Via Chicago redux

"Are you employed, sir?"

"Employed?"

"You don't go out and make a living dressed like that in the middle of a weekday."

"Is this a--what day is this?"

(sigh) Well, it's been a lovely three months of traveling, writing, blogging, and trying to healthy up a bit but the campaign train whistle is blowing. Next stop: Windy City. Well, for a month, anyway. The gig runs up until the Democratic primary on March 21st, which hopefully gives some of the other campaigns I've been talking to enough time to get their ducks in order so I can just bounce from Chi-town to The Next.

I don't want to get into specifics for fear of getting hit by the scat-tossing Google Monkeys but if anyone is curious just holler at me and I'll tell you what I got so far. I expect the result of my return to Chicago, aside from asking people on the street if they know what the Midwest is, will be less time spent hob-blogging and more time hob-nobbing with a little bit of knob-slobbing thrown in there for good measure. The first thing they teach you in campaign class is that a little bit of slobber on the knob goes a long way towards not getting the shaft. I actually just made that up but it works so it must be true.

Mike Myers found out what the Midwest is

Anyway, I'm psyched to be heading back to a legitimate city, especially the Chi. Had a lot of fun there this time last year and hope to look up some old pals. And the man says "write if you get work", not "until", so I expect the frequency of posts on this blog to slow but not stop. Catch ya later pals and gals.

My friends have cute kids

Exhibit A:

Cuter than Butterstick: Casey and Madeleine

Casey and Maddie belong to my good friends Eric and Jocelyn. E and J are the first ones from my closest circle of friends to have kids. They're freaking adorable. Casey and Maddie, that is. Eric and Jocelyn are refined intellectuals and excellent parents but if I called either one of them adorable, they'd probably slug me. Anyway, Casey is already one of my favorite people on the planet and I'm sure I'll feel the same way about Maddie once I get to know her as well.

It's funny but I think, in subtle ways, knowing that the people I used to party-hardy with have moved on to start a family has made me start to grow up a little bit also. Not just because that's two less people to run with anymore but also because that's my peer group that's moving on.

I'm not saying there aren't still mornings when I'm going to bed when I should be waking up. But with every hangover there's always been that voice in my head, the one that wonders "How much is enough?" and once your friends start having kids, that voice starts getting an extra moment of consideration.

Especially when the kids are as cool as these:

Hey sis, is it just me or is that purple Teletubby a little, um, y'know...foofoo.

But whatever, I'm in no rush to do the baby thing myself. I am, however, after hanging out with Casey and Maddie, urging more of my friends to get together and make some babies. It makes perfect sense to me, after all, these people are my friends. If they have babies together, it just means there's more people just like them to hang out with. Plus, their kids will likely be at least as cool and smart as their parents, not to mention way cuter for at least a decade or so, AND, genetically disposed to laugh at my jokes! Total win-win here. So you hear me, pals? Let's get the lead out and start with the baby-makin!

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night

The screen door slams
Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside
Darling you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking
That maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty but hey you're alright
Oh and that's alright with me

You can hide 'neath your covers
And study your pain
Make crosses from your lovers
Throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain
For a saviour to rise from these streets
Well now I'm no hero
That's understood
All the redemption I can offer girl
Is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now ?
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow
Back your hair
Well the night's busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back
Heaven's waiting on down the tracks
Oh-oh come take my hand
We're riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh-oh Thunder Road oh Thunder Road
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey I know it's late we can make it if we run
Oh Thunder Road sit tight take hold
Thunder Road

Well I got this guitar
And I learned how to make it talk
And my car's out back
If you're ready to take that long walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door's open but the ride it ain't free
And I know you're lonely
For words that I ain't spoken
But tonight we'll be free
All the promises'll be broken
There were ghosts in the eyes
Of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty beach road
In the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets
They scream your name at night in the street
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines roaring on
But when you get to the porch they're gone
On the wind so Mary climb in
It's town full of losers
And I'm pulling out of here to win

Now Reading/Listening

Now Reading:

My reading habits are a function of my anticpated moods and literary desires. I rarely buy one book when I'm in a bookstore, more often than not it's more like five or six. Some I'm anxious to start reading as soon as I get home, some I've read about someplace and think I'd like to read, others I feel shame that I haven't read already and buy with a feeling of disciplinary admonishment. This buying frenzy gets worse whenever I get to go to certain stores. My favorite bookstores are the mammoths: Powell's in Portland and Chicago, Tattered Cover in Denver, the Strand in NYC. I get to each a couple times a year (except the Cover, haven't been there in a few years and I feel a part of me dying on the inside) and it's a lucky deal when I restrain myself to an armload bounty of books.

The result is a much fuller suitcase on my return trip and a stack of books on my desk that grows like Joyce's eternal mountain of sand. Having been jobless for three months now and sedentary for one, I've been able to make some progress in the stack. Here are the favorites:

• Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry - epic cowboy saga that earned the author the Pulitzer Prize long before he produced and co-adapted Brokeback Mountain for the big screen. Excellent characters: old Mexican cooks, restless ex-Texas Rangers, sharp-tongued frontierswomen, stubborn cattle, renegade Comanches and the sprawling, beautifully captured territories of Texas to Montana. 800+ pages a bit intimidating at first but once you get into the pace of the novel the pages fly by. Interesting fact: Larry McMurtry used to run with Ken Kesey and Ken Babbs back at Stanford in the early 60s and is included in the list of visitors to Kesey's forest crib in La Honda in Tom Wolfe's Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. There must have been something in the water up there cause those cats can write.
  

• Before Lonesome Dove, I read Portnoy's Complaint by Philip Roth. Not the greatest novel ever published but definitely an instant favorite. From the jacket:

Portnoy's Complaint n. [after Alexander Portnoy (1933- )] A disorder in which strongly-felt ethical and altruistic impulses are perpetually warring with extreme sexual longings, often of a perverse nature. Acts of exhibitionism, voyeurism, fetishism, auto-eroticism and oral coitus are plentiful; as a consequence of the patient's "morality" however, neither fantasy nor act issues in genuine sexual gratification, but rather in overriding feelings of shame and the dread of retribution, often in the form of castration.

Very funny, very insightful and VERY graphic. Evoked vicariousness and personal memories at the same time. I'm relieved to discover that some of the more shameful thoughts I had as a child are nearly universal among those raised in Jewish households. Except the castration part; thankfully, that punishment never occured to me or, more thankfully, my parents.

• I've had Jonathan Lethem's The Fortress of Solitude sitting in a pile of yet-to-be read novels on my desk for about 8 months now. I read and liked one of his earlier novels, Motherless Brooklyn, but it wasn't the life-changing literary experience some made it out to be. FOS seems to be one of those books I know I'll like once I get in the mood to read it: copious late funk/early hip-hop references, kids growing up amid tense neighborhood race relations, set in Brrrrrrooklyn (I was going to just type Brooklyn but my index finger stuttered and I like the way it looks now so...). Unfortunately for you Mr. Lethem, the city of Chicago and Devil in the White City have already got me reeled in so you're gonna have to wait your turn.

Now listening:

My literary and musical shopping habits are very similar. Stacks of vinyl are lighter than stacks of books but still a bitch to make room for in the suitcase. Damn I wish my camera worked. I just found an old hard-cover suitcase while cleaning out my folks' basement and it's sweet. Had to glue some of the stitching back together but it's a total travelling salemsan special. Can't wait to take it on the train.

Anyway, I have yet to remove any of the grains of sand making up the stack of vinyl in my closet but that will change as soon as I take the time to get a record player. No turntable = CDs. So see deez cuts bee-yatch.

• Will Oldham and Tortoise - Chester the Whispering Cabin Boy joins up with the Cool Noise Kids for an album of covers. The material samples everything from Springsteen to Lungfish, Elton John to Devo. Great concept although the end results don't live up to the hype or my own hopeful expectations. Elton's "Daniel" has gotten better with every listen, though, unfortunately, The Boss' "Thunder Road" doesn't hold up. If you're going to attempt to sing about girls and boys seeking salvation in guitars and fast cars you better come strong or not at all. "All the redemption I can offer girl is beneath this dirty hood... You ain't a beauty but, hey, you're alright". Yeah, keep that weak shizz at home, cousin.
  

• Loose Fur - Born Again in the USA

• The Books

• DangerDoom - Just getting around to this summer jam of an album but I like it. A lot. "Stroll across the globe and terrorize the planet in a Bill Clinton mask and them Playskool hammers!" Was everybody else already up on Aqua Teen Hunger Force except me too? Damn.
  

• La nueva Caps y Jones mix - fresh for them Swedish ears. Good for the run around town or the ride home from the party with a car full of kids. Get the local take here. NYC heads - check out the authors here.

The Progressive Complaint

or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Blog

Strange bedfellows...seeking and finding truth in early 90's hiphop...The Santa Clara Blues...The truth is messy but profits are always tidy...Purdue don't know nothing about this Big Ten...Jackson Browne: possible asshole, wonderful songwriter...Ashes of the Coliseum...The Keanu Reeves Unified Theory of Everything

Alright, time to pay the rent, so to speak. If the people wanted panda feet and musings on limericks there are monkeys pounding out that sorta copy all over the internets. But the people come here for the homecookin. The Daily Special. The cheese in their macaroni, as the Baron says. Well, soup's on, ring the bell.

That shit looks good as hell, right?

A lefty pal of mine is dating someone with an extremely conservative worldview. How conservative? The Volunteer-for-the-military-no-sex-til -marriage-dinosaur-bones-are-a-test-from-G-D kinda conservative. For real. Dude was alright though. He wasn't preachy in the least and actually had a very open mind - except where the Bible was concerned. That shit was like Scripture to him. The few days I got to chat with him though I actually learned a lot - and not just how to sweep centuries of scientific knowledge under the rug.

Look at all these tests G-d left us!

As cuz and I spoke, I found myself struggling to cut to the marrow of the progressive complaint; that root theme of what progressives find most dissatisfying in society. I kept having to stop mid-thought in order to backtrack and describe other issues my first thought either linked to or rested upon. In the end, the ultimate link, the center of the web/cornerstone issue that I kept coming back to, was our American system of capitalism.

The mother of all pyramid schemes

How many societal ills stem from, that is to say, find root and nourishment, in the steamy Big C pile? The Big C, after all, requires inequality. Poverty is a mandated tenet of The Big C. The Big C makes it a biological imperative of the modern corporation to put its profit margin above all other considerations, including democratically-enacted laws or the public interest. By its very nature, the modern corporation cannot act another way. When you combine that M.O. with seriously unchecked influence and access to our nation's lawmakers, protection equal to personhood in the eyes of the law and an American Idol-worshipping general public, like Flav said, it all adds up to a funky situation.

Flava as The Big C: "I can't do nuttin' for ya man! I'm busy tryna do for me!"

At one point in our conversation, my new conservative friend said something along the lines of, "Where'd you get your information from, huh? (he didn't mention anything about fronting when Revelation comes - whew!)", and for a second, I didn't know where to start. I know that my first summer spent as an environmental campaigner led me to start reading up on environmental philosophies, like deep ecology. Soon after that someone dropped the "oppression knows no hierarchy" bomb on me and I realized that the fight for animal rights is the same as the fight for human rights and civil rights and so on and just like that, my politics changed. Back at school my friends and I shared whatever credible sources of non-mainstream facts and info we found and, over time, my progressive education gained a momentum all it's own. I don't think my path was too different from most other progressives.

We read the magazines, we watch the TV specials, we visit the websites. We have the conversations with friends that fill the gaps in our knowledge on things like pesticides, the threat media agglomeration poses to free speech and how international trade law keeps AIDS medicine from southern Africa and skews the playing field so heavily we'd have been smart to start storing bottled water yesterday.

It's no shock we developed distrust for the storytellers. Once we realized just how limited the story is that we're being given: the talking heads, the politicians, the advertisers, anyone with an economic incentive to deny us the full scoop was immediately suspect. And yet this distrust, when vocalized, is categorized and labeled by non-progressives as paranoid behavior. Craziness. We're upsetting the herd, rocking the boat, blocking the TV screen, etc. But to call someone crazy is to dismiss and ignore their complaint. Disregard it like the cat that stares raptly at your finger instead of looking at where you're pointing.

Pulled Up Talking Heads = OK

Ok, fine. We've read what others haven't. That's great, but so what?

So We Know.

Yeah, heard ya the first time, but now what?

Well, what would YOU do? What would you do if you felt like you knew an important secret that few others had been let in on? Would you run around screaming like Chicken Little? Would you gang up with other likeminded folks and take to the streets? What if not enough people listened? What if they said you were nuts? Or worse, what if everyone heard you but nobody cared? What if the most effective outlets to get your secret out were of little help and actually part of the larger problem? Uh oh!

Now what? Do you retreat with your secret to the woods? Just you, your beard, your secret, your filthy grey hoodie and your typewriter? All alone except for the occasional unlucky hiker? Or do you dedicate your life to toiling in the non-profit trenches for little pay, little recognition and no guarantee you'll ever get to see the fruits of your labor? Hey friend, wouldn't you rather just set down that heavy conscience and your liberal guilt, say fuck it and start spending some long overdue quality time looking out for No. 1?

OR would you rather just take it one-day at a time, pick and choose your battles and just try to be a good person? That's it...just breathe easy...breathe. Damnit. If only there were this, like, watchdog organization out there, whose job it was to monitor and curb the harmful influence that corporations could have on the American people. You know, somebody or something that could sweat all the details that we can't keep track of. Oh wait, I forgot, there is one! It's called the Government.

But forget them, man. That horse took a fatal shit in the barn years ago. And why not? They have met the enemy and they is them! The Founding Fathers were wary of corporate power, so were Lincoln and Eisenhower. Each sought to warn the nation of the risk involved in allowing corporations to have too much influence over civil society. I'm not sure if this is explicitly mentioned in Locke's musings on the social contract but it seems like part of the faith we place in our elected officials is to execute the necessary functions of government that we, the people, aren't supposed to have time for as we busy ourselves being productive members of society. Isn't that why we elect representatives? To put the bumpers in the gutters, so to speak? That shit's their job, right?

No more gutterballs!

Well, I think I may have finally stumbled upon the essence of the progressive complaint: The psychopaths are driving the goddamn bus and the windows have all been painted black.

Pop quiz hotshot, what do you do?

Well, having tried most of the approaches mentioned above, I'm exploring what options remain. I do still hold faith that the best way to improve the quality of life for us all is to improve the quality of our leaders. Hence, my current gig as a roving campaigner. Toss out the bums and make room for a better breed, I say. It may not go for the jugular and it's certainly not a quick fix but Rome wasn't burnt in a day either. In the meantime, blogging seems to help. So does drinking. The occasional rant to a hypothetical audience is delusional yet kinda comforting. Sort of like believing dinosaur bones are a test from G-d but hey, we've all got our issues.

What time do the bars in the Rabbithole close?

The real question remains though: What's a person of conscience to do? Now that you know, what are you gonna do? I don't wanna know what it says about me that my summation is a synthesis of lines from Keanu Reeves movies, but there it is. Pop quiz hotshot, red pill or blue pill, what do you do? Pop quiz hotshot, now that you know, what do you do?

Apparently, you start a blog. And try to give yourself peace of mind while still giving the people what they want, which, in case it's less diatribe and more animal feet, I'm with that too. Alright, I'm going out. Later.

Selah.

Protect ya Squatch, Beeyotch

The city that George Bush the Father once referred to as "Little Beirut" has made the short list of cities the RNC is interested in having host its 2008 National Convention. Other bizarre-o inclusions are the People's Republics of San Francisco and Seattle.

San Fran? Works for me. The Alabama delegation ought to feel right at home.

RNC San Fran: "Hellooooooooo Mr. Republican Man!"

As for Seattle and Portland, it's obvious the RNC selection committe hasn't been briefed on the Sasquatch's Republic of Cascadia yet.

Squatch Uber Alles!

Butterstick discovers snow

For those that have yet to be exposed to the national sensation known as Butterstick, prepare yourself. Baby pandas are not only extremely rare, but they will make even the coldest heart talk wike dis. Yes he will! Yes he will! Ooshabooboojoojoo!

He's just a wittle guy

Anyway, Butterstick (aka Tai-Shan) is now seven months old and has had the entire D.C. area under his spell since the day he was born. Someone needs to commission a GAO report tracking government productivity levels in relation to increased traffic on the National Zoo's panda-cams.

All the pandas with clean feet say Ho-oooooooooh!

The recent (what is it, a-) Blizzard gave Buttersttick his first taste of snow. Witness the little bugger's face-melting cuteness as he wrassles with mama bear in the snow.

Chinese conservationists estimate there are only 1,600 giant pandas left roaming the mountain forests of central China. Another 120 are in Chinese breeding facilities and zoos, and about 20 live in zoos outside China. Butterstick's folks, Mei Xiang and Tian Tian, are at the National Zoo on a ten-year loan from the China Wildlife Conservation Association. Hooray for randy pandas.

2. Happy Valentine's Day lovers. This Jens' is for you.

P.S. Sorry about your face...

but how many times do we have to tell you you can't sneak up on the Vice President like that? Alright, I know I'm a full day behind the news cycle on this but Blogger was hassling my photo-posting abilities and Jon Stewart is right, this shit is too easy. Too. Many. Jokes. Cant. Decide. Which. To. Use.



But seriously, are you checking these badboys out? Not only did Cheney totally shoot an old man in the face with a shotgun, he's got his own customized sideshooters! The firing pin glows blue and the engraved initials look like some King Richard-shit.

Just so's you know who did it to ya, son.

Those sure are some cherry pistols, mister.

Anyway, my favorite thing from this whole episode is not being able to stop picturing Vincent Vega shooting Marvin in the face in Pulp Fiction.

Cheney: "Oh man, I shot Harry in the face!"
Hunting Buddy: "Why the fuck did you do that?"
Cheney: "Well, I didn't mean to do it, it was an accident. You probably hit my elbow or something!"

Cheney calls Condi for help:

Cheney: "I don't wanna hear about no motherfuckin' ifs, Condi. All I wanna hear from your ass is, You ain't got no problem, Dick. I'm on the motherfucker. Go back out there, chill them niggas out and wait for the calvary which should be coming directly."
Condi: "You ain't got no problem, Dick. I'm on the motherfucker. Go back in there, chill them niggas out and wait for the Wolf(owitz) who should be coming directly."
Cheney: "You sendin' the Wolf?"
Condi: "Oh, you feel better, motherfucker?"
Cheney: "Shit, Negro, that's all you had to say!"

If someone with halfway decent photoshop skills would like to take a swing at making the pictures above resemble the new actors I'd be happy to publish the results. I think I've gotten out of my system all I have to say on the matter. I'm going back to reading Lonesome Dove now.

Well, I shot a man in Texas...

1. Dick Cheney: Texas Ranger
Could have been worse, at least he only got the guy in the face, neck and chest. Lucky for Mr. Whittington that the Veep has extensive medical personnel with him at all times, including an ambulance on-call that follows him wherever he goes. All I can think of though is that scene from Wedding Crashers where Vince Vaughn gets it in the keyster. Wonder if Dick saw that movie. Probably not.

2. Make Your Own Super Mario Blocks
Pac-Manhattan is cool. But seeing one of these blocks hanging around town would totally make my month. I'm making this my new project. Will post pictures of process and final deployment soon. I am Wario and I'm-a-gonna-win!

3. Fake is the New Real
DW Griffith was America's first great director. The Washlaska voting block. Z is for sleep(ing). Everything I need to know I learned from this site.

Aaaaaaaaand, we're back (wooooootwooooooot)

1. Variety Shac's latest short. If I lived in NYC, I would totally try to date each of these women, at the same time, using different fake moustaches.

2. Of the 3 things I expect to find in Heaven:

a) A Grateful Dead concert held at
b) Hugh Hefner's mansion with
c) A bottomless tub of gummi worms

2/3 have already come together here on Earth. Hey Tom Banjo, make with the gummis.

3. More laughs and hip-hop, courtesy of Jean Grae and Spinach, here

Does anyone else hear that?

Super Bowl weekend in NYC has apparently sapped my brain of all its creative impulses. Multiple boroughs, multiple bars, multiple trains, multiple ATM stops, little sleep. I'm distracted by bright lights and quick movements happening just out of my direct field of vision. When I close my eyes, this happens.

I promise to resume normal blog activities once I regain full use of my frontal lobe. Thank you.

- Management

MoveOn...til the Break of Dawn

1. MoveOn doing what it does best: droppin $100,000 dolla bills to put their Nixon-morphing-into-Bush ad on CNN over the next three days. Frames the debate and puts the call for a special prosecutor into the middle mind. God work, dot-commies.

2. Speaking of the internet, Gore didn't invent it...Tribe Called Quest did. This revelation only occured after seeing their 1991 video for Scenario again recently. Tell me that doesn't look like some Windows-Mac World hybrid shit. Plus, has anyone ever come closer to a pure expression of Hip Hop than "ROWR ROWR Like a Dungeon Dragon"? Answer: Nope. Keep yer eyes peeled for Fab Five Freddy in the moshpit, giant bra-wearin fly girls and Phife in a Roseanne Roseanna-danna wig.

3. Talkin all that Jazz, Stetsasonic. The HipHoppers Strike Back. As long as we're taking a video trip back in the day, I'd like to share another one of my all-time favorites. This song still sounds as dope as the first time I heard it and strikes a blow for the anti-intellectual property rights crowd at the same time. Make sure to listen to the lyrics, including the uptight, repressed white guy in the beginning. Words for Life: When you lie and you talk a lot...people tell you to step off a lot. Damn, I could write a whole essay on this track. Someday.

3. More from the "Oh shit!" file: Classic hip-hop drum samples. Like Ragu, it's in there.

4. Random 1: The list of the 25 Senators opposing Alito. File this away for future reference.

5. Random 2: As if Jon Stewart hasn't gotten enough props already, he's totally down with Slash too. Crazy

National Hangover Days

If I were President, these would totally happen.

Yuck.

If I were President, every citizen would be granted the daily right to vote on whether to declare that day a National Hangover Day. A day when the entire country would be allowed to just say "Fuck It", unplug their alarm clocks and pull the covers back up over their heads to sleep one off in blissful peace. There are just some nights when it becomes clear it will not be in the national interest for you to go to work the next day.

Man down. Save the beer.

We've all been there, buddy. Here's how it would work:

Every bedroom in every home would come equipped with a special government-issue nightstand featuring a special button implanted in one of the upper corners. Each nightstand's button, when pressed, would automatically send a signal directly to the White House indicating another vote for a National Hangover Day to be declared. Taking into consideration the potential for abuse of the system, each nightstand would be replaced annually and would cease to work after five uses, or "buttonpushes", whichever you prefer.

Little help?

Every day, I would gather my Cabinet ("Good morning Secretary Nader, Secretary Gibbs, Secretary Makarowski") in the Oval Office around 7:30am and await the daily tally of citizens requesting a National Hangover Day. There would be a "magic number", derived daily from various cultural and economic indicators, that, if reached before 8am EST, would allow me to gleefully pick up a bourbon-colored phone and direct the operator on the other end to bring relief to millions by declaring another National Hangover Day.

Sec. Makarowski's twin needs an NHD

Buttons on nightstands across the country would then glow red and red-eyed, dehydrated people everywhere would rejoice by sinking back into their dream of floating a raft down a sea of malt liquor.

Party on, Wayne.

And there would be much rejoicing.

On a side note, I tried in earnest to keep up with Mr. Bush last night, abiding by the spirit, if not the letter, of the 2006 SOTU drinking game posted yesterday. "Freedom" and "terror" alone killed a third of my beer supply (by the way, for all you prose types out there, those words would make for a great opening line to a story. If you like em, they're yours). And that was just the first fifteen minutes.

I was IMing with my friends Eric and Nate during and after the speech and we did a pretty good job of riling each other up. The Democrats' rebuttal, delivered by Governor Tim "Are you kidding me? How could this not go to Barack?" Kaine (D-VA), was disappointing and caused my mood to shift from something resembling bloodlust, to a feeling I can only imagine resembled what that cosmonaut who floated out of his shuttle's cargo bay to take man's first steps into space felt like.

It was in that frame of mind, however, that I came upon this: a recording of the first Daily Show after 9/11. Powerful. I don't remember seeing this the first time around. I think I was still hiding in the Shenandoah Mountains at that point.

But Jon Stewart's opening monologue is a killer; an emotional time machine and also, I think, a very nice way to honor the passing of Coretta Scott King. I wonder what would have happened if the Dems had simply played this last night instead of serving up more platitudes and rhetoric.

Anyway, I didn't mean to end this post on such a heavy note so here's a different Daily Show clip, one where Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert totally lose it on camera after Stephen fellates a banana. Happy National Hangover Day.