All That Heaven Forgot
How's this for a compromise: Paris Hilton can serve the rest of her sentence in my basement and pitch in with the house chores.
Like cutting the grass.
Yes, once again I stare at the long blades that mock me, and try to find the energy or interest to whack them down to size. But Paris is young, has done shit work on TV, so she's perfect for this job. Plus, I don't find her sexually attractive, since I demand from my sex slaves a modicum of interest in something other than their own reflections, so the main focus will be on the labor. And just to make things fun, I'll dress in Khmer Rouge clothing, don a Mao mask, and bark abusive monosyllables at her while she sweats in the summer heat. I mean, if we're gonna do this right, let's get into character and really drive the point home.
My mind is going today, slipping quickly into manias that elude conscious definition. I've been here before, so don't fret on my account. My only concern is that with advancing age, I may not be able to pull out of a serious mental dive, crashing and fracturing into millions of flying shards that slice through whatever common sense or creative imagination I have left. Then it will be drool cup time, and cold oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Perusing the various AP, Yahoo, Reuters headlines this morning did nothing to help, and while I could rip off a 1,000 word, profanity-laced assault on those ridiculous, empty, insulting presidential "debates," what would be the point? A Zen exercise in sheer aggression, nothing more. Still, I do enjoy reading those libloggers who take it Very Seriously, awarding style points to whomever, fantasizing that Hillary, Obama, or maybe even Edwards will pull us from the wreckage of the past eight years, or even better, fantasizing not only about an Al Gore run, but how a President Gore would have behaved in contrast to Bush. In fact, I like that so much that it will be the subject of my next Huffington Post -- assuming the one I turned in on Tuesday ever runs.
Now, I know some of you out there think that I hate liberals. I get mail asserting that whenever I swing my dented aluminum bat at a mule. I even heard from Eric Alterman fans (I know -- Alterman has fans?) who are convinced that I'm a rightwinger, especially after Ann Althouse linked to my schaudenfruede post on Monday. What can I say? It's a crazy bloggo-world. I just post inside it.
But dig this, lib haters o'mine: It seems that some of your heavier hitters are taking me a bit more seriously, or at least find me entertaining or diverting. In past month I've been added to newcritics and HuffPo, and next week I'll be in New York to rub shoulders with the likes of Tom Watson and Lance Mannion, among many like-minded others. Where this sudden interest in my stuff came from, I have no clue. I haven't changed all that much. Indeed, I'm probably harsher than I was a year ago. But, in person, I'm a friendly, easy-going guy (save for those moments when I'm chucking rocks at the squirrels on my roof), and I look forward to meeting Tom, Lance, and the rest of the gang. Should be fun.
But do you know what's truly strange? I've just been invited, and I've already accepted, to appear on a panel at Yearly Kos in Chicago this August. More details to come, but you old Son readers have to admit -- me at the Kos party? That is one gathering I'm genuinely looking forward to.
Dark clouds are closing in. Distant thunder. The wind is picking up. A storm is approaching, which means I can't cut my grass today. Lucky for you, Paris, that I'm not better connected. Pushing a mower in the driving rain would, if not teach you something about class relations and the utter depravity of the modern-day bourgeoisie, make for an entertaining spectacle, which I would tape and sell online for the low, low price of $12.99. Watching you give blowjobs is boring. Watching you perform manual labor in bad weather would be a new kind of voyeurism -- celebrity punishment porn. And I would be its Larry Flynt, wearing my Mao mask, of course.