When I’m in Holland I Eat the Pannenkoeken

My wife has left me for an older woman. I can hardly blame her. She is a sophisticated, landed lady who collects books, dotes on her dogs, and wields soft power all around her neighborhood. She’s surprisingly modern for being 411 years old. For the next couple of weeks, my wife will be doing detective work at Harvard’s Houghton Library on her friend Frances Wolfreston, a lady book collector of the seventeenth century, which leaves me here alone manning the pumps. The hounds are being predictably bad. Spencer took a spill in the mud yesterday, so we had to have a bath after our walk. Echo’s separation anxiety compels her to shred one piece of junk mail if I am gone for too long. I guess it could be worse.

Harvard STC 3674

When your spouse is out of town, that is a good time to blast your old Beastie Boys albums at all hours. I remember contemporary critics being a little sniffy about this one. It’s maybe a little long, but still a banger. It sat comfortably in the bin of hip-hop albums that white college kids loved along with The Low End Theory and Three Feet High and Rising. It’s friendly and breakbeat-y. It’s respectful of music history (i.e. your parent’s record collection). It’s knowingly self-referential, and gets asses shaking on the dancefloor. White people love that shit!

Around the time this album was released I spent a summer living by the now demolished Robert Taylor Homes. I heard lots of R&B, contemporary and “dusties,”  blasting from cars and open windows in the breezy Chicago summer. Never once did I hear someone rapping. I found that interesting.

Republicans would happily stomp out any and all music education to the communities that gave us national treasures beyond value: jazz, rock and roll, and hip hop.  Let’s stop em. Here is the fund that’s split between all eventual
Democratic nominees in House districts currently held by Republicans.

Goal Thermometer

Cheers! Open Thread


Friday night drinks with my sweetheart. Two Caipirinhas – slightly more tart than I like, but just what I needed after an arsehole of a week. Sweet vermouth (Punt e mes, I suspect) on ice with an olive and a slice of orange for me, and a London Calling for him. A Gretzel with beer and cheese sauce. Tuna crudo with fermented chilli, onion, dill and flat bread. Shots of Tapatio Reposado to celebrate Gregory’s birthday. Some concoction with Poor Tom’s gin and who knows what else whipped up by Jamie, the adorable Scottish bartender. Two perfect replications of a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish, except crunchier and cheesier and oh-so-much-more-Filet-O-Fishier. An Old Fashioned made with rye, and a Red Hook. Two chocolate chip cookie and blackberry ripple ice cream sandwiches. Whisky from some damp and peaty god knows where, and a spectacular rum from Guyana that tasted of brown sugar toffee, even though we were just a little bit drunk by that point, because Jamie did the sexy eyebrow thing. One taxi home for special snuggles.

Don’t mind if I do, thanks.

Drunk posting on Balloon Juice very late at night and oversharing while giving your local a plug.

Life could be worse.

Happy Friday, kiddies. How have you all been?

I should inset some witty comment here about how the evil squirrel that lives in Donald Trump’s hair and controls him with little levers connected to steam-driven pistons has been huffing antifreeze and getting his Mexican birth certificate rape babies on, or how our entire political system is even more fucked than Jeb!’s chances of securing the Republican nomination.

But it’s time for bed – or maybe another drink.

Seriously though, come to Sydney. Come and see my friends Gregory, Naomi and the rest of the team at the Gretz. They’re lovely. And Gregory’s American. So you folks will understand what the fuck he’s saying.

This is your open thread.

Much love, and fuck you all.


P.S. The real me is somewhere in the photo above. It’s like Where’s Waldo if Waldo was a grumpy, fictional old lady with impulse control issues and a pottymouth.

If we let them sing, we might have to let them talk, and then where would we be?

Via our David Koch, Electablog’s on-the-spot perspective on the Netroots Nation brouhaha is well worth a read.

Sitting in the middle of this maelstrom was a fascinating experience. I, like many of the others there, was initially irritated by the protestors. I was there to hear the candidates and was frustrated that they weren’t being heard. Even a bit angry, in fact. “These are your allies,” I thought. “Why on earth are you attacking them? Why are you disrupting an event where the people there are sympathetic to your cause?”

Frustration. Anger. Being silenced.image




Talked over.


Every single one of these emotions that ran through my white privileged brain in the first few moments of the protest until I was slapped across the face with what I was being forced to confront. Every single one of these emotions are felt acutely and painfully every single day by racial minority groups in our country. But, instead of being inconvenienced by not being able to hear a politician speak, they face them in the context of being slaughtered in the streets by the police officers who are tasked to protect them, incarcerated in astonishingly disparate numbers, and blamed for not being able to escape from the prison of poverty that holds far too many of them in bondage.

If you’re not able to cope with a group of black women singing songs at you by, say, respectfully listening to what they have to say, inviting some of them onstage, listening again, answering their questions and opening up a dialogue, all without resorting to all-lives-matter bullshit or dropping the mike and going home, you may not be ready to be President.

Unrelatedly, is this the first Myiq2xu sighting for Election 2016? Remember, if he can see his shadow we get six more months of Donald Trump.

Happy days

So, Roberts, despite my fearless prediction, went all Fat Tony with his “evil judicial lawmakers” rant, apparently deciding his reputation as a Republican needed the buffing more than his judicial legacy did. Not that it will do him much good now he has perpetually branded himself as Obama’s healthcare enabler to generations of bitter wingnunts. The best bit – thanks to Obama and John Roberts, the life expectancy of bitter wingnuts in many states has skyrocketed. That’s a lot more sweet, sweet tears to savor.

I was going to mine the Supreme dissents (pdf) for yucks, like how Scalia thinks hippy jokes are cutting edge comedy and California has broken off the West Coast and is rapidly sailing east on a magic cloud of potsmoke and buttsex, but thankfully the Wonkettes got there before me and saved me the trouble. Scalia’s dissent is worth a read if you want to see angry, ranty hypocrisy at its funniest, but is perhaps best left for gleeful contemplation at another time.

For tonight is a night to celebrate a fine and happy day – a day to marry, to be married or hunt down sweaty monkey sex with the one you’re going to marry – so I am just going to leave you with this, because Biden:

[ETA: Yes, I know it’s probably a fake twitter feed, but I’d lay money that this is actually what Joe Biden is doing right now…]

And this, because it’s sweet and simple and it made me cry. It’s celebration time, kiddies. Kiss your husbands, kiss your wives, kiss whoever will let you. Straight people, enjoy your marriages while they’re still legal.

Cheers, and mine’s a margarita.

Yes I think it can be easily done

I’m sure Ruth Marcus and Bobo and Ron Fournier are having a sad about Harry Reid’s uncivil decision to try to change filibuster rules. But voters don’t give a fuck about it. Yes, your NPR-listening friend who’s been assured that it all started with Bork may care, but he’ll vote Democrat anyway, once he’s done the masturbatory “due diligence” to convince himself he’s an open-minded non-ideological fellow.

Just gut the fucking thing. It’s too much of an impediment to the functioning of the Senate. And, yeah, I’ll still think so if Republicans take the Senate in 2014.