Never A Dude Like This One!

In better days

Less discerning eyes may have not noticed this year's most egregious Oscar snub, but that's why I'm paid the big bucks. I'm not talking about Paul Giamatti's inexplicable lack of a nomination; I'm not talking about Charlie Kaufman once again being shut out for original screenplay (oh, sorry, force of habit)-- what I'm talking about is bumping Ron O'Neal out of the "In Memorium" segment of this year's Oscars. What, Yo Yo Ma couldn't stretch that half-note out another measure to get this brother in?
Now I'm not saying O'Neal, whose last film was 2002's On The Edge, should have superceded Brando or Ossie Davis. But I'll put it to you this way: who brought more to the overall art of cinema, Superfly or the Gipper?

Know Your Rodents

G'day! What a bonzer sheila.

Today we introduce you to the Kangaroo Rat, a burrow-dweller from the arid expanses of the Sonoran Desert. The kangaroo rat is nocturnal and known to be quite belligerent if challenged, much like Uncle Tony. Its long, powerful legs allow it to jump over two meters at a bound and also, in a pinch, kick out the back window of a police cruiser (also like Uncle Tony).

Bob Herbert Is Angry

If I was a New York Times columnist, I think I would have two different pictures on the site: one for happy columns (on rodent-life or similar nonsense) and one for scolding columns. I'd at least put up a neutral picture, like that reptilian Nixon-apologist William Safire did (or the regal visage of Jim "Dragon" Kelly to this post's immediate right). Bob Herbert's charming, Pepsodent smile belies the anger of most of his columns lately. But expressions notwithstanding, I find myself in a similar watercraft with Mr. Herbert; it's hard to avoid apoplexy whenever the subject of extraordinary renditions comes up. I work a block from the National Japanese-American Memorial, with its etched names of WWII deportation camps like Manzanar and Topaz. When I think of the crimes being openly perpetrated by the US government these days against suspected terrorists, I can't help but think that the only outcome will be one more sad, sorry episode that we look back on with embarrassment and much head shaking. By that time, no doubt, W. will be smiling at us from the dime.

Red Carpet

Not too many surprises on "Hollywood's Biggest Night": The show seemed interminable (What? We're only at the nominees for Achievment in Sound Mixing?); the musical numbers were treacly crap; and we were once again reminded that Sean Penn has absolutely no sense of humor. What qualified for upsets were Eastwood beating Scorcese (deservedly, purely in the film vs. film match-up) and a song in Spanish winning.

I'm pissed mostly because I lost the Oscar predicting game, a contest close to my heart. There's always next year, though my straight ticket voting for The Aviator in the technical categories nearly saw me through. I tried something different this year, asking my uncle the gambler to give me the line in Vegas on the big categories. I was a quick convert after Vegas picked Sean Penn as the favorite over Bill Murray last year, but in 2005 I lost my shirt on both picture and director. So much for the infallibility of gambling; another of my illusions shattered.

If nothing else, I can take solace in the long overdue recognition of Charlie Kaufman for the best film he's written (so far), Eternal Sunshine. After being robbed by Alan Ball in 1999, his win and charmingly panicked acceptance speech made the evening worthwhile. That, and I laughed harder during Chris Rock's intro than with most of the past hosts combined (Whoopi, Dave, Steve--I'm looking your way). Ah, cinema!

Excitement Around the Apartment

The horror, the horror

Though I'm not a bomb-defuser or neurosurgeon, I feel a certain kinship with people in these professions whenever I do laundry. The smallest slip-up, overlooked detail or incautious motion invites disaster. After the rinse and spin cycles have been completed on the washer side, one must remove last week's laundered clothes from the dryer and ever-so-carefully pile them upon the mountain of clothes from weeks' past that still lingers atop the machine. Then, and only then, can any washer-to-dryer transfer occur. One must be careful during this process not to drop the wet clothes on the dubiously clean tile or knock over the precarious tower of dry clothes. Once the wet clothes have been secured inside the tumbler, and this is the tricky part, the dry clothes must be slid en masse from dryer top to washer top in order to program the cycle and clear the lint trap. What makes this transfer truly life-or-death is that an orphan sock or favorite t-shirt might be inadvertantly knocked into the grit and spiderwebs betwixt the back of the machines and the unfinished brick of the laundry closet. And once that happens, it's gone. Lord only knows what resides in that often-flooded labyrinth of tubes and piping. Laundry's dangerous and stressful work, but somebody has to do it.

A Problem

Tough to say whether this is as devastating an addiction as heroin (or "horse," as the hep-cats call it) but I am currently in possession of 18 books that I have not read. If I was addicted to heroin I'd never worry about having piles of it just sitting around the apartment. Oh, I certainly have been meaning to read these novels, histories, biographies and essays. It's not that they are boring, undigestable or mere status symbols placed upon the shelves in order to intimidate visitors ("Oh, you've read Mason & Dixon?" "Yes, not one of Pynchon's best."). But they just keep piling up. I made a list now, so perhaps this will be the first step in crawling out of this literary grave which I've dug for myself. In High Fidelity, Nick Hornby writes that fetish objects are not unlike porn, but if I had bookshelves stuffed with porn it'd be highly unlikely that they'd go unread.

Oh, The Things I Know

People don't just absorb radiation from television. They also glean valuable information from the ol' plug-in parent. Just one spin through my 82 channels gives a little hint of the type of trivia currently taking up valuable cranial real estate. I just can't understand why I've retained this knowledge. Not only can I identify the theme song of "Night Rider" within two notes and speak assuredly on the three popular medications for erectile dysfunction, but I know the names of every character on "Murphy Brown" (Jim Dial, Murphy Brown, Frank Fontana, Corky Sherwood-Forest, Miles Silverberg). It would seem that other vital information passed down through the ages would take precedence, but no: I can point out Nicole Ritchie in a crowd, but not which berries are the poison berries.

You Want It, Take It

This whole red state/blue state fallacy is reaching what I suppose would be its logical, nonsensical conclusion: sagacious state senator Bob Morton (R-Orient) has decided that the only solution to opposing political ideologies is obviously the Balkanization of Washington state. He has a proposal to split the state down the middle, along the spine of the Cascades. "It's not sour grapes," Morton said. "It's common sense. People who think alike should be united."

When confronted with this type of thinking, I don't even know where to begin. These are people who would make this t-shirt into national policy. Fortunately, the framers of the Constitution gave a little thought to nutballs like Morton (smart guys, those Framers).

Has Morton given any thought to the fact that taxes from the more affluent West disproportionately flow across the mountains (much like how Wyoming gets 7 times the Homeland Security budget per capita than New York). This new state, which I will dub "Scablands," would have about as much political clout as the butt end of Nebraska. What is truly ludicrous about this entire plan is the idea that people should be grouped by geography and ideology. I'm of the opinion that we have a little bit to learn from people who are different from ourselves. Morton's proposals also lose a little of their luster when placed under the rubric of "ideological purity," as we know what that leads to.

Be A Man. Be A Krug-man!

Paul Krugman, New York Times columnist, is a smart guy. I think he teaches at Princeton or some other place where smart people go. Here is what he has to say about Alan Greenspan.

Postcards from Borko

Hello, is me again, is Borko! January and February is very boring for movies for because of Oscar fever. Curse you, Harvey Weinsteins! Editors think is bad if I am bored, maybe try to make own vodka in bathtub again. I just get my sight back last week! So they tell me learn about the baseball game. I go to the ESPN.com to find out many things. Here is what I find out--

Major League Baseball is made of one division called AL East. I think maybe are other teams, but ESPN tell me that nobody care. Maybe is no other good players? Everybody must love Red Sox and Yankees that play every year in what is called World Series. Is very important to know what mediocre right fielder guy think of other guy called A Rod. Baseball is very easy, because only two teams! And they play no games, just talk talk talk and hurt feelings. Is much like American soap opera "Days of Our Lives." Is nice! I am thanking you for to teaching me, ESPN.com!

Seeing Saffron

Jesus, Christo!

I found myself in New York City this weekend, and it turns out there's this thingie called "The Gates" going on there right now. Apparently, these two artsy-fart types named Jeanne-Claude and Christo put up 7,500 identical steel and nylon gates along the paths of Central Park. Who knew? The dominant color scheme is, I'm told, "saffron," and in some lights is close to the orangish color of traffic cones.

I can't speak critically on the artisitc merits of this particular example of installation art in context, but fortunately they pay people to do that very thing. I've read many op-ed jibes about the Christo's latest project, mostly from New Yorkers and following one of two tacks: the money ($21 million) could have been better spent and/or I don't like tourists. Let's approach them separately.

Firstly, the artists spent their own money, so what these people really mean is that they could come up with better ways to spend other people's money. It's kind of like fantasy baseball that way. If I had $21 mil in the bank, I know what I'd spend it on: four words-- solid gold Jet Ski.

Secondly: I'm not a New Yorker, and thus can't manage the righteous indignation neccessary to moan about the indignity of having people from "outside" The City come in and "spend" their money on Manhattan's "businesses" during the "two weeks" that The Gates are up. I personally think The Gates are pretty cool, if for no other reason than for bringing thousands of people together in Central Park for an otherwise unremarkable two-weeks in February.

Know Your Rodents

I have a fondness for maple sap!

This week we present the flying squirrel, a native of northern arboreal forests. Though an accomplished glider, this playful rodent is misnamed. It does not actually "fly," much like "Uncle" Tony isn't really your uncle.

Poet's Corner

In the interest of getting an NEA grant, Expecting Rain will now be devoting a little time every week to the arts. Enjoy!

"Value Meal #2"

Sweet Arby's drive-thru, if you please,
Let’s order up roast beef and cheese,
A dread intestinal disease
On the side!

Did low-blood sugar blur my mind?
I knew fast-food could be unkind.
This time I thought I wouldn’t mind
Something fried!

Roast beef and cheddar, once so good,
Bright years in early childhood,
The crap I ate back when I stood
Four feet high!

The rosy-fingered smile of dawn,
The toilet stall where I’ve withdrawn,
Been here all night, now night is gone.
Why, God, why!?

HotMilitaryStud & the President

When the latest White House press-fixing scandal broke, forcing faux White House correspondant Jeff Gannon (aka James Guckert) to step down, I assumed that it was only because he represented a fake news agency (Talon News, not one of the funny ones). This story, now turning up everywhere from Keith Olberman to The Daily Show to actual news outlets, has taken such a bizarre turn that I don't even know what to think anymore. Can this all be really happening? But let me backtrack for a moment, recommending you (the reader) check out editorials by the excellent Frank Rich and Maureen Dowd (who are actual reporters and thus do a better job than me).

The gist is that for the past two years, the alias-clad Guckert has been admitted into the White House press room and called upon for a softball non-question whenever Scott McClellan gets in hot water. The prez knows this guy and has called on him. But while Guckert/Gannon was appearing as a talking head on political news programs and writing articles like "Kerry Could Become First Gay President," he was also a $200/hr. gay escort on the Internet. If this was written in a novel, it wouldn't be plausible. If Clinton had tried this crap he would have been eaten alive. This was why, when people started scrutinizing who Gannon was, he disappeared. Now it turns out he's embroiled in the Plame affair as well. I always backed off of superlatives before recently, but now there's no escaping it: the Bush administration is the most scheming, corrupt and reckless presidential administration in history (the ghost of Warren Harding breathes a sigh of relief).

(Personally, I think that the term "press-fixing" is a pretty good one. It's a play on "price-fixing." A Google search doesn't reveal any other examples of this, so perhaps I've coined a phrase. Feel free to use it at parties.)

Freudian Slip of the Day

"I am not going to give you a number for it because it's not my business to do intelligent work."

-Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of Defense, testifying before the House Armed Services Committee, most likely meaning "intelligence work."

...And A Nation Shrugged

The NHL season was officially cancelled today, raising the question of what will now become America's fourth sport? Soccer, you say? Don't be daft. NASCAR? Perhaps, if only it was a sport.

All I've got to say is, look out for curling. It's perfect for America because curlers are easily in the worst shape of any Olympic athletes.

Know Your Nats

Some fine day I will explore further the question of "Greatest Baseball Names Ever," currently being digested in the Mookie Wilson comments. Anonymous' suggestion of "Three-Finger" Mordecai Brown is certainly an astute one; may I also put forth Vida Blue and Oil Can Boyd? Much like home run and batting average, one should always consider the era of the player in addition to all-time achievement. But in honor of pitchers and catchers reporting and in the interest of being a local booster, I'd like to introduce one of the better names of today: ladies and gents, presenting Nationals' fourth outfielder, Terrmel Sledge.

Also, when exactly are the Nationals going to get some new photos on their website? Will they go through Spring Training still topped off in their Expos hats?

What's Up, Bitch?

Where my bitches at?

As I'm sure all of you are well aware, Monday was the first day of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, America's second-oldest annual sporting event (the Kentucky Derby being the most elderly). While there are many fine entries this year, my money's on sentimental favorite and media darling, Fame, a six-year-old Great Pyranees who bitch slapped the bitches in the working group yesterday. This would be quite a repeat triumph for the working group, as a Newfoundland was the Best in Show last year. We'll just have to wait until tonight to see whether Fame can best Jeffrey the Pekingnese and Baloo the Tibetan terrier (or will eat them as a light snack after the show).

(Note: female dogs are called "bitches")

Another Installment of Great Baseball Names of the 80's

Haunting Bill Buckner to this day

Today we salute Mookie Wilson, New York Mets outfielder from 1980 to 1989. Wilson, ne William Haywood, is perhaps best remembered for his pivotal Game 6 at-bat in the 1986 World Series. His later years would find him locked in a blood feud with Mookie Blaylock over who was the original Mookie.

Happy Valentine's Day

Excerpted From The Onion:
"Latest Bin Laden Videotape Wishes America a 'Crappy Valentine's Day'"

...Bin Laden did not overlook the innocuous custom of giving stuffed animals as gifts.

"The teddy bear that holds the 'I love you' heart does not love you at all," Bin Laden said. "It is an unliving, unholy thing filled only with stuffing. Just as the Western infidel is not bestowed with the blessings of Allah, so shall he go unloved by the false bear."

America's Newspaper

Here's an interesting article from the Southern Poverty Law Center about everybody's favorite rabidly conservative fish-wrapper, The Washington Times. Not surprisingly, the Times' journalistic ethics leave something to be desired.

The Tragedy of Pluto

Pluto is once again in the news, as the on-going dispute over whether it is truly the ninth planet or merely a largish chunk of the Kuiper Belt rears its ugly head. If humanity cannot agree on how many planets comprise the solar system, is it any wonder that Mideast peace eludes us?

This galactic dispute always makes me think of Pluto, the lonliest of the Disney characters. Pluto is clearly the most tragic figure in the world of cartoons, much more so than the Sisyphean Wile E. Coyote. Pluto draws his definition of self only in relation to a more powerful figure, the titular Mickey Mouse, towering patriarch of the Disney universe. This is known, of course, as the Gumby-Pokey paradigm.

But the cherry on top of Pluto's hot fudge sundae of humiliation is that while he is Mickey's pet dog, owned and beholden to his "master" (antebellum American slavery reference very intended), the Mouse can often be found cavorting with his chum, Goofy, a talking dog. Goofy is clearly a more assimilated hound; while he resembles Pluto in many respects, he also girds himself in pants and a vest (space restraints preclude a closer examination of the question of Goofy's genitalia). By virtue of his verbal accuity and apparently opposable thumbs (how else would he button the vest?), Goofy is allowed to enter into anthropomorphized society along with Minnie, Donald and, in all probability, Tigger, while Pluto remains a muted outcast, a marginalized second banana. Despair.

Know Your Rodents

Rodents are the largest order of mammals in the world, comprising about 40% of the total mammalian species. Anyone who has ever visited New York City has seen this literally. If they (the rodents) ever rule the earth and become our cruel masters, then it'll be important to establish a familiarity with their various incarnations. Expecting Rain is proud to present the premier installment of "Know Your Rodents."


The Tree Shrew (Tupaia tana)

Where Have You Gone, Spike Jonze?

It used to be that if you were an established film actor, you disdained work in commercials. Commercials were even a step below dinner theater. Perhaps it was acceptable if you were an established eminence, a Wilford Brimley or Sam Waterston, for instance. If you were a big shot like a Harrison, Gwyneth or Leo, then maybe you'd go to Japan and shill for a product not likely to be seen in America ("For relaxing times, make it Suntori time"). But it's not just has-beens like David Spade (for Capitol One) slumming it these days for advertisers. Is Brad Pitt's appearance in an otherwise unremarkable Super Bowl Pepsi commercial a sign of things to come? And what is with actors doing the voice-over work, like Julia Roberts for AOL or Jeff Bridges for Duracell? If you guys were hurting for money, you should have come to me.

I believe it's also time to write the epitaph for the "Super Bowl commercial." This doesn't mean that they'll foresake advertising entirely, resulting in an hour of football and then we all get back to our Sundays. That wouldn't be nearly enough time for announcers to impart cosmic significance to a sporting event. Maybe the cache of the prime American advertising slot is gone, but I only remember two commercials from the entire game, and only one was worth discussing afterwards (the one with the white cat and the spaghetti sauce). I hardly remember what it was advertising in the first place. Another American medium goes creatively bankrupt.

Typicalities

So I went to give my 60-day notice at work yesterday, and as I walk into the supervisor's office I'm rehearsing what I'm going to say. I'm not good at quitting jobs, even ones I don't like, so I need to practice. The only time I've done it flawlessly was when I left a Post-It note on my boss's desk announcing my immediate resignation from the bookstore and then left the state. "It's been real and it's been fun," I'll tell my current boss. "But it's time to move on. My last day will be March 31st."

Of course, when the actual conversation happened I slipped up and told her that my last day would be April 31st. Perhaps I was thinking of April 1st, my fleeting first day of freedom. So it would appear I've bought myself an unintentional month here in government-land.

It's Getting Hot In Here

To a hungry squirrel, you're just a big walnut.

One thing you notice this winter in the nation's capital is all the fat squirrels. This morning, a balmy 60 degree February Tuesday, they seemed to be everywhere, looking robust, cocky even, as they dug up acorns from the soft ground. Every warm winter, I always overhear somebody saying, "This global warming ain't half-bad." Sure, you can swim any day in November. But come August, when the sun is baking the earth into clay and it's 114 in the shade, those squirrels will start getting hungry. And god help the poor bastard who runs afoul of their gnashing, yellow fangs.

Bubble Boy

What's that Chinese curse again? Oh, yeah: "May you live in interesting times." Someday historians are really going to have a blast with the eight years of George II. Of course, Bush has his own views on how history will judge him: "History, we don't know. We'll all be dead."

Of course, history abhors a paradox, but we've got plenty to choose from these days. Bush encapsulates two very common traits for powerful leaders and dictators: a willingness to throw weight around and an inability to tolerate any opposing points of view. Strength and weakness. Stalin had his gulags, Saddam his torture rooms, and Bush has his "town meeting." Dan Froomkin has a short but interesting piece today about the town meetings, illuminating both how insecure Bush is with any idea less abstract than freedom and his lack of qualms about using the dwindling tax payer buck to spread his "message."

Bring Back the *

The Pride of Fargo

In 1961, as Roger Maris chased Babe Ruth's sacred home run record, losing his hair from stress under the burdens of history and Mickey Mantle's popularity, I'll be he never thought that someday people would be fighting for the integrity of his record. But that's just what I'm here to do. As anybody who's watched Billy Crystal's 61* knows, the asterisk that was added to cheapen Maris's record (signifying that he set the record in a longer regular season) was removed in 1991, five years after his death.

I say it's time to bring it back. The unlikely avatar of this cause is slugger-turned-punchline, Jose Canseco. Leaked copies of his upcoming book reveal that while with the World Series champion Oakland A's, Canseco injected Mark McGwire and Jason Giambi with steroids. Now, Canseco may not have had the good sense to conceal his own steroid use, and he may be a convicted cokehead, and he may be a perennial blooper reel feature (for that time the ball bounced off his head and over the wall for a homerun), but to my knowledge he hasn't been proven a liar.

Unseemly revelations about baseball all seem to follow the same trajectory, whether it's Canseco, Bill Lee or Jim Bouton. MLB and the "upstanding" players dismiss the authors as has-beens, drum them out of baseball and cover their own asses. Would McGwire be so vigorously tut-tutting at Canseco's book and talking up his exercise regimen if he wasn't eligible for HOF membership next year? The man spent the final years of his career without a discernable neck, for gawdsakes! If he wasn't covering something up, would Tony LaRussa be so obtuse about the steroid abuse going on under his nose in Oakland? Even Jason Giambi, that paragon of clean-living, had his agent, Art Tellem, denounce Canseco. "This book, which attacks baseball and many of its players, was written to make a quick buck by a guy desperate for attention, who has appeared on more police blotters than lineup cards in recent years, has no runs, no hits and is all errors." Though it's quite a pithy little phrase, Tellem is just attacking the messenger to conceal the message. His language even smacks of the White House smear jobs on Paul O'Neill and Richard Clarke after they said what powerful people didn't want the public to hear.

I started this post talking about asterisks, so let me come to the point. If I had my druthers, next year's baseball almanac would feature the following entry for home runs in a single season: Roger Maris, 61*

*This record was passed by Mark McGwire (70), Sammy Sosa (66), and Barry Bonds (73), but as they were all chemically enhanced, and as Maris's chemical enhancement of choice was cigarettes and the occasional beer, they are not the authentic records and are thus stricken.

(Sorry about all the baseball posts, but it is only 11 days until pitchers and catchers!)

Another Installment of Great Baseball Names of the 80's

Sweeeeeeeeeet

Today we salute outfielder Candy Maldonado, owner of one of the truly great baseball names of the 1980s. After rising through the Dodgers system, he spent the prime of his career with San Francisco. Candy's finest year was 1987, when he batted .297, with 20 home runs and 85 RBIs. In 1989, he made it to the World Series only to be swept by a juiced Oakland team in the Battle of the Bay. Candy finally became a champion in 1992, making several crucial contributions to the Blue Jays victory over Atlanta in six games. Though he spent the final years of his career shuttling around the AL East and Central and finished with a .254 average, the glory of his name continues to shine.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Every once in a while, a movie comes along so bereft of original thought that you're sure you've seen it before. Is this you wonder, just a re-release in the mode of By The Book being rebranded as Renaissance Man? Or some Frankenstein's monster constructed of choice elements from previous films (and starring Tara Reid)?

Such a film is The Wedding Date, starring Deborah Messing and Dermot Mulroney (alarm bells are ringing). From the trailers I feel as though I can already see the entire film unspooling before my eyes, right up to the tearful reunion on a trans-Atlantic flight. It's about time to come up with cinematic shorthand for this type of romantic comedy, allowing us to manuever through the permutations of boy-gets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-gets-girl-back in roughly fifteen minutes or so. Let's face it, we've got places to go and people to see.

Race Cards

Ah, Republicans, so sensitive to the plight of minorities. They care so much about the basic racial and social inequalities in America that any objection to a candidate for office must be because of that insidious racism they've heard so much about. Seems they're up in arms over those pesky Democrats, always with the race baiting and slandering. Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah, whose state's most multi-cultural institution is the Jazz, not only declared that "I love the Hispanic people" during the Gonzales Senate confirmation hearings. He also warned that Hispanic Americans were "sensing there's something unfair going on."

The only reasons that the future-AG's race has been raised are to praise his Horatio Alger-esque rise to power and distract from his tendency to weasal out of any laws Bush deems inconvenient. Bush's tendency is to promote incompetents to head departments that he'd like to make irrelevant. Thus an education secretary more concerned with animated bunnies than teaching. Perhaps the justice department has now become irrelevant.

Damaged Goods

Come to the Dominican Republic!

It looks as though the first major personnel move of the post-BALCO era has been completed, with Sammy Sosa departing the friendly confines of Wrigley for Camden Yards and the Cubbies picking up $12 million of the total $17 million for this season. I realize that this is not truly a signing of a player wrapped up with steroids and scandal (allegedly), but it is the first deal since the new steroid rulings let MLB quote Casablanca ("I'm shocked! Shocked to find gambling in this establishment!"). Though five million worth of salary seems a drop in the bucket for a guy who hit more homeruns than any Oriole last year, the Birds are paying a high price in talent (Jerry Hairston, Jr, most of all). It remains to be seen what Giambi, Bonds, Sheffield and the rest of the BALCO gang will do this season and what future contracts will be tendered to the next 180-lb. batsmen who is suddenly parking 50 balls a year. This move by Baltimore raises the question: is baseball once bitten, twice shy? Or, like the disparity in the ways Giambi and Sheffield are treated by the New York press, does forty home runs a year heal all wounds. (Goddamn, I'm starting to sound all Carrie Bradshaw-ish. This has gotta stop.)

I've Got You, Babe

Who do you trust?

Coincidentally, the State of Union Address and Groundhog's Day fall on the same date this year. This creates an interesting juxtaposition between a squirrel that predicts the weather and a squirrely little man who predicts freedom, liberty and personal savings accounts. Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning (though there is some dispute), thus we can expect six more weeks of winter. So it goes. I predict W. will gloat a little, pull out his new favorite buzz words "freedom" and "liberty" (wither "mushroom cloud"?) and say everything's rosy. When it comes to accuracy of predictions, I'm going with the rodent. (In a related note, Dick Cheney does not cast a shadow).

At his press conference Sunday night, Bushie-Bush could hardly contain the smirk that kept creeping to his lips when he talked up the Iraqi election. The CW seems to be that because Iraqis voted, conservatives are vindicated about their war and us liberal types can start filling out our Canadian citizenship requests. I wish that a vote (to elect an assembly to write a constitution to set forth a governmental structure that will be voted on again some time in the future) was all it took to create a functioning democracy. It's a step in the right direction. Still, floggers of the GOP line arrogantly think that liberals wanted to see this vote fail; in fact we are in favor of voting (I'd like to see more people able to vote in Florida, Toledo and Milwaukee, for instance). But, like Fareed Zakaria (the Indian Willem Dafoe) said on the Daily Show last night, it's not that we object to the idea itself, only the methodology ($200 billion, 1,300 soldiers KIA, 100,000 Iraqis dead, etc).