Joe watched the limo until it was out of sight. He went inside the shop and poured himself another cup of coffee. It had boiled down a little and was thick as gravy. Good, he thought, I'm gonna need it strong. He drained the cup in two big gulps and went to work.
He rolled the ratty-looking machine onto the wash rack, and noticed his hands were already greasy just from touching the grips. He stuffed a shop rag into the now open exhaust port. Knowing what soon might be likely, he slid a baker's sheet pan under the bike. He set his Gunk can near the bike. He used the old style Gunk, mixed with kerosene, and had a jet permanently attached. He hooked up the air hose and adjusted it to a gentle spray, knowing the bike wouldn't take a full-pressure blast. He sprayed Gunk onto the bike, being sure to get it into every nook and crannie, some he couldn't even see for all the grease and dirt build-up. He took a stiff brush and brushed as much of the motorcycle as the brush would reach. He uncoiled a hose from a wall rack. "Showtime," he thought and began to wash off the Gunk and, hopefully some of the grime. As the grunge began to slough off, he could hear the faint 'tink' of metal bits hitting the baking sheet. "Glad I put that there," he thought, "wouldn't do to have to fish all those pieces out of the drain. Might need some of 'em."
The bike looked a lot better, but not shiny new. Pretty beat up, in fact. Joe took the boxes out of the saddlebags and took them inside. While the bike dried in the sunlight, he began laying out the parts to see what he had to do.
There were exhaust pipes. There was a primary cover, a timing cover, transmission, oil tank and battery covers, rocker covers, mostly the kind that slipped over the actual parts instead of replacing them, the kind used to cover up dents and dings. "Cheap shit," Joe thought. "For a guy with so much moolah, he's sure a tightwad." There was a new front brake lever with leather rawhide streamers and many pieces of trim, all brand new and gleaming. And cheap. They were the cheapest kind of chrome plating, nickel-strike. They would look fine for a little while, then tarnish and finally rust. Joe looked at the boxes. Just as he had suspected, every last piece was from places on the other side of the Pacific rim.
With one exception. In a small box, with a Made in America label, was a new camshaft set. Joe held the cams in his hand and looked at them. "Wow! Way radical. I ain't puttin' these things in. Probably wouldn't even fit. That'd be the end of whatever's left of the mill, that's fer sure." He put the cams back in their box and put it back in the saddlebag.
Joe rolled the bike in and up on the lift. It was very wobbly. "Damn, the mung and drool were holding this thing together," he thought. He gathered all the bits from the baking sheet, with a magnet because the grunge was two inches deep. He sifted the rest for aluminum and found some. There were also some beer bottle caps and two empty condom wrappers. There was a small, empty vial. These, Joe set aside.
Planning ahead, Joe dumped a large coffee can full of used hardware onto a shop rag and got after the job. He
replaced the pipes. They were a copy of the famous "Chattanooga Rattlers", straight-through and guaranteed you couldn't sneak up on anything from five miles away on a clear night. He put on all the chromed tin. He replaced the hand levers , and put a used brake cable to replace the badly frayed one. "Whew!" Joe thought, "about one more pull on that, it'd be Katy-bar-the-door!" Every last piece required something besides remove and replace to get it to stay on. He used many, many used nuts, bolts, clamps, and other fasteners. The old motorcycle fairly gleamed when he was through. There were a lot less bungee cords.
"Not bad," he thought, "not bad at all." He pondered the old sled, and the work he had done, and let out an audible sigh. "Man, all that work, and it's still just puttin' lipstick on a pig. I gotta do some more for it. Li'l ol' Georgie don't deserve it, but this poor ol' scooter sure does. I guess I just volunteered myself. Thought I got over that in the Navy. Oh, well, maybe I can pad his bill a little. Better get goin'. I'm burnin' daylight."
Once more into the fray. He concentrated on areas that would improve performance and safety. He adjusted the valves, points, and timing. He put in spark plugs that still had some electrode. He fixed the manifold air leak and adjusted the carburetor. He charged the battery cleaned the terminals, and replaced some connectors. He replaced the tires with some less worn out ones, and the rusty old rubber band of a chain with a better used one, knowing the hooked sprocket teeth would grind it to dust in a few hundred miles. He aligned the wheels . He adjusted the clutch and brakes. He drained the oatmeal-weight motor oil and replaced it with good 50 weight oil. He checked fluid levels. He lubed every pivot on the bike. He tightened up the loose stuff and loosened up the tight stuff. He checked the lights. "Well, he don't have a brake light, and the taillight's dim. No high beam, but I don't guess Georgie looks very far ahead anyway." He replaced the bulbs. He tested everything he could, and at last he was done. He rolled it off the lift and out the door. It didn't wobble now, as he had used many, many more fasteners, and there were no bungee cords left.
"Well, I had the wheels off, so I gotta ride the damn thing." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Here goes nothin'," he thought. He put on his helmet and gloves and threw his right leg over the saddle. He wondered if he should call 911 just so they'd be ready. He went through the starting procedure , turned on the key, made sure the spark was retarded, found compression with the kickstarter and wondered how many kicks it would take to start it. He gave it a measured kick, lest it slip through and hurt his knee, or kick back and hurt the other side of his knee, and it started. First kick. Just like that. Joe was dazzled. He shut it off and tried it again. Again, it fired right up and sat there idling roughly. When the cylinders felt just barely warm to his hand, he adjusted the mixture and the idle smoothed out.
The bike had a foot clutch and hand shift. He disengaged the clutch , heard the plates rattle happily, and put the transmission in gear with the tank-mounted shift lever. He fed in the gas and clutch and the bike moved off, just like it should. "Well, she seems OK. Let's see what happens."
He rode around for a half an hour. The shop was on the edge of town so he took it on some back roads. It worked fine, but it wasn't fast, and he wasn't sure of the brakes, so he took it real easy. The engine ran well, but there were some clatters and clanks and whirs, but Joe figured it to be just showing its age and lack of care. "Boy, they made 'em to last in the old days. Never figured on cold-hearted guys like Georgie, I bet." He rode it around for a while to test roadholding and steering until he was satisfied that it would go where it was pointed. He enjoyed the ride a lot more than he had thought he would. He rode back to the shop and shut it down. "Didn't figure that old ride would be that much fun," he thought and dismounted. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he something on the bike, a smile maybe, but when he turned to see, it was gone. As an afterthought, he gave the gas tank a pat. In the center of his brain, he heard a faint, grateful, "thanks, buddy."
"Well, it's up to Georgie now. Tomorrow's soon enough."
Joe locked up his shop and went home.
End of Part Two
Friday, September 3, 2004
Just one thought
Before the limo gets here. The first thing that entered my mind when I heard Clinton had 'chest pains':
Who was he fucking?
Ha! I'm outta here.
Who was he fucking?
Ha! I'm outta here.
It Was A Bad Motersickle, Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!
Joe stood in the morning light, coffee cup in hand, outside his shop, "Smoke 'n' Roar Motorcycle Emporium", idly musing on what the day might bring his way. His idyll was soon, if not shattered, at least mildly discombobulated by a clanking and rattling in the distance. It got louder and louderand seemed to be coming his way. He sensed something familiar about it, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then he knew: over the general din and cacophony came the unmistakable potato-potato exhaust note of a large-displacement American-made V-twin motorcycle, a type much beloved by all Americans. His very being trembled: Work!
The bike hove into view, pulled into the lot, and stopped right in front of Joe. Its rider reached under the seat, jerked on something that caused the engine to quit with a loud backfire, and the rear exhaust pipe fell off. Just as the engine's innards ground to a halt Joe thought he heard, in the center of his brain, a plaintive "Thank you".
Joe, an experienced motorcycle man, took a step back and beheld what lay before him. In a flash his mind's eye sent a signal to his brain, befitting his intimate knowledge of day-to-day mechanical problems : HOLY SHIT!
Fighting back an unfamiliar urge to run for his life, Joe calmed a bit as his mind processed information and fed it to him a bit at a time instead of all at once, which had been quite a shock. Before him was a bike of a type he had seen but rarely, a make not manufactured for many years, once held in esteem for its power and beauty.
Not this one. This bike was the filthiest, grimiest, greasiest, grungiest motorcycle Joe had ever seen. It had at least a dozen bungee cords, some with no hooks, that seemed to be vital to the mechanical integrity of the machine. Joe leaned forward and, knowing that as a mechanic he was exempt from the powerful taboo against touching another man's bike, tentatively, gingerly, tugged at one underneath the fuel tank. The carburetor sagged noticeably. Joe straightened and did a visual once-over of the machine. The tires were bald, but only on the right side, as if the rider only turned in small circles in that direction. Oddly, they seemed to be over-inflated. He noticed saddlebags, cheap imports, stuffed full, with cardboard boxes sticking out front and rear.
Enough, he thought to himself, if I get stuck with this thing I'll check it out more thoroughly later. Might as well get to it.
"Hi. My name's Joe. What can I do for you?"
The rider, who had by now removed his goggles, gloves, and WWII- style cloth flying helmet of the type used in the Pacific, replied, with a grin on only the right side of his face. Joe thought he must have fallen off hard at some point.
"Howdy, pardner. My name's Georgie and this is my sled "Liberty". I need you to do some work on 'er. "
Duh, thought Joe, I could'a told you that.
"What I need," Georgie went on, "is for you to take all the stuff in the bags and put it on the bike. All brand new chrome. She's gotta look all shiny and new pretty soon."
"Okay," Joe said. "Fill me in on the bike a little. It might need some other stuff besides chrome. Where'd you get it? How long have you had it? Stuff like that."
"All righty. This used to be my Poppy's ride. He got'er from his buddy and rode 'er for four years. He wanted to keep 'er for four more, but he had to give 'er to another guy. Willy, that's the other guy, he rode 'er for eight years. He wanted to give 'er to his buddy, but I hornswoggled him out of 'er." Georgie's shoulders twitched up and down at this remark. "Whoo-whee! She was in pretty good shape when I got 'er, but, Hell, I been ridin' 'er hard and puttin' 'er away wet, if you catch my drift." He winked at Joe. "Folks done told me I didn't pay enough attention to 'er, that she needed some work, but I just blamed it on Willy and kept on truckin'. Now there's another guy wants 'er an' I don' wanna give 'er up. I waited all my life to get a sled like this, and I'll hang onto 'er at any cost. She's my bitch. She'll do whatever I tell 'er to do and like it. Anyway, these parts cost a ton o' dough and I need 'em put on quick."
Joe took an instant dislike to the fellow, and thought he should have turned him away, but somehow he had taken a liking to this once-proud machine. Maybe he could help it out a little.
"You got it, Georgie. Come back tomorrow. Do you want an estimate?"
"Naw. I don't care what it costs. I got plenty. Cool. See ya manana, then." Georgie got into a limousine that, unnoticed by Joe, had been idling at the curb, and sped off.
End of Part One.
The bike hove into view, pulled into the lot, and stopped right in front of Joe. Its rider reached under the seat, jerked on something that caused the engine to quit with a loud backfire, and the rear exhaust pipe fell off. Just as the engine's innards ground to a halt Joe thought he heard, in the center of his brain, a plaintive "Thank you".
Joe, an experienced motorcycle man, took a step back and beheld what lay before him. In a flash his mind's eye sent a signal to his brain, befitting his intimate knowledge of day-to-day mechanical problems : HOLY SHIT!
Fighting back an unfamiliar urge to run for his life, Joe calmed a bit as his mind processed information and fed it to him a bit at a time instead of all at once, which had been quite a shock. Before him was a bike of a type he had seen but rarely, a make not manufactured for many years, once held in esteem for its power and beauty.
Not this one. This bike was the filthiest, grimiest, greasiest, grungiest motorcycle Joe had ever seen. It had at least a dozen bungee cords, some with no hooks, that seemed to be vital to the mechanical integrity of the machine. Joe leaned forward and, knowing that as a mechanic he was exempt from the powerful taboo against touching another man's bike, tentatively, gingerly, tugged at one underneath the fuel tank. The carburetor sagged noticeably. Joe straightened and did a visual once-over of the machine. The tires were bald, but only on the right side, as if the rider only turned in small circles in that direction. Oddly, they seemed to be over-inflated. He noticed saddlebags, cheap imports, stuffed full, with cardboard boxes sticking out front and rear.
Enough, he thought to himself, if I get stuck with this thing I'll check it out more thoroughly later. Might as well get to it.
"Hi. My name's Joe. What can I do for you?"
The rider, who had by now removed his goggles, gloves, and WWII- style cloth flying helmet of the type used in the Pacific, replied, with a grin on only the right side of his face. Joe thought he must have fallen off hard at some point.
"Howdy, pardner. My name's Georgie and this is my sled "Liberty". I need you to do some work on 'er. "
Duh, thought Joe, I could'a told you that.
"What I need," Georgie went on, "is for you to take all the stuff in the bags and put it on the bike. All brand new chrome. She's gotta look all shiny and new pretty soon."
"Okay," Joe said. "Fill me in on the bike a little. It might need some other stuff besides chrome. Where'd you get it? How long have you had it? Stuff like that."
"All righty. This used to be my Poppy's ride. He got'er from his buddy and rode 'er for four years. He wanted to keep 'er for four more, but he had to give 'er to another guy. Willy, that's the other guy, he rode 'er for eight years. He wanted to give 'er to his buddy, but I hornswoggled him out of 'er." Georgie's shoulders twitched up and down at this remark. "Whoo-whee! She was in pretty good shape when I got 'er, but, Hell, I been ridin' 'er hard and puttin' 'er away wet, if you catch my drift." He winked at Joe. "Folks done told me I didn't pay enough attention to 'er, that she needed some work, but I just blamed it on Willy and kept on truckin'. Now there's another guy wants 'er an' I don' wanna give 'er up. I waited all my life to get a sled like this, and I'll hang onto 'er at any cost. She's my bitch. She'll do whatever I tell 'er to do and like it. Anyway, these parts cost a ton o' dough and I need 'em put on quick."
Joe took an instant dislike to the fellow, and thought he should have turned him away, but somehow he had taken a liking to this once-proud machine. Maybe he could help it out a little.
"You got it, Georgie. Come back tomorrow. Do you want an estimate?"
"Naw. I don't care what it costs. I got plenty. Cool. See ya manana, then." Georgie got into a limousine that, unnoticed by Joe, had been idling at the curb, and sped off.
End of Part One.
Lawyers At Work
This an actual warning on a box of nails (Steve Harvey, LATimes, 9/03/04):
SUPPLEMENTAL WARNING
"Do not shoot nails through any part of your body. This could cause long lasting damage, hurt like Heck, and cause you to use language unbecoming a professional. Although we appreciate your creativity, do not use strips of nails as a comb, toothbrush, Q-tip, musical instrument or anything other than fastening wood together. All Halsteel nails are engineered to come equipped with one pointy end (the business end) and one flat end. Keep the pointy end directly opposite anything that can bleed or be damaged. Don't bite on nails (even for the iron), run with scissors in your hand or sit too close to the TV. You should wait 30 minutes before entering the pool after eating, don't blow dry your hair in the bathtub and don't make funny faces or cross your eyes (they'll stay that way.)"
I think he must have seen this box of nails on the shelf of the hardware store in Crawford, Texas. It sounds like the brand Dubya would use. I wonder if the directions for use are on the other side of the box. I hope they're not on the bottom. All the nails would fall out while he was figuring out how to use them.
A Moment Of Prayer
"Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arms doth bind the restless wave,
Who bids the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits deep,
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea."
Old Mariner's Prayer
That should take care of the QM2 and all those who sail in her.
While you're at it, Lord, how about having Frances send a little message to JEB and Katherine Harris about who's really in charge in Florida. Oh, yeah, wouldn't hurt if you blew the Diebold warehouse to Kingdom Come, while you're at it!
Later
I'm done for the day unless any shit hits the fan. Gotta pack the Mrs. and . . . well . . . on the grounds that I'll get stabbed in my sleep, I'll leave it at that. You'll probably hear from me sometime tomorrow morning, once I get to my hotel in Kensington.
Just one thing. If you're the praying type, say a little one for the poor kids in that Russian school.
I leave you now in Gordon's capable hands until I get across the pond.
Just one thing. If you're the praying type, say a little one for the poor kids in that Russian school.
I leave you now in Gordon's capable hands until I get across the pond.
How?
From ABC Channel 7 in New York:
Aren't these the people who are supposed to keep us more secure? Why is it that protesters can crash the party every night? How is it that hooligans can get that close to the President of the United States? I guess it's a good thing none of them were wearing a bomb belt, huh? By the way, was the Secret Service sleeping?
Protesters disrupted the 62-minute speech twice. Bush was forced to stop speaking both times because the crowd shouted both women down, drowning him out too. [my emphasis]
Aren't these the people who are supposed to keep us more secure? Why is it that protesters can crash the party every night? How is it that hooligans can get that close to the President of the United States? I guess it's a good thing none of them were wearing a bomb belt, huh? By the way, was the Secret Service sleeping?
Oh, this is lovely
Being that I'm leaving for London tonight. From TAPPED:
Let's hope they don't extend that to reg'ler Americans. Hell, I despise him too. Gimmie a pint.
The British public, you see, despise our president.
Let's hope they don't extend that to reg'ler Americans. Hell, I despise him too. Gimmie a pint.
You bought him, you keep him.
We don't want him back. Via Digby:
Full story.
Well, it just proves the old saying. Be careful what you wish for . . . I'm giggling my motherfucking ass off.
[. . .]
After gauging the harsh reaction from Democrats and Republicans alike to Sen. Zell Miller’s keynote address at the Republican National Convention, the Bush campaign — led by the first lady — backed away Thursday from Miller’s savage attack on Democratic presidential nominee John Kerry, insisting that the estranged Democrat was speaking only for himself.
Late Thursday, Miller and his wife were removed from the list of dignitaries who would be sitting in the first family’s box during the president’s acceptance speech later in the evening. Scott Stanzel, a spokesman for the Bush campaign, said Miller was not in the box because the campaign had scheduled him to do too many television interviews.
[. . .]
Full story.
Well, it just proves the old saying. Be careful what you wish for . . . I'm giggling my motherfucking ass off.
Kerry hits back
Via Kos (he got a transcript):
Go get 'em, Big John.
Kos is experiencing technical glitches. I'll have the link up later.
Update: 06:05:
Finally. Read the speech here.
[. . .]
We all saw the anger and distortion of the Republican convention. For the past week, they attacked my patriotism and my fitness to serve as commander in chief. Well, here's my answer. I'm not going to have my commitment to defend this country questioned by those who refused to serve when they could have and by those who have misled the nation into Iraq.
The vice president even called me unfit for office last night. I guess I'll leave it up to the voters whether five deferments makes someone more qualified to defend this nation than two tours of duty.
[. . .]
Go get 'em, Big John.
Kos is experiencing technical glitches. I'll have the link up later.
Update: 06:05:
Finally. Read the speech here.
Thursday, September 2, 2004
Let's do the Time Warp again!
It's Chicago 1968 again, 'cept not as bloody. From theoria at Kos:
Message to Republicans:
DON'T EAT THE BROWN ACID! I repeat: DON'T EAT THE BROWN ACID! Oh . . . I see . . . too late. Never mind.
Hundreds of people are gathered at Central Booking (100 Centre Street, Manhattan) cheering on detainees as they are slowly released from jail. They were coming out at a steady pace of about one per five minutes or so. (You do the math... I'm a lazy bitch.)
[. . .]
At first we were lined up on the sidewalk directly across from Central Booking, but the cops eventually started pushing us into the park. People kept pushing back onto the walk (but not blocking it) in order to greet newly freed KIDS and guide them to medical attention in the park.
NYPD eventually brought out the barricades, but a group of singers linked arm in arm proudly waltzed around the barricade (and back) in an act of defiance.
[. . .]
Message to Republicans:
DON'T EAT THE BROWN ACID! I repeat: DON'T EAT THE BROWN ACID! Oh . . . I see . . . too late. Never mind.
Water Sports And Class Warfare
A little while ago, Diane and I were watching Crossfire during her lunch hour as we do every day. Sometimes I have to stick my fingers in my ears to protect them from her scathing invective (read: git down cussin') at what those jerk right-wingers spew, but today, it's my turn.
They showed a clip of John Kerry relaxing on his sailboard in the ocean off New England. He wasn't going fast and it looked like he was trying to keep from getting run over by a large vessel of some type that was very near him. Republican skipper, no doubt. Anyway, it was cool and I'm sure he was having fun. And then, over the clip, that scum-suckin', sheep-stealin', sleazebag, slimy-ass bald-headed chicken fucker Bob Novak says, I paraphrase: "Must be what rich East Coast guys do for fun."
That M*****f****r! Have you seen that rig H.W. and his idiot spawn tool around in on the water off Kennebunkport? If I had enough money for a big, fast cigarette like that one, I'd move to a different neighborhood and have matching Escalades! Rich East Coast guys? I like Begala and Carville, they were sitting right there, and neither of them called the BHCF on it. For this, I fault them.
It's a small thing, maybe, but it struck me in a larger context: I live in a resort community, and I see every kind of recreational and sporting gadget available, and the guys who have them aren't all rich. Everything costs money to do: sailboards, street and dirt bikes, mountain bikes, snowmobiles, skis and snowboards (Novak and others mentioned these in the "rich guy sport" category last winter, too. What a crock), fishing/skiing/party/bass boats and their motors, personal watercraft, fishing tackle, firearms, and, oh what the Hell, bowling balls and crochet hooks, too. Whatever lifts your skirt.
Point is, these things are affordable pastimes/ hobbies/ lifestyles for working people. They need something to look forward to after a hard week in the salt mine, or they'd go NUCKING FUTS! It's their money, they earned it, they can spend it any damn fool way they want to.
So for Novak to point out a relatively inexpensive middle-class pastime as being a province of rich people is simply another lame attempt to brand Kerry as one of the liberal elite and separate middle class voters from him. How can he do this when there's a way rich guy in the White House who looks at the rest of us like we're the help, who comes from an even more patrician background, the aw-shucks bullshit be damned, and another who has stolen millions from us who whispers in his ear (and probably Pets his Goat on the side)?
Wrong-headed, partisan, ideological, misdirection, that's why, and he knows he can get away with it. If a Liberal, or just a garden-variety Democrat, ever said something like that, the Right would be all over him for promoting class warfare. They're very, very good at this, as lying with a straight face is just a tactic. The end justifies any means, large or small, to keep this chimp on the throne. Be afraid, be very afraid. Nah, that's a mis-speak. Be ANGRY,be VERY, VERY ANGRY.
There's class warfare all right, and they started it, to divide and conquer. It's up to us not to fall for it. Tell your friends.
You're right, Fixer, this is great therapy, and cheap too!
They showed a clip of John Kerry relaxing on his sailboard in the ocean off New England. He wasn't going fast and it looked like he was trying to keep from getting run over by a large vessel of some type that was very near him. Republican skipper, no doubt. Anyway, it was cool and I'm sure he was having fun. And then, over the clip, that scum-suckin', sheep-stealin', sleazebag, slimy-ass bald-headed chicken fucker Bob Novak says, I paraphrase: "Must be what rich East Coast guys do for fun."
That M*****f****r! Have you seen that rig H.W. and his idiot spawn tool around in on the water off Kennebunkport? If I had enough money for a big, fast cigarette like that one, I'd move to a different neighborhood and have matching Escalades! Rich East Coast guys? I like Begala and Carville, they were sitting right there, and neither of them called the BHCF on it. For this, I fault them.
It's a small thing, maybe, but it struck me in a larger context: I live in a resort community, and I see every kind of recreational and sporting gadget available, and the guys who have them aren't all rich. Everything costs money to do: sailboards, street and dirt bikes, mountain bikes, snowmobiles, skis and snowboards (Novak and others mentioned these in the "rich guy sport" category last winter, too. What a crock), fishing/skiing/party/bass boats and their motors, personal watercraft, fishing tackle, firearms, and, oh what the Hell, bowling balls and crochet hooks, too. Whatever lifts your skirt.
Point is, these things are affordable pastimes/ hobbies/ lifestyles for working people. They need something to look forward to after a hard week in the salt mine, or they'd go NUCKING FUTS! It's their money, they earned it, they can spend it any damn fool way they want to.
So for Novak to point out a relatively inexpensive middle-class pastime as being a province of rich people is simply another lame attempt to brand Kerry as one of the liberal elite and separate middle class voters from him. How can he do this when there's a way rich guy in the White House who looks at the rest of us like we're the help, who comes from an even more patrician background, the aw-shucks bullshit be damned, and another who has stolen millions from us who whispers in his ear (and probably Pets his Goat on the side)?
Wrong-headed, partisan, ideological, misdirection, that's why, and he knows he can get away with it. If a Liberal, or just a garden-variety Democrat, ever said something like that, the Right would be all over him for promoting class warfare. They're very, very good at this, as lying with a straight face is just a tactic. The end justifies any means, large or small, to keep this chimp on the throne. Be afraid, be very afraid. Nah, that's a mis-speak. Be ANGRY,be VERY, VERY ANGRY.
There's class warfare all right, and they started it, to divide and conquer. It's up to us not to fall for it. Tell your friends.
You're right, Fixer, this is great therapy, and cheap too!
Essential Saletan
[. . .]
The case against President Bush is simple. He sold us his tax cuts as a boon for the economy, but more than three years later, he has driven the economy into the ground. He sold us a war in Iraq as a necessity to protect the United States against weapons of mass destruction, but after spending $200 billion and nearly 1,000 American lives, and after searching the country for more than a year, we've found no such weapons.
Tonight the Republicans had a chance to explain why they shouldn't be fired for these apparent screw-ups. Here's what Cheney said about the economic situation: "People are returning to work. Mortgage rates are low, and home ownership in this country is at an all-time high. The Bush tax cuts are working." But mortgage rates were low before Bush took office. Home ownership was already at an all-time high. And more than a million more people had jobs than have them today.
[. . .]
In a democracy, the commander in chief works for you. You hire him when you elect him. You watch him do the job. If he makes good decisions and serves your interests, you rehire him. If he doesn't, you fire him by voting for his opponent in the next election.
Not every country works this way. In some countries, the commander in chief builds a propaganda apparatus that equates him with the military and the nation. If you object that he's making bad decisions and disserving the national interest, you're accused of weakening the nation, undermining its security, sabotaging the commander in chief, and serving a foreign power—the very charges Miller leveled tonight against Bush's critics.
Are you prepared to become one of those countries?
[. . .]
Go read it, godammit.
Yo, Tony, fuhgeddaboutit
Via Kos:
Full story.
Blair realizes that our 'special relationship' with the Brits has been given a wedgie by President Flightsuit. I was wondering when he'd stop being Bush's crash test dummy.
John Kerry supporters in America have been told by Peter Hain that Downing Street is hoping the Democratic candidate wins the US presidential election in November.
Mr Hain, who sits in the cabinet as Leader of the Commons, has been in the US on a near-private visit. He met Labour supporters in New York, as well as members of the Kerry team. He has declined to discuss the visit, and his public remarks at a party thrown by the former Sunday Times editor Harold Evans were largely bland. But in private discussions with guests, his tone was markedly different.
Those who met him had the strong impression that he was acting with No 10's support, and that a Democratic victory was clearly sought. Such a supposition ought to be natural, but historic ties have been jolted by the strategic and sometimes personal alliance between George Bush and Tony Blair over Iraq. Mr Hain's visit may be seen by some as diplomatic ground-covering in the event of a Kerry victory.
In public the government will remain studiously neutral. And some Blairites doubt that Mr Kerry has the campaign drive to defeat the incumbent.
But in a sign of frustration inside the Labour party over the government's neutrality, the Blairite group Progress is to issue a scathing attack on Mr Bush's record, although the group is sympathetic to the action in Iraq; Alan Milburn, the former cabinet minister, is its honorary president.
[. . .]
Full story.
Blair realizes that our 'special relationship' with the Brits has been given a wedgie by President Flightsuit. I was wondering when he'd stop being Bush's crash test dummy.
Thanks Glen
Though I always thought deft meant subtle:
And I've never been accused of being subtle. Thanks Glen (from A Brooklyn Bridge, which should be part of your daily reading), now four of us read this fucking blog!
Vacancy
I haven't piled onto the Bush twins' debacle. By now, it seems gratuitous. But one of the deftest takes on Laura was from The Fixer. Warning: he doesn't seem to take many prisoners.
And I've never been accused of being subtle. Thanks Glen (from A Brooklyn Bridge, which should be part of your daily reading), now four of us read this fucking blog!
Avast Matey, There's Buggery Aboard, addendum to last post
This should have gone into the last post. I forgot. One of those senior moments I told you about. This is from Martin Mull, one of the finest, most underestimated comedic minds of the ages:
"We're all friends on this old boat
And none of us are sissies.
We tuck each other in at night,
And blow each other............kissies!"
Now, what is this shit doing on a political blog, you ask? Well, everything has a political slant if you look for it. In these two posts we have touched on: The military-industrial complex: the Navy, ships, and ropes, sails, and hammocks (all manufactured and sold by companies); military recruiting techniques (See Fahrenheit 9/11) and the condition of enlisted servicemen; small businesses; retirees, and, oh yes, I believe we might have mentioned the gay community.
See how it all ties together?
"We're all friends on this old boat
And none of us are sissies.
We tuck each other in at night,
And blow each other............kissies!"
Now, what is this shit doing on a political blog, you ask? Well, everything has a political slant if you look for it. In these two posts we have touched on: The military-industrial complex: the Navy, ships, and ropes, sails, and hammocks (all manufactured and sold by companies); military recruiting techniques (See Fahrenheit 9/11) and the condition of enlisted servicemen; small businesses; retirees, and, oh yes, I believe we might have mentioned the gay community.
See how it all ties together?
Mantail On The Fantail
As I was thinking wistfully of all the fun Mr. and Mrs. F. are going to have on their sea cruise, I was reminded of my own, long ago, first introduction to the manly nautical life. I had just reported aboard (If you can call being dumped out of a sack onto the poop deck "reported aboard") the finest ship of the line in the Queen's Navee, the H.M.S. Poufter Boy.......
Note: Think of the dulcet, gentle voice of "Long John Silver" in the movie "Treasure Island".
"Aarrr! First time to sea, eh, matey? Bunk o'er here by me and I'll show yeh the ropes. Aarrr! There's a good lad, right enow! Stay away from that gang o'er there, they'll have yeh beaten, buggered, and sissified by the dog watch! They like nowt better than friggin' in the riggin', keep a weather eye on yer arse, 'specially while yer reefin' on the royal flyin' topgallant. 'Tis a long way down and they'll take yer measure there. Aarrr! I long for the good ol' days of rum, sodomy, an' the lash! T'were a gentler time, I can tell you!"
I spent a memorable career at sea, and with my pension, I acquired an extensive collection of show tunes which I play to soothe the customers at my interior decorating business. A lot of my best customers are retired sailors.
But seriously, I think the Fixers' biggest danger at sea will be the Buffet. Bon Voyage.
Note: Think of the dulcet, gentle voice of "Long John Silver" in the movie "Treasure Island".
"Aarrr! First time to sea, eh, matey? Bunk o'er here by me and I'll show yeh the ropes. Aarrr! There's a good lad, right enow! Stay away from that gang o'er there, they'll have yeh beaten, buggered, and sissified by the dog watch! They like nowt better than friggin' in the riggin', keep a weather eye on yer arse, 'specially while yer reefin' on the royal flyin' topgallant. 'Tis a long way down and they'll take yer measure there. Aarrr! I long for the good ol' days of rum, sodomy, an' the lash! T'were a gentler time, I can tell you!"
I spent a memorable career at sea, and with my pension, I acquired an extensive collection of show tunes which I play to soothe the customers at my interior decorating business. A lot of my best customers are retired sailors.
But seriously, I think the Fixers' biggest danger at sea will be the Buffet. Bon Voyage.
Nazis, once more
See, I'm not the only one. Stole the pic and the post from Digby.
Rebel Yell!
The GOPers in the hall are so excited by the blood dripping from Zell's mouth that I think I fear they will soon be speaking in tongues. I'm getting worried for their health. This much hate can cause strokes and heart attacks if not controlled.
But don't you think Zell's speech and speaking style would be greatly enhanced by a little moustache and a snappy uniform? I mean, it goes so well with the Riefenstahlesque stage set.
I have to wonder if we might not have seen a Buchanan moment there.
Greetings, Gordon
Gordon,
I don't know if you should be honored or not, but this is my first posted comment on any of Mr. Fixer's blog spots, but I felt compelled to write.
I read your bio, at 0500 EDT, and immediately noticed how much you remind me of The Fixer!! The two of you may be twin brothers of different mothers. By the way, what is wrong with OYSTERS?!
This is a very scary thing to think that there may actually be two of you. God help the world now that the two of you have teamed up!!
Having been married to The Fixer for 14 years, please send my best to the Lovely Diane; I know what she has gone through for the past 31 years and can emphathize completely.
Thanks for the offer to row us across the Atlantic, but I'll let the ship's crew handle that. You can master the blog until we get back, but I can assure you that The Fixer won't stay completely silent the entire time, he is physically unable to do that!! He just may not be as prolific and for that we thank you for stepping in!! They are size nine, not ten, by the way!!
(Posted by Mrs. Fixer)
I don't know if you should be honored or not, but this is my first posted comment on any of Mr. Fixer's blog spots, but I felt compelled to write.
I read your bio, at 0500 EDT, and immediately noticed how much you remind me of The Fixer!! The two of you may be twin brothers of different mothers. By the way, what is wrong with OYSTERS?!
This is a very scary thing to think that there may actually be two of you. God help the world now that the two of you have teamed up!!
Having been married to The Fixer for 14 years, please send my best to the Lovely Diane; I know what she has gone through for the past 31 years and can emphathize completely.
Thanks for the offer to row us across the Atlantic, but I'll let the ship's crew handle that. You can master the blog until we get back, but I can assure you that The Fixer won't stay completely silent the entire time, he is physically unable to do that!! He just may not be as prolific and for that we thank you for stepping in!! They are size nine, not ten, by the way!!
(Posted by Mrs. Fixer)
Womens' Rights
As Bill Clinton said: "Being Pro-Choice does not mean you're pro-abortion." This via Corrente:
Have we forgotten the bad old days when women would die in back rooms at the hands of unethical doctors? I wonder, if the Fluffer Twins had an unwanted pregnancy or two, would President Testicle-deficient and Laura make them follow through or take them to a clinic forthwith?
Bush and the Right to Life
Next time one of the Fetish for the Fetus people gets in your face about Republicans being the Party of Life, the party that has cut funding for anybody anywhere in the world who even thinks about telling a woman who wants one where she can get a clean, safe abortion, mention these other lives they never want to talk about:
(via BBC)
Almost 200 women die each day after having a botched abortion, according to a report.
Ipas, a non-governmental organisation based in the United States, says there are 70,000 such deaths each year.
It says unsafe abortions are also leaving thousands of women with long-term debilitating injuries. The biggest problems are in Asia.
Have we forgotten the bad old days when women would die in back rooms at the hands of unethical doctors? I wonder, if the Fluffer Twins had an unwanted pregnancy or two, would President Testicle-deficient and Laura make them follow through or take them to a clinic forthwith?
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