David Axelrod, call me:

I enjoyed tonight's Obama-rama and thought it underscored the most pressing issues in a meaningful way.

However, I have a suggestion. I know campaigns have to target swing state elderly and families, but just once, it'd be great if a nominee honed in on childless artists in metropolitan areas:

"Let's meet Frank. He's twenty-seven, lives in Portland, and the studio he's recording in just raised its rates. Now, each night, he stays up worrying how he'll complete his demo. On top of everything, the bike racks in his neighborhood remain scarce and then, last week, the Stumptown on Division Street lost its wi-fi for the better part of an afternoon."

Facebook, Day #6:

I joined Facebook two months ago because my friend sent me a link to her photo page and I wanted to check it out. I didn't launch my profile for real until last Friday, though, and since then, my inbox has been a swirling miasma of close friends, cherished acquaintances, colleagues, and those long ago consigned to memory. I've sent out a bunch of requests, too, and so far, have really enjoyed the replies.

On the flip side, holy hell: total sensory overload. It's great, but also kind of jarring, to be in contact with that many people from sundry aspects of your life simultaneously. I feel like I've eaten a pint of chocolate chip mint, or viewed Laser Floyd five times in a row.

I'm going for a walk now.

Seconded:

From a commenter on Wonkette's debate liveblog:

"To these asshats on CNN, the undecideds… if you can’t figure it out by now then you should just kill yourself. You have failed at life."

In a strange way, I feel sorry...

...for John McCain. He now reminds me of the cache of VHS movies I unearthed in my storage room last week: once engaging, now irrelevant.

Twenty-eight days to go.

And if the markets are like this next year, the ground will expel Mitt Romney's hair follicles and scores of two-headed earthworms:

The protracted economic catastrophe keeps reminding me of Patton Oswalt's routine, "The Apocalypse" from his first disc, Feelin' Kinda Patton:

The apocalypse is coming. That's the one thing I like about George Bush. I really think he can get us into the fuckin' apocalypse. Like the Biblical--I really think he believes that he will be the guy in the white hat. I think he's read that Stephen King novel The Stand a couple times, you know? And he really thinks there's a dark man in the desert somewhere and he's going to fight him or something like that.

And here's the thing. If the apocalypse happens, it doesn't have to be all bad. Here's how you can make it work for you, all right, when the apocalypse happens. And you'll know when it's happening 'cause, zombies. But here's the thing, if the apocalypse happens, then that means I'm wrong and there is a God and there is an afterlife.

But here's the good news, in the afterlife, like in heaven, you'll be in the fucking V.I.P. section of eternity. Because everyone else up there will be like, "Hey, man! How'd you die?" And you're like, "Fuckin' bus accident. How 'bout you?, man?" And they're like, "Fire ants. How'd you die, man?" "How'd I die? In the fuckin' apocalypse! Oh my God, it was awesome! I'm in the velvet rope section of eternity. You should have fuckin' been there, man. The fucking volcanoes came out of the ground and they spewed menstrual blood into the sky, and then it formed into Avril Lavigne's face, and she recited the The Good Will Hunting screenplay and the words turned into razors and they bored into your flesh and George Bush was president and mediocrity held sway! It was amazing! Oh, my God! I'm in the V.I.P. section! Where're my Poccies at? Where're my other Poccies at? High five, Poccies!"

I really want the apocalypse to happen. Honestly, don't you?

The VP Debate Summarized in Two Haikus:

Joe Biden shoots facts
with aim and force that Dirty
Harry might envy

Beneath her updo
microbes gnaw cerebellum
That explains the winks

So much I'm going to catch up on here in the next couple of days...

...but I want to get this in under the wire:

I will personally kneecap the first pundit who hurls "sexism!" charges at Joe Biden if Biden wins handily tonight, which I believe he will. Sarah Palin is grossly unqualified for the job she's seeking and if Olympia Snowe, Kay Bailey Hutchison, and Elizabeth Dole opt to have her "disappeared" at some point, I will provide their alibi.

Would they prefer 'lipstick on a jackass'?

As I wrote yesterday, the Washington Post broke the story that Sarah Palin billed Alaska taxpayers for 312 nights she and her family spent at home. But the story that got the most traction was Obama using the decades-old colloquialism, "lipstick on a pig", when discussing the Republican health care plan. The McCain camp, now priding itself on vacuity and whining, said Obama engaged in "schoolyard insults", even though Obama was not discussing Palin and McCain has used the phrase publicly at least three times himself.

One of the reasons I loathe Palin and those like her--male or female--is that they hurl insults but cry at any perceived slight and can't debate using facts and sentience. I'll note here, too, that the three most incurious and least empathetic women I know are huge Palin fans. So, in honor of Sarah and her tribe, I unfurl the lyrics to the Rolling Stones' strangely apt 1966 song, "Stupid Girl":

I'm not talking about the kind of clothes she wears
Look at that stupid girl
I'm not talking about the way she combs her hair
Look at that stupid girl

The way she powders her nose
Her vanity shows and it shows
She's the worst thing in this world
Well, look at that stupid girl

I'm not talking about the way she digs for gold
Look at that stupid girl
Well, I'm talking about the way she grabs and holds
Look at that stupid girl

The way she talks about someone else
That she don't even know herself
She's the sickest thing in this world
Well, look at that stupid girl

Well, I'm sick and tired
And I really have my doubts
I've tried and tried
But it never really works out

Like a lady in waiting to a virgin queen
Look at that stupid girl
She bitches 'bout things that she's never seen
Look at that stupid girl

It doesn't matter if she dyes her hair
Or the color of the shoes she wears
She's the worst thing in this world
Well, look at that stupid girl

Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up
Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up
Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up

Like a lady in waiting to a virgin queen
Look at that stupid girl
She bitches 'bout things that she's never seen
Look at that stupid girl

She purrs like a pussycat
Then she turns 'round and hisses back
She's the sickest thing in this world
Look at that stupid girl

Okay, kids, here goes:

Everything has changed since I last traipsed these pages.

Barack Obama gave a smart and eloquent acceptance speech that soared higher than a Pegasus rocket and still delivered policy specifics. The next morning, John McCain announced Sarah Palin would be his vice presidential pick.

Since then, each day has brought a new revelation about Alaska's governor. At this point, we've heard them all: she wants Roe vs. Wade overturned; thinks abortion is wrong in cases of rape or incest; believes creationism should be taught in schools; was the mayor of a town of 7000 until 20 months ago; is under investigation in Alaska for ethics violations; has no foreign policy experience; supports banning books; doesn't understand even the basics of Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae; has concluded the U.S. is doing God's will in Iraq; and, as broken by the Washington Post today, billed her state's taxpayers for 312 nights she spent at home.

The twin culprits of book and CFIDS have prevented me lately from weighing in here as much as I'd like. But I'm going to try to resume posting a few times a week. In the meantime, to get up to speed, I'll paraphrase one of my favorite lines from Moonstruck: one day Sarah Palin will drop dead and I'll go to her funeral in a red dress.

Today's Washington Post story:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/09/08/AR2008090803088.html?hpid=topnews

A Highly Truncated Account of the DNC So Far:

I've been too sick to write about the Democratic National Convention in any real detail. However, I've watched several hours each night and even ordered Roma tomato and basil pizza from Toscana for Monday's kick-off. Highlights and observations:

• CNN's Jeffrey Toobin and James Carville were dead wrong that Monday's speeches were too up-with-people-let's-all-hug. It was smart for the Democrats to first lay out who they are before eviscerating the Republicans. Also, even a tangential association between Michelle Obama and "anger" would have been a big, big mistake.

• High five to Teddy for telling his doctors, essentially, to get stuffed; traversing the country; standing for the duration of his address; and injecting some blood and joy into the proceedings. (Jesse Jackson Jr. was pretty effective; Nancy Pelosi, whom I like, prompted me to hurl epithets with that second grade civics lesson "Barack Obama is right and John McCain is wrong" call-and-response. Her speech writer needs a new line of work, like cardboard sorter or sandwich maker.)

• I've long adored and admired Michelle Obama, but after Monday's oration, she's now in the pantheon with Washington Square Park, The Beatles, rabbits, Joan Didion, Via Della Pace's lobster ravioli, Ernest Hemingway, and Top Pot's raspberry glazed donuts. Also, if more kids were as smart and cute and Malia and Sacha, I might have considered having some.

• I knew Hillary would deliver a barn-burner because it was in her own interest to do so. But Tuesday night's speech was positively electrifying and if she was faking it, she fooled me and everyone I know. (Ultimately, she benefits as much as Obama, of course, but people, I'm trying to maintain the hopey-ness.) Mad props to her speech writer, too, because the Harriet Tubman segment was particularly engrossing.

• Due to a protracted snafu at the QFC on Broadway and E. Pike where, apparently, it's a-okay to employ dead-eyed zombies with tiny microbes gnawing away their brain matter, I got home late and missed the first half of Bill Clinton's address. I liked what I caught, however, and was reminded why, until recently, he was my favorite politician. President Clinton is basically the friend you sometimes want to cockpunch (I'm being metaphorical, Secret Service!), but cherish nonetheless.
  

• During the primaries, I maintained that in a different year, Joe Biden and Chris Dodd might have had traction. Not only do I want to have the proverbial beer with Joe Biden, I want to get soused with his whole goddamned family and, for the most part, I can't even drink. Biden's tone was note-perfect last night and I think he's going to make an excellent attack dog/bad cop/Robin/Chewbacca.
  

• When Obama spoke last night, I was reminded again that repeatedly sacrificing chunks of my spare cash has been worth it.
  

• To the pundits grousing that tonight's purported Greek columned set might reinforce the inane notion that Obama is elitist, calm the hell down. It'll either work or it won't, but don't get your panties bunched up before you've seen it.
  

Okay, off to run errands before the evening's festivities. And look! Over yonder! Might that be a unicorn alighting the sky?

[In all seriousness, the next 67 days are going to monstrously fucking hard and I think the outcome will be close. But yes, I very much believe this time next year we'll be referring to "President Obama". Onwards.]

The avalanche

One of my best friends is an experienced mountain and rock climber. Before his recent trek, I asked him if he or his pals have ever packed something akin to cyanide capsules. In case of disaster (god forbid), they could hasten things and not freeze or bleed to death for twelve hours in an icy crevasse. He said it was smart in theory, but a mistake in practice. He explained that when you're climbing, you have to believe that you can extricate yourself from any calamity, even if you logically know this isn't true.

In a way, we tell ourselves similar tales regarding relationships. Married couples, I think, do this the most. And it makes sense, because no marriage could work if the individuals went into it focused on the worst case scenario, that it could all crash down with little warning. Each time John and Elizabeth Edwards' wedding photo is flashed onscreen, I get sad. Their entire odyssey was always leading up to this moment and, realistically, there's no way out. Her cancer is Stage 4 and two of their children are young and even if she wants to leave--I have no idea if she does--she's not going to. So she'll spend her remaining time drained of the forces that sustained her.

I've long admired Mrs. Edwards and she doesn't need my pity. But we've all known a Rielle Hunter, someone who purports to be spiritual in order to mask their vapidity and baseness, and that makes the whole thing worse. In the footage released so far, she displays the I.Q. of a ringworm. It's inconceivable she'd land the videographer job with a prominent campaign if she weren't fucking the candidate. (I read Jay Mcinerney's novel about Hunter, Story of My Life, when it was released in '89. In the correlating Vanity Fair interview, she was totally grating. Nothing has changed, it seems.)

Still, though, John Edwards is the major culprit here. He upended his family, misused $114,000 in campaign funds and, basically, detonated what was once his life.

More so than anything, I hope his dick gets crushed by debris.

Essential truths:

• Each statement uttered by John McCain or his campaign staff during the past week has made the Arizona senator sound like a complete ass
• Andre Benjamin's smile could illuminate the darkest cave and should be studied as a possible alternative fuel source
• Avocado slices and soy cream cheese on a whole wheat bagel smacks of leftovers from a Joni Mitchell sack lunch circa 1973 but is actually quite delicious
• Writers should adopt David Bazan's "Fewer Broken Pieces" as our anthem
  
• I get to legally kill the guy who revs his un-muffled Harley every night outside my bedroom window
• Same for the designer on "Project Runway" tonight who'd never heard of Sgt. Pepper
• Also, everyone who asks, "How many more pages do you have left to go?"
• Chuck Klosterman is brilliant and should not be imitated
  
• No one with a functioning cerebellum cares what Pitchfork thinks
  
• Patton Oswalt and Wanda Sykes will cure what ails you
• The Deluxe's turkey cobb salad suggests God might like us after all
• My bunnies are cuter than your kids
  

"And you may say to yourself/ 'My God! What have I done?'"--Talking Heads

On July 10, I wrote that, among the many things I would rather do than explain writing to those who don't write was "endure a Candlebox revival". (Please note re the original premise: I said "explain", not "discuss".)

At the time, I had no idea Candlebox had a new disc forthcoming. On any given day, a third of my inbox consists of music press releases, so I was alarmed last week when I discovered via their flack that the least interesting band ever associated with this city has decided to give things another go. I felt like I'd tempted fate and now all carbon-based life forms with auditory perception would suffer for my recklessness.

As it turns out, I was right. Today I received a follow-up press release announcing that the aforementioned record has debuted at #32 on Billboard's Top 200. Jesus fucking Christ, what is going on? Is a segment of the population really that starved for factory-stamped pseudo-grunge? Couldn't it meet the same need by watching a "Who's the Boss?" marathon? It would stir the same degree of imagination and cost less in cash and brain cells.

To make amends for the torrent of stupidity I inadvertently prompted, here is footage of the LWs' new album taking shape. Because JR playing the cowbell for three minutes is still more interesting than Candlebox could ever be:

"There's a story in the book in which I wound up in a waiting room, in France, in my underpants. And everybody else...

...had their clothes on. It took me six years to write about it."

The Stranger's Steven Blum interviews David Sedaris:

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=621684&hp

You are so fucked, dude:

It's been widely reported that Alexander Rodriguez told a friend regarding Madonna, "She's my fucking soul mate, dude."

This morning I read that A-Rod's soon-to-be ex-wife, Cynthia, is Greek.

Things I Would Rather Do Than Explain Writing to Those Who Don't Write:

• Forego spring rolls and shrimp phad thai for a year

• Have a Viagra-fueled three-way with John and Cindy McCain whilst Sean Hannity lurks by the nightstand and jerks off
  

• Listen to a well-educated person in their 30s act surprised that having children is, in fact, a singular and transformative experience

• Hang out with a baby boomer who launches into an anecdote with, "Back when I was on campus..."

• Endure a Candlebox revival

• Discuss "one's journey" with Madonna

• Make out with a life coach

• Eat a bag of dog crap
  

The Bill Walton headbands, too:

Indie kids, you know I love you, but if we could stop with the bolero hats, I'd really appreciate it.

When you ape Gene Loves Jezebel, that story ends badly.

Or their ass cracks:

The past week has been pretty great, so I didn't write about the Sonics' upcoming exodus because I didn't feel like it.

But the Sonics were a big part of my youth and I'm sad the region's young-uns won't get to cheer them on the way all of us on the block did when we were kids. Basically, Clay Bennett and his cohorts ooze a smugness that makes me hope fire ants crawl up their dicks upon arrival in the Sooner State.

Don't rule it out: the part of Greece I'm descended from has put curses on the deserving for centuries.

It's all right, Seattle. I'm on it.

A few couples close to me are trying to conceive...

...and they each report being bombarded with questions: Are you pregnant yet? Why'd you wait so long? Are you considering in vitro? Are you thinking of adopting? Are you pregnant yet? Are you? ARE YOU?

On their behalf, let me reply emphatically and without reserve: Shut the fuck up.

I don't understand how anyone besides the individuals in question (and maybe their folks) concludes that this is their business. As someone who doesn't want kids, I can relay that certain types of people are ceaselessly fascinated with others' procreative choices. I don't get it and never will. If you want kids, have them. If you don't, don't. (As Wanda Sykes and I discussed in the Believer interview: unwanted children become the biggest assholes.) But for god's sake, don't harass friends or family regarding their decisions.

Because eventually, they'll wish you were never born.

When I was in high school, I had a zoology teacher...

...who taught with patience and gusto. Several kids--wankers, all--made fun of her because she was fat, and looking back, it seems unfathomable that she didn't know their whispered jibes were directed at her. Still, she remained unflappable in class and took extra time to work with me so that I'd stay abreast while my family and I traversed Greece for three weeks. Even at that age, I was fairly certain my future lay in the arts and that most of our curriculum would have little practical application in my adult life. But I enjoyed her class each day because she made the fundamentals of zoology tangible and fun. And now when I frequently read the science sections of the New York Times and CNN.com--I have a layperson's appreciation--in an indirect way, it's because of her.

So I thought of Mrs. ____ last night when I watched this Time Magazine interview with Neil deGrasse Tyson, astrophysicist, director of the Hayden Planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History and host of NOVA scienceNOW. The erudition and passion with which he discusses life's atomic origins and Issac Newton's discoveries make me wish that when I was at the museum in 2006, I'd knocked on his door, offered him a mocha, and asked, "Can I listen to you think?"

It is my fondest hope that I one day interview Dr. deGrasse Tyson:

http://www.time.com/time/video/?bcpid=1214055407&bclid=1342094282&bctid=1628434334