Base Is Hell

The ground shook and seemed to do so either just before or right as the blast was heard. A ball of fire filled the immediate area but still the troops marched on, walking right through the flames, right into them.



A drone picked up everything and relayed it back to Centcom where multi-star generals and colonels worried that the temperature of the blast might be too hot and could severely damage the drone.



Another blast went off. They saw some heads and limbs blown off and the broadcast from the drone go in and out.



"Don't do this now, come on, baby, we need you!" hollered General William B. Bravado as all eyes remained fixed on the flat screen monitor.



Then, quick as a flash, the reception was back displaying hundred of US service members dead on the field.



The generals and colonels cheered! The drone was back online!



Back at the barracks, General Bravado flipped on his TV and walked from his sunken den to the kitchen where he picked up a butcher knife and used the non-blade side to scratch his back. No sissy lofa sponge for a he-man like him. After five minutes of this, he examined the knife and saw the little skin flakes, like dandruff. He blew them off the knife and put it away. Grabbing a wine cooler, he headed back to his sunken den, adjusted the temperature of the room to 71 degrees, noting how hot it had been at Centcom -- probably seventy-nine degrees. Plopping his fat ass down on the overstuffed sofa, he saw that Rollerball was on. The original! Thank God for the satellites and modern technology.



Watching James Caan off and on, he reflected on America's New Military. He silently praised Jesus and the Joint Chiefs of Staff for insisting spy chips be implanted in all recruits upon induction. The first benefit was easy enough to spot: no more self-check outs.


No more worries about Mark Wilkersons, Kyle Snyders or Agustin Aguayos. Yeah, go ahead and try to resist, try to self-check out. We'd find you. They were experimental then and left a big bulge on the back of the neck, due to the power source needed to supply them, but they could track anyone around the globe.


It had been his daddy that had figured out spy chips could be used for more than tracking. Behavioral modifications. Montgomery McFatty had signed on immediately.


Overweight and prone to rejecting anything that resembled independent thought, McFatty was happy to abuse her knowledge of the social sciences in service of the Almighty Dollar. A shock collar could prevent a dog from barking or leaving the yard, what might they be able to do with spy chips?


$37 billion later -- the US had stopped funding public schools at that point -- the program produced verifiable results. The automatic zap -- which sounded like one of those bug lights -- had worked to make the test group agree to any action, regardless of whether it was a War Crime or not. Thanks to that research, there would be no more Ehren Watadas. Someone started raising legal arguments, hit the switch and, ZAP, their eyes clouded over and they forgot immediately.


The switch was a bit of a problem but McFatty eventually reduced it to the size of a mini-Oreo which wasn't surprising to anyone when the government got her per diem bill and had it itemized -- the woman was obsessed with mini-Oreos and assorted other junk foods. Now, in the palm of your hand, you could control it all. As the research progressed, it became possible to control entire brigades with one tiny remote device.



The TV screen flickered and Rollerball was replaced with scenes of a live battle. It was a group of Marines and General Bravado had to marvel over the one who had both a leg and an arm blown off but continued hopping forward. Modern day technology, nothing like it. It had reduced the time needed for the basic socialization and re-education civilians knew as basic training. Woops, land mine. That Marine was down for good.



These things happen in a war.



He did wonder, though, why they interrupted his movie feed to show him this?



It was late. Probably he should turn off the tube, hit the jacuzzi tub and chill for a few hours.



After he'd done just that for a few hours, he crawled into bed, between his silk sheets, and quickly fell asleep dreaming of two weeks from now when he'd be leaving this hell hole and returning Stateside.



The soft purr of his wake up call greeted him far too early. He wondered what the woman really looked like but hopped out of bed and hit the john.



As he dressed, he dreamed of seeing his second star. He felt a little less-than, a little inferior, with only one star. He'd been on this base for nearly five months and the fatalities for the US had climbed to 32,000. Surely, his second star was just around the corner.



He marched on over to headquarters.



"Men, and McFatty . . ."



Yes, McFatty was here. Probably eighty-three-years-old now and bigger than a double-wide trailer. But the chips had been her baby and she was determined to see them through, to measure their results until someone finally dug a plot big enough to hold her.



". . . we've suffered tremendous losses this week and, last night alone, we lost 4,229 troops. Brave men, controlled men. Men who continued marching straight forward, into the ambush, while requiring only three zaps."



McFatty held three fingers up and smiled with what little teeth she had left.



"Our losses have depleted our combat readiness and, while we wait for the twenty brigades the President is in the process of shipping over, we'll all have to make a few sacrifices."



General Bravado grimaced. First month here, he'd put in his requisition form for a skylight only to be told that due to events on the ground, he'd have to sacrifice a few weeks and live without it. Being a mere one-star general meant he was always low man on the base's totem pole and no one ever let him forget it.



Wait. They were being told they were being sent in?



"What!" he hollered from a gut reaction.



"That's right. All one star generals will be headed to the battlefield ASAP. Our fighting forces have been severely depleted."



"But what about the staff sergeants?" General Bravado insisted.



"All blown away. All Lieutenants, Captains, Majors, Colonels and one star generals are going to get to see some action! First hand!"



"B-b-but, I don't want to go. I want to stay on base. Who will Tivo my stories for me? Will the base masseur follow us to the battlefield? I'm used to chow like veal piccata and eggplant parmesan. I ain't eating no MREs!"



"Bravado! I am shocked by your statements! Shocked! Man, here is the chance for you to earn another star! To serve your country on the battlefield! To personally take part in this glorious battle!"



"Truth is, sir, I don't believe in this war. I don't think we ever should have invaded France in the first place and certainly not on so flimsy an excuse."



"Flimsy, Bravado? President Jenna Bush said the new line of French haute couture was designed solely to make her look fat. Our president is not fat! And did you see what the St. John's Bay French terry shorts did to Attorney General George P. Bush's ass? Those shorts made him cry! Are you going to stand by while America's morale is threatened?"



"With all due respect, sir, I don't believe St. John's clothing is made in France. I believe these are trumped up assertions designed to allow the United States to enter into an illegal war of choice."



"Good God, McFatty! I thought we had drummed all of this talk out of today's service with your gadgets!"



McFatty worked furiously with her remote device, so furiously that she even stopped stuffing her mouth, attempting to zap General Bravado.



"Sir, I request a C.O. application immediately."



"Bravado, we don't even have those anymore. McFatty!"



"Sir, since the Revolutionary War, the United States has allowed for C.O.s. I respectfully request that while you attempt to locate a form, I be allowed to remain on base --"



ZAP!



McFatty pointed to the remote.



"There were some crumbs preventing the button from going all the way down," she explained with a shrug.



General Bravado began marching . . . off to battle. His first and, two days later, his last. On the plus side, President Jenna Bush called an armistice when her grandmother introduced her to the wonders of stretchy pants.

The Tired Tryst

You saw him for the first time in 1988. You were six-years-old. You've followed him over the years and what was interest grew to obsession, especially on the sexual front. By 1998, when you were sixteen, you'd have jumped his bone in the middle of church on a Sunday, with the entire congregation, including your parents, looking on. That's how much you wanted him.



And that's how you ended up in Sweden, on the front row, screaming his name as the band played on and on. You hoped you were his type: blonde and busty. But, looking around at the crowd, you realized everyone in Sweden was blonde and busty. Even the males.



You were still smiling but plagued with doubt when they launched into "Wild Honey" and, maybe you were imaging it, but it seemed like he was staring right at you throughout the song. Wild honey? You'd show him some wild honey.



You were never popular in school, hell you weren't even busty back then. A senior year trip to Mardi Gras hadn't resulted in any beads for you, even though you'd pretty much walked up and down Bourbon Street topless. But the implants had given you a new lease on life.



Sometimes you hated yourself for them and longed for the words of your mother to be true, that you were beautiful on the inside. But all you had to do was put on a tight t-shirt without a bra and suddenly you were the most popular in the room.



You were braless now and, with Bono possibly watching, you decided to jump up and down, get them bouncing and really give him a show.



You felt like you were betraying all he stood for but you'd use any weapon at your disposal.



Mid-way through the concert, you're touched on the shoulder and led backstage.



The holiest of holy words have been spoken: Bono wants to meet you.



You look over your shoulder at the other saps, left behind.



Waiting backstage on a couch, you check your make up and check your head for topics to discuss. There's Africa, of course. Bono's really big on that. And there's all the unrest in the world. Your mind's reproducing a world map and you're going region to region and also attempting to remember the correct pronunciations for various Latin America countries. You want to come off worldly. Breasty got you in the door, but brainy's what will really interest Bono.



Bono.



He's staggering through the door now. He's wearing the black, leather vest, the one from The Joshua Tree years. The one from the cover of Time you swiped from your school library six years after the fact in middle school. You love that vest!



He takes it off and it falls on the couch besides you. Twenty years of wear greets your nose and you wonder exactly how difficult it is to clean leather?



But not for long, he's wearing a corset, a device to hold his gut in. Sure, he'd put on a few pounds over the years, that was just part of aging. But you had no idea it was that much. You examine his bloated face a little more carefully now.



Easy to do since it's pressed in your own face now that he's on top of you.



"I want to end world hunger," he declares as his hands head inside your panties.



It's hours later and you're winded. Your body feels wiped out.



Not from Bono's perfunctory, rudimentary love making skills but from his girth having been on top of you.



Now you're thinking you're glad he's married to Ali and hoping that, given a few months time, you'll be able to rewrite this entire tawdry incident into a glorious event to share with friends.



But he's there, dressed, the belly hidden, and pressing you to finish out the leg of this tour.



He's whispering in your ear that you are his muse, that he could write another "All I Want Is You" if you'd just stay another week -- well, who are you to deny the world that? He's still talking, you'll realize what a problem that is later on. You'll grasp that even after the sell is made, Bono continues pitching. You'll realize he says the same thing over and over and question his mental capacities. But right now, you're just focused on the last great song U2 did, "All I Want Is You," and imaging how great it will be to have another just like that. He's telling you that you are the eternal feminine and you start to worry he's a Nietzsche freak when you grasp that he's quoting "Mysterious Ways" to you. Weeks later, you'll wonder about the vanity involved in quoting one's self.



You're on the Lear now and he's wearing cologne which helps reduce the odor. He's also semi-sober and, for a change, not hiding behind those ridiculous orange sun glasses. With all that and the fact that his body's not smothering the oxygen out of your lungs, you're feeling more upbeat.

But not for long.

He's talking with you about debt relief. Well, not with you and not really at you. It's really not talking, it's more of a long winded lecture that only requires you nod every few seconds. Anything more and Bono tends to look vexed. When he wrinkles that brow, all the lines from years of hard living emerge on his face. It's like seeing a mirror with a million cracks.



So you learn to keep silent and wait for him to come up for air but, as his hog hollering onstage demonstrates, he has extraordinary breath control.



He's just launched into the fifteenth sub-set of his main point and is returning to his constant theme that "We are our brother's keepers" when someone walks back.



"Hey, you, dumb f*ck. Where's my cheese burger and beer!"



The flunky turns around red faced and Bono snaps his fingers and huffs "Now!" before returning to his theme of "We are our brother's keeper."



He picks right up where he left off. You marvel over that and wonder if he comes scripted? You know, from last night, he cums scripted. And you know what a let down that was.



The cheese burger and beer are placed before him on a tray and he tears into it with gusto while continuing the lecture.



You aren't sure whether to focus on the wads of food sloshing around his open mouth or the bit of beef stuck between his front teeth? You know not to focus on his words because to do so would result in wondering if he ever shuts up?



You're trying really hard, having agreed to travel with him, to see the positive as much as possible.



You try ignoring the actual words and finding the cadence, hoping that can inspire you but you quickly grasp that the lyricist lacks any lyrical abilities. It's all non-stop patter, delivered at the same rate and moving far too quickly for you to count syllables. So you find yourself having to actually listen as he drones on:



Through media, we have some strange faces in our backyard whom we weren't calling family until very recently, and we still don't really want to. But if you're going to enjoy having your sneakers and your jeans made by developing communities, you are already involved with those people. You cannot therefore just ignore some of the problems they're negotiating. They're living on your street. There was this old definition of generosity, which is at the very least the rich man looks after the poor man on his street. Guess what? Now, that street goes around the globe.



You've already wondered why, when insisting on his own meal, he hadn't thought to even ask if you were hungry. Now you're focusing on those words and wondering what exactly he means by "strange faces"? People of color? There is a strong thread of White Man's Burden running through his remarks, you quickly realize.



You're remembering when the corset came loose and the belly actually flapped. You're seeing him fat and getting fatter as he is waited on and catered to. You're realizing that the squat, short, stout man tossing around racist, neo-liberalism talking points isn't the compassionate man you'd pictured. The one you dreamed of saving and healing the world with, side-by-side.



He's taking a phone call now, still talking, but at least you don't have to pretend to be interested. He's shouting about his investments and something about Billy Squier's chimney. You don't know and you don't care. As he asks of his stock portfolio, his hand snakes over to your knee. Looking over, you see him grinning at you, appraising you as though you are just another one of his possessions.



Overweight and long winded, you tell yourself, why couldn't you have been attracted to Kevin James? You wouldn't have had to leave the US and he might have at least made you laugh.



Bono's grabbed your hand and is holding on top of his crotch. You feel some life in the stubby, little thing as he talks about seizing the publishing of a faded rock star and how he can then "maximize" potential by leasing the songs to advertising.



You break away, mouthing an excuse me, while he continues talking on the phone. You're mainly trying to get away long enough to breathe. You head toward the back of the plane where you encounter Adam smoking a spiff.



He immediately looks alarmed and you swear you won't say a word as you take it from him. He's talking about concerts and you're sharing the joint. It's closer to a rock and roll fantasy than anything you've gone through thus far. In fact, you realize, Bono is a lot like Donald Trump with less charisma.



Adam's laughing and you realize you said that out loud.



You quickly swear you love Bono's gifts and mention that he's working on a new song, something like "All I Need Is You."



Adam's laughing his ass off and you're about to take offense when he explains that Bono wrote that because of the Beatles "All You Need Is Love." Whether it's true or just a bandmate getting a jab in at another, you grasp it plays true. While Lennon would look to the world, Bono's obviously self-obsessed.



Adam explains that there will be no new song, no new songs at all, that Bono can't write anymore. That they've basically been on the oldies circuit for the entire century and praying that no one would catch on.



"The band's running on fumes," he explains.



Maybe it's the pot, maybe it's all the information, maybe it's the altitude, but you find yourself unable to compose a response so you just nod and head back to the front of the plane where you find Bono's continuing his lecture but this time to three conservative suited accountants.



You're studying him more than listening and wondering if he grasps that, finally having done away with his pageboy hairstyle, he now looks a lot like Phil Collins?



He's screaming something about wanting more (Product) Red in the Gap and cursing out the accountants who all cower to no use.





When the plane lands, you're telling yourself, you're out of here. You curse yourself for ever having sought him out and you mourn the passage of The Days of Pamela Des Barres, when rock gods walked the land.

The Asbury Park Murder

Matti looked down. She hadn't her seen her friend in months. Val had gone off to college. Four years of putting off starting life.


Val never knew what she wanted. She was the type who stalled when placing a food order. Always tried to go last. Always hoped someone would suggest something. In the end, she'd end up copying what someone else had ordered.

Val never made many decisions but she was a great tag along.

Now she was deader than the overnights for Studio 60.

Lifeless in the morgue.



Some little weasel with a badge was droning.



Val had been found out at Asbury Park.


Strange in itself because Val's hair frizzed.


Girl put in hours straightening that mess.


A trip to the beach really didn't seem like the Val she knew.


Could two semesters have changed someone so fast?


Something about her being discovered the next morning and that she was strangled. That's what the cop talk was.


Unlike Val, Mattie had wanted to start life immediately.


Ink was barely dry on her high school diploma before she was off to get her investigator's license.


She had it now.


She mainly took photos of cheating husbands and the occasional cheating wife. A few missing person cases. When the bills had to be paid, she'd do a little corporate work. Run a check on a prospective employee. The suits always gave her the heebie-jeebies and she tried to avoid that even if it did pay well.


Cop badge was pumping her now. Needed information. Needed clarification. Needed more than she was going to offer.



She'd gotten the call last night from Val's mother. Val had been found, dead, two days ago. Way she saw it, three days was more than enough time for Monmouth County's not-so-finest to have picked up some clues.



Instead cop badge was badgering her for information. Too many doughnuts must have made him not just fat but lazy.



She wasn't giving up anything.



This was personal. Val had been her friend.



How'd a girl from San Jose end up New Jersey?



She wondered that as she wandered across Rutgers University. Dionne had asked for directions to San Jose, after all, not the other way around.



By the arch, in front of the steps and walkway, leading to Old Queens she queried some of Val's classmates.



She learned of a boyfriend, Bobby, who was said to be crestfallen. They filled her in on Melissa, someone that had a few run ins with Val. One of them, Kristi, had been Val's roommate, had been informed by Val's mother that Matti was coming, and offered to take her to the dorm room she and Val had shared.



Greeting card signed "XXX OOO, Bobby." God, she hated people who used symbols. A few photos taped around the mirror. She motioned to Kristi who walked over and identified the people standing around Val. Melissa was in three of the five photos.



"Thought they hated each other?" Matti pointed out.



"Not at first," Kristi said slowly. "At first, they were pretty tight. They had a falling out, over a guy I think, and then it was just . . . awkward."



"Bobby the guy?"



"No, this was before Bobby."



Matti grunted and opened the drawers. Typical bra and panties round up in the top drawer. "Kiss It" was on the back of one pair of panties. And an item she wouldn't be reporting to Val's mother. Apparently college life included some lonely nights. Moving to the next drawer, she found a set of carefully folded sweaters and sweat shirts. Third drawer was of even less interest.



Going through the closet, she searched the pockets and found a score in a long coat, a folded letter on college rule paper. From Melissa. To Val. "You stole it! Do not approach me, do not speak to me, do not cross my path! Melissa."



Kristi didn't know what the note was about but said it sounded like Melissa. She said she wished she could do more, be of more help. But she really didn't talk to Val last weekend. Val was going to a frat party on Saturday and Kristi's father was celebrating his fiftieth birthday.



"So, after I left Saturday morning, I didn't even see her. I got back Sunday evening and she wasn't here."



"Start boxing her stuff up," Matti said, "and trash the vibrator. Her mother doesn't need to know."



Kristi had told her the police had not done much but question her. They hadn't even really looked around the room. No surprise. They were treating it like a mugging gone wrong or a random attempted rape.



Thing was Val wasn't a loner. Val had never been. She didn't go anywhere unless someone else was going. She didn't do anything unless there was a lead to follow. No way she ended up at Asbury Park on her own. Either someone took her there or she was meeting someone there. Left to her own devices, Val would be seated in front of a TV any night.



A student pointed across the food court and Matti thanked him and then headed for the table.



"You Melissa?"



"And how would that be your business?" asked Melissa.



"Matti. Friend of Val's. Her mother hired me to find out what happened."



"Obviously the little tramp got what was coming to her."



She was a cold one, this Melissa. She didn't look up from the fries was she nibbling on. Not once. Matti could tell she was even more drab than in the photographs and wondered exactly how she and Val ended up friends, however briefly?



Matti sat down at the table and fired off, "You were friends once."



"Yes. Once. I was also once interested in astronomy but that too passed. I used to eat nothing but Ike & Mike but I matured out of that phase as well. All things have a conclusion."



She pushed the fries away and looked at Matti. Poker face. Or maybe one that screamed, "Who the hell do you think you are?" Matti hadn't liked her to begin with and found that initial impression only strengthening.



"You wrote Val a note. You called her a thief."



Melissa nodded and yawned.



Matti stared at her waiting for the uncomfortable shift. Melissa was trying hard to play cool customer but she couldn't pull it off. Cool customers didn't scarf down fries in the food court while wearing Einstein t-shirts.



"What?" Melissa finally asked breaking the silence. "Am I suspected of something?"



"Should you be?"



"Val was a bitch. She came on like a friend, but she was a bitch. When that was revealed, that was the end of our friendship."



Matti continued staring forcing Melissa to continue.



"It was English. I had, as always, done the work. I was prepared. We'd moved into the dorm at the same time. That's how we met. We were in the elevator together. Going up. She seemed nervous. I invited her to come over to my room later. I felt sorry for her, she was obviously an easily agitated person. Pity. Probably more pity than sorrow. I pitied her. She was like the kid who drops out of the marathon four feet after the starting line. Studying her, you could just tell she wouldn't make it. I expected she'd drop out after the spring semester. So that's how we encountered one another, I took pity on her. I studied with her as well. We had an English and a history class together. We shared notes. I should have had my suspicions raised when she ended up in bed with a man I was interested in. She immediately broke it off and begged me to forgive her."



That sounded like Val.



"Like an idiot, I did. Because I'm a better person. We tried to act as if it never happened. I tried to pretend she hadn't stabbed me in the back. Then one morning, before class begun, I shared my thoughts on Kate Chopin. We were reading the short story 'Desiree's baby.' I don't expect that you've heard of it."



Actually, Matti had but she said nothing.



"It's a story by Chopin. A short story. I had explained how, obviously, Armand is half-Black. How, obviously, that was why his father moved to Paris and why he only returned after Armand's mother died. There is no mention of the mother's race. When Desiree gives birth to Armand's child and it obviously has Black blood, that's the tip off. It was my insight. I shared it with her and her repayment was to make that argument in class when called upon. She was a thief, plain and simple."



"And after that?"



"I never spoke with her again. I composed my letter, passed it to her after class, and I never spoke to her again."



Matti believed her. Melissa was obviously the sort of person who could break off contact with anyone over any sleight, real or imagined.



"I'll tell you something else," Melissa said, leaning across the table, "I'm glad she's dead. She had it coming. Are we done?"



"Yes," Matti said rising. "But one thing. Senior year of high school, Val did her paper on Kate Chopin's short stories. Got into an intense argument with the teacher over whether or not Armand was half-Black. Val was. Her father was Black. She didn't steal your 'insight' that's been published in hundreds of studies. She lived it."



Melissa tried hard not to look taken aback but she wasn't a cool enough customer to pull that off.



Matti found Bobby out behind his frat house. He was hammering signs. She introduced herself.



"McCain," Bobby said smiling. "He's the man."



When she explained why she was there, Bobby took on a serious expression.



"Val really was special."



He talked about how Val had been interested in Chet first, that was Bobby's frat bud. She'd been hanging around with some others, hoping to catch Chet's eye.



"But she caught mine instead."



Really special, Bobby repeated. Kind of shy, kind of quiet. Not real assertive. But "a quality." Matti was finding it hard to believe, even all these miles away, Val could have taken up with a McCain supporter. Val's politics had been decidedly to the left.



"Oh, yeah," Bobby laughed. "We disagreed on that. But we kind of fell in with one another. Can't pick whom your heart wants, I guess."



"Did you and Val ever go to Asbury Park?"



"All the time," he said moving some signs. "That was kind of our place. I feel bad, now, for introducing her to it. If I'd never taken her there in the first place, she wouldn't have ever gone. Then, last weekend, she goes and ends up murdered. I blame myself."



"Had you two broken up?"



Bobby shook his head.



Before she could follow up a man fitting the description of neanderthal stepped out the back door and said, "Bobby, phone call for you."



With an "excuse me," Bobby headed into the house. Neanderthal cruised Matti's boobs with his eyes then grinned at her. Stepping around him, she went into the frat house.



Typical frat house. Beer stained sofa, a few bongs lying around. Whole place reeked of over privilege and under worked. Guy walked through in a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt.



Val's group. Matti stopped him.



Val? Yeah, he knew her. It was really sad, he said, what happened. He knew her pretty well.



"You last saw her when?"



"Saturday night. Night before, I guess, night before she died. She was here. We all got drunk and wasted. Typical Saturday night."



"Anything out of the ordinary?"



He shifted around nervously for a moment then answered in the negative.



"Typical Saturday night," he repeated.



His eyes were blood shot and his breath didn't reek of alcohol so Matti surmised he was stoned. Catching a hint, he pulled out some eye drops and applied them.



Bobby walked out a door, a bedroom door. The wall next to had a hole where a fist had obviously gone through it. Someone would have to plaster over that. Surprising no one had already.



Walking over, he scowled at Chet who shifted uncomfortably. Nodding to Matti, Chet walked off.



"Loser," Bobby hissed.



"Why don't you like him?" Matti asked.



Bobby shrugged, then put his thumb and finger up to his mouth as though holding a smoke.



"Stoner," Bobby laughed.



"Considering the fact that there's a honey bear bong as well as one made out of toilet paper on the coffee table, I wouldn't think that would be much of an issue," Matti observed.



"Oh, well, you know. Some guys can handle it. Some guys can't. He can't."



"Surprising," Matti stated. "I would have thought you and Chet would be best friends."



"We were," Bobby admitted. "Until recently."



So that was Chet. Matti said her goodbyes and walked out of the front door of the frat house. She was headed back to Val's dorm when the cop badge stopped her.



"What's with all the questions? We got a call from the Dean of Admissions that you're asking professors and teachers all these questions?"



"Someone has to."



"Look, miss, we're questioning all the hobos and vagrants on the boardwalk. We'll find out which one of them killed your friend. This ain't TV and you need to leave the cop work to the professionals."



Matti almost managed not to laugh in his face.



"You know Bobby?"



"Yeah, the victim's boyfriend," the badge said.



"My friend, my dead friend's boyfriend," Matti corrected. "You need to take him in for questioning and book him."



"Him? Bobby's a good kid. He's a Young Republican."



"Mister Straight and Narrow killed Val."



"How do you figure?"



Matti sketched it out for him. How Val and Melissa had both been interested in the same guy, Chet. How they'd hung around the frat house trying to catch his attention. How Val had. How Val and Chet had slept together. That's why Chet was so stoned now. His way of "coping." While Bobby built signs and worked on a campaign, mouthing all the correct words of sorrow and mourning but acting as though nothing had happened.



"Well maybe out in La-La Land, that's how you convict, but in the real world, everyone's not a suspect," the badge laughed.



"La-La Land would be Los Angeles," Matti corrected. "Val would never go anywhere by herself. She doesn't even have a car. Did she hitch to Asbury Park? Take the bus? No, she was driven there and she was driven there because it was an out of the way spot. It was also the special place for her and Bobby which adds to the suspicion. Who else but Bobby would have taken her there?"



"And why would Bobby have killed her, Sherlock Holmes?"



"He's crazy. He's for Senator Crazy. Besides, Saturday night, at the party, he must have found out that his special one, his picture-ready, possible some day wife, had slept with Chet. He's too busy living in a pretend world to handle reality and he couldn't handle the reality. It ruined his fairy tale fantasy. That's probably when he punched a hole in the wall outside his bedroom. It's probably when he turned on Chet and it probably scared Val so much she split. Then he shows up Sunday, talking he's sorry. Saying they can put it behind them. Asking her to run over to Asbury Park with him. Where they'll put it all behind them. Where they'll start over fresh."



"Well you just have it all figured out."



"Yeah, I do because you made two mistakes I didn't. One, you believed that Val would ever go anywhere by herself. Two, you bought the lie that there's any such thing as a young Republican."



The announcement said to buckle your seats. Which Matti did. Like Val's body, she was headed home. She looked again at the front page of the paper. A photo of Bobby and Bobby Senior on the front page. They denied his guilt. They were going to fight this. The story told of how Chet let it slip at a frat party that he'd slept with Val, how Bobby had screamed and yelled, punched a wall, but, both Bobbys insisted, so what? A student had come forward to say he'd seen Val get into Bobby's car Sunday afternoon. Hadn't thought much of it because they were a known couple. Just assumed, before the other stuff came out, that Bobby and Val had been off to do something and, much later, Val must have ended up at Asbury Park. Turned out Bobby had also had other incidents with women in his past. They'd been covered up. Money tended to make that possible. Hopefully, this last incident was too public.



The plane took off.

Creation Theory

"Man Tan or Quick Tan?" asked Dr. Frum.



"Man Tan! Quick Tan," Dr. Ford explained, "will make him look too jaundiced, too yellow. That's what did me in in 2006! They called me 'lemon'."



"Are we really sure Black is the way to go?" asked Dr. Wittmann.



A lengthy discussion took place in the "Progressive" Policy Institute which was only resolved when Dr. Ford pointed out that despite the fact he was pro-war, anti-abortion, anti-same-sex benefits and "an all around Republican," he received "sympathy and mass coverage" when an opponent lampooned his attending a post-Super Bowl, Playboy party party in an ad.



"It wasn't even racist towards me," he said excitedly. "It was racist towards Playboy Bunnies in that it worked with the assumption that all women attending a Playboy party would be White. But look at how they played out. Even independent media was supporting me and cluck-clucking and they never said a word that I, an alleged Black man, posed in front of a Confederate flag in the same race! Black, pseudo Black, is the answer! It takes the sting out of all criticism!"



"Genius," agreed Dr. From while Dr. Wittmann cautioned that they shouldn't go "too Black."



Standing over the Caucasian male, they began applying Man Tan liberally.



"What else?" Dr. From asked mid-slathering.



"Well, let's deal with crack odor because that really sunk Slimey."



A moment of silence was held to honor Slimey Rosenberg followed by high fives and talk of how close he got.



"We really worked the pseudo-independent bloggers there," chortled Dr. Frum.



"'We'?" asked Dr. Wittmann before pointing out that it was he who had been quoted non-stop at supposedly left blogs -- generally run by those who had supported Reagan in the 80s but what readers didn't know, no one was telling.



"What else?" asked Dr. Ford.



"Toothy!" insisted Dr. From. "I loved Mary Tyler Moore and spent every Saturday night in the seventies glued to CBS just to see that smile."



After some ribald teasing that he was actually watching for Gavin MacLeod (which would explain the Love Boat mural on his bedroom ceiling), all agreed with Dr. From.



Dr. Ford explained, "He can't be too Black and we need the toothy to take away from the skin color."



"But," wondered Dr. Wittmann, "wouldn't a man smiling non-stop come off as an airhead?"



"Only a White man," Dr. Ford explained. "A Black man would be seen as non-threatening if he smiled constantly. Haven't you studied the ground breaking work of Dr. Patti Williams on Black men and dogs? Dr. Patti has revealed and demonstrated, backed up by the social scientists of People magazine, that a Black face is too dark. Just like a black dog. Teeth lighten the picture."



To ensure the point got across, they gave the man laying on the table oversize choppers.



"I doubt his lips will even come together now," laughed Dr. From.



Dr. Ford agreed as he flipped through GQ and Vogue for Men to order various trendy outfits for their patient.



"Won't that make him look a little light in the loafers?" asked Dr. Wittman.



Dr. Ford threw down the magazine and charged at Dr. Wittman, real anger in his eyes, screaming, "Say it to George Clooney! Say it to Clooney!"



After Dr. From separated the two men, it was agreed that fashion plate would further distance the 'Black' candidate from Black fears and that light in the loafers could actually be worked into a campaign motto: "He will tread lightly in the White House, question no power structure and oppose no war."



But positions, insisted Dr. Wittman, hadn't they forgotten positions. What was this Frankenstein candidate going to stand for.



"He will come out strongly for Darfur because we can reduce that to pure emotion," said Dr. From flipping through polling results. "As for the rest, he'll never say anything specific but give inspirational speeches. It'll be like slapping a penis on Oprah and running her for president!"



They were in agreement, finally, and turned off the lights and headed home.



Days later when the high fashion arrived, they returned to the lab to begin dressing the candidate.



"Uh-oh," moaned Dr. Ford.



Everyone stared where he was pointing, at the crotch of the candidate.



"Did we give him a libido? If we gave him a libido, there's a chance that someone might see this and, if they do, they'll know he's not Black," fretted Dr. Ford.



Silence followed as they continued to stare at the meager package. Using a pointer, Dr. From even prodded it a few times, hoping it would come to life and grow but there was no action.



"At least we won't have to worry about any Slick Willie problems!" laughed Dr. Wittman before realizing he was no longer at the Hoover Institute and that shtick didn't play.



Pacing for hours, fueled on Fruit Roll Ups and Sanka, the three men pondered what to do? How to address this problem? They had planned an athletic image for their candidate and, certainly, he would have to change in a few locker rooms. Dr. From, flashing back on high school, knew damn well that boys did look and boys did talk. Certainly finishing senior year being called "Little Al" by everyone, including teachers, bore that out.



The Sanka was all gone and they were about to send someone out for strawberry flavored, power milk; however, Dr. Ford banged a fist down on the gurney.



"I've got it! We'll say he's only half-Black."



The other two murmured in agreement excitedly.



"Half-Black," Dr. Wittman said, "so you can trust him."



Moving his hand slowly through the air, as though across a banner, Dr. From said, "The Ultimate Centrist!"



Hours later, while Dr. Ford tutored the candidate on political theory via the works of Erma Bombeck, Drs. Wittman and From stepped out into the hallway.



"I don't care if it does sound like 'Yo Mama,' I want him to be named Obama," Dr. Wittman confided.



Dr. From readily agreed. His only concern was how to break the news to Bill that they'd created their own Frankenstein candidate and would no longer need Hillary?

Samantha Power Between Her Knees

What was the doctor saying? Cut what? Everything seemed so foggy right now.



She tried to center herself in the present but couldn't. So she went back to the beginning.



She was an NYU student. She may have been only semi-political active, but she liked to think of herself as politically aware. That was how she ended up at the rally three days before and the planning session now. A hushed awe came over the planning session -- so much so that no one was even mouthing "Not on my watch."



It was there. The force behind the movement. With what appeared to be a really bad bleach job making the hair color look more orange than anything else. And as it floated into the room there was a smell like burning incense or cabbage.



It was the next morning, waking twenty minutes late and wondering if the snooze button had been abused or the alarm not set, when she sat up in bed, that she first smelled it.



Looking around the room as she sat up in bed, sniffing the air, she couldn't place where the smell was coming from and with ten minutes before her first class was due to start, she really didn't have the time to. She opened a window, hurried to the shower and told herself she'd locate the smell when she got back.



"Hobbs," a guy on the back row was saying, "you can't wear those grungy sneakers and no socks like that."



"Yeah, dude," agreed another, "we're all choking on your funk."



Hobbs replied with an unprintable while everyone laughed. Almost everyone.



She didn't think the smell was Hobbs' feet or his sneakers.



It was the smell she had sniffed earlier.



She kept her head down and ground her teeth waiting for class to finally end and then, when it had, she headed for the first bathroom. Entering the stall, she dropped her slacks and the smell wafted off. It was her.



This was so embarrassing.



Was it a yeast infection? Her period wasn't due for two more weeks. She had certainly soaped up the area down there right before class.



The bathroom door opened and she could hear a group of women come in.



"Oh my God! What is that odor?"



She heard the women laughing.



When they had finally left, she'd hurried out ending up at a drug store where she bought assorted products including the one that killed cockroaches so, surely, should be able to kill this smell.



She applied everything, sprays and liquids. She even removed the hair down there. After three hours and about sixteen products, the smell was gone.



She breathed a sigh of relief, wrote off the missed classes as no real loss, and headed off to the quad to get something to eat.



As she ate, her friend Bernie came over. Bernie was working on a new Out of Iraq action and the more animated he became talking about it, the less she found herself caring. She tuned him out for several minutes before she realized he'd asked a question.



"Sure," she offered.



Not sure what she was agreeing to but she could tell by the look on his face that a question had been asked.



Whatever she'd agreed to, it made him happy and he nodded before going on his way.



She had a paper due shortly on the historical struggles of labor in the US so she headed for the library where she attempted to take notes but found her mind wandering and realized she'd taken several pages of notes on autopilot.



She couldn't believe how little she cared, all the sudden, about any of it. But she told herself it was due to the embarrassment of the morning. She just knew she was yawning and tired.



After trudging back to her room, she stripped and crawled into bed. The clock displayed 5:15 but it felt more like midnight. Making sure the alarm was set, she fell asleep with the sun still shining.



Two things hit her as she awoke the next morning -- she was hungry and the smell was back.



There was no denying that the smell was back. No denying that it seemed stronger than yesterday and no denying that it wasn't the most pressing issue right now.



She rarely ate breakfast but her stomach was growling. She thought of grabbing some body spray or perfume but her stomach was in control as she pulled on her sweats and went in search of food. That was the other thing, two slices of toast, for her, was a big breakfast. But right now she wanted bacon, she wanted sausage, she wanted hot links.



She first realized she was out in public, seated, and that people were making jokes about the smell as she polished off the twelfth sausage and started in on another plate of bacon. She really didn't care about the cat calls, she was more concerned as to whether or not she her ATM card with her having used all her cash on breakfast. And still being hungry.



The kindly looking woman at the clinic a few hours later was obviously attempting to hold her breath. Now standing across the room, the woman was saying she had no idea what was causing the odor and recommending she see a specialist.



She laughed loudly. Tossed her head back and roared. A specialist? Who had the time? She was due at a planning session.



"This may not seem serious, but that odor is probably an indication of something very serious," the woman told her.



Waving a hand, she replied, "Not on my watch."



At the planning session with other students, she noticed that no one seemed to comment on the odor or even care. These were serious people. These were people like her. Except for that one jerk who kept insisting that "talks needed to take place."



"Screw talks," she snarled, "I say we carpet bomb the area."



The remark surprised her but she noticed everyone was nodding.



Outside, she bumped into Bernie. He and seven other students were holding signs and marching in a circle. Breaking off from the march, he strode up to her.



"You said you'd be here."



"What?"


"The march," he reminded her.



"For what?"



"Out of Iraq."



It was as though he was speaking another language that had been reduced to blips and beeps. She couldn't comprehend him.



He pointed an accusing finger at the "Save Darfur" literature she was holding.



"You've got the Samantha Power!"



That she understood. Wrinkling her nose at him and furrowing her brow, she hissed. He jerked back in surprise but not enough for her liking. She shoved him and walked on by as he fell to the ground.



The next morning, she awoke to discover the stink was even more powerful. The stink. The funk. The odor. That wouldn't go away.



"Oh my God!" she gasped in a moment of clarity. "I've got the Samantha Power between my knees!"



Seizing the phone in a panic, she dialed her mother and found herself sobbing on the phone as she explained the odor issue. Her mother didn't quite get it. Surely, it wasn't that bad? But her mother would drive in and be there shortly.



"Just stay calm."



She tried. But that odor.



She opened the window.



She even sat a fan in the window, pointed outside the room. She sprayed perfume, she lit scented candles, she used everything she could get her hands on, probably doubling the hole in the ozone layer in the process, and all to no noticeable change.



When her mother did arrive, one sniff and she too was bothered.



What followed were several days of appointments with various specialists. Question after question, exam after exam.



"Have you eaten any new ethnic food?"



"Have you practiced unprotected sex?"


"Do you have a history of glandular problems?"



"Have you been working with or exposed to raw sewage?"



The questions, like the exams, seemed to get no where.



But the smell was traveling.



The odor was on the move.



The pores on her legs, down to her knees, now gave off the odor. And this was quickly followed with it traveling further down. Eventually, even her feet gave off the odor.



Bernie showed up at her hospital room one day, weeks later, with flowers. He was apologizing and telling her he hadn't realized she was very sick.



He was also trying not to breathe and, occasionally, holding his nose.



Searching for something nice to say, some compliment to offer, he pointed out that she'd changed her hair.



Had she?



She didn't remember. But looking in the mirror, she saw her long black hair was now orange with a ridiculous part on one side and what appeared to be some heavy teasing going on at the top.



Bernie was, for lack of anything else to say, talking about Iraq.



"We got rid of Saddam Hussein, didn't we?" she snarled.



He sputtered but she wasn't done with.



"If those people can't appreciate all we've done for them, screw 'em. Let's take their oil and let 'em all kill each other. They're obviously all beasts and savages! You waste your time and everyone else's trying to end this war! The answer is not 'no' to war, it's 'yes' -- more war!"



She was spitting her words out at a fast pace and a loud volume. Bernie just stared at her with his mouth open in shock as she spoke of how there was no point in building nukes "if you don't have the balls to use 'em."



Finally, a nurse came in, ushered Bernie out of the room and insisted she calm down.



"Not on my watch!" she shot back.



The next few days were a blur. And they had led up to this morning.



The doctor was explaining that elective surgery wasn't the way to go, that cutting off her legs, as she'd insisted, was excessive for what was, after all, just an odor.



"Kill 'em," she insisted. "Cut 'em off. And if you won't do it, I will find someone who will! Barring that, I'll cut 'em off myself!"



Grabbing the doctor's hand, she'd bit his arm to make sure he got the point and how serious she was. To save her, it was necessary to destroy her. Couldn't he grasp that? What kind of a doctor was he?



He'd given her a sedative. Good. He was serious. She was sure she could be wide awake through the procedure. In fact, she pictured herself eating as they removed her legs. But if he was prepping her for surgery, she didn't care. Just get it over with, was her attitude.



Too many people did nothing or just talked. She was all about action. Cut the legs off. Cut the legs off to get rid of the smell. If that didn't stop it, the arms were next. Need be, they'd go further. That would cure it. She knew that.



When she awoke, she was in an ambulance. Some woman was chattering away in an annoying manner but she just wanted to see if they'd removed her legs. They hadn't. They'd screwed her over. Friggin' doctors. Friggin' cowards.



"Why are you calling me that? Who are you?" she yelled at the woman who would not stop patting her arm.



"Honey, it's me. Your mother."



They'd put some crazy in the ambulance with her. Who was this woman? She noticed that she, herself, was restrained and decided that short of chewing the woman's face off, if she could lure her close enough, she had no way to defend herself. Better not to rock the boat, just yet.



"Where are we going?"



"Bellevue."



Bellevue. It sounded like her homeland -- where green hills met the coast. She was going home. Samantha Power was going home.



"Who?" the woman asked her.



"Samantha Power. That is my name."



The woman wouldn't look at her. Probably hadn't realized whom she was dealing with. A celebrity. One of the great thinkers of our time. Where there were problems, she was there screaming for war. And, she told herself, that would always be the case.

Cut The Fat! Newt Takes It Off!

What would summer be without a weight loss book? Wading in to the annual bikini and toga debate this year is former House Speaker Newt Gingrich. An excerpt from his upcoming book, Cut The Fat! Newt Takes It Off! as told to William R. Forstchen.



America is a fat nation and that has to stop. Cut the fat! Cut the fat!



Under the leadership of the late Ronald Reagan, America was a nation where things flourished, trains ran on time, the world was at peace, neighbors openly hugged one another on the streets and we all had the appropriate body mass. Then came McClinton and it's been fat, fat, fat ever since.



Waistlines or Waste Lines



You want to look good on the beach? Well how can you when, as soon as you get there, you're confronted with all these Welfare Beachers? Sucking on the government teet. Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck. It's time to cut them off. We need legislation that will impose a maximum of two weeks for unemployment insurance. If you leave a job, you're expected to give two weeks notice. Two weeks is certainly long enough to find a job. If you can't, then there must be something wrong with you! You should either kill yourself or move overseas where most of the jobs currently are!



Firm Buttocks or Bullocks!



As my third or fourth wife likes to remind me, no one likes a flabby ass. And why should they?

And why should we take it upon ourselves to provide free breakfasts to school children? Aren't they fat enough as it is? Most of them only go to school for seven and a half hours a day as it is. Are you telling me there's not time to work? Want to eat? Get a job! Are you telling me that the children in China, Malaysia, Thailand or Vietnam have more fortitude than American children? If it's so, it's only because we baby children in this country.



We used to take pride, in this country, in our sweat shops. Saw them as a by-product of the Industrial Revolution. As Jeffrey Sachs has said, "My concern is not that there are too many sweatshops, but that there are too few." I share that concern and think we've gotten awfully namby-pamby in this country over a few fires right after the turn of the last century. Fires are exciting and fun. Kids love them. Lot of them want to ride a fire truck. Quit trying to shelter them and hide them away. Put 'em to work and let them show a little productivity that made this country great.



"There's nothing like the satisfaction you feel after an honest day's work," friends often tell me and I take their word for it. You should too. It is child abuse to deny that same satisfaction to children.



Thighs or Piernas



One of the most slimming things about anyone's appearance is the ability to stand up. You need strong legs for that. Whether you are pointing out that Spanish is "the language of living in a ghetto" or calling out for the end of bilingual programs in public schools, as I did, in 1995, you have to take tough stands. Not only does that make you more attractive, it also gives you stronger legs which enable you to run quickly should anyone notice that you who insult Spanish also hectored David Branccacio that Marketplace should broadcast in Spanish back in 2001?



Saggy Man Boobs



One of the things we hear often is "Be All That You Can Be" and sometimes we may overreach. Like when Bill Clinton thought he could put me and Bob Dole at the back of Air Force One. Like Rosa Parks before me, I didn't hesitate to protest. I shut down the entire federal government. Where's my White Man's History month, huh? But a lot of times we have to grasp that while aspirations are good, acceptance is sometimes needed.



Take my saggy man boobs. Please! I joke about them but I wouldn't live without them. Not now, since I've accepted them. I always used to drool over women's breasts and, the way I see it, my own saggy man boobs are just the Lord's way of rewarding me. I may not ever need divorce again. Anytime I feel a little frisky, I just close my eyes, reach inside my own shirt and fondle away.

Newt below, at a photo session, posing for the cover of Cut The Fat! Newt Takes It Off!

Highlight

This feature was written by Wally, Cedric, Betty, Rebecca, Elaine and Mike and all selections picked by them unless otherwise noted.





"What a drag, he is getting old" -- Betty's latest chapter finds Betinna donning male drag and going in search of Thomas Friedman.





"Mandarin Oranges & Wild Rice in the Kitchen" -- Trina wrote late/early (late Friday, early Saturday morning) and that's due to the fact that her son and daughter-in-law moved in on Saturday. One reader (Sammy) e-mailed this site that they enjoyed it but Trina seemed a little reserved. A little reserved?



"Friday" -- what she could have done was link to Mike's post but his kid sister would have thrown a fit. (She's already pissed at Mike for writing about it.) For what's what in the McKinnon house, read this.




"And the war drags on . . ." -- Ty says very popular in the e-mails and very popular with us. C.I.'s addressing the media silences on Iraq at The Nation. To repeat, check out any community site on July 4th and Labor Day. You won't want to miss those days. (Or those joint-posts.)





"Ford and CIA discuss Jane Fonda, Kissinger tries to cover his own War Criminal ass" -- Kat addresses what the CIA has finally released so far. Gerry Ford and the CIA discuss Jane Fonda and Henry Kissinger worried about prison.





"THIS JUST IN! JONESTOWN II ENDS IN BOREDOM!" & "They drank the kool-aid" -- Wally and Cedric's joint-post that prompted a coffee fetcher to respond. We weren't aware of that. Cedric never checks for comments (but notes community members responded to one post and he intends to grab that and make it its own post at some point). Betty was struggling with her chapter and needed some "laugh inspiration." She checked to see if their latest post was up yet (it wasn't -- they were holding so they could link to Betty) and saw that a coffee fetcher was displeased. You'll want to read Betty's strong rebuttal. (Yes, she commented.)

"Lakshimi shows up late and lost (Ava and C.I.)" -- One of the things that sometimes gets tossed around is all of us doing one site. Rebecca's even said, before, that she'd curb the language if we wanted to do that. How that would work would be we still post as we normally do but all at one site. That would be interesting. Hasn't happened yet. But one thing that has happened is a true joint-entry by Ava and C.I. Those are rare but we always love them (and so do you, Ty told us this was the most mentioned thing from another site in the e-mails to Third this week). The way this worked was members were complaining in e-mails about Lakshimi. (Imagine that.) C.I. and Ava had addressed her here (unnamed) many times and C.I. felt if it was going to be addressed, Ava needed to be brought in. C.I. then called Jim and checked to make sure the fiction edition was still on for this one. It was. C.I. explained what Ava was about to be asked to co-tackle and checked to make sure Jim wasn't going to feel it should have gone up here? Jim agreed it needed to be addressed quickly and said they should tackle it today. Then Ava and C.I. discussed what they were going to write. Then, between speaking, they scribbled down one liners. They dictated it to a friend over the phone, writing around the one liners. Jim reads it and his reaction (according to Ty) is, "Damn. I should have said, 'Write it, but we want it for this site."

"Law and Disorder" -- ever say something that's correct and have someone blow you off like you don't know what you're talking about? That was done to Dalia Hashad. Mike explains it here.

"John Halle, Norman Finkelstein, Ruth Conniff, etc...." -- Elaine addressing a topic that everyone involved in this takes very personal. At one point or another everyone (except Elaine but including the Third gang) has had someone go running to C.I. about some 'mean' old thing that was said. We firmly believe that if you have a problem with something someone wrote, you take it up with them, you don't try to go over their heads.

"Two snorts over the line" & "THIS JUST IN! RUDY'S HOUSE PARTIES TAKE A HIT!" -- that Rudy, he was running quite the campaign.

"grab mag," "thomas ravenel was the state treasurer," "mixed bag," "robert parry, jonathan weisman" and "our law breaking attorney general" -- Rebecca continues to explore the Alberto Gonzales cesspool.

Ava and C.I. bonus

This our yearly fiction edition. You'll shortly be seeing six pieces of fiction along with "Highlights," an editorial and, yes, Ava and C.I.'s latest. But Ava and C.I. did a joint-post at The Common Ills last week and we're reposting it to make sure you didn't miss it and to give you something to enjoy while we do another draft of our editorial (the only piece not yet finished).

"Lakshimi shows up late and lost (Ava and C.I.)"

We've never doubted that a woman could be president (and at some point will be). But we've never assumed that gender would be an answer. A woman who supports equality? Absolutely, that's a great thing. A woman who makes her way as an exception, backs up an agenda she doesn't believe in and does nothing to help other women? We don't see the point in applauding that.It's a pertinent issue as two women are repeatedly named as potential candidates in the real world: Condi Rice and Hillary Clinton. If either woman (or both) runs, will we get the same giddy "It's a woman!" nonsense? Under no circumstance would either of us vote for Rice. We'd be reluctant to vote for Clinton considering her waffles on the issue of choice and her stance on the war. But will those issues be silenced in the giddy cry of, "It's a woman! It's a first!"
That's troubling.

We, Ava and C.I., wrote the above November 20, 2005. Last week, Lakshmi Chaudhry showed up late to the party.

Cake's all gone, Lakshmi, but there may be some punch left.

What's that?

No, we don't want your help cleaning up. In fact, considering the way you mangle everything, please keep your hands off our fine china.

Now Baby War Hawk Lakshmi's latest scattered doodles have enraged some community members. No one should be enraged. Lakshmi dances badly but the general consensus is someone else is handling the choreography and, no, it's not Debbie Allen.

Last week, it was noted here what's been whispered, Katrina vanden Heuvel imitated/ripped off/paid homage to Nora Ephron's "Upstairs, Downstairs" essay from several decades back (to write about the pressing issue of American Idol) so is it any surprise Lakshmi is suddenly dispatched to write an article for The Nation that goes after Ephron? Not at all and many spent this past weekend laughing.

Of course laughter often greets Lakshmi's writing. As the Little Richard song notes, "The Girl Can't Help It." Baby War Hawk got her wings in Januray 2005 when she demonstrated that the Party Hack Who Hacks Loudest Hacks Last. That's when Lakshmi decided to sell the war.

Tom Hayden called her out on it. Community members, no links to either piece because they are you know where. Yes, the site that thought their employees could bully and spy on a 14-year-old boy. But we will note Tom Hayden called her out. Lakshmi, like the Democratic Party leadership and others, was all about WalkOn, WalkOn.org from Iraq post the 2004 elections. Then came Lakshmi's debut as a blogger which owed a clear debt to Mike (some say "theft," not "debt") and between the two events, we all grasped how useless Lakshmi was.

She moved on over to In These Times and, silly us, we thought Susan J. Douglas not only already covered pop culture but did a wonderful job of it. Lakshmi just knew she could do better. Better was apparently the fact free musings she churned out which provided even more gales of laughter.

At The Third Estate Sunday Review, we tried to be kind and not name her when catching her many errors (such as the false claim that ABC refused to promote Commander-in-Chief). And, of course, she was an inspiration in the parody "The Elector" (November 26, 2006) -- see the section entitled "Our Popular Cultures by Lazy" -- "Lazy" is a parody of her and two others.


Prior to the latest hilarity, Lakshmi provided belly laughs when she decided she was going to take on Black Snake Moan.

We wanted to nod our heads. We agreed on some points. But -- due to the hallmark of her (bad) writing -- we couldn't.

It's really hard to say "Yeah!" if that means backing up stupidity.

Working herself into a lather over the thought of a semi-dressed and chained up Jake Gyllenhaal, Lakshmi forgot that, before writing, it helps to know what you are talking about. As we pointed out at The Third Estate Sunday Review, the comparison she was reaching for but never finding is 3 in the Attic. In her refusal to be bound by facts or knowledge, Lakshmi has acted as the chief spokesperson for Gas Bags USA and, in the process, brought joy to the nation
. . . however unintentionally.

So when she showed up to go after Nora Ephron and others, it wasn't a surprise to most people. It was generally assumed she'd either been ordered to clean her mistress' drapes or decided to do it on her own, good lackey that Lakshmi is. Baby War Hawk works for The Peace Resister.


Lakshmi wants to take a look at the issue of women and Hillary Clinton -- or that's her cover. Were she truly wanting to take a look at those issues, she might have to examine The Nation's cover of Hillary Clinton not all that long ago as well as their article on Clinton and wonder what all that says? (Muse, Lakshmi, muse!)

Lakshami's . . . 'article' has produced laughs in most left circles and that's due to the fact that it's seen as a response and due to the fact that it's doodled by Lakshmi who has apparently never met a 'fact' she wouldn't attempt to bend to her will. The standout in her current doodle is this one:

It's why antiwar feminist organizations like CodePink are less likely to give her a pass for her Iraq vote than they would, say, John Edwards. Explaining the reasoning behind their "bird-dog Hillary" campaign to The Nation, founder Medea Benjamin wore her double standard on her sleeve: "You expect more of a woman."

Bird-dogging Hillary (and others) took place in the summer of 2006 (and Katha Pollitt wrote about it then). Why didn't they bird-dog John Edwards? Since they were lobbying Congress and the campaign season wasn't in full bloom, why would they?

Logic like that escapes Lakshmi. (She needs to review Pollitt's article which is what she's taken Medea's quote from. No surprise that our non-feminist Lakshmi prefers to credit "The Nation" and not Pollitt.) Hillary Clinton was targeted a) because she was a War Hawk, b) because it was thought she would run for president and c) because she was 'representing' a state overwhelming against the illegal war at that point. Medea Benjamin wore her courage, her strong spirit and many other things; however, she wore no double standard. Only in what passes for a 'mind' to Lakshmi could the three reasons Hillary was bird-dogged be missed and Medea be accused of a double standard for noting that we do expect women to be smart about war.

The article's nonsense -- as much so as the efforts of The Nation to attack Hillary (that really is the topic Lakshmi's attempting to connect with, right?) while building up Barack Obama. "Harvard Law Review," gushed Patti Williams in wide-eyed wonder. Patti's not aware that any African-Americans wouldn't be on board with the bi-racial Barack and shared, on KPFA, that's just Fox 'News' talking. If you're surprised the names Glen Ford, Bruce Dixon and Margaret Kimberley don't register with Professor Patti you obviously missed her latest where she compared African-Americans to dogs. Maybe that sort of offensive comparison pops up when you use People magazine as source material for an article in an alleged political weekly?


But while Barack Obama's half-African-American nature led to lengthy musings in print (and a cover story) that read like "Mash Notes From Patti!" . . . note the contrast. This is the first thing The Nation's decided to run on Hillary and gender. Barack gets Patti rubbing her knees so furiously you might think she's about to ignite. Hillary?

She gets Lakshmi and bad writing, such as this:

To be fair, the women and the organizations supporting Hillary are hardly advocating a "vagina litmus test." As Gandy points out, NOW has supported male candidates in the past and is now backing Clinton because of "a demonstrated history" of her commitment to feminist ideals.

NOW has not endorsed Hillary Clinton. Follow us on this, Lakshmi, it's an important point. NOW Pac has endorsed Hillary. They are two separate entities and must remain so due to tax status. As for Kim Gandy's comment, since Hillary Clinton is one of the few women to run for the Democratic presidential nomination (NOW PAC doesn't do third parties nationally and probably never will after the beating Molly Yard took in the 80s), NOW PAC would have had to have given support to male candidates in the past. (However, NOW PAC did endorse the female candidate in the 2004 Democratic presidential primary.)

The most laughter enducing section for many is where Lakshmi can't grasp why someone could praise Hillary Clinton as First Lady, well over a decade prior, yet be against her for president. Apparently, in Lakshmi's world, little things like a record in the Senate (or running from abortion so well that Clinton won praise from the New York Times editorial board in 2005) are unimportant factors. Nora Ephron, like many women, saw the attacks on First Lady Hillary Clinton for what they were, sexism. Ephron, like many women, defended Hillary. Let's be clear (to use a favorite expression of ours and, we'll assume, of Lakshmi's), when Hillary made feminists cringe from time to time in the 90s, we told ourselves, "She's under attack." "She's under attack" only works as an excuse for so long.

The woman who was seen as a feminist, against the illegal war of her generation, pro-women, et al got a lot of passes when her husband's actions put her in an unflattering light regularly. But those days are gone. She's not the wife of . . . She stepped out on her own, as many hoped she would, and now she's being judged accordingly.

It's equally true that some of her actions wouldn't cause so much concern at another time. Were it 1997 and not 2007, it's doubtful the War Hark nature of the senator would be remarked upon or cause so much concern. That was a more peaceful ("more peaceful," not peaceful) time and we all knew, right, what side she was on in the '60s'?

Those passes don't fly anymore. She has cheerleaded this war (partly because her husband supported it in his own terms but no one's supposed to note that). She has stood toe to toe with the likes of Joe Biden and John McCain while playing More-War-Hawk-Than-Thou and she's won. Many of us don't see that as a good thing.

Throughout the 90s, we saw Hillary go softer and gauzier and knew it was due to the attacks -- the constant attacks. Politician's wife, we said, and weren't all that surprised. We expected that, if she ever ran for office, her own strengths would kick in; however, we weren't expecting her to ape her one time Poster Boy Barry Goldwater. And maybe that was our mistake?

Maybe we should have all grasped that Hillary's soft spot for Goldwater wasn't just an amusing story she shared but indicative of her own character? If so, the fact that she's now the least Democratic Senator any of us could have imagined wouldn't be so surprising.

There are a lot of issues at stake here and her record on the illegal war is appallling. It doesn't surprise that Baby War Hawk Lakshmi can't grasp these issues. This is the woman of whom Tom Hayden wrote, "Throughout Chaudhry's analysis runs the superpower assumption that we, the United States, are in charge of deciding whether we stay or leave, and on what terms." Baby War Hawk can't see what's wrong in Hillary when it's the same thing staring back from her own mirror.

To members who are outraged, try reading Lakshami again for laughter. This is the woman who, promoting an event in our area (Bay Area) appeared on a morning show, The Morning Show in fact, and confused herself so much with the sound of her own voice that she eventually had to offer the excuse that it was so early in the morning. 7:00 am is early? It wasn't that early for us. But, and here's the thing, Lakshmi was calling from where and it was what time there?

"What time is it?" should be the refrain when stumbling through her writing. As the always delightful Gal Beckerman observed at the start of this year (Columbia Journalism Review):

We are hoping that Lakshmi Chaudhry is ninety years old. Somehow misanthropy, a deep mistrust of technology, and a snarling skepticism about the ability of the masses to make good decisions for themselves goes down a little easier coming from an old windbag. But we have a sense she isn't aged.

No, as Beckerman knows, Lakshmi is not 90. An addled brain could explain it but so could an immature one. Which is why whether or not Hillary might cry in public is a concern to Chaudhry (and Faye Wattleton) while we don't see it as an issue. We don't feel Pat Schroeder's concession speech, while running for her party's nomination to be the presidential nominee in 1988, was a big deal. We're quite aware that when Darrell Issa was informed "Step away from the Gubenatorial recall" he sobbed in public as well. And that it wasn't the end of the world.

Lakshmi has a larger point and we should probably address that as well.

Could she churn out 2,500 words on a topic she knew so little about?

The answer was "almost." At roughly 2,440, she almost made it.

Outside of her slams and the reason the doodle probably came about in the first place, we would love to applaud her. We really would. But she remains the least attentive writer to detail (or fact) the 'left' has.

That's really too bad because the world could use some more strong women voices; however, they won't be found in the doodles of a writer who can't grasp why CODEPINK would bird-dog Hillary Clinton and other senators in the summer of 2006 but not John Edwards at the same time?


Speaking slowly for Lakshmi, "John . . . Edwards . . . left . . . the . . . Senate . . . when . . . the . . . 2005 . . . Congress . . . was . . . sworn . . . in."

Get it yet?

Probably not.