Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist
Random thoughts for Wednesday:
– Nothing makes you appreciate the jobs of others quite like having to do them yourself for a few days. My managing editor has been out of the office all week; her sister-in-law passed away  Monday morning and she and her husband have left for Florida to console and attend to family. In the interim, I have been doing my best to handle her tasks as well as my own. The pile seems endless. She calls once a day to check in, but as luck has it, the really important questions only come up after she’s hung up, and I’m unable to call her back. 
– Yesterday, Danielle asked the world why we couldn’t bury Pat “Patrick” Buchanan into a deep dark hole until we could no longer hear his venomous cries of help. I’d like to see if we can’t dig that hole a little bigger and toss in Tom DeLay. I rarely use the epithet “asshole” to describe somebody; I find it an ugly word that hurts me to say more than it hurts the target to hear it. (Of course it doesn’t bother them. They’re assholes.) Besides which, it never seems like the right epithet. In my life, I’ve known jerks and idiots and full-blown sons of bitches and the occasional bastard, but very few actual assholes. I think Tom DeLay might be the source, the overlord, the paragon of all that is “asshole.” 
DeLay, who tore into Tom Daschle for his comments yesterday about the weaknesses of our president as a diplomat , decided that he was clever, somehow, and decided to end his typically idiotic tirade by quoting from a book of handy French phrases–“Fermez la bouche,” he exclaimed, following it with its translation: “Shut up, Mr. Daschle.”
Today, Salon’s Joe Conason points out that Daschle, an Air Force veteran, owes no lip service to DeLay, yet another of the administration “chicken hawks” who send others to fight wars while they sit back and play chessmaster. DeLay’s reason for not going to Vietnam is classic: He would have gone, he says, but there were too many ethnic minorities taking up spots in the military.
Fermez your own goddamn bouche, Mr. DeLay.
– It figures that during a week when I’m swamped with work, there are also two betting pools to jump in on. I’m almost done with my NCAA bracket, which is largely based on randomness and an odd desire to see all Utah universities get creamed. But I’m somehow also in charge of the Oscar pool. Busy, busy, busy.
– I’ve had my sister’s car for four days now–to replace the old death trap I’d been driving–and it’s already cost me over $150 in annoyances. On Saturday, I left the lights on all day, after having turned them on for the trip through Lower Wacker and forgotten to turn them off in the light of day. My old Honda had a warning bell if the lights were on. This car does not. And, I was dumb.
This morning, there were two tickets on the car. One was for driving with an expired plate. The newer one is in the backseat of the car, and had I noticed, I would have replaced it immediately, but as said above, I’ve only had the car four days. I rather wish my sister had done this back when the license expired. In July. The other ticket was for not having a city sticker, which I have to smile at, bemusedly, because for the two-and-a-half years I had the other Honda in the city, stickerless, I never once got a ticket for this offense. When it rains, I suppose, it pours.
– With less than three hours until war begins, I need to use some space to wish for the safety and unharmed return of two people close to friends of mine.
To Captain Jeffrey Means, U.S. Army, a dear friend of my friend Amelia, who is hoping to get married on April 12th. May you come home safe and sound and as successful as can be hoped.
To Nicholas Zvolanek, United States Marine Corp, younger brother of my friend BZ. May you come home safe and sound and as successful as can be hoped.
 She’d known it was going to happen; it was one of those deaths. The information I don’t know is regarding the second part of the drama, in which my managing editor and her husband were being considered to adopt the sister’s daughter. More on this if I ever know.
 She’s in Florida, I know, but every time she calls, I swear there’s a tropical bird sitting on her shoulder. I always hearing chirping and cawing in between her instructions.
 I think it’s really funny to bury an asshole in a hole in the ground, and then ask somebody if they see both. Never mind. Awkward joke, that.
 And this is funny, because can you really judge someone’s skills as a diplomat when they never truly even attempted diplomacy?
Current music: MP3 list, Dave Matthews Band, “Pay For What You Get”