A Few Are Fueled by Hate: Their Flight, A Slow and Patient Bullet.

What this guy writes reads like what I've been saying forever until recently, though he does research and I don't because I'm The Abbreviationist, which is why I need bleg to bitch. Still, for umpteen decades I did believe the cantilever of Less-Shittiness was the faith that who we vote for would vote as our proxy but don't because they can't, not because they don't want to.

I've friends who argue I obamabitchandmoan unfairly, begrudge him everything, credit him nothing, when there are (and there are) some somethings he's done that Cheneybans surely wouldn't. (UPDATE! Alright, we'll see how much true credit to assign later, but credit Obama for saying this.)

These friends say I obamabitchandmoan because Obama won't, on a special broadcast from the Oval Office, call Dick Cheney an amoral shitsmear, his wars of choice both illegal and immoral, and then add as an aside that anyone who believes a single turdly word out of Fatfuck Limbaugh or Fuckface Hannity is as stoopid as an inbred pick-up truck rear-bumper with a Stars-and-Bars decal.

Fucking-A. My friends are right, not about Obama, about me, who's right, because until Obama confronts and goads the Crackerstani opposition, I'm assuming it's because he doesn't want to, not because he's too stoopid or too cowardly to.

Those are the three choices, and he's not shy about goading me. Call the obamawaambulance.

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• Have a healthy helping of Du(h)ck Soup.
• Influence Peddling.
• I know I keep saying this, but Crackerstani's would be lunatic regardless who the Democratic president was. Obama being a nigger is gravy, a popper's rush in the acid trip.
• The stupid, it burns.
• Critical Method.
• Metaphor.
• UPDATE! Metaphor.
• A Simpler Time.
• UPDATE! Again, it needn't be an either/or? And Linda McMahon the GOP nominee in Connecticut to run against Chris Dodd? As Richard Butler put it so poignantly in India, please me please me please me please me please me please me please me please me PLEEEEEEZ me.
  
• Why the fuck is retired news reader Tom Brokaw on Fred Hiatt's op-ed page lecturing me about anything? Rhetorical question, that.
• Owning part of an NFL team would have been a win for Limbaugh. The Club of Pigs known as the 32 NFL owners rejecting the Pig Limbaugh is a bigger win for Pig Limbaugh. Heh (on many levels).
• Heh, beware Orrin Hatch, Grasshopper.
• UPDATE! The bestest bleggal-gazing ever.
• Victory.
• ICC = Lexus Lanes. Why the fuck is it a toll road at all?
• Today's edition of Who Gives a Flying Fuck asks, He was retired?
• Music and theory.
• The Kakutani Two-Step.
• UPDATE! American Booker nominees. I've heard about the Phillips, know nothing about the others in fiction. I've read the Armantrout and Carl Phillips, looked at the Lauterbach, the other two are new to me.
• UPDATE! Even more on The Debate About The Millions List! which I post for only a quarter-snark, but mostly because Oughts-Ranking is coming, in full force, soon.
• Sufjan Stevens has a new album coming out next week.
• Fifty Years of Space Travel.
• Today's Listening Assignment.
• Today's Listening Assignment.

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1124 INTO WICHITA

Albert Goldbarth

Some of us are heading into funerals, and some of us are heading
just as evidently into the morass and molasses of love.
(Each has its detectable aura.) Some of us are money. Some
are flutes. A few are moneymoneymoney. Some, trombones.
I think that one or two are delivering an apology
on an invisible silver wafer - if it's not too late. Another
is repeating to herself the script of a wonderful proposal,
a ring-tailed zinger of a proposal - if it's not too early.
Some are asleep: the adrenaline shift in their bodies
has just punched out for the day. A few are fueled
by hate: their flight, a slow and patient bullet.
Someone is lactating: there's a dark rose over the light pink
silk of her blouse. We're here. We're so high, we
don't even own a molecule of shadow. Down there, now

too small to see, a tree - a willow, a crazy philharmonic maestro
of a tree - is conducting the wind: those owl pellets flying
all around in the air could be notes. And somewhere else
a tarp that's half-undone on top of a farmer's rick is repeatedly
lifting and dropping, all day, like a woman's hand on her breast
in a worried self-diagnosis. Down there, everything keeps on
    happening.
Gusto. Failure. Slithering boas of light dry snow. And
sudden wedges of sun driven into the darkness. Everything -
waiting for us. Some of us want it, some of us don't,
but down there somewhere every one of us has a destination.
There's a case lined like a casket, for the flute: there's a purse
as pink inside as a vulva, for the money. All of us
know this. All of us now in a changed awareness.
All of heading down in a locked and upright position.

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Born forty-nine years ago today: