seemingly forgotten by the news outlets, which have big natural disasters at home to report. Whether one believes that the War in Iraq is just or unjust, legal or illegal, men and women, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers are fighting an enemy who often cannot be identified until it is too late and the ordnance is exploding and bullets flying.

BULLETS

so many things, so little time. blog suffers.

*61

I, my friends and my not-so-friends, will take no responsibility whatsoever for this mother-fucker of an event. I asked if there was enough gas to get over to Dr. Cyborg's house, since control of my vehicle has been out of my hands for the last few days. He, who shall remain nameless, didn't know. So, of course, when I turned over the engine, the little needle was hovering at the "E."

I figured that I had better head to the nearest gas station. I came close. I pushed my motor scooter the last 200 feet, feeling like I did when I was a very little kid, pushing the 26" bike because I was too little to ride the monster. Except now, I was bigger, waiting until there was no traffic at all at the town's busiest intersection so no one would see me pushing the scooter. I didn't let it fall like I did the 26" bike, my big toe being nearly cut off by the metal cap on the end of the pedal, a copious amount of type B blood spilled onto the sidewalk.

The fill-up was $2.81 -- 93 octane unleaded. Take that, BP!

Okay, technically, I did run out of gas. It will go on my permanent record, but, perhaps, the commissioner will see to it to add an asterisk to the entry.

I say that like people know what I mean, since the asterisk was removed from in front of Roger Maris's (Don't fuck with me on the apostrophe and "s" because this is now the preferred punctuation.) 61 home runs a long time ago; and Roger's name was chemically erased totally from the record book by Mark McGwire and then Barry Bonds, so Roger Maris is a nobody now.

New Rule: Stay off my fucking motor scooter.

Another Meat Solution

Cargill bought the salt mines under Lake Erie, which is where physicists flocked with their experiments to find neutrinos a few years ago. That was the sign I saw.

And this is the cover I picked because I really liked it.

Not Guilty ... Reason ... Insanity

You read about trials in which the accused, usually charged with heinous crimes, are trying to prove they are not guilty by reason of insanity. In a less-than-five-minute hearing in open court, after much discussion with the judge and the prosecutrix, my client was found not guilty by reason of insanity.

Was justice done? I hope so.

But here's the bigger question. My client didn't want to enter a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity. She wanted to plead not guilty and have a trial. As her lawyer, was I supposed to do what she wanted me to do? Or was I supposed to do what I thought was best for her under the circumstances, taking into account the opinions of three shrinks, her opinion, thoughts, and feelings be damned?

Sometimes, I hate this job.

Road Kill

Cargill Meat Solutions.

I was driving back from Sandusky on Route 2, somewhere around Vermilion, minding my own business, when I saw a white tractor-trailer with that simple inscription on it. What did it mean?

I'm thinking that the truck was loaded with a bunch of big vats of some kind of liquid with meat soaking in it. My dad used to pick out something called "headcheese" from the meat counter. I always wondered where headcheese came from and what it might have been made of. After all, it was not really cheese; it was some form of meat or meat by-product ... from another planet. It always looked the same. And I never heard my dad say, "Gee, that headcheese really looks good today; how about slicing up another pound for me, Paolo?" or "Heck, Diana, this headcheese we got this week is really good!" No, I never heard my dad say things like that.

Meat solutions ... headcheese. This must be where headcheese comes from. But who in his or her right mind thought to name the stuff headcheese. And what exactly is it made from? I must admit that I never tasted headcheese. Hell, I averted my gaze whenever possible. My dad never turned to stone, but I couldn't be too careful. Come to think of it, I only saw the amalgam behind the glass of the meat case, which means I never really looked directly upon headcheese. I don't know what headcheese smells like, either. I never got close enough to catch a whiff, and the smell of freshly-baked Italian bread at the only store that carried it effectively masked any odor that might have been there. My dad never prevailed upon me to make him a headcheese sandwich; if he did, I might have moved out of the house. Do you go to a deli and ask the guy behind the counter for a headcheese and Swiss on rye with lettuce, tomato, and mayo? Or is mustard the condiment of choice? I've never seen it on the menu at Max's Deli.

And frankly, I am afraid to Google it. What insane person thought of making headcheese? And why? It's definitely not cheese. From what I can remember, and it seems like something from a nightmare, a vague and beclouded recollection from the deep recesses of my memory, little chunks of unidentifiable meat, I guess, are suspended in a translucent, gel-like substance, unknowable except by expert chemical analysis. So, could it possibly be made out of the ... heads ... of various animals, a cruel food joke played upon some unsuspecting picky eater of a little kid by his putatively loving mother, institutionalized over the centuries? Just thinking of that totally sends chills up my spine. I know mothers out there who are crafty enough ... and evil enough ... to do that.

MEAT SOLUTIONS. Is Cargill's goal to end world hunger or turn someone into a vegetarian?

My Life in Astronomy

I have always been interested in stars and astronomy, more keenly so when I was a lot younger, when bike helmets weren't sold on the open market. I always hoped that I would get a telescope for my birthday or Christmas. It never happened.

But I did have the Golden Book volume about Astronomy, a part of an encyclopedia sold at the grocery store. A few years later, my mom started buying the Funk & Wagnall's encyclopedia at the grocery store, volume by volume, week by week. She never got a complete set from A to Z; but what fun was the astronomy section anyway without pictures or drawings? I knew the constellations in both hemispheres and where they could be seen during different times of the year, didn't know if I'd ever get to see the Southern Cross ... still don't, but that didn't matter.

With the dogs' Dr. Pepper potty schedule, I have taken a renewed interest in star-gazing. I see constellations, but I don't have the Golden Book volume about Astronomy; so, I don't know if these constellations are in the book. Here are some I have seen with a jaundiced eye:

It's English, Damn It!!!

Repeat after me:

LAIR -- inks, LAIR -- inks.

Okay, now, read the word: larynx.

Go ahead ... don't be shy ... LAIR -- inks.

Was that difficult?

Now, repeat after me:

NEW -- klee -- err, NEW -- klee -- err.

Okay, now, read the word: nuclear.

Go ahead ... don't be self-conscious ... NEW -- klee -- err.

Was that difficult?

Now, repeat after me: MORE -- on, MORE -- on

Caffeine vs. De-Caf -- How Does It Impact Your Golf Score?

I had a venti, one-pump, non-fat, no-whip, extra-hot mocha from Starbucks on the way to the golf course yesterday as a part of the caff/decaf experiment. The 40-minute drive to the course allowed the caffeine to work.

Did the caffeine affect the way I played? The answer is an unequivocal fuck yes. It like totally fucked up my game for the first 8 holes. I sucked like big time. If this wasn’t a scientific experiment, I would’ve quit. In fact, on the 6th hole, I nearly walked off; but being a good scientist, I felt like some responsibility to the scientific community and the golf world to continue. That has been the problem, though; I have walked off the course several times, so it was hard to blame my troubles caffeine intake. That was like just, what we scientists refer to as, anecdotal evidence, so to speak, not grounded totally in science or in intelligent fucking design.

Laugh. Go ahead. But how can something as complex, intricate, and demanding as golf have evolved by natural forces without the hand of some intelligent designer? It's just ridiculous to think that something as elegant as golf could arise from nothing, like evolving from a big fucking bang. After all, philosopher Lee Trevino, after being struck by lightning, said like whenever a thunderstorm rolled through in the future, he’d hold a 1-iron aloft because "even God can’t hit a 1-iron." Dude. There you have it.

Getting back to my experiment in biochemistry, after struggling on like the first eight holes, shooting a fucked-up eight over par, I think the effect of the caffeine was wearing off and I drained a 15-foot, downhill, sidehill putt for par, after a duck hook drive into a drainage culvert, penalty stroke rather than hit it out of the culvert, a long, big, sweeping, running 3-wood to about 75 yards, and a sand wedge flipped in. I did bogey the 10th, but I fucking struck the ball well, finding a green-side bunker with my second shot, failing to get the sand save.

I lipped out a par putt on 13, birdied 15 and 16, missed a birdie putt on 17 and finished with a fucking bogey, ending the back nine in one over par for 79.

Final assessment: Avoid caffeine before playing golf.

Liar, Liar -- Impeach Him and the Whole Crew

Impeach Bush. Send him a message. He already got a message from his unhappy god -- flood, famine, and pestilence on the Gulf Coast.

He'd never be convicted and removed from office, but wouldn't the public find out the juicy details in the trial? It wouldn't be a hearing about blow-jobs, although there have been plenty of the proverbial blow-jobs given to him, about which the details would be imparted.

But what if he was convicted? Then that fucker Cheney would be the man in charge. So, he needs to be impeached, too. Why? "Follow the money. Always follow the money," was what the 20th Century philosopher Hal (Mark Twain) Holbrook opines every time I see All the President's Men. on TMC. If he hasn't been dipping into the 200 billion dollars being spent on Iraq, where they are spent like sands through the hour glass, he will surely be taking a dip into the magic waters of the Gulf Coast, where his cronies at Halliburton are already lined up waiting to clean up.

He'd never be convicted and removed from office, but wouldn't the public find out the juicy details in the trial? It wouldn't be a hearing about blow-jobs, although there have been plenty of the proverbial blow-jobs given to him, about which the details would be imparted.

Here's some interesting reading. ... And I must apologize to all of you civil engineers out there -- I had no idea what you really did. In college, the other gearhead categories heaped abuse on you like you were a red-headed stepchild. I remember when that dud of a comet, Kahoutek, was supposed to dazzle us all, all those gearheads were out on the commons with their telescopes of all sizes and shapes ... hell, those gearheads wouldn't let you within five feet of their delicate, expensive, graduation-present telescopes. They did, however let baseball players look through them ... here's the secret -- the comet show was such a dud that by the second night the Roberts brothers had all the telescopes aimed at the women's dormitories.

Back in 2003, this article pointed out that New Orleans couldn't be evacuated and that the death toll would be 25,000 to 100,000,. I guess that incompetent moron of a mayor, Ray Nagin, did an okay job of keeping the death toll down.

Back in 2000, insurance companies were already looking for excuses, foreseeing 10,000 deaths and a chilling prediction: "We need to bite the bullet as a society and say that we have a problem. ... New Orleans needs a wake-up call. The city is on the verge of becoming extinct." As with a 19-year-old kid, it takes a number of wake-up calls.

Enough of this doom and gloom. I'm going to play golf after heading up to Starbucks.

Next: Caffeine vs. De-Caf -- How Does It Impact Your Golf Score?

Anti-Terrorism 101

I finally got the Certificate of Title for the Big Chief motor scooter yesterday. I went to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles to get the scooter registered and get the license plate. Oh, glorious legality! I would be finished with my surreptitious night riding, be done avoiding the main routes, and be able to finally clean the lamp-black off my face and head, but continue to wonder why we chose to live in a community without back alleys.

Safely in the BMV office before 4:30, I had my Certificate of Title, my operator's license, a check made out to the BMV for the fee, and my "tak-a-ticket" with the number "09" printed on it. I sat down next to an older woman who held number "01," a Certificate of Title to a Buick, and an Ohio EPA certificate with a column of 10 or 12 "OK's" on it. I pegged her at about 70 with her hair dyed jet-black. The left arm of an even older man, 80 or so, had stretched around her back, his red, scaly-skinned hand grasping her left breast. He was saying "Yeah, baby!" every time she said something to him.

One of the counter people, who may or may not have had a body below chest level, called out, "Number 92," whereupon old Mr. Grabby Hands called out, "Yeah, baby! Almost there!"

I offered my seat to a woman who had walked in and taken a ticket from the red dispenser. She accepted; and I walked over to the left side of the large crowded room, where a slight kid sat next to his more substantial father. Despite the disparity in size, they had identical noses. The kid wore a black t-shirt with "The Who" printed above and "Maximum R & B" printed below a wind-milling Pete Townshend. His dad wore a white t-shirt saying he partied at some bar at Put-in-Bay. At least one of them knew the score.

At about 20 to 5, a woman called out, "Oh nine." I sprang to the counter and said I needed to register my new motor scooter. She wasn't nearly as excited as I thought she could have been. She said, "Driver's license, please" rather tersely. I turned it over to her. "Original Social Security card," she then said.

"You're joking."

"No."

"Really. You must be kidding."

"No. Do you have your Social Security card? I need your original Social Security card."

"I don't mean to argue with you about what you need and don't need from me, but a Social Security card says that it is not a form of identification. Why do you need it?"

"Your driver's license doesn't have your Social Security number on it."

"Ohio law gives me the option to leave my Social Security number off my license, and the Attorney General recommends that you not have the number on your license. I did obviously adequately identify myself to get my driver's license, including supplying my Social Security number. My license isn't good enough to verify that I'm the guy with the title?" I was very polite. I was not showing my anger. I thought right then that my group of Monday night nut cases would be very impressed. It is no wonder people go berserk in government offices like this one. I added," I know my Social Security number. I'll give it to you."

"I need to verify your identity." She was insistent. She was not smiling. Her right hand disappearing from my view meant her index finger was poised, applying oh-so-slight pressure on the trigger of a double-barreled shotgun, under the counter, pointed right at my midsection. But verifying my identity had nothing to do with an original Social Security card that was almost 40 years old.

"I thought that's why our pictures are on our drivers' licenses. You know, foe-toe-eye-deeeee." I opened my wallet. "Would you accept my Costco card? It's got my picture on it. Or my Sam's Club ... well, uuhhh ... no, that was taken when I was fat ... that's no good. How about my Supreme Court of Ohio registration card ... that one is hard to come by. No photo, but who would make fake Supreme Court registration cards?"

"I could take a medical insurance card with your Soesch on it," she said, right hand returning to the counter top. She was smiling now, almost trying to be helpful, but knowing that she had won.

"They aren't allowed to do that any more ... use your Social Security number. It's my wife's anyway," I pointed out.

"Sorry. And it doesn't look like you can make it back before five. I really am sorry." She held out my hard-earned Certificate of Title and my Social Security number-less driver's license. I snatched them away from her. She wasn't sorry, let alone really sorry.

I kicked the door open on the way out. Homeland Security will swoop down on me for that stunt, not the kicking-the door-open stunt, but the transparent attempt to fraudulently obtain a license plate for my 49.5 cc, 3.5 hp Big Chief motor scooter from China that will get 80 miles per gallon of gasoline. After all, if I were to start riding it, my fuel consumption would go down. Others might join me. Profits of ExxonMobil, BP, Shell would decrease substantially, ruining the economy, of course. And then I would be called before the House Un-American Activities Committee to testify.

Conservation? In the Bush-Cheney lexicon, it is an obscenity.

I will get my license plate. I have my original Social Security card that is almost 40 years old with my little kid signature on it.. I've been practicing the signature, just like I used to practice. it when I was 10 for when I.had to sign autographs. Who knew?

I will be ready when my number is called; and the woman behind the counter, left eyebrow raised, upper lip quivering in a sneer, demands, "Papieren, bitte? Haben Sie Ihren Papieren?"

Yes, ... I ... will ... be ... ready.

Record Shops (circa 1974)

This is something everyone needs to know, now that I have actually seen with my own two eyes Christmas stuff on sale at Costco, and lay-away season is upon us.

I special-ordered a CD from a record store. I put down a deposit. I got a receipt, showing I deposited the money. I put the receipt in my wallet for safe-keeping. After several season changes, I found out that the store couldn't get the CD. That was fine with me. I already bought two of them, one for my lovely wife and one for my son, the one with the computer-twisted mind.

That was four, five, ten months ago. Today, I decided to get my deposit back. I took out the receipt; actually, there were three of them ... One from the record store (Go fuck yourself! They were record stores when I was growing up. As far as I'm concerned, they are still record stores ... check out the movie High Fidelity, not to find out what a record store might be, but to see what an air conditioner will do to you if you continue with your puerile demeanor. The other receipts, as I recall (Oops, forgot to close the parentheses.)) (There. Are you happy now?)

The other receipts were from Olive Garden and Office Max, the relevance of which shall become crystal clear in several moments.

All I can tell you is that this sort of thing wouldn't have happened in the record store era. I pulled the three receipts from my wallet and unfolded them. The record store receipt, an iridescent white cash register tape about 3 inches long, was utterly blank, front and back. All evidence of my deposit, of my having even been in that business establishment, had disappeared.

Then I noticed that the receipt from Office Max was totally blank on one side with the repeating red Office Max logo on the other. So, I could prove that I was in Office Max, but the IRS wouldn't care where I had been, just about how much I had spent.

And that was my writing on the Olive Garden receipt. The inscription was 57.43 and 10.50 11.50 13.00 directly above it. Other than those two notations, nothing appeared. I couldn’t prove that I’d spent money with this receipt, let alone that it was for some kind of business dinner at the Olive Garden.

Disappearing ink? Black magic?

How about heat-sensitive printers … I guess the extreme heat generated by my right buttock transferred through the soft, supple leather of my wallet and did something to the receipts.

Be aware of this significant consumer problem, so that you can avoid the pitfalls of modern technology, instead of learning the hard way.
____________________

Miscellaneous margin notes: Could falling into the pool have anything to do with the disappearing ink thing? Or falling into the pool the second time?

Open Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald,

I received your e-mail today, and I thank you for the kind invitation to be a part of Trump University. I understand that "in one intense week of live online action," you will "turn my life around."

I have received other solicitations to take part in live online action; and like yours, those offers extended early bird savings. None, though, said that I would save $581 by taking advantage of the early bird savings that ended August 31.

So that you are not offended by my rejection of your offer, please note that I did not even bother to respond to any of the other solicitations for "live online action."

Again, I appreciate your having thought of me. Might I suggest that you extend your invitation to someone who will need to make a career change, however? He comes highly recommended. In fact, I will include the recommendation from one of his previous employers: "Every now and again I'd ask him to write me a speech. He was very loyal. He was always on time. He always had on a suit and a starched white shirt." Former Edmond city manager Bill Dashner let that be known about his former intern, Michael Brown, who is now the top banana of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Mr. Brown, who got a law degree from Oklahoma City College, has previous management experience, having been in charge of the judges of the International Arabian Horse Association immediately prior to joining FEMA.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Bill

P.S. -- On a personal note, I have two sisters-in-law who are barbers. Call me. I can get you an appointment with one or the other.

In Other News

I'm more than a little upset this morning. While checking the news, I discovered that I apparently missed a huge international event in Serbia, the World Testicle Cooking Championship. When it comes to reporting the news on this blog, checking the facts is very important. We can make up stuff with the best of them, but I know the way things go around here. The day we make something up, invent a story, lie to the public, will be the day we win the Pulitzer; then I'll really be in some hot water. It's like George W. Bush ... he wasn't planning to be the President; he got fucked up in the French Quarter one night and his brother bet him that a dumbass like him couldn't get elected President. Look what happened. So, I tell our staff of writers nearly every day, "This is not the Weekly World News."

So, I'm really pissed when I see that we were scooped on this contest where testicles are cooked up. After all, Milan Kraguljac is stationed in Serbia. Okay, Milan was deported a few years ago ... so what? It was a plea bargain.

Anyway, I check some other reliable sources in the news media, like the Daily Times, the "new voice for a new Pakistan." Sure enough, back in April, 2004, the story shows up. What the fuck?

My faith in other journalists is once more dashed. I'm beginning to think that I will rely on the Weekly World News.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF UNDERWEAR

it’s days like these that i feel old. every once in a while, it can hit you right between the eyes how much things have changed in my short (ok, maybe not-so-short) life.

i was in sixth grade in the mid-60’s. the most exciting field trip of my entire elementary school days was in the 6th grade. it wasn’t the content. it was the context. we toured the local sewage treatment plant. woohoo! what made this trip so special was the dress code. for the first time ever in my life, we girls were instructed to wear SLACKS. not pants. slacks. meaning nice, dress pants. the reason ms. wesch gave us for this unusual breach of school rules was that we would be walking over steel grates. with men underneath. and, so THE MEN COULD NOT LOOK UP OUR SKIRTS, we were to wear SLACKS. i swear to god i am not making this up.

those were the days when we’d wear pants underneath our skirts / dresses / jumpers TO school on very cold days (in those days, for some inexplicable reason, we wanted to stay warm), and immediately upon entering the classroom, we’d remove them in the girl’s coat room.

it was not until my SENIOR YEAR in high school that the dress code was changed to allow girls to wear PANT SUITS to school.

those were the days when we wore slips. does anybody out there remember slips? they were silky, slippery – yes, pretty even, underskirts, or underdresses, kind of. i know they sound an awful lot like what i see advertised as skirts or dresses. yup. they were just like that. don’t ask ME what the difference between a dress and a slip is now. i'm thinking it might just be the price.

for historical purposes, i attempt to explain WHY we wore slips.

The Horror

I urge you to read the British view on the "liberal press."

And New Orleans isn't the only place that has suffered because of FEMA's lack of a plan; this is a systemic problem, symbolic of Bush's attitude about governing in general. The smile and the little dismissive chuckle that I have detested for all these years aren't working. It is tragic that it took the mass suffering and death in our own house to drive home the fact that the emperor has no clothes. Small voices have been saying it for years. People have thought it for years. Finally, the truth might be sinking in. Finally, the sunshine patriotism has been exposed.

And I don't want George Bush the Lesser to forget that there's a WAR going on in Iraq. I know it's well nigh impossible for President Bush to think about two things at once, but does he realize that August was one of the deadliest months of his killing spree in Iraq?

Lest we forget, this supplements my post of August 21 of the list of those who gave their lives for others:

Spc. Jason E. Ames, of Cerulean, KY*Capt. Lowell T. Miller II, of Flint, MI*Sgt. Monta S. Ruth, of Winston-Salem, NC*Maj. Gregory J. Fester, of Grand Rapids, MI*Chief Warrant Officer Dennis P. Hay, of Valdosta, GA*2nd Lt. Charles R. Rubado, of Clearwater, FL*Sgt. 1st Class Obediah J. Kolath, of Louisburg, MO*Spc. Joseph L. Martinez, of Las Vegas, NV*Sgt. 1st Class Trevor J. Diesing, of Plum City, WI*Master Sgt. Ivica Jerak, of Houston, TX*Cpl. Timothy M. Shea, of Sonoma, California*Master Sgt. Chris S. Chapin, of Proctor, VT*1st Lt. Carlos J. Diaz, of Juana Diaz, Puerto Rico*Sgt. Joseph D. Hunt, of Sweetwater, TN*Spc. Hatim S. Kathiria, of Fort Worth, TX*Staff Sgt. Victoir P. Lieurance, of Seymour, TN*Pfc. Ramon Romero, of Huntington Park, CA*Pfc. Elden D. Arcand, of White Bear Lake, MN*2nd Lt. James J. Cathey, of Reno, NV*Staff Sgt. Brian L. Morris, of Centreville, MI*Spc. Joseph C. Nurre, of Wilton, CA*Sgt. Willard T. Partridge, of Ferriday, LA*Sgt. Nathan K. Bouchard, of Wildomar, CA*Staff Sgt. Jeremy W. Doyle, of Chesterton, MD*Spc. Ray M. Fuhrmann II, of Novato, CA*Pfc. Timothy J. Seamans, of Jacksonville, FL*

In Afghanistan, Pvt. Christopher L. Palmer, Sgt. Michael R. Lehmiller, 1st Lt. Joshua M. Hyland, Spc. Blake W. Hall were killed when a roadside bomb detonated near their Humvee on August 21; Staff Sgt. Damion G. Campbell was killed by a roadside bomb that blew up near his Humvee while he was on combat patrol on August 26.

Big Chief Trouble

I needed something called a Manufacturer's Certificate of Origin to get the Big Chief titled. That is coming in the mail and should be here today, meaning I'll finally get to ride my motor scooter.

Now, if I had been riding the scooter last night after dark, not saying that I was, just to break it in, and turned around in the VFW Hall parking lot, passing a car while I was going in the out way, which to those aged WW2 vets is one of the most egregious offenses known, I suppose that VFW motorist could have notified the police that some grinning, bald idiot was riding an unregistered motor scooter and waving to him on the hallowed ground of his beloved VFW Post.

That could have happened. And then if I had been riding the scooter last night after dark, not saying that I was, I would have driven through the Giant Eagle parking lot and spotted one police car pulling in the north driveway; so if I had been riding the scooter last night after dark, not saying that I was, I would have raced down the south driveway across the road into the church driveway, around the back of the church, and into the church parking lot, turning off the lights, then up the other driveway to get out, whereupon I would have encountered a second police car, just driving past the church exit driveway.

At that point, if I had been riding the scooter last night after dark, not saying that I was, I would have turned around and headed for the farthest, darkest end of the parking lot and laid low for about 15 or 20 minutes; then I would have checked up each driveway to see if the coast was clear and made a run for the back street to my house.

I just want to point out that I'm not a stupid, fucking teenager, y'know. Why would I be out doing something so imbecilic as taking my unregistered motor scooter for a ride last night? How would it look if I had been picked up by the police and carted off to jail?

What To Do?

The enormity of the calamity on the Gulf Coast is difficult to comprehend, making the tsunami tragedy in the Indian Ocean even more incomprehensible. Where is the President when leadership is needed? Slapping skin with some old veterans alongside a ship -- another mission accomplished? Is George the Lesser so out of touch with reality that he can't understand that more than the old Yale rah-rah is needed ... or is this where churches and other private relief agencies, which responded to the cry for help from the people of the nations hit by the tsunami when our government did not, are supposed to jump in and save people.

Aye. There's the rub.

People.

Real people ... not the automatons called upon to be in the audiences before the election, to clap and cheer more recently for social security deform, to sit alongside the USS Ronald Reagan to listen to a lame speech.

Real, suffering, dying people -- or are they just numbers, like the soldiers and civilians in Iraq -- and not the kind of people who gave two and a half million American dollars in Republican contributions at the dinner up the road from the Crawford ranch a couple weeks back.

Real, suffering, dying people -- not your kind of people.

And George, thanks for warning the gas station owners that you won't stand for profiteering. Profiteering? I never heard you warn your good buddies, ExxonMobil or BP or Marathon or ... How about asking them to bite the bullet and give a little of the tens of billions in profits back instead of asking single moms with kids and families trying to eke out a living in corroding, poverty-stricken cities to donate $5 to the Red Cross. They have been in situations much like those on the Gulf Coast, and those mothers and families will give what they are able and more to help. Tap on your sources, the ones that got you elected ... those which profit from your policies ... policies that have made the rich richer and the poor poorer, increased the disparity in the richest of this country and the poorest.

Poverty is the major reason this tragedy is occurring. Those with money, those who were able, could and did prepare for this disaster and could and did leave. It was those who could not leave, who survive week to week, day to day, who could not leave. This is the America you turned your back on for the past five years. What kind of America did you envision?

At the bottom of this page is a counter unwaveringly marching toward the 200 billion dollar mark, money spent on killing people, mostly innocent civilians, in the process of destroying a whole country. Even more money is spent on "rebuilding" Iraq, paid to companies you know all too well, run by friends and contributors. In your speech to the vets, you likened yourself to FDR, by implication. FDR tried to lift people out of poverty with massive public works projects, which is something that needs to be done for the people of the Gulf Coast, probably half of whom had no insurance to cover the loss of everything they owned and have no jobs or anything to which to return.

It's time to rebuild America ... it's time to get your feet wet and your hands dirty, Mr. Bush, and admit that you have been wrong, that your policies have hurt America and the American people, that flag-waving and praying will not help the woman of color whose husband died in her arms and lay stinking at her feet on a bridge in New Orleans, Louisiana, United States of America, and help rebuild America, Mr. Bush.