Back in the Big Easy, Pt. 2

It’s wonderful when conference planners choose a beautiful city like New Orleans as the place to hold their conference. There's all kinds of amazing stuff here! It’s beautiful! The food is fantastic! And they need our dollars! So let’s keep you shacked up ALL DAY inside the goddamn CONVENTION CENTER which seems to SMELL LIKE PEE no matter WHERE YOU ARE and only CERTAIN PLACES get air conditioning and your place is NOT ONE OF THEM!

I don’t mind meetings like this so much if I’m a participant, moving from room to room and listening in on panels and whatnot. It’s infinitely harder to be an exhibitor. Standing in a booth trying to get the attention of passerby is not something I do well when I’m sober. I learned I am a master at it when I’m drunk and throwing beads from a balcony, but we’ll get to that.

I was in New Orleans for a meeting of the National Conference of State Legislatures (NCSL), where hundreds of elected state officials from across the country convene to talk about best practices, good governance, and fiscal responsibility, all while being wined and dined at the expense of organizations like mine. As I mentioned, we had a booth, one of hundreds, in the massive exhibit hall. There are many different methods of getting the legislators' attention as they walk through. For example, the Beer Institute gives away samples of – you guessed it - urinal cakes. Ha. In actuality they set up a beer tasting each day of the convention. They were much more popular than the International Bottled Water Association. Larger organizations with key issues, such as PayPal, set up massive booths that look like something from the Jetsons, with crazy multimedia presentations on huge flat-panel TVs. Other groups with issues that are, let's face it, extremely dull, such as the American Dental Hygienists Association, add spark to their booth with truly exciting giveaways such as stress balls shaped like teeth. Wow! Other groups simply hire attractive young women to staff the booth, a crude maneuver but one that never fails to work on your average aging state legislator.

The truly smart groups, however, such as both NRAs, use a combination of all of these techniques. The National Rifle Association had three HOT young blonde women giving out hats, t-shirts, and backpacks. I tried to engage them in conversation about the recent overturning of the DC handgun ban, but it was a bit like talking to the Mona Lisa – a blank stare and a vapid smile. The other NRA, the National Restaurant Association, hired chefs to work their booth, a brilliant strategy given the unbelievably horrible convention center food. You’d think of all places New Orleans could get convention center food right, but when you find yourself thinking that the best option is the Starbucks across the street, you know you’ve hit rock bottom.

After working my booth from 9-4 on Wednesday, I was happy when it was time to adjourn to the conference’s networking event at the Superdome. Last year, NCSL was held in Boston, and we were given access to pretty much everything in Fenway Park – the locker room, dugout, press boxes, even the underground batting cages. The only place we couldn’t go was on the field. I thought we’d get this same level of freedom at the Superdome. Imagine my chagrin when, ironically, the only place we were allowed was…the field. No locker room, no press box, not even the stands. Just the turf. I’ll grant you that being on the field in any major sports facility makes me go a big wet one, but we were really hoping to see not only where hundreds suffered and several died during Katrina, but also where Drew Brees puts on his jockstrap. Interesting footnote, four days after our event, the Arena Bowl was held at the Superdome. Two teams played and one of them won. Since Arena Football reminds me watching my five year-old’s soccer team (Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal!) I don’t really follow it.

After the Superdome I was invited to an event held by the National Beer Wholesalers Association (whose booth was, ironically, not too far from Mothers Against Drunk Driving, which was almost as funny as the Ringling Brothers' booth being close to the Humane Society’s, who were only there to protest Ringling Brothers). If there’s anyone who knows how to throw a party, it’s Beer Wholesalers. The event was held at a prime location on Bourbon Street with a huge balcony, replete with hundreds of strings of beads to throw, and, most importantly, all the free booze you could drink. An open bar on Bourbon Street is like a sundae station at a Weight Watchers meeting; it’s a miscalculation of almost dangerous proportions. Fortunately, the attending business professionals, association executives, and legislators were able to imbibe and socialize in an orderly fashion, ladies and gentlemen all, and a quiet evening of cards, baccarat, and good conversation was enjoyed by the attendees. Or, everyone got Preakness infield drunk and the affair rapidly degenerated to the maturity level of a fraternity party, only with more alcohol. I was not immune to the debauchery; in fact I'm told at one point I played a washboard with the house band, though I have no memory of it.

The main sport of the evening was, of course, hurling beads and the crowd below. I saw one legislator throw his beads at an attractive young woman, when an older bearded guy reached over her and snatched them out of midair. This politician, elected by the good people of his district and sworn to uphold the laws and regulations of his state so help him God, then dumped a FULL cup of beer (an official Beer Wholesalers cup, in fact) on the guy’s head, and yelled “GIVE THE CHICK THE BEADS YOU FUCKING DOUCHEBAG!”

I had another conversation with a politician who has helped my organization in the past, to the point where we’re throwing him a fundraiser in his home state next week. This is a stunningly stereotypical politician – fat, rich, drunk, and smoking a big cigar. About ten minutes into our very one-sided conversation (my side was “uh-huh….yup….exactly…uh-huh…) he started in on his belief that marriage is “one man one woman” and it’s up to groups like mine to try to promote Christian lifestyles. My immediate thought was, lifestyles like the one you’re living now, urging young women to show you their tits for a twenty cent string of beads made in China by a kid making a buck a week? My next thought is, who the hell does he think I work for? He either forgot who I am, never knew who I was, or he thinks that the medical specialty organization I work for gets a lot more intrusive than simply cutting you open during surgery. It all became a moot point when he spilled a hurricane on a colleague of mine and stumbled away mumbling incoherently.

On Friday morning, the NCSL held their annual “Walk for Wellness,” a 5K (3.1 mile) walk/fun run that aims to raise awareness of something and promote a healthy something else. It’s a great cause. I had been excited about this year’s race as I’ve been running a lot more in the past year, which isn’t hard given that, prior to that, I never ran at all. Unfortunately, even at 6:30 a.m., it was 85 degrees and humid. As if that wasn’t enough, there had been a massive oil spill (or “awl speel,” as they call it on the bayou) on the Mississippi river two days before, and the stench was absolutely overwhelming. Regardless, I had a good race, very nearly keeping pace with the 12 or 13 year-old kid who was in front of me the whole damn time. The frustrating thing about running is not my inability to win races – I’m never going to be fast and that’s fine. It’s that I get beat by people who I could clearly pound the holy living fuck out of. You are not my physical superiors, dammit, you’re just faster. Get me my gun (which you can do now in DC) and I don’t care how fast you can run, pipsqueak.

Anyway, I came in sixth, which will easily be the highest I ever rank in anything. There were two reasons for this:

1) It helped that of the 80 or so participants, roughly 60 of them walked. Slowly.

2) It did not help that this little blonde girl blew by me at the very end, ruining my potential top five finish. I asked her how long she’d been waiting to pass me. “2.9 miles,” she said. Again, I need my gun. I’ll have to have a longer talk with the hot blonde girls at the NRA booth.

So that was New Orleans. As a footnote, I’ll add that as I was flying out of MSY, I heard the following coming from the gate across from mine:

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’re wondering why we haven’t started boarding the aircraft…our technicians have told us that the two aft lavatories are malfunctioning. It’s up to the pilot whether or not we can go, so we’re awaiting his word.”

Later:

"Ladies and gentleman our technicians have deplaned and were unable to fix the problems with the two aft lavs. I’m working with the pilot to get this resolved and I’ll let you know if we’re going to Philadelphia in just few minutes."

Obvious grumbling. Some cursing. One vow to “pee in the sink.” Finally:

“Ladies and gentleman, I’ve convinced the captain to let us go to Philadelphia. I’m looking out for number one, so to speak. What I need you to do, before I begin the boarding of this aircraft, is to GO TO THE BATHROOM. Now. You’ve got a long flight to Philly and your options are...well, you’ve got no options. Please take a few minutes and go to the restroom, and you might want to think about skipping the coffee or soda or iced tea on your in-flight service, maybe just have those pretzels.”

Back in the Big Easy Pt 1

The allusion has been made many times by blues musicians, but New Orleans is like a hot woman that’s way out of your league but for some reason keeps sleeping with you anyway. The blues guys say this much more skillfully than I - blues musicians can say things like “squeeze my lemon ‘til the juice runs down my leg” and make it sound saucy instead of ridiculous. The first time out, you’re just amazed you’re there. You don’t want to make any big mistakes or fuck it up (so to speak) so you take it easy and don’t go to crazy. Second time you figure you’ve got more leeway, so you go a little harder. Leaving the woman metaphor for a minute and returning to the Big Easy, you drink a little more, stay out a little later, and maybe even throw a couple of stings of beads off a balcony. Third time out (and each subsequent visit) you’re in a comfort zone. You’ve done the touristy stuff (hopefully we’re really away from the woman metaphor now) and you’re settled in, relaxed, and able to go at your own pace and enjoy the beauty and splendor of one of the finest places on earth (okay, maybe we are still with that metaphor).

I’m currently in New Orleans for the sixth time in my life, the fourth trip this year alone. I’ll be back one more time – maybe even twice – before the year is out. I am not guilty of hyperbole when I say I could probably pass for a native at this point. I know which streets go where, where the good, out-of-the-way restaurants are, and where the best music can be found. I can also tell you where to get your bike fixed. Where to buy three pounds of the best crawfish in the city. Where you should go running.

Bottom line, lost in all the post-Katrina hooplah is the fact that this is still one of the most fun cities in the world, Bourbon Street notwithstanding. Which isn’t to say that Bourbon isn’t good for a larf. My room here at the Hotel Monteleone is just a block away, on Royal Street. But there’s so much more to this city than boozing. Take this hotel, for example. I had a roster of hotels where I could have stayed, some closer to the convention center (where I’ll be spending most of my time over the next three days), and some nicer (I once stayed at the Ritz at the same time as the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I don’t know a lot of guys on that team by sight, but you could pretty much tell who was on the team and who wasn’t. If the dude was 6’6” and 350 pounds, odds are good he was on the team. Or just a local named Tiny who likes his alligator tail and bread pudding.) Instead, I chose the hotel that was haunted. Not just one of those “they say there’s occasionally a strange presence in room 237” type of haunted, but a flat-out, there-are-ghosts-everywhere-in-the-place haunted. No way I was gonna turn that down. So far I’ve been ghost free, though for some reason my room has five smoke detectors, all with spooky little green blinking lights. Perhaps the ghosts frequent this establishment because of all buildings in the French Quarter it’s the least likely to burn down.

They may be frightened away by my odor this evening though – I went to K-Paul’s restaurant tonight, third time I’ve eaten there. K-Paul’s is owned by Paul Prudhomme, a chef so astoundingly fat he is no longer able to stand up under his own power, instead wheeling around on one of those electric scooters you see advertised on daytime shows like the Price is Right. I’m in danger of catching Paul on the scale after just one meal – frog legs, onion rings, gumbo, jambalaya, a chicken leg stuffed with (really) a chicken breast, and bread pudding. And here I have ambition to run tomorrow. We’ll see how that goes. Tomorrow, a tour of the Superdome, a place of death, sorrow, and disappointment. And that’s just the Saints.

The Williamsburg Coniglium

We spent this past weekend in colonial Williamsburg, Virginia enjoying the beautiful history and splendor of the area, and getting in touch with our country’s roots. For example, we spent almost a full day at the historic Water Country, USA, plunging down the same chutes and slides enjoyed by George Washington in the 18th century. We spent the next day at the very same go-kart track where Thomas Jefferson would drive his beloved #23 car for hours on end back in the mid-1770s. To spend such quality time embedded so fully in our nation’s history is nothing short of breathtaking.

The fact is, you could spend weeks in Williamsburg and come across nothing of historical significance. Sure, they try to force it on you - there are fife and drum players everywhere, most places (including Chinese restaurants) will sell you a tri-corner hat (which my son the superJew refers to as Hamen hats), and there are markers everywhere with years on them, some dating back to 1619, when a young John McCain visited the colony. But the fact is it’s more theme park than history lesson. Which was fine with my kids who have not yet developed any sense of time - if it hasn’t happened in their lifetime, it just hasn’t happened. For example, my son is insistent that there will be more Star Wars movies because they’ve had six since he was born, so clearly they’re on a roll.

I will say this for the place; amidst the history, the buildings dating back to 1699, the Revolutionary War sites, even the rampant evidence of the destruction of Native Americans, there is one thing that overcomes all of them, one thing that rises above all else to become the one thing you take away from Williamsburg when you leave - pancakes. There are probably 100 different places to get pancakes in a two mile radius of Williamsburg. No one could tell me why. I’m assuming because everything you do there requires physical activity, whether it’s going to the water park, Busch Gardens, or eating large piles of pancakes. It could also be that the College of William and Mary is smack in the middle of town and all of their students are stoned. (Most restaurants seem to have really old autographed pictures of W&M's most famous alum, Jon Stewart. One pancake house had an autographed picture that was signed “Dear Mario, Are you Jewish? Jon Stewart.”) Each pancake house seems to have a hundred ways to serve pancakes, the best of which was something called “pigs in a blanket,” massive sausage links wrapped in buttermilk pancakes. While not nearly the gastronomic orgasm that is Eggspectations’ construction pancake (“A layered high rise of pancakes, sausage, bacon and grilled potatoes”) it’s still more food than any human should eat in one sitting. And meal at which I can just pour syrup all over everything on my plate is a good meal.

Two highlights stand out for me on the weekend, both involving my son. He is timid kid by nature which is to say that everything everywhere with the possible exception of bunnies scares the hell out of him. (Fortunately, for some reason, there were bunnies all over Williamsburg. Geese too.) I was leery to get him on a water slide of any size, as he’s scared of heights and more specifically falling from them. And the dark. Fortunately not water, so that’s how I talked him up the very tall ladder and into our little raft, in which we plunged almost 400 miles an hour into a pitch-black tunnel which looped and rolled and seemed to go forever, before finally emerging through a very heavy waterfall into a large pool, which we went skimming across with the grace of a birdshot mallard before tipping over and going underwater. Fortunately Jake was wearing a life vest, so he popped up laughing and asking if he could go again.

At the go kart track, he was eager to go on the kiddie roller coaster, primarily because it was the only thing that was built for kids his age. They had several rides that were built for infants, and many more rides that were built for adults, but the kindergarten set seemed to have been passed by save for a tiny roller coaster called the Python Pit. I witnessed not one but two kids who appeared to have been at least second graders ask to be let off the Python Pit because of its severe intensity. Jake, on the other hand, loved every minute of it, screaming to go faster. (I taught him to say “damn carnies” for the occasion, but being a gentleman he refused to say it in front of his mother.) Unfortunately for Jake, his sister is even more ballsy than he is and ended up riding the Python Pit about five times, much to the chagrin of her father’s body which took a freakin’ beating from the tightness of the safety bar and the g-force pushing him up against the very unpadded side of the car.

So if pancakes and children’s roller coasters are your bag, I suggest Williamsburg. Apparently there’s history there too, but damn if you can find it.

That's Some Bullshit

I was on a Southwest Airlines flight a couple of weeks back and they gave me a bag of peanuts. On the back of the bag were these words and these words only:

CONTAINS: Peanuts, Salt

WARNING: Processed in a facility that processes peanuts

Then there's this.

Happy Memorial Day

Nothing says Memorial Day like thousands of bikers...

...and babies drinking Jack Daniels.

Mike Franzione Gets Married

Remember the show Silver Spoons? Remember, Mikey Franzione, the kid that lived across the street from Ricky Shroeder? Of course you do – little overweight kid who’d come panting into Ricky’s house with big news and deliver that timeless catchphrase “You’re not gonna BELIEVE this!” And the crowd would just erupt with laughter because they just knew that line was coming? No? Think hard now. That's him, on the left. Ringing a bell yet? No? Then you must not be drunk on Bourbon Street.

Let me back up.

I’ve known Josh for twelve years. When I met him, I liked him because he was fat and poor and therefore made me look good by comparison. Sadly (for me, anyway), he has shed his extra pounds (through both rigorous exercise and shaving his back) and become a lawyer (in fact chief council at a major DC lobbying firm). He has also gotten digits from a stripper and been hit on in a crowded pool hall by a hot woman who, for whatever reason, was there by herself. These are all accomplishments that have thus far eluded me. Yet despite his apparent superiority (and my hatred of superior people) we remain friends, mostly because we have criminally immature senses of humor and the social graces of a drunken orangutan. Both of these came in handy at his bachelor party, for which we travelled to the Big Easy.

I’ve been to post-Katrina N’awlins quite a few times but only for business. I was pleased that because the shackles of the business world were thrown off, I could drink heavily, eat expensive meals, ogle woman like I was Bill Clinton, and throw money at strippers like you’d throw bread to starving ducks. Come to think of it, it would be exactly the same as my business meetings. The only major difference was instead of staying at a company-bought hotel in the French Quarter, we would be staying in a large mini-mansion in the Garden District. The mini-mansion turned out to be purple. And there were dozens of small handwritten notes from the owner pasted in various locations, warning us about flushing only toilet paper and not using certain balconies. Since we found no signs about having naked women dance in the living room or leaving massive piles of crawfish pieces all over the backyard, we weren’t too concerned.

There was far too much comedy to recount in one blog entry, so I shall present the highlights. However, we must begin with the story of Mikey Franzione, or else, to paraphrase Dickens, nothing that follows shall seem wondrous.

1) Mikey Franzione

Josh spent his youth trying to make it big in Hollywood, finally landing the coveted role of Mikey Franzione. He played the role for two years, until Alfonso Ribiero took over the role of Ricky’s best friend. Franzione had a catchphrase, a unique style of dress that was copied by pre-teens all over the country, and a very popular haircut. Unfortunately, after leaving the show, his had trouble finding work as an actor, so he finished high school and went on to become a lawyer.

Now reread the last paragraph with the understanding that only the last twelve words are true. The rest is crap. The picture is from Josh’s bar mitzvah. But damn if we didn’t tell that story to nearly every attractive woman we met on Bourbon Street, as well as some very unattractive ones. I would say that 95 percent of the people we told this story to claimed to remember Mike Franzione and his catchphrase (which we made Josh repeat ad nauseum). In a stroke of pure genius, one of Josh’s friends printed copies of the atrocious bar mitzvah picture on card stock and handed them out to people to help jog their memories of this character that didn’t exist. Most didn’t even need it. “Oh YEAH!” they’d yell. “I REMEMBER that kid!” There were a hundred hilarious moments that developed out of our ruse, including:

• Asking any restaurant or bar that had pictures on their walls (and some that didn’t) to add one of Josh. Most happily accepted. With those that didn’t, we just put one up anyway. For example, here is Josh on the wall of Pascal’s Manale, right below Bonnie Raitt:

I would imagine that if you were to hit Bourbon Street right now, at least half the bars would have a picture of Josh somewhere. I’m headed back in July, and I’ll report back.

• Several people asked Josh to sign the pictures, and some were not joking. Josh happily accepted with an “aw shucks, I’m just a regular guy” humility, writing “All my love” on each photo.


• We ended up giving a photo to a tall tattooed gentleman who was in a band that, he claimed “was opening for David Allen Coe’s nephew.” He said it with the same reverence that a musician in mid-1992 would say they were opening for Nirvana. After his girlfriend showed us her recently pierced nipples (yay Bourbon Street!) he began asking Josh about his agent. Fortunately, Josh’s friend Carlos stepped up and claimed to be said agent. Musician guy immediately asks for phone numbers and claims he can get us VIP treatment at one of the lesser strip clubs. Apparently it didn’t occur to musician guy to ask why, if Carlos was such a good agent, Josh hadn’t had any work since 1984. I get the feeling that opening for David Allen Coe’s nephew doesn’t get you a lot of exposure. (And for the record, we did get VIP treatment at the strip club, if only because we made up 80 percent of the crowd the moment we walked in. As one of Josh’s brothers observed, the women dancing in this place would be on the Sunday 10 a.m. to noon shift at any other establishment.)

2) Shooting
Friday night at about 12:30 a.m. we wandered into a club that had a live blues band downstairs and a DJ upstairs. After being there a few minutes, Josh and some other folks wandered out onto the balcony, a beautiful view of the sea of humanity that is Bourbon Street on a Friday night. Then gunshots rang out. As Josh told it, the crowd below parted like the red sea, and the people on the balcony ran back inside. Immediately rumors started circulating, the most common being that a young woman was shot in the head and that right there, see that stuff? That stuff was her brains. No, really, gray matter. You can tell from up here. And look at the blood. Gross, huh?

The area was promptly cordoned off and a fire truck came, but the amazing thing is life just kinda went on on Bourbon Street. People found their way around the roped off block, found another bar and more booze, and the music continued. The resolve of the true partier is amazing – it’ll take more than just a girl caught in the crossfire to ruin their good time. Turns out she was only shot in the leg and ended up fine, but it did provide a story. Probably not as good as the story she’ll be telling in HER blog, but still.

3) Food
Josh is a true epicurean and I suspect that half the reason he chose New Orleans as a location for his bachelor party was that, beyond drinking and carousing, there is nothing to do but eat. Which is what we did. We at K Paul's on Friday night and Pascal's Manale on Saturday night. Massively over sized portions of good Cajun food. However, the highlight may be on Saturday afternoon, when after consuming massive amounts of hangover-curing food at a Garden District diner, we ducked into a small fish market and bought several pounds of boiled crawfish and andouille sausage. By the time we were done, the back deck of our mansion looked like the beach at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan if Spielberg had opted for crustaceans instead of human actors. There was crawfish shrapnel everywhere.

4) The Hour-Long Hora
At some point during the weekend, Josh revealed his plans to do an hour-long hora at his wedding. (The hora is a traditional Jewish dance in which the wedding guests dance in circles while lifting family members up in a chair.) This was agreed upon ages ago by his fiancee and him, and was ironclad and unbreakable. Josh's brother Mitch, the best man, spent the better part of the weekend trying to put a stop to this. Bad enough we had to were tuxedos, Mitch told his brother, but to make us lift you up and down in a chair for an hour...well that's just torture. Mitch began an email dialogue with his future sister-in-law, and pleaded to anyone who would listen about the insanity of this request.

But we knew Josh. We knew that if Josh's fiancee told him that he was to come down the aisle wearing a leopard-print loincloth and riding on a wild boar, he would ask if he was allowed to wear synthetic leopardskin or if he needed to book passage to Africa to hunt down a real one. Thus, this one-hour hora was happening no matter how much protestation was to go on. But that didn't stop us, the future wedding guests, from trying. Every time something of difficulty arose, it was met with "at least it's not an hour-long hora." When one of us dropped out of a Hold 'Em tournament early, he was met with "you lasted about an tenth as long as Josh's hora." As we waited for strippers to arrive, we asked if we should get a chair so Josh could lift them up and down for an hour. Josh became increasingly agitated as the weekend went on, which made it all the more funny. At one point, he "threatened" to walk out of a diner at which he had just ordered an omelet with chili on top and a milkshake. Unfortunately, he came back.

5) Strippers
The beauty of the successful bachelor party is that, no matter where you choose to have it, no matter who you choose to invite, no matter how classy you pretend to make it, there will always be one constant. At some point at least one, and usually more than one, woman will get naked in exchange for money. Without that, you just don’t have a bachelor party.

Surprisingly, given the post-Katrina economy, strippers were hard to come by. We ended up getting two women, one of whom claimed to be 29. If you know anything about strippers, you know their ages are distorted in proportion to how old they actually are. It’s a complex mathematical formula, but by way of example, if she says she 29, she’s 36. If she says she's 18, she’s 54. It’s complicated. We perused dozens of websites and called dozens of phone numbers, looking for just the right ladies. Most of the ladies we called had names like "Princess" or "Diamond." I'm always amused when strippers name themselves after inanimate objects like Diamond or Platinum; essentially you're telling me that you look expensive but in truth are going to lie there and not do much. A stripper calling herself "Gyrating Whore" would get a lot of business. One of our strippers was named "Judi," a name that I felt was better suited to a librarian or flight attendant.

We decided to have our entertainment perform on what was left of our pictures of Josh, so we scattered them on the floor:

The image of two strippers gyrating all over pictures of a young Mikey Franzione is the stuff of True Hollywood Story. Luckily the strippers asked that towels be laid on the floor; otherwise Josh’s attempt at a comeback may have been thwarted.

Here’s the other funny thing about bachelor parties (or at least the ones I’ve been to): men, despite all their bravado and boisterousness and bragging and testosterone, usually go a big wet one in front of two strange naked women. The 14 gentleman attending Josh’s bachelor party, who up until then had been howling-at-the-moon wild, sat and stared as if they were watching a Truffaut film. All except Josh, who was very busy being alternately mauled, tortured, and abused by the ladies. For me to do what they did to Josh would require much more money than what we gave them. I almost felt bad. They may have given him a discount, however, as he is a former child star.

News From the Brook

When will the good people of West Brookfield address the obvious nepotism of the Nadon family? More importantly, when will they once again have pigs on their farm so my kids can see them? Get it together, West Brookfield. The town is falling apart.

WEST BROOKFIELD— Town Water Commissioner Barry J. Nadon Sr. has sued the town and the Board of Selectmen to recoup his legal costs and possible other damages in defending himself last year against charges by the state. The town contends the suit, which does not specify an amount of money sought, is without merit and has requested its dismissal. The state Inspector General’s office last year accused Water Superintendent Ronald J. Marchessault of Wickaboag Valley Road of allowing Mr. Nadon and fellow Water Commissioner Lester J. Paquette Sr. to be in charge of local drinking water in non-emergency situations.

The state Board of Certification of Operators of Drinking Water Facilities said that action violated board regulations, because the two commissioners were not licensed for such activity. Mr. Marchessault agreed to a $2,000 civil penalty and a year’s probation. Mr. Nadon and Mr. Paquette were each assessed a $250 penalty.

Barry J. Nadon Sr. is the father of Selectman Barry J. Nadon Jr.

Your Tax Dollars At Work

And now we present a new feature called Your Tax Dollars At Work. I know it's an obvious title, but if we called it Your Elected Officials Are Fucking Useless we'd probably end up on some sort of government watch list. We'll start the feature with a number of interesting tidbits from Congress over the last few months.

1) The Congressional Record from Tuesday, March 18, lists the Senate action for the entire day as: "Senate convened at 12:00:02 p.m. and recessed at 12:00:33 p.m., until 11 a.m. on Friday, March 21, 2008."

You read that right. According to the official record of the Senate, they were in session for less than one second. Senators showed up so there would be a quorum, someone was chosen to be President Pro Tempore, someone picked up a gavel, and the whole thing was done in three-tenths of a second. Imagine if everyone could have that kind of schedule. Drive all the way to the office, head upstairs, find your boss, and say "heyit'sgoodtoseeyouhopethingsarewellanywaytimetoclockoutI'llseeyoutomorrowbye." Come to think of it, that's about what I do now.

2) From January 22 to March 14, there have been only 85 roll call votes in the Senate. Only 85 times in two months when they felt the need to actually take action on something. Of these 85, a few are completely incomprehensible:

Upon Reconsideration Specter Amdt. No. 4189; To repeal section 13203 of the Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act of 1993 by restoring the Alternative Minimum Tax rates that had been in effect prior thereto.

And a few are just effin' silly: "Allard Amdt. No. 4246; To raise taxes by $1.4 trillion for the purpose of fully funding 111 new or expanded federal spending programs."

Even more amazing, more than half of those 85 votes occurred on March 13 alone, when the Senate began voting on the FY 2009 budget resolution. There's only one thing Congress absolutely has to do in an election year (or any year), and that's figure out how to spend the people's money. That whips them into shape in a hurry. Even Clinton and Obama took a break from traversing the country to vote on March 13. Not McCain, though. It would be hard to rail on incessantly about the spending habits of the Federal Government if you actually had a recorded vote on the subject.

3) Bear with me on this one, it'll take you a minute. First, read this. It's just the one page, and trust me, it's worth your while. These are the words of Congressman Rob Bishop of Utah who, I can only hope, was speaking off the cuff, because if he actually took the time to put pen to paper and create this long, rambling, incomprehensible diatribe against who-knows-what, the people of Utah should demand a recall. It reads like an 11th grader's history report that was cobbled together at 6:25 a.m. after a long night of sucking whipped cream cans and watching Superbad.

The Constitution is not a living organism. It is a legal document. It says some things and doesn’t say other things. The Constitution is a piece of paper that has words, but each of those words have a meaning.

Let me see if I've got this straight. The Constitution is not, in fact, alive. That's just a figure of speech. Okay, I'm with you. It says some things. Now that's true, there's words all over it, I've seen them. I just don't understand most of them. But, according to Rep. Bishop, it doesn't say other things, for example "All male Americans shall have the right to pharmaceutical help if they can't get their dick hard. We'll even come up with a fictional disease to make men who can't get it up feel better."

And each of those words have a meaning. I kind of disagree with that, actually. For example, Article III, Section 3, says this: "The Congress shall have power to declare the punishment of treason, but no attainder of treason shall work corruption of blood, or forfeiture except during the life of the person attainted." I suppose, technically, each of those words does have a meaning, but they become gibberish when they are strung together, like a Miss America contestant's speech.

Then Bishop goes into something about Fawlty Towers (it was good that the editors of the Congressional Record knew how to spell "Cleese," unlike the Worcester Telegram and Gazette), which leads into something about George Burns, which leads into the fact that kids these days don't know how to make blonde jokes. For a supposedly serious discussion of the Constitution, the non sequiters are pretty overwhelming. It's like watching Mystery Science Theater. My favorite quote, however, is when Bishop says:

When (Lincoln) gave the Gettysburg Address, he talked about an indivisible Nation that started four score and seven years ago. That was a reference back to 1776 and the Declaration of Independence. To be accurate, he should have said three score and 15 years ago was when we became an individual nation, because that was the ratification of the Constitution of the United States.

It appears that Bishop is attempting to either A) make Lincoln sound stupid, or B) make himself sound smart. Hey, I can add better than Lincoln! I should be President! I can find fault with one of the greatest speeches in the English language! Love MEEEEEEE!!!!

4) Proof of the separation of church and state: the phrase "God bless" has been said by a Member of Congress on the House or Senate floor 446 times in less than a year. Let's delve into this a little further:

4a) Sometimes when Members of Congress get bored, they give shout-outs to friends and loved ones while giving speeches on the floor. I assume that they call the person and tell them to watch, much like when you're sitting behind home plate at a baseball game. "Hey dude, I'm totally on C-SPAN right now! Turn it on! Tape it man!"

So it was that Rep. Steve Pearce used his time on the House floor to wish a happy anniversary to his wife. Keeping with the separation of church and state theme, Pearce said

We have been richly blessed with health, home and happiness. We have freedom, good mental acuity, spiritual fulfillment and peace that flows through our lives. Our abiding joy in our Father, the Creator, our pleasure in our grandchildren, our sense of pride in our daughter, and our sense of love and respect for our son-in-law, all are deep wellsprings of cool water that refresh our lives and renew us daily.

Sounds like Pearce has been taking writing lessons from Rob Bishop. Don't be too sure about that mental acuity, Congressman. He should have added "Oh, and honey, if you think of it, stop at CVS on the way home and get me wart remover and some Gold Bond powder."

I also like that he has a "sense of pride" in his daughter, and a sense of "love and respect" for his son-in-law. I understand you don't want to be repetetive in your speechwriting, but the implication is that he A) Doesn't love his daughter, and B) isn't proud of his son-in-law. Although if you're being technical you could argue he doesn't love or feel pride for either of them, merely the "sense of love," and the "sense of pride." Personally, I love my son. I feel a "sense of love" for my dog. I'm proud of my daughter. I feel a "sense of pride" when she makes it a whole night without urinating in her bed.

4b) One final point on this theme. Read Congressman Paul Broun's speech about why separation of church and state is bad for America and, apparently, washing machines. It starts in the middle of this page and continues on this page. Four things about this speech struck me funny. The first was his admission of "several broken marriages." That's funny; the biography on his website only lists one marriage, apparently thusfar unbroken: "Dr. Broun has been married to his wife Niki since 1985 and has two grown daughters, a teen-aged son and two grandchildren." I guess in the interest of space he opted to leave the first two or three marriages out.

The second thing I love is this section detailing how he found religion:

I was watching a professional football game, and as the cameras panned the crowd, there was a banner hanging over a railing up in the stands. And the big banner was there. The gentleman had this big rainbowtype of hair wig on, and the banner said John 3:16. At that time, it piqued my interest.

That's right; he found religion from seeing a guy in a rainbow wig at a football game on TV. Compared to that, the Jehovah's Witnesses that come to my house look like Tibetan monks. What if the rainbow wigged gentleman had had a sign that said "Hail Satan?" Or "Fuck Jesus?" What would have happened then? I'll bet there'd be more "episodes of broken relationships and financial problems" if he'd seen that sign instead. I suppose I shouldn't poke fun; I converted to Judaism after seeing a shirtless guy at a hockey game holding a sign that said "Red Wings Suck."

Third, Broun asks his fellow members to "read the Constitution, read what our Founding Fathers who were Bible-believing Christians believed, that every aspect of life should follow the dictates of God’s inherent Word." Granted, you can't really expect that a man who found Jesus via a drunken football fan to know too much about history. But if Rep. Broun had decided to pick up a history book instead of, say, watching football, he'd know that many of the Founding Fathers were not exactly true believers. For example, John Adams:

I almost shudder at the thought of alluding to the most fatal example of the abuses of grief which the history of mankind has preserved -- the Cross. Consider what calamities that engine of grief has produced!

Or Thomas Jefferson:

The day will come when the mystical generation of Jesus, by the Supreme Being as his father, in the womb of a virgin, will be classed with the fable of the generation of Minerva in the brain of Jupiter.

Or Ben Franklin:

But scarcely was I arrived at fifteen years of age, when, after having doubted in turn of different tenets, according as I found them combated in the different books that I read, I began to doubt of Revelation itself.

There you have it, Rep. Broun. The three principle drafters of the Declaration of Independence. Clearly "Bible-believing Christians."

Finally, Broun ends his sermon by saying "So I rise today to support Him (Jesus, that is) first and foremost and support the Bible as the basis of our Nation. I look forward to serving the Lord Jesus Christ." Seems to me you should be serving the good people of Georgia's 10th district before anyone else. But the Bible as the basis of our Nation? Which part? If you're talking Old Testament, you want a nation that's hastily thrown together in seven days, has names too long to pronounce, and could be wiped out by flood at any given time. And the New Testament is hardly a book to base a nation on so much as it is the story of a guy who was broke, cavorted with whores, and had some good ideas that not everyone listened to. In fact a lot of people thought he was an insane man, spouting gibberish and making an ass out of himself. Come to think of it, Rep. Broun may well be the messiah.

New Theme Song for the Working Man

Let us sing our glorious song of freedom.

Your A'Peein'

We live deep enough in the woods to be serenaded by coyotes and owls at night, but close enough to a major highway that we can hear helicopters and sirens at all hours of the day. I can sleep through all of those noises as if I’ve mixed Nyquil and Demerol. However, if my daughter so much as whimpers in her sleep, my wife and I are as wired as meth addicts within seconds. Parents have an almost supernatural ability to hear their children in distress in the middle of the night and spring to action when they need us. Thus, when our daughter popped out of bed a while back complaining that the bed was wet, we took charge. We did our duty as parents to clean the mess and ensure her that everything was okay.

She has since wet the bed every night. EVERY NIGHT. Usually between 2:10 and 2:50 a.m. EVERY. FUCKING. NIGHT.

Here is how things have changed over that period of time:

Night #1: Within seconds of opening her door, Debra and I are in her room, comforting her and telling her that accidents happen. Debra changes her pajamas, tops and bottoms, because we can’t have Abby wearing Ariel pants with a Tinkerbell shirt. Debra also makes sure she uses Pjs with pants rather than shorts because Abby gets cold at night. Meanwhile, I take off the wet sheets, flip the mattress, and put on clean dry sheets. I even put on a new pillowcase because God forbid someone comes over in the middle of the night and sees that we’ve got a Little Mermaid pillowcase on Cinderella sheets. We make sure she has a cup of water, we tuck her in, we make sure her music is loud enough. We each give her a kiss, and quietly slip out. Damn, we’re good parents, we think to ourselves. Despite these occasional middle-of-the-night inconveniences, having kids is wonderful.

Night #2: Again we spring into action. This time, though, the mattress doesn’t need to be flipped, because of course the other side still has drying pee on it. I change the sheets, of course, but the pillowcase is fine as is. Debra changes the pajama bottoms, but the top isn’t wet, so it can stay on, despite the fact that she’s now wearing a Tinkerbell shirt and Little Einsteins pants. Hey, they’re both Disney, it’s all good. We kiss her goodnight and slip out, checking the volume of her Backyardigans CD. Ha ha, we say nervously, let’s hope this doesn’t happen tomorrow night. Ha. Ha ha.

Night #3: Abby’s door opens and we both sit up very slowly. I’ll get it, I say. Debra doesn’t object. Quite the contrary - she flops back down like she's been shot. I take the sheets off and flip the mattress, noting the stain that is still there from two nights prior, but at least it’s dry. The new sheets don’t even have cartoon characters on them, that’s how far into the linen closet we’ve gotten. I change her into Jo Jo's Circus pants, again keeping with the Disney theme. Abby is asleep the second I put her on her clean sheets and I’m tempted to just crash right there with her. Her music has turned off, but I'm really not in the mood to fuck around with her radio at the moment.

Night #4: Abby’s door opens and we just exhale in frustration. Your turn, I say. I did this last night. Debra takes off the sheets but is too tired and/or not strong enough to flip the mattress because there’s about nine gallons of piss inside of it and it’s like moving a waterbed. We are down to shorts now because we haven’t had time to do laundry. So Debra puts on the Little Einsteins shirt that should have gone with the pants we changed her into the other night and generic Old Navy shorts. Luckily Abby is asleep as Debra changes her so she doesn’t object, but the next morning Abby will come into our bedroom stark raving naked because she doesn’t like the way those Pjs look together at all.

Night #5: Abby’s door opens and I shout an expletive. It’s my turn in the rotation and I realize we are out of clean sheets, so the only thing I can do is put a towel over the pee. I change her into a pair of shorts that probably fit her nine months ago, but now make her look like she should be riding in a French bicycle race. In an adorable little tired voice, she says “I’m cold,” and I say “that’s because you keep peeing in your freakin’ bed. It’s cold to sleep in pee. If you stop peeing you’ll be warm.” I think if she’d been more awake she may have argued, but she just falls back asleep.

Night #6: Debra just screams “OH MY GOD WHY DID WE HAVE CHILDREN GODDAMMIT THIS IS YOUR FAULT SHE HAS YOUR BLADDER FUCK YOU.” I start doing the math in my head - if she does this every night until she is, say, twelve…how many sheets is that? How many mattresses? How many pairs of Little Mermaid pajama pants? Yes, I know they make those little plastic diapers, but isn’t it worse that she’ll be sleeping in her own pee? At this point, do I care? At any rate, Debra makes her way into Abby’s room, but I’m not sure what transpires because I’m asleep by the time she gets back.

Night #7: I don’t even bother looking for sheets, I just get a towel from the linen closet and put it over the pee. “Sleep on the other side of the bed,” I tell Abby, but she’s already unconscious so she doesn’t hear me. I can’t find any clean pajamas at all, so I put her in a pair of ballerina tights. I figure what the hell, they’re probably warm. The mattress is starting to smell like Gary Busey, but I don’t give a crap because I don’t have to sleep on it.

Night #8: The maid has come, so in theory I’ve got a closet full of clean sheets that I could put on her bed, but there aren’t words to describe how little I give a shit. Changing sheets involves lifting the corners of the mattress and pulling them over and...I mean, fuck that. I put a towel on the pee and STRONGLY debate whether or not I really even need to change her pajamas since most of the pee seemed to drip down her leg and out the foothole. But again, God bless the maid, she’s got clean Pjs so we might as well use them. Only I can’t find them. Our maid has a strange habit of washing, drying, and folding laundry and putting it in random places. It’s not in Abby’s room, it’s not in our room…but I find a pair of our son’s sweatpants and even though they look like clown pants they seem comfortable. She’ll probably appreciate being able to take a leak on someone else’s clothes anyway.

Night #9: Change pants. Towel on the bed. Pray to God to strike me dead.

Last night: Debate whether or not to call the pediatrician to ask if it’s legal or even possible to render Abby surgically unable to pee. Do they have foster families that take kids only at night? Can we stop giving her liquids altogether?

I suppose it could be worse - she could be shitting the bed every night. At this point I’d probably just throw a towel over that too. On an unrelated note, if anyone needs a slightly used mattress for a toddler bed, I can get you one for a VERY reasonable price.

News From the Brook

Forty students escaped paying a $50 school parking fee for a good chunk of the school year at Quaboag Regional Middle High School. Of the 52 students who requested a parking permit, only 12 paid the fee before the start of the school year, Principal Michael B. Rooney told the regional school committee last night. James M. Kordek of Brimfield Road, a former deputy police chief in town, came before the board to complain about the situation. It is unfair to those who paid, he said, if so many other students who had not paid were allowed to park at the school off Old West Brookfield Road.

Now that my son is too big for toddler clothes, we’ve had to abandon the ten dollar rule that we’ve stuck with since the day he was born. That is, no single article of clothing can cost more than ten dollars. A matching set that includes pants and a shirt could cost no more than twenty. It made things very easy. There were exceptions, as there are to all rules. Jake had a shirt that is apparently no longer available which featured a picture of a helicopter and the caption "I Was in the Shit." Loved that shirt. He also had this one, which his sister now wears, though if I were to have another child, he or she would wear this. (And I would be remiss if I didn't mention this shirt, which his aunt bought him after learning of his dislike of a certain vegetable.) I also made a point of trying to dress Jake up in outfits that were more appropriate for a 75 year old retiree in Boca Raton than a two year-old kid in Virginia. Which is how he ended up with outfits like this and this.

But the bottom line is with few exceptions we were able to maintain the ten dollar rule and keep our son reasonably well dressed. We are finding out that it is much more difficult to duplicate this with our daughter. Besides being far too pink and frilly, girls clothes seem to be more expensive. I'm not even talking about ridiculous crap like this or this. (But while we're on that subject, how about this? Or this? How about this one? We're starting to look pretty effin' cheap with that ten dollar rule, huh?)

Even places that normally have reasonable prices such as Old Navy tend to have higher prices for girls clothes. The obvious solution is that we should just dress Abby in all of Jake's old clothes. They're all boxed up in our basement, ready to go. There are two small problems with this plan:

1) I want to give these clothes to my nephew. My brother made sure that Jake always looked like he was ready for the yacht club, and I want to return the favor.

2) My wife cares about the appearance of our daughter. I definitely don't. In fact, Abby's daycare providers can usually tell who has dressed her based on how she looks when she comes to school. If she's got on a dress and tights and her hair is in pigtails or a bow, they know her mom was in charge that morning. If she shows up with this shirt on (which she actually has) or looking like this, they know it was my turn. The funny thing is she humors her mother, but she really is just a jeans and t-shirt kinda kid, just like her dad. I'll bet all girls are before their mother ruins them.

I Won't Ask How It Got There

Abby was in the tub last night and Jake said "Abby, you have no penis." Abby responded "Yes I do, I have a penis in my hair." I don't think they'll be bathing together anymore.

One More Thing

Forgot to mention that Dicky is posting again. Keep the dream alive, ya'll.

Gimme a Head with Hair

While the adjectives that describe me are many and varied, it is fair to say that I’ve always been an $11 haircut kind of guy. Quite simply, I’m not a person who has ever cared too much for his appearance, which may be how I ended up 60 pounds overweight. However, having lost all that weight (which is another story) I decided that it was time for a big boy haircut. Taking the suggestion of my friend Josh (who is definitely a person who cares about his appearance, as the tailored suits, monogrammed shirts, manicures, trophy fiancée and Latvian stripper mistress will prove) I went to DC’s Grooming Lounge.

The Grooming Lounge is not, as many people seem to think, a pet grooming establishment, though I don’t imagine they’d object to you bringing in your dog. You get the sense they wouldn’t object to anything you chose to do as long as you ponied up the cash for it. It is, rather, a spa of sorts, but for men only. The men only aspect becomes apparent even before you walk in, as the windows are heavily tinted. In fact the windows are so black they appear to be, to paraphrase Dave Barry, tinted with roofing tar. It gives the appearance of a strip club, which may be the idea. The illusion continues when you enter and are greeted by two stunning women ready to take your coat and offer you a drink. No one at Hair Cuttery has ever offered me a Sam Adams while I waited. Actually, they may have – I can’t understand most of the things that people say to me at Hair Cuttery.

After being led into a sort of backroom (again, keeping up the illusion of being at topless place and hey, I’m going to the VIP room!) I meet Shirin, my stylist, or hair mistress, or whatever they’re calling them these days. Shirin is perfectly pleasant and brutally honest, which I need in a hair stylist. Usually when I get a haircut, I am asked two questions – how would I like my hair cut, and have I always had such thick hair. The answer to the second question is usually just “yes,” since it makes no sense to launch into a tirade about how I had thin, blonde hair until I was about four and was pissed when it somehow turned into a layered brown mess that resembles moldy shag carpeting. With regard to the first question, I’m never sure how to describe how I want my hair cut, so I usually end up getting a stylist who never touches a pair of scissors, but instead takes off large swaths of hair and occasionally a bit of skull with massive electric clippers, after which my look is best described as (to quote my wife) a white boy fade.

After years of this happening, I decided I don’t want my stylist to ask me what I want. I have no idea what I want, which is why I rarely get haircuts. You’re the stylist, you tell me what would look good and we’ll run with it. Shirin seems to know this. “You look like a hockey player,” she says. It is not a compliment, but rather an observation on the mullet-esque redneck look I've got going. “How many months are we taking off?” I like that question better. I liked the way I looked back in October, make me look like that again. We begin with a shampoo and conditioning, which I’m told isn’t even optional. I usually decline the shampoo at Hair Cuttery because they seem to care less about washing my hair and more about massaging my brain right through my skull. I believe that various parts of my skull are completely misshapen as a result of Hair Cuttery shampoos.

While the conditioner “sets” (whatever that means) Shirin puts a hot towel on my face. I’ve decided that my life would be infinitely more relaxing if it had more hot towels in it. My daughter poops on the living room rug? Hot towel. My son decides to drop trou and fondle himself in the mall? Hot towel. My boss informs me I need to be on a flight to Alabama tomorrow morning to meet with the Governor? Gonna bring ten towels, a jug of water, and a microwave. We'll hot towel together, the guv and I. I’m all about the hot towels.

We finally get around to the actual cutting of hair, and it’s amazing how meticulous Shirin is. She actually seems to be cutting individual hairs, staring at my skull the way a painter looks at a canvas. While she cuts, we chat amicably and I realize it’s nice to have my hair cut by someone I can understand. Usually I just smile and nod as they talk about whatever country they came from and how it’s better to cut hair in America because the customers usually don’t beat and rape them. However, every once in a while Shirin will stop cutting and just start talking to the side of my head. I can’t decide if I should turn and face her and risk impaling an eye on her scissors.

We talk about our respective families; she’s 26, divorced with two kids, and her husband has recently been in two separate minor car accidents in which he accidentally and through no fault of his own drove his car over people who were crossing the street. I’m thinking if that happens once, bad luck, but twice? Might be best to watch the kids as they peddle their tricycles around daddy’s ride.

She goes into much more intimate detail about her life, and I realize that this is why so many women spend so much time in the salon. In general, the average person’s life is ridiculously dull. We get up, kiss the wife and kids goodbye, go to work, come home, play with the kids until they go to bed, give the wife a little pickle tickle, watch Letterman, and sleep. Repeat 364 times and another year of your life is gone. For some reason, hair stylists seem to have completely fascinating lives. They do all sorts of amazing things. Now the bulk of it might be complete BS, but they’ve got a captive audience that often comes back not for the quality hair styling but for the updates. I got suckered right in.

After about 75 minutes, the last 15 of which were spent with Shirin making almost indiscernible changes and saying “I don’t like that…really don’t like that…holy crap, that’s awful…” she finally wraps up. It takes her another ten minutes to alternately blow and vacuum stray hairs off my shoulders and out of my ears, which I imagine has got to be horribly unpleasant for her.

When I get to the counter to pay, I find that all the products Shirin has used on my hair (shampoo, conditioner, some kind of setting solution) as well as some she hasn’t (shaving cream) are on a (literally) silver platter, ready for me to purchase. The presentation is so nice that I feel bad not buying anything, so I drop $14 on the setting solution, which has the texture and smell of expired furniture polish. Sexy.

I realize I can never get another haircut from anyone else, which is fine, because the $50 (plus tip) I’m dropping on this is more entertaining than any movie or concert, and I’ll leave here looking and smelling good instead of disheveled, tired, and smelling like popcorn and/or weed. Next time I’ll get a pedicure and a wax.

News From the Brook

WEST BROOKFIELD— David M. Eisenthal of West Main Street, a graduate of Clark University and Harvard University’s John F. Kennedy School of Government, has his eyes on being elected selectman here.

Mr. Eisenthal, 46, formerly worked for the state Department of Revenue and now is employed by UniBank Fiscal Advisory Services in Whitinsville. He has nearly 19 years’ experience as a financial adviser to cities, towns and other governmental units, including the town of West Brookfield and the Quaboag Regional School District of Warren and West Brookfield.

Note: As a nonprofit, bipartisan entity, the Manchingo Coniglium cannot endorse or oppose Mr. Eisenthal's candidacy. However, graduates of Clark University in general cannot be trusted. Just saying.

More Things the Parenting Books Failed to Mention

Yesterday my daughter had her finger about nine inches up her nose, as if she were trying to scratch her brain. I said "Abby, please take your finger out of your nose." Her response?

"But I'm hungry."

State of the Union, Decoded

Wherein we fill in a few unspoken thoughts on W's last SOTU. George, we hardly knew ye.

Seven years have passed since I first stood before you at this rostrum. In that time, our country has been tested in ways none of us could have imagined. We faced hard decisions about peace and war...

We opted for war.

...and the health and welfare of our citizens.

I voted against it.

These issues call for vigorous debate, and I think it's fair to say we've answered the call.

In fact, debate is damn near all we did.

We believe that the most reliable guide for our country is the collective wisdom of ordinary citizens.

And by ordinary, I mean multimillionaires, even billionaires. My peeps.

As we meet tonight, our economy is undergoing a period of uncertainty.

Which is like saying that the Titanic is temporarily delayed on its trip to New York.

At kitchen tables across our country, there is a concern about our economic future.

Not my kitchen table, mind you. Things are pretty sweet in the ole White House right now.

Last week, my administration reached agreement with Speaker Pelosi and Republican Leader Boehner on a robust growth package that includes tax relief for individuals and families and incentives for business investment. The temptation will be to load up the bill. That would delay it or derail it, and neither option is acceptable.

Which is fine for me to say, knowing full well that that's how Congress works and the only way the Democrats are going to vote for something that was essentially my idea in an election year is to let them stick every single pet project they've ever wanted in the bill, with price being no object. I just want all you outside-the-beltway people to think I give a crap about fiscal responsibility. If I did, we'd be pissing a lot less away on this war. But I digress.

Unless Congress acts, most of the tax relief we've delivered over the past seven years will be taken away. Some in Washington argue that letting tax relief expire is not a tax increase. Try explaining that to 116 million American taxpayers who would see their taxes rise by an average of $1,800.

Again, we're talking about my buddies, the millionaires. $1,800 is a solid hour with a high-class hooker, and I'm not about to deprive my peeps of that action.

There's only one way to eliminate this uncertainty: Make the tax relief permanent. And members of Congress should know: If any bill raises taxes reaches my desk, I will veto it.

By which I mean make the tax relief that benefits the top one percent of incomes in the U.S. permanent. And by "veto" I mean, "probably will not veto."

Just as we trust Americans with their own money, we need to earn their trust by spending their tax dollars wisely. Next week, I'll send you a budget that terminates or substantially reduces 151 wasteful or bloated programs, totaling more than $18 billion.

These programs include funding for public schools, funding for disease research, funding for veterans, and funding for Christmas.

The people's trust in their government is undermined by congressional earmarks -- special interest projects that are often snuck in at the last minute, without discussion or debate. Last year, I asked you to voluntarily cut the number and cost of earmarks in half. I also asked you to stop slipping earmarks into committee reports that never even come to a vote. Unfortunately, neither goal was met. So this time, if you send me an appropriations bill that does not cut the number and cost of earmarks in half, I'll send it back to you with my veto.

You sorry sons of bitches. Damn you, Congress! I know I made this same threat last year and didn't follow up on it, but it sounds good when I berate you from up here. But I also know that this is an election year, and no appropriations bills will actually reach my desk until after the election. So to clarify, I may leave a big fat mess for President McCain, or I may choose to veto everything just to piss off President Obama. Either way, good times.

We share a common goal: making health care more affordable and accessible for all Americans. The best way to achieve that goal is by expanding consumer choice, not government control.

The insurance companies, who send me buckets full of money - literally, large buckets decorated with ribbons and everything - would like to continue being the ones providing your healthcare. They seem to be doing pretty well with that. In point of fact, I'm not doing crap with healthcare this year. It's an election year. You're on your own.

On education, we must trust students to learn if given the chance, and empower parents to demand results from our schools. In neighborhoods across our country, there are boys and girls with dreams -- and a decent education is their only hope of achieving them.

Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot it's not 1955 anymore. I forgot that the bulk of students don't give a crap and their parents are working two jobs and don't have time to help with homework.

Six years ago, we came together to pass the No Child Left Behind Act, and today no one can deny its results.

By which I mean they've been disastrous.

Last year, fourth and eighth graders achieved the highest math scores on record. Reading scores are on the rise. African American and Hispanic students posted all-time highs.

By which I mean they were stoned ALL the damn time. And let's be honest, math scores are up because the teachers are teaching to the test. They're eliminating arts and physical education classes because you can't really test those things. So your kid can't form a single abstract thought or toss a baseball, but he can add four and four. Maybe he'll yearn to be a certified public accountant. You're welcome.

Today, our economic growth increasingly depends on our ability to sell American goods and crops and services all over the world.

Amazingly, they don't seem to want our crap.

I thank the Congress for approving a good agreement with Peru. And now I ask you to approve agreements with Colombia and Panama and South Korea. Many products from these nations now enter America duty-free, yet many of our products face steep tariffs in their markets.

Right about here is where I will lose the bulk of my viewers, so after this I can say pretty much whatever the hell I want. We'll see if Russert is paying attention, but beyond him, I don't give a crap what any of you think.

Trade brings better jobs and better choices and better prices. Yet for some Americans, trade can mean losing a job, and the federal government has a responsibility to help. I ask Congress to reauthorize and reform trade adjustment assistance, so we can help these displaced workers learn new skills and find new jobs.

I know damn right well that all the good jobs are being shipped overseas. But I am going to do my best to ensure that you can find work at the drive-through or at Starbucks. Being a barrister is not easy, but I vow that your government will provide the best training we can.

Our security, our prosperity, and our environment all require reducing our dependence on oil.

Quite frankly, my security and prosperity rests on your dependence on oil as well.

Let us fund new technologies that can generate coal power while capturing carbon emissions. Let us increase the use of renewable power and emissions-free nuclear power. Let us continue investing in advanced battery technology and renewable fuels to power the cars and trucks of the future. Let us create a new international clean technology fund, which will help developing nations like India and China make greater use of clean energy sources.

Let us make bold promises that we can not back up. Let us pretend that I care about any of this stuff. Let us fool the American people into thinking that there's even the slightest possibility that this can get done. Lettuce, bacon, and tomato is a good sandwich.

On matters of life and science, we must trust in the innovative spirit of medical researchers and empower them to discover new treatments while respecting moral boundaries.

By which I mean Republican moral boundaries.

In November, we witnessed a landmark achievement when scientists discovered a way to reprogram adult skin cells to act like embryonic stem cells. This breakthrough has the potential to move us beyond the divisive debates of the past by extending the frontiers of medicine without the destruction of human life.

Should it be proven to actually work. Which it hasn't. But again, you've all tuned out at this point anyway.

Tonight the armies of compassion continue the march to a new day in the Gulf Coast.

These are quite different from the armies of the United States, who may be able to actually help.

America honors the strength and resilience of the people of this region. We reaffirm our pledge to help them build stronger and better than before. And tonight I'm pleased to announce that in April we will host this year's North American Summit of Canada, Mexico, and the United States in the great city of New Orleans.

We'll be in the French Quarter, about as far from the actual destruction as we can get. And if it seems like I make this pledge at every State of the Union, it's because I do. If I meant it, it would have gotten done by now. Remember I said I wanted to go to war with Iraq, then I just went ahead and did it? That should tell you something. If I wanted to clean up that cesspool on the Mississippi, I'd do it. Sorry folks, Kanye was right.

America needs to secure our borders -- and with your help, my administration is taking steps to do so. We're increasing worksite enforcement, deploying fences and advanced technologies to stop illegal crossings. We've effectively ended the policy of "catch and release" at the border, and by the end of this year, we will have doubled the number of border patrol agents.

I don't want illegals here.

Yet we also need to acknowledge that we will never fully secure our border until we create a lawful way for foreign workers to come here and support our economy.

I want illegals here.

This will take pressure off the border and allow law enforcement to concentrate on those who mean us harm. We must also find a sensible and humane way to deal with people here illegally.

Euthanize them.

Our foreign policy is based on a clear premise.

Don't fuck with us.

In the past seven years, we've also seen images that have sobered us. We've watched throngs of mourners in Lebanon and Pakistan carrying the caskets of beloved leaders taken by the assassin's hand. We've seen wedding guests in blood-soaked finery staggering from a hotel in Jordan, Afghans and Iraqis blown up in mosques and markets, and trains in London and Madrid ripped apart by bombs. On a clear September day, we saw thousands of our fellow citizens taken from us in an instant.

I think I deserve props for not bringing up 9/11 until a half-hour into this speech. And I didn't even mention it by name. Didya notice? Didya?

We are engaged in the defining ideological struggle of the 21st century. The terrorists oppose every principle of humanity and decency that we hold dear.

But even they are rooting for the Patriots in the Super Bowl.

Yet in this war on terror, there is one thing we and our enemies agree on: In the long run, men and women who are free to determine their own destinies will reject terror and refuse to live in tyranny.

Which is why the Democrats will win in November.

In Afghanistan, America, our 25 NATO allies, and 15 partner nations are helping the Afghan people defend their freedom and rebuild their country. Thanks to the courage of these military and civilian personnel, a nation that was once a safe haven for al Qaeda is now a young democracy where boys and girls are going to school, new roads and hospitals are being built, and people are looking to the future with new hope.

In other words, things are better there than they are here.

These successes must continue, so we're adding 3,200 Marines to our forces in Afghanistan, where they will fight the terrorists and train the Afghan Army and police. Defeating the Taliban and al Qaeda is critical to our security, and I thank the Congress for supporting America's vital mission in Afghanistan.

I'm just not sure where we're going to find 3,200 Marines. There are only 27 left without an assignment, and most of them are like Private Santiago in A Few Good Men. Little on the slow side.

The Iraqis launched a surge of their own. In the fall of 2006, Sunni tribal leaders grew tired of al Qaeda's brutality and started a popular uprising called "The Anbar Awakening." Over the past year, similar movements have spread across the country. And today, the grassroots surge includes more than 80,000 Iraqi citizens who are fighting the terrorists. The government in Baghdad has stepped forward, as well -- adding more than 100,000 new Iraqi soldiers and police during the past year.

In other words, the war is turning pretty much independently from anything our country is doing. Finally the Iraqis said, fuck it, if you want something done right, you do it yourself. And while we're on this subject, how come the news is pretty much ignoring the fact that the war is going well? You couldn't get enough of this crap when there was constant death and explosions, but now it's all about what Obama said about Hillary. Thanks, liberal media.

Today, it is al Qaeda that is searching for safe passage. They have been driven from many of the strongholds they once held, and over the past year, we've captured or killed thousands of extremists in Iraq, including hundreds of key al Qaeda leaders and operatives.

Mostly killed 'em. Got tired of sending 'em to Gitmo, where they don't talk anyway.

Ladies and gentlemen, some may deny the surge is working, but among the terrorists there is no doubt. Al Qaeda is on the run in Iraq, and this enemy will be defeated.

And I pledge they will defeated sometime within the next forty years.

Soldiers and sailors, airmen, Marines, and Coast Guardsmen: In the past year, you have done everything we've asked of you, and more. Our nation is grateful for your courage. We are proud of your accomplishments. And tonight in this hallowed chamber, with the American people as our witness, we make you a solemn pledge: In the fight ahead, you will have all you need to protect our nation.

Unfortunately when you get back you're kind of screwed. Medical and psychological help will be fairly difficult to come by. But that's in the future - for now, just watch for roadside explosives and shoot to kill.

Any further drawdown of U.S. troops will be based on conditions in Iraq and the recommendations of our commanders. General Petraeus has warned that too fast a drawdown could result in the "disintegration of the Iraqi security forces, al Qaeda-Iraq regaining lost ground, [and] a marked increase in violence." Members of Congress: Having come so far and achieved so much, we must not allow this to happen.

Military wives, better plan on another awkward Christmas with the in-laws.

The mission in Iraq has been difficult and trying for our nation. But it is in the vital interest of the United States that we succeed. A free Iraq will deny al Qaeda a safe haven.

Which means the only places those bastards can go are Iran, Pakistan, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, England, and Southern Florida. But we'll bomb their asses too if we have to, mark my words.

A free Iraq will show millions across the Middle East that a future of liberty is possible. A free Iraq will be a friend of America, a partner in fighting terror, and a source of stability in a dangerous part of the world.

Raw meat in a pack of wolves.

This month in Ramallah and Jerusalem, I assured leaders from both sides that America will do, and I will do, everything we can to help them achieve a peace agreement that defines a Palestinian state by the end of this year. The time has come for a Holy Land where a democratic Israel and a democratic Palestine live side-by-side in peace.

I'm kind of hoping this will come together by November so I can have some sort of legacy. There's a possibility I might luck into this one and I didn't want to miss the chance to get over there for a photo op.

Iran is funding and training militia groups in Iraq, supporting Hezbollah terrorists in Lebanon, and backing Hamas' efforts to undermine peace in the Holy Land. Tehran is also developing ballistic missiles of increasing range, and continues to develop its capability to enrich uranium, which could be used to create a nuclear weapon.

You may remember I said very similar things about another country. Some of those things turned out not to be not entirely accurate, by which I mean complete bullshit. But don't worry - we'll be invading long before we can prove any of this stuff.

On the home front, we will continue to take every lawful and effective measure to protect our country. This is our most solemn duty. We are grateful that there has not been another attack on our soil since 9/11. This is not for the lack of desire or effort on the part of the enemy. In the past six years, we've stopped numerous attacks, including a plot to fly a plane into the tallest building in Los Angeles and another to blow up passenger jets bound for America over the Atlantic.

And you thought the threat level was at orange for shits and giggles. No sir, we've got trouble, terrible trouble, with a capital T that rhymes with P that stands for protect the homeland.

America opposes genocide in Sudan.

And that's all I'm going to say about that. I know it's a massive, disgusting, human rights debacle, but it's more important that I talk about wiretapping and tariffs and such.

We support freedom in countries from Cuba and Zimbabwe to Belarus and Burma.

If it works out there, we may even try it here.

By trusting the people, our Founders wagered that a great and noble nation could be built on the liberty that resides in the hearts of all men and women.

They were fucking idiots. Just look at the hats.

By trusting the people, succeeding generations transformed our fragile young democracy into the most powerful nation on Earth and a beacon of hope for millions.

And it took me a mere seven years to completely ruin that. Thanks folks, tip your waitress and try the veal.