Just half an hour now until President Bush climbs the steps to the podium and — since he always takes all the rope he needs, he will hang himself again. Metaphorically speaking. It’s been the season for such, hasn’t it? The unstrung puppets of power, slowly and squeakily twisting in the wind. It’s appalling, embarrassing. I’ll read about it later, but I shall not watch. I know where the forks are kept here, and I fear that if I watched, I’d soon be driven to jab one in my eyes to save my sanity.