This man needs to die.  I'll put the bullet in his brain if he ever gets close enough.

“And just thinking to myself right now, we should just cancel the election and just give it to Trump, right? What are we even having it for? What are we having it for?” he asked. “Her policies are so bad.”

Seriously. No redeeming value. When the judge asks me how I'll plead, my answer will be "You're welcome."

Also, the million Oregon morons were let off. So a pack of white trash idiots can grab their guns and take over a government facility for nearly a month, and get away with it, while if even one of these retards was black, it would be Waco*Ruby Ridge?

So the strategy of hanging them by their own noose failed. And I supported it. Next time, I'll make sure to insist that we tie the noose for them.

Scottish pickup line

Hey baby!  How'd you like to go out back and toss around me caber!?

Unfinished, can't finish.

A man walks into the office of the booking agent for a local theater and says, "Boy, have I got an act for you."

(I think you know where this is going)

[This is my attempt at summarizing the life of one of the Presidential candidates in the form of an aristocrat's joke.  The problem is, aristocrats jokes are supposed to be a continuous crescendo of escalating vulgarity, much like the life of DJT up to, and including his first divorce; but after that, it is tame by comparison.  Sure there are the bankruptcies, the perving on underage pageant contestants, and the presidential bid, but they are SERIOUSLY TAME compared to how he treated Ivana, so really that's where it ends.]

The agent sighs and rolls his eyes, and says, "You know how many pitches I hear every week?  What makes your bit any different?"

"Well it begins with the curtains opening to a darkened stage.  The lights come up, revealing a petulant, blonde-haired eight year old boy arguing screaming at what is obviously a music teacher.  The child screams that the teacher obviously knows nothing about music, and punches him in the eye.

"The teacher windmills back, clutching his stricken eye.  After a moment, he removes his hand to reveal a swollen purple mound where his eye once was.  The curtain drops.

"The curtain is drawn revealing two boys playing with blocks.  We see the child from the first scene and another.  The former is stacking his into a tower.

"'Bobby, give me your blocks, I need them for my tower!' the first child demands.

"The second child agreed and lent the first his blocks.  When the first finishes the tower, he glues it all together."

"Wait..." said the agent, "What kind of little monster steals anther's blocks and glues them together?"

"You'll see," the pitchman replied, "Moving on, end scene.

"We return to find an other blonde boy, in his early teens, verbally and physically accosting people on what are obviously the streets of Queens, NY in the late 1950's."

"How do we know that?" the agent pipes in.

"Trust me, it's obvious." the pitchman answers.  "A van prop, labeled military school appears on the scene, and two uniformed men carrying comically large nets step out.

"The chase the blonde terror around the stage, trying in vain to net the boy.  After a while, too long in theater, the boy is captured and dragged, kicking and screaming--like an octopus, several octopodes really--"

"--Octopodes?  You mean octopi?"

"Uhhh...no. Moving on.  Finally the men get the squirming ball of wrath and violence into the back of the van and take off.  The curtain once again drops."

The agent raised a finger, stopping to flow for a moment.  "Where are we going with this?"

"You'll see.  Next we see an idyllic alpine scene; a ski resort.  A young blond man--in obviously undersized gloves (this is important)--and a svelte blonde woman are preparing to make their descent.

"Our man begins, while the statuesque woman remains at the top of the hill.  He stops after a minute and she takes off after him.

"Being an experienced skier, the woman quickly overtakes the man.

"Infuriated, the man takes off his skis, boots and heads to the lounge,  shedding equipment as he fumes about the obvious one-upsmanship.  Lights dim as the woman slowly shakes her head and with misplaced sympathy sighs, as she rests her palm against her forehead.

"We return to the same man and woman, older and married.  The man is wearing a bandage around his head, the result of plastic surgery, scalp reduction, to remove a bald spot..."

"What?!" the agent exclaims, "Who does that?  What kind of narcissist does that?  Have they not heard of hats?"

"Well, it gets better," the pitchman continued, "turns out he had visited the plastic surgeon that his wife had been to.

"'Your fucking doctor has ruined me!' the man screams, grabbing the woman and pinning her arms behind her back as he tears fistfuls of hair from her scalp.  Grunting like a rabid, yet still somehow retarded animal, he tears off her clothes and unzips his pants.  Jamming his penis inside her for the first time in more than a year she is terrified.

"Following the violent penetration she runs up the stairs and slams a door behind her.  We hear crying for an uncomfortably long time as the passing of time is simulated in the background.

"She returns to the master bedroom to find her assailant waiting there, having scatter the clumps of hair that he had ripped out scattered all over the bed.

"'Does it hurt?' he menaces as she gasps in horror."

[note, I'm not embellishing this episode, seriously, read this about the divorce, I was totally wrong about the gaslighting.  This guy is a monster.]

Again, the agent signals for a pause, "Wow dude, that's fucked up."

"I know, right?

"Next is a montage of the man groping, raping and assaulting a number of different women, among them several obviously underage girls (including one Tiffany so-called 'Doe'), a very well shaped woman is hugged, kissed, then propositioned with money and private jet rides for sex.

"Another woman, a passenger on an airplane is upgraded to first class.  She is seated next to the man, who grows 6 additional tiny hands and begins groping her as soon as she sits down.

"There are others, but I don't want to spoil it for you." The pitchman says.

"How kind of you."

"What follows is an operetta depicting the circumstances that lead to the divorce of the statuesque blonde woman and the blonde man.  I don't want to ruin it for you, but the rape scene is really the tip of the iceberg between these two.  What I can tell you is that it's an homage to Gilbert and Sullivan; the Major General number will take the wrinkles out of your ball sack.  Patter-songs are always crowd-pleasers."  The pitchman remarked, sighing lovingly as he reminisced on patter-songs.

"That's two levels of fucked up." the agent remarked, gasping in shock, "Three if you want to count your regard for patter-songs in this context."

"That's neither here, nor there.  We skip ahead a decade or two in our next scene and our blonde man is announcing that he intends to run for President of the United States."

[and I die a little inside every time I think of how this parallel has played out]


I'm pretty sure they're offering hourly rates...

That old building in Washington D.C. that Trump "renovated"  is going to be that kind of place.  With rooms starting at $400 a night, a $16 hourly rate is chump change to spend an hour or two with your pretty "cousin."

A few seats away from the Buckley-ite at the bar Tuesday night, another gentleman sat with his younger, heavily made-up date, who scrolled through her glitter-encased iPhone looking at her own selfies while he yammered on, ordering Champagne, tasting it, and then asking for a different one.

The chairs, she remarked, were “so slutty.”
The man introduced her to the bartender with a smirk. “This is my cousin,” he said, remarking that he’d been in the previous night with a different cousin. “I have a lot of cousins.”
The man, the woman and the bartender all laughed. “They don’t know the sort of clientele they’re gonna get here,” the man said.

Given the revelations of the past month:  of course Donald Trump would build a whorehouse!

Also, um...point of order...maybe choose another euphemism for "hooker."  Incest isn't exactly classy...but based on the reviews of this monstrosity, class wasn't really on the radar.  On second thought, go ahead and buy your "cousin" another $140 spoonful of wine, book the finest, cheapest room for an hour, and spend the next 59 minutes trying to convince her at the same time that this has never happened before, and that she should prorate her, ahem, "allowance" for cumming as soon as she touched you. 

Two stupid questions

  1. If all of the poor, lazy, stupid, violent, gang-banging, welfare-reliant minorities in the "inner city" are smart enough to commit in-person voter fraud en mass, without getting caught, why aren't rural republicans?
  2. If Donald Trump wins, wouldn't that undermine his claim that the revelations about his sexual abuse of women harmed his reputation, and wouldn't therefore be a better use of time in his first 100 days in office?


Memory lies.

If it isn't obvious, I have been on a little nostalgia kick lately; reaching out to some people in my past that I had passing acquaintances with, while avoiding the ones for whom my feelings are deeper.

Otherwise, the reason for the title is I bought a pack of Djarum Blacks on impulse.  I used to smoke the regularly in high school.  Either they're much weaker now, or my memory of how numbing they were is faulty.

Anyway, I'll put the yearbook away now.  I think the thing about fairies being low in fat is from Pangburn, rather than Storti.

And Jessa, I went computer science.  Close enough, and I'm not going to blow anything up (not that I really want to anymore).

Honestly, I'm sad that I am revisiting my past, while at the same time being somewhat afraid of the future.  As they say, twice bitten, thrice shy, I guess, but at the same time it why (partly) I am who I am.  At the time it seemed like I was shunned, but over time I've realized that I was always treated with respect, and while not popular in the "heathers" sense, I was at least accepted.   At the time I didn't realize it, and I do actually regret my inability to recognize the reality of the situation.

Anxiety makes you assume the worst in people, and makes you incapable of re-evaluating their motives.  When you put up a wall, people won't try to penetrate it; and that's not because they don't care (in most cases), but because they don't want to upset you.

At the same time, you want to project a "cool" image, that makes you want to react as you imagine the person you're modeling would to a particular situation.  This is further alienating, and the fact that I wasn't a complete pariah is a testament to the kindness, and humanity of those I went to school with.

It took me a long time (and some meds) to realize this, and I wish I had 15-20 years ago.  My life would be much better now.  At the same time, I can rest easier now, knowing that the chip on my shoulders was of my own doing, and that as I've grown older and more wise (fucking HA HA HA), I realize that my world-view at the time was pretty skewed.

(although, Tina, square dancing wouldn't have been any different, hee hee, aside from me having tried to kiss you in one of our many, many, many stumbles--all my fault, of course)

time is a powerful drug

And another thing.

To be clear up front: this is NOT a joke: if we see Melania in public wearing oversized dark sunglasses on 11/9, I hope to dog, satan, or whatever you sacrifice your goats to on the marble altar every week that divorce papers and restraining orders are forthcoming posthaste.

The profile I linked to in my previous post leads me to believe that Ivana wasn't lying about the rape, and that the subsequent retraction was coerced.

Trump is not a person I think has the mental capacity to gaslight somebody  on any level deeper than flat out denying his behavior, anyway, as we've all seen (and I think this is unintentional on his part, he doesn't know he's doing it because Dunning Kruger...or something); but I don't doubt there's some sort of Stockholm syndrome, or other more appropriate form of traumatic bonding--of which I'm not yet aware--involved in his relationships. 

Trump reacts to Melania's advice to concede.
If I didn't know better that's what I'd think the Trump household scene would look like on 11/8.  The problem is it doesn't look like a fas-phocomelic-child-of-baroque-and-rococo-design exploded everywhere; drenching everything in gold, pink marble, and plenty of shiny trinkets & baubles of no function other than to take a long time for the maid to keep free of dust.  Or put more simply, it's tasteful in an 80's minimalist way.

Sorry, I'm having a very difficult time with this.  This didn't just tickle my berserk button, but bashed it like The Hulk doing one of those carnival strength-test hammer things (aka a High striker).  I mean this is a person who goes against the fibre of my very being.  Somebody who should have been isolated from regular society long ago--one way or another--and not only has he not been undone by his behavior and actions, but actually has a very, very loyal following.

I was right.

See, I told you so (not that I derive that much pleasure), but Trump is a spiteful moron.  An anecdote from the piece.

And when Mr. Trump feels he has been made a fool of, his response can be volcanic. Ivana Trump told Mr. D’Antonio about a Colorado ski vacation she took with Mr. Trump soon after they began dating. The future Mrs. Trump had not told her boyfriend that she was an accomplished skier. As she recalls it, Mr. Trump went down the hill first and waited for her at the bottom:
IVANA TRUMP: So he goes and stops, and he says, “Come on, baby. Come on, baby.” I went up. I went two flips up in the air, two flips in front of him. I disappeared. Donald was so angry, he took off his skis, his ski boots, and walked up to the restaurant. ... He could not take it. He could not take it.

He had been bested in public. As he stormed off the slope, leaving behind a trail of equipment, she recalled, Mr. Trump could not contain his embarrassment.

“I’m not going to do this,” she recalled him saying, “for anybody, including Ivana.”

The mind boggles.  Why did she marry him at all?  Did he pinhole the condom, or roofie her on one of their dates?

They go on to paint the portrait of a single-minded megalomaniac, completely unwilling and incapable of introspection.
But he quickly retreats from the [discussion of a Peggy Lee song, "Oh, is this all there is?"] , declining Mr. D’Antonio’s invitation to further explain how the song makes him feel about himself, saying he might not like what he discovers.

Of this, however, Mr. Trump is certain: He needs the world’s attention and its embrace, a life force that has sustained him for decades.

I await the response with baited breath.

Does anybody actually read this shit?

Well, am I wasting my time?

If this is paradise...

Reminder: A few posts ago I put up two youtube videos.  The first was of a Dutch band, Focus, live, with the singer looking like he's trying to suppress an outbreak of lycanthropy, while at the same time, yodeling, singing, playing flute, whistling and playing keyboard...

<takes deep breath>

The second was Nothing But Flowers by The Talking Heads, which is becoming one of my favorites, and here's why.

First, another reminder, I'm materialistic.  I disagree with criticism that I am necessarily too materialistic in a colloquial sense; that I chase money and stuff as my raison d'être.  In reality it's more of a sense of sentimentality expressed via symbols, some physical, others as events.

For example, on my shelf I have an assembly of the twisted metal shavings from the MAK in Germany.  The steel is blue, colored by the heat generated by the blade of the industrial lathe.

That trip to Germany as an exchange student in High School was up until that point, the highlight of my life, and that little pile of junk is a reminder of it.

Other things that might seem extremely materialistic, like appreciating the first receipt of a bonus from a recent promotion, aren't about the stuff, but about the growth as a person that I had to accomplish in order to be promoted at all...but I digress.

So back to Nothing But Flowers.  On the surface it's the story of an eden-like post apocalyptic utopia, where the singer is lamenting the loss of the modern conveniences we take for granted.

I think it's much deeper than that and acts as a brilliant double criticism, both of modern materialism, in that the stuff he laments no longer exist is trite; Pizza Hut, shopping malls, and stuff like that; and the naive idealism that tearing it all down will solve all of society's ills.

It's a powerful rebuke of the type of herd-following materialism, fashion fads and the like that many of us were participants in in our youths.  People my age remember British Knitghts, Jordache, and many other examples of absolutely worthless shit being coveted, strongly by me and my peers.

At the same time, it also acts as a rebuke of the idealism that attempts to reject materialism completely to strive for that eden-like utopia.  If you catch that particular car, you may find yourself as an unwilling participant in the outcome.

So with that, I'll be posting more.  I hope I don't get so creepy again.


Time out

After having posted what is probably the creepiest thing on the internet in my post-debate haze (since deleted), I'm going to take a time out.

I sincerely apologize to those parties I creeped upon.  You deserve respect, not some drunken rambling.



This is worse than I thought.

Surprisingly, Chris Wallace is a voice of reason.  He's controlling the chaos much better than the previous moderators.  He's also not obviously anti-Clinton, or pro-Trump (at least so far).

Aside from that, this is a bigger shitshow than debate #1.

Trump is a tarbaby.  Hillary needs to keep away.

(obama's regime?  Seriously?  You can't be a feckless loser and an iron-fisted tyrant at the same time.)

Last comment:  Chris Wallace is surprisingly balanced in his questions.   If he decides to get a job somewhere other than Fox, then I'll keep an eye out.

(bla bla bla 30 years)

Fuck this shit.

Goodbye Blue Monday

(or cruel wold).

It's been nice knowing you, Darcy, Penny, Jen, Krista, Crystal, Jennifer, Jenn, Heather, Katie, et al.   We're done for.


Debate tonight.  Get your handle of Gin ready and stock up on the tonic.

Articles that attempt to pin down some rational reason for the way that Donald "soon-to-be-thrice-divorced-once-Melania-turns-fifty" Trump behaves, such as this one in Vox, bother me.  This one attempts to rationalize Trump within the context of broadcasting.

This amplification can seem confusing when analyzed through a political lens, which make his actions seem alienating at best, catastrophic at worst. But it makes perfect sense in the context of the medium that built Trump’s candidacy: TV. Instead of looking to the realm of politics to understand this move, look to television to find the key concept that’s driving the Trump campaign: narrowcasting.

It's a nice idea, but it's not really what's happening.  Not intentionally anyway.  What we are witnessing in this article is one of the corollaries of the Dunning-Kruger effect, and that is similar to the tendency of low-ability people to fail to recognize their own lack of ability; high-ability people sometimes assume similar ability in others.

This projection smooths any cognitive dissonance a high-ability individual might suffer when confronted with people of such low-ability that any cognizance of such an ability deficit is impossible.

In other words, when somebody does something so stupid that it defies all logic and reason, smart people might assume there is some intentional underlying narrative pattern that contextualizes the action.

CNN reported Tuesday that Trump invited President Barack Obama’s Kenyan-born half-brother, Malik, and the mother of Benghazi victim Sean Smith, while Clinton will bring Hewlett-Packard CEO Meg Whitman and billionaire investor Mark Cuban.

Really.  That oughtta make Barack Obama squirm!  Problem is, Hillary is the debate opponent.

What is really happening with the campaign at this point is Trump's pathological need to stroke his ego, and nothing else.   Donald Trump is not capable, mentally, to engage in the sort of planning and discipline that narrowcasting interpretation would require.

He's an idiot.

Geoffrey Pullum, a linguist at University of Edinburgh, argues that there’s more going on than just a conversational, I’ll-let-you-fill-in-the-gaps-style. Trump’s unorganized sentences and short snippets might suggest something about how his mind works. "His speech suggests a man with scattered thoughts, a short span of attention, and a lack of intellectual discipline and analytical skills," Pullum says.

More sophisticated thinkers and speakers (including many past presidents), Pullum argues, are able to use "hypotaxis — that is, embedding of clauses within clauses." Trump can’t seem to do that.

Pullum explains further: "When you say something like 'While Congress shows no interest in doing X, I feel that the American people believe it is essential,' the clause ‘it is essential’ is inside the clause ‘the American people believe it is essential’ which is inside the clause ‘I feel that the American people believe it is essential,’ and so on. You get no such organized thoughts from Trump. It's bursts of noun phrases, self-interruptions, sudden departures from the theme, flashes of memory, odd side remarks. ... It's the disordered language of a person with a concentration problem."

He has such a short attention span that he literally cannot finish a sentence.  Or at least, not the same sentence that he started. 

And the only thing Trump can stay interested in is himself.

“It’s implicit in a lot of what people write, but it’s never explicit—or, at least, I haven’t seen it. And that is that it’s impossible to keep him focussed on any topic, other than his own self-aggrandizement, for more than a few minutes, and even then . . . ” Schwartz trailed off, shaking his head in amazement.

And there's really no public/private persona differences either.

This year, Schwartz has heard some argue that there must be a more thoughtful and nuanced version of Donald Trump that he is keeping in reserve for after the campaign. “There isn’t,” Schwartz insists. “There is no private Trump.” This is not a matter of hindsight. While working on “The Art of the Deal,” Schwartz kept a journal in which he expressed his amazement at Trump’s personality, writing that Trump seemed driven entirely by a need for public attention. “All he is is ‘stomp, stomp, stomp’—recognition from outside, bigger, more, a whole series of things that go nowhere in particular,” he observed, on October 21, 1986. But, as he noted in the journal a few days later, “the book will be far more successful if Trump is a sympathetic character—even weirdly sympathetic—than if he is just hateful or, worse yet, a one-dimensional blowhard.”

So all of the water chumming Trump is currently doing with the alt-right isn't about fomenting a permanent following, but is a psychological need for approval.  His ego requires people to love him, and he seems not to recognize the difference between very intense approval from a narrow demographic, and a benevolent apathy of a much wider population.

Every teabagger shouting himself red in the face at Trump rallies gets one vote each.  It matters not how intensely a voter feels about his chosen candidate when he casts his ballot for Trump; quantity over quality is what does.

(and yes, I'm intentionally depicting Trump voters as exclusively male in the preceding paragraph.   The uneducated of whom are the only demographic still in Trumps wheelhouse.)

So this is the prism through which tonight's debate should be viewed:  A narcissistic moron dancing for applause.  Not some long term plan to spawn a media empire.


Dear Mom,

I've vacillated back and forth as to whether or not to post this here.  It's deeply personal, but it really needed to be said.   This is the email I sent to my mother last night after the Obama 2024 post.

Subject: I love you Mom

It’s been a very weird couple of weeks, and I really feel that I need to tell you how much I love you.  I know that you made a choice to be a stay at home Mom, and that doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve the same respect as someone who decided to follow her career instead.  I’m a better person for your influence on my life, and I can’t thank you enough for that.

When I think of a feminist, I think of you.  When I think of a strong woman, I think of you.  The fact you decided to stay at home doesn’t mean to me that that is a woman’s proper place, but that it was a decision you made for the sake of our family, and that’s what’s proper as far as I’m concerned: A woman’s place is where she decides.

I really hate what’s happening in the campaign; a certain shithead goes against everything you taught me to be right.  You, and all women, deserve the respect that basic human decency implies, and more.

I want to think of myself as a feminist.  I try to treat women as I would want to be treated (golden rule).  I do this because you are my mother.


It needed to be said.  I'm proud of my mother, and even if I'm not always the best son, I'm well aware of what she has done for me and my family.

And here's the reply:

Thank you--you made my day (now I'm sorry I turned my computer off early last night).  I hope you know how proud I am of you and the person you are.

What you said makes me realize that you get me, and you have given me an incredible gift.

I will listen to the link a little later (I see that it's 28 minutes); I heard bits and pieces of her speech and would like to hear it all.  Whenever I start to feel the stress of the campaign lies, I take a deep breath and consciously refocus on what matters to me--my family first--and a feeling of love and peace washes over me.  I've been doing that for a very long time.  Right now, it's very important to my recovery that I avoid too much stress (I can feel it in my head in not a good way--it's different than before the concussion).

The concussion is from the car accident a couple of weeks ago.  I'm glad she's ok, but at the same time it's painful to discover that she's having ongoing issues.

In a post script I told her that it was Michelle Obama's speech that inspired me to write the letter.  My mother is referring to the link I gave her to the complete speech.

It really pisses me off when various Republicans cite their wives, sisters and/or daughters in condemning the revelations of Trump's rapey history.  Everybody has a mother!  Literally.  It's how we all got here to begin with.  This should be universal, and it's disgusting to me that it isn't.

So if anybody is actually reading this, please tell your mother what she means to you.  I think it's important that we support the women in our lives, especially right now.

This isn't white-knight-cuck-sjw bullshit.  This is basic human decency.  Be a decent human.


The father I strive to be

When I was a child, whenever we, as a family, would drive past a field full of these things:

He would exclaim:  "Look at the deer!"

This is how families should work.  We need to have inside jokes that bind us in memorable ways, and/or scar us for life.

I still picture the above in my head when I hear the word "deer."

Obama 2024

This is a woman that should be the first black* woman** President.

*I say "black" instead of African American, because if you encounter somebody of African descent on the street, there is no way of actually knowing whether they are American citizens or not.  I don't mean any disrespect, but can you call a Nigerian tourist on the streets of NYC African American?  Race and ethnicity are two different things; just like Latino/Latina vs Hispanic, a white person from any Spanish speaking country (ethnicity) is Hispanic, a person born in Central/South America+Mexico is Latino/Latina.

**I use the word "woman" rather than "female" because I want to differentiate between biological sex (female) and gender identity (woman).  For example, this woman had me convinced she was biologically female until I Googled her (because she's HOT).

And thanks to her, I know understand the difference between gender and sex.  So if the next "woman" president is trans, then hurrah! (and also, can I buy you a drink sometime?)

Overheard in Predix training

Agile means never having to say you're finished.


Smarter than a number of people I know

Apes have the capability of understanding another agent's perception of reality.
Researchers at Kyoto University and Duke University had chimpanzees, bonobos and orangutans watch a video of an actor and a man in a King Kong suit hiding an object under boxes. In the end, King Kong runs away with the object.

Then the actor returns. The experimenters tracked the apes’ gaze, which showed the animals correctly anticipated that the actor would head for the last place he saw the object. The apes knew the object was no longer there, and they apparently knew the actor would believe it was.
The important thing is the anticipation of the actor's intention.  If the apes did not understand how the actor perceived the scene, they would have gazed in the direction the King Kong figure ran away with the object, anticipating that the actor wanted to retrieve the object, but knew it had been moved.

In summary

Trump lost.  Bigly.

But it's hilarious, in the "OH SNAP!" way, how Hillary answered the last question.

The question was: can either of you say something positive about the other?

Hillary complimented Donald's children.  Which is hilarious for 2 reasons.

  1. It's not actually a compliment about Donald
  2. Donald was very, very minimally involved in raising his children.  Proudly so.  This is pretty well known.

    “I mean, I won’t do anything to take care of them,” Trump told Howard Stern a few years ago. “I’ll supply funds and [the mother] will take care of the kids. It’s not like I’m going to be walking the kids down Central Park.”


Let the hurling of the feces begin

This probably won't go well, and I don't really feel like attempting to liveblog, but there are two things that I want to point out right off the bat.

  1. No handshake.  We know where those tiny, tiny hands have been it seems.
  2. Question 2: Donald, do you understand you were bragging about sexual assault?
Donald refused to admit it, and started blathering about 'ISIS' [sic].

And he's sniffing.

And demanding to respond to responses.  

17 minutes in and Bill Clinton comes up in a response to the question asking at what point during the campaign did he change.

"Sign on with the Devil."

"33000 emails that you deleted, and 'acid-washed.'"

"Special prosecutor..."

"Acid wash them, or bleach them, a very expensive process."

For the record: here's what he's trying to refer to.

"Because you'd be in jail."

"No I'm a gentleman."  (Audience laughter).


Dear Women*

I am ashamed to be a man right now, thanks to Donald Trump.  I cannot apologize enough for my sex/gender.  Please don't forget we're not all like that.

*and by "women" I mean both those born with the organ by which they might be grabbed <dry heave>, and those who identify as such.


I want to point something out about Peter DeMarco's beautiful, and heart-wrenching, letter to the doctors and nurses who cared for his wife in her final days, and that is at no point does he thank god, or any other supernatural being.

Granted, she ultimately died, but there is no talk of heaven or meeting on the other side, or being in a better place.

It's the stark reality of grief, loss, and the best of human compassion that makes it so powerful.

I don't want to project my own beliefs on the bereaved, or claim the letter for atheists, because that would be beyond gauche.  Peter's grief is his own.  As are his beliefs, whatever they may be.  I am only pointing out what I noticed about his letter, and how it differs from what we usually encounter in these situations.


Have a weekend

Just because some moron referenced this in the context of Trump-inspired racial hate crimes.

If you're going to try and relate something from the cultural lexicon to a current event, you'd better make for damn sure the metaphor applies to the situation!

And yes, I do have enough self-awareness to relate, deeply, to this song.

PS. Adele, if you're reading--ha ha ha--please record this song!

(And Babs, Judy Collins did it much better than you)

(And Frank: It's a girls song for fuck's sake!  It's a good thing you're dead)



Not a dry eye in the house

I am going to post this entire letter, copyright be damned.

A Letter to the Doctors and Nurses Who Cared for My Wife

After his 34-year-old wife suffered a devastating asthma attack and later died, the Boston writer Peter DeMarco wrote the following letter to the intensive care unit staff of CHA Cambridge Hospital who cared for her and helped him cope.

As I begin to tell my friends and family about the seven days you treated my wife, Laura Levis, in what turned out to be the last days of her young life, they stop me at about the 15th name that I recall. The list includes the doctors, nurses, respiratory specialists, social workers, even cleaning staff members who cared for her.

“How do you remember any of their names?” they ask.

How could I not, I respond.

Every single one of you treated Laura with such professionalism, and kindness, and dignity as she lay unconscious. When she needed shots, you apologized that it was going to hurt a little, whether or not she could hear. 

When you listened to her heart and lungs through your stethoscopes, and her gown began to slip, you pulled it up to respectfully cover her. You spread a blanket, not only when her body temperature needed regulating, but also when the room was just a little cold, and you thought she’d sleep more comfortably that way.

You cared so greatly for her parents, helping them climb into the room’s awkward recliner, fetching them fresh water almost by the hour, and by answering every one of their medical questions with incredible patience. My father-in-law, a doctor himself as you learned, felt he was involved in her care. I can’t tell you how important that was to him.

Then, there was how you treated me. How would I have found the strength to have made it through that week without you?

How many times did you walk into the room to find me sobbing, my head down, resting on her hand, and quietly go about your task, as if willing yourselves invisible? How many times did you help me set up the recliner as close as possible to her bedside, crawling into the mess of wires and tubes around her bed in order to swing her forward just a few feet?

How many times did you check in on me to see whether I needed anything, from food to drink, fresh clothes to a hot shower, or to see whether I needed a better explanation of a medical procedure, or just someone to talk to?
How many times did you hug me and console me when I fell to pieces, or ask about Laura’s life and the person she was, taking the time to look at her photos or read the things I’d written about her? How many times did you deliver bad news with compassionate words, and sadness in your eyes?

When I needed to use a computer for an emergency email, you made it happen. When I smuggled in a very special visitor, our tuxedo cat, Cola, for one final lick of Laura’s face, you “didn’t see a thing.”

And one special evening, you gave me full control to usher into the I.C.U. more than 50 people in Laura’s life, from friends to co-workers to college alums to family members. It was an outpouring of love that included guitar playing and opera singing and dancing and new revelations to me about just how deeply my wife touched people. It was the last great night of our marriage together, for both of us, and it wouldn’t have happened without your support.

There is another moment — actually, a single hour — that I will never forget.
On the final day, as we waited for Laura’s organ donor surgery, all I wanted was to be alone with her. But family and friends kept coming to say their goodbyes, and the clock ticked away. About 4 p.m., finally, everyone had gone, and I was emotionally and physically exhausted, in need of a nap. So I asked her nurses, Donna and Jen, if they could help me set up the recliner, which was so uncomfortable, but all I had, next to Laura again. They had a better idea.

They asked me to leave the room for a moment, and when I returned, they had shifted Laura to the right side of her bed, leaving just enough room for me to crawl in with her one last time. I asked if they could give us one hour without a single interruption, and they nodded, closing the curtains and the doors, and shutting off the lights.

I nestled my body against hers. She looked so beautiful, and I told her so, stroking her hair and face. Pulling her gown down slightly, I kissed her breasts, and laid my head on her chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath, her heartbeat in my ear. It was our last tender moment as a husband and a wife, and it was more natural and pure and comforting than anything I’ve ever felt. And then I fell asleep.

I will remember that last hour together for the rest of my life. It was a gift beyond gifts, and I have Donna and Jen to thank for it.

Really, I have all of you to thank for it.

With my eternal gratitude and love,

Peter DeMarco


I'm a liar

Thank you Henry Rollins.

Pence (paraphrase): Foreign contributions to benefit the Clintons, from foreign donors, through a private email server.

Seriously?  The private server was while she was SoS, not at all involved with the Foundation.

Then 90% of Clinton Foundation donations don't actually go to charity.  Yeah, really.

And then deleted emails, again, not related to the foundation.

Shit, republicans is stupid.

This is annoying

They're bickering like little bitches.   At least Pence dismissed statistics in one of his interruptions, and tried to frame "community policing" in "law and order" terms (which themselves are a repudiation of the community policing approach; stop and frisk).

Kaine relies too much on slogans.  On the other hand, he does seem to have a fairly decent grasp of reality (and history).

Pence is just a dishonest ass. (Mischaracterizing the impact of Trump's tax cuts, Talk radio bumper sticker reductions of complex issues--sanctuary cities, comparing Trump's insults of literally every non-WASP ethnic group with the "Basket of Deplorables," among other things--it's just maddening).

It also seems like Pence gets admonished twice for interrupting Kaine for every time Kaine interrupts him.

But on the plus side Pence is actually capable of jotting down notes and waiting to respond, however occasionally he decides not to just blurt out his rebuttal.

I won't be posting again tonight.

EDIT: I just realized the disconnect between my complaint of Kaine and slogans when Pence is tossing out as many Luntz/Gingrich-approved canards as is possible, including the pejorative "Democrat" in place of "Democratic."

Dear pedants

If you're going to try and demonstrate your obvious superiority by casually inserting the Greek plural of 'octopus' in a conversation, AT LEAST PRONOUNCE IT CORRECTLY!!!

This has been a PSA from somebody who cringes when people embarrass themselves without knowing it.  And also by somebody who has to listen to, and read your stupid ass.

(and frankly: the only time octopi should appear in American English is jokingly parenthesized following the word octopuses: "octopuses (octopi)")

(and while we're at it: amongst, whilst and the like are still outnumbered 4-1 by the more correct among, while and the like, even in British English.  You come off as somebody imitating a stupid person's idea of a smart person, so don't ever use them in American English).

Also, because of tonights debate: 'member that time Mike Pence thought the movie Titanic was a metaphor?  Or the time he thought the science on cigarettes wasn't settled?

This outta be a fun night.