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Apr. 21st, 2005 09:49 amThe AP headline reads:
Republicans on the House ethics committee said Wednesday they were ready to open an investigation into allegations of wrongdoing against Majority Leader Tom DeLay. Let's hope they use a really big one. Seriously, people are too eager about this. This attack on DeLay will bear bitter fruit, mark my words. It's going to backfire unless something definitive breaks him. They call him The Hammer, for crying out loud. Not to mention, Karl Rove supports him. I have it on good authority that Karl Rove eats the brains of very intelligent children and senior citizens every morning with his toast and coffee and that he craps talking point memos to GOP staffs around the country. A guy I know personally witnessed Karl playing chess online with his left hand while carving one of those Chinese puzzle balls out of the still-attached kneecaps of defeated Democrats with his right.
Also, check out this article by Blumenthal (salon.com, watch short commercial to view with free site pass--I admit, I found a hack that could get a free site pass instantly without the commercial, but I reported it to Salon tech support and I'm not putting that link up because I think that would be mean. They still haven't acted on it yet.).
There's a great article over at the revealer called American Aquarium Drinker which reviews the book The Gospel According to America. This quote strikes me: "And therein lies the purpose and the problem of the book. Tugging the glove of scripture onto the hand of America, Dark intends to use one set of ideas to explain and complement the other. Trouble is, it’s not an exact fit. Either the hand has too many fingers or the glove not enough." I find it interesting the way we do use ideas to explain other ideas. In the current climate (which is not outrageously unique historically speaking, permit me to acknowledge that and still participation a little in "the arrogance of the present generation") it's like each of these great ideas isn't permitted to breathe.
America qua America, continuing revolutionary struggle for more prosperity, more freedom. Christianity, eternal revelation of the very heart of God in the living present. You know, these are pretty spectacular ideas on their own. Why must people conflate them? Well, perhaps there's a little rust, or perhaps tarnish on the gilding of each vision. So using one might help someone view the other. Well shoot. The cross is not a polishing rag. Neither is the flag, dammit.
I really enjoyed last week's This American Life because the story about the doomed Quizno's made me think of the whole world. "Due to bad owners we're out of a lot of stuff. Don't be mad at the employees..." Just like everywhere else.
What is this shit? Back to our regularly scheduled programming!
She was beautiful in a handmade grayed-purple dress. I shivered when I kissed her and said I wanted to again. In April and May we walked together on Sunday afternoons. I took her up and down gravel roads. Pink and brown gravel, long trails of tan dust rose and drifted over alfalfa fields. We went to the cemetery. Old settlers who had come seeking gold and oil lay there. Local legends spoke of caves beneath the graveyard and said that coffins occasionally fell through. As though the prospector-dead were frustrated by the gypsum-rich earth and restlessly tossed in their sleep. They dreamed and chased their own echoes down into the underworld. We wandered among the gray headstones, picking scarce lilacs. The iron gate creaked. Traffic droned in chorus with rustling wild buckwheat and switchgrass. Gray stones and another shiver; the breeze stirred her hair and we smiled more and more easily. More rustling, the sound of bodies pressed together beneath the dome of the sky. We spun there, dreamed up new kisses and named them, planted memories among the dead. White heart, the smell of lilacs, she is Sunday. She is the first day of the week. She is soft crumbling stone but I turn to powder when I kiss her. I am Lot's wife. I am devastated in my memory of her, each kiss overthrows me and whirls me off in the wind. Spring comes, the scent of blossoms through me like sculpters' hammers—visions through the green of furtive people on errands off the paths, down to the riverbank. It's cold this morning. Cold like I'm kissing someone. On the woman's face, on the surface of the water, light and anticipation. Questions in the chill air. Wasn't that you? Weren't you just kissing me in this dream? This dream I had where I was drowning in gray? Lifted on the smell of Sunday into loud and clanging air; a pattern of woven fabric on bare skin, pressed into our memories, or sifted there like so much gravel dust. I will buy nothing there under the bridge but you can give me my memories for free, colored faded purple-gray and falling like long dark hair just so.
House Ethics Panel to Probe Tom DeLay
Republicans on the House ethics committee said Wednesday they were ready to open an investigation into allegations of wrongdoing against Majority Leader Tom DeLay. Let's hope they use a really big one. Seriously, people are too eager about this. This attack on DeLay will bear bitter fruit, mark my words. It's going to backfire unless something definitive breaks him. They call him The Hammer, for crying out loud. Not to mention, Karl Rove supports him. I have it on good authority that Karl Rove eats the brains of very intelligent children and senior citizens every morning with his toast and coffee and that he craps talking point memos to GOP staffs around the country. A guy I know personally witnessed Karl playing chess online with his left hand while carving one of those Chinese puzzle balls out of the still-attached kneecaps of defeated Democrats with his right. Also, check out this article by Blumenthal (salon.com, watch short commercial to view with free site pass--I admit, I found a hack that could get a free site pass instantly without the commercial, but I reported it to Salon tech support and I'm not putting that link up because I think that would be mean. They still haven't acted on it yet.).
There's a great article over at the revealer called American Aquarium Drinker which reviews the book The Gospel According to America. This quote strikes me: "And therein lies the purpose and the problem of the book. Tugging the glove of scripture onto the hand of America, Dark intends to use one set of ideas to explain and complement the other. Trouble is, it’s not an exact fit. Either the hand has too many fingers or the glove not enough." I find it interesting the way we do use ideas to explain other ideas. In the current climate (which is not outrageously unique historically speaking, permit me to acknowledge that and still participation a little in "the arrogance of the present generation") it's like each of these great ideas isn't permitted to breathe. America qua America, continuing revolutionary struggle for more prosperity, more freedom. Christianity, eternal revelation of the very heart of God in the living present. You know, these are pretty spectacular ideas on their own. Why must people conflate them? Well, perhaps there's a little rust, or perhaps tarnish on the gilding of each vision. So using one might help someone view the other. Well shoot. The cross is not a polishing rag. Neither is the flag, dammit.
I really enjoyed last week's This American Life because the story about the doomed Quizno's made me think of the whole world. "Due to bad owners we're out of a lot of stuff. Don't be mad at the employees..." Just like everywhere else.
What is this shit? Back to our regularly scheduled programming!
She was beautiful in a handmade grayed-purple dress. I shivered when I kissed her and said I wanted to again. In April and May we walked together on Sunday afternoons. I took her up and down gravel roads. Pink and brown gravel, long trails of tan dust rose and drifted over alfalfa fields. We went to the cemetery. Old settlers who had come seeking gold and oil lay there. Local legends spoke of caves beneath the graveyard and said that coffins occasionally fell through. As though the prospector-dead were frustrated by the gypsum-rich earth and restlessly tossed in their sleep. They dreamed and chased their own echoes down into the underworld. We wandered among the gray headstones, picking scarce lilacs. The iron gate creaked. Traffic droned in chorus with rustling wild buckwheat and switchgrass. Gray stones and another shiver; the breeze stirred her hair and we smiled more and more easily. More rustling, the sound of bodies pressed together beneath the dome of the sky. We spun there, dreamed up new kisses and named them, planted memories among the dead. White heart, the smell of lilacs, she is Sunday. She is the first day of the week. She is soft crumbling stone but I turn to powder when I kiss her. I am Lot's wife. I am devastated in my memory of her, each kiss overthrows me and whirls me off in the wind. Spring comes, the scent of blossoms through me like sculpters' hammers—visions through the green of furtive people on errands off the paths, down to the riverbank. It's cold this morning. Cold like I'm kissing someone. On the woman's face, on the surface of the water, light and anticipation. Questions in the chill air. Wasn't that you? Weren't you just kissing me in this dream? This dream I had where I was drowning in gray? Lifted on the smell of Sunday into loud and clanging air; a pattern of woven fabric on bare skin, pressed into our memories, or sifted there like so much gravel dust. I will buy nothing there under the bridge but you can give me my memories for free, colored faded purple-gray and falling like long dark hair just so.
