This should be very interesting. Scott McClellan has never been a good liar. Snow is a little older, more experienced, and I think he’ll be much better at it.
Keep your thinking caps screwed on tight, kids. The Snow’s about to get so deep, the truth might freeze solid.
This blog stops at nothing for a bad pun.
California Becomes Second State to Introduce Bush Impeachment:
The resolution … bases the call for impeachment upon the Bush Administration intentionally misleading the Congress and the American people regarding the threat from Iraq in order to justify an unnecessary war that has cost billions of dollars and thousands of lives and casualties; exceeding constitutional authority to wage war by invading Iraq; exceeding constitutional authority by Federalizing the National Guard; conspiring to torture prisoners in violation of the ‘Federal Torture Act’ and indicating intent to continue such actions; spying on American citizens in violation of the 1978 Foreign Agency Surveillance Act; leaking and covering up the leak of the identity of Valerie Plame Wilson, and holding American citizens without charge or trial.
via all that arises
Bush Brandishes Jail Time at Critics
The Constitution, we were told in law school, is a contract between the government and the people. That’s what the con law professor said. But that same year, in contracts, we were told that there’s little a party can do to prevent a breach of contract, but to sue for damages and specific performance after the fact. So if The Decider decides to suspend such trivialities as free speech, warrants for searches, right of a trial, etc., we can’t stop him. Can we?
Somebody let me know when it’s time to run for the hills.
A jot of Whitman to nail down my Monday:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and
my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
“Song of Myself”
by Walt Whitman
To avert one’s eyes from those that disagree is to express an arrogance and self-assurance so deep as to border upon pathology. Mr. Cheney wants all TV’s turned to Fox News, Mr. Bush doesn’t read a newspaper, rallies only contain selected Bush-sympathizers. When did the American people elect a king?
[first part, work in process]
“What time is it?”
He glanced over at her, where she sat looking out her window, through the rain, at the trees. Taking one hand from the wheel, he started to push back the sleeve of his jacket to see his watch, then changed his mind.
“There’s a clock on the dashboard in front of you.”
“Is it right?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“What’s the use of having a clock in the car, if you always ask me anyway?” And now he did push back his sleeve and look. “The clock on the dash says the world is one minute older than the watch on my arm. So I’m going with the clock. I’m feeling pretty old right now.”
She frowned and watched the trees, a dark wall in a dark field, on a grim and rainy day. She did not look at him, or care about the time. It was only something to say, some excuse to conjure his voice out of the distance between them. It was a good voice, solid and deep, a comfort so often, and always in the dead of night. Sometimes she lay awake and whispered I love you, and he would answer in that voice, without waking. Love you too.
As they passed the end of the trees, a field opened up. It was fallow, the earth broken and turned, and in the center a brick house and a barn. The house was brightly lit, and smoke from the chimney. It was like life sitting quietly surrounded by death, and waiting to be swallowed up by time and rain. She could not wait to get home, turn on lights and music, make tea, and pretend, like that house pretended, that the world was safe.
“I hate myself for leaving him there.”
“It’s a nice place,” he said.
She turned at looked at him. “Nice? I hate us both.”
“Now, now. Yes, it’s very nice. Pleasant and homey.”
“Well.”
“He’ll see, once he gets used to it, that it’s very nice. He’ll make friends, have activities. You saw they have a piano in the recreation room, and the courtyard will be sunny on a sunny day. We’ll go, and take him out. He’ll be fine in no time.”
“He’s never yelled at me like that. Not since I can remember. So angry. Like we’re Eskimos, shoving him out on an ice flow. Do they even do that, did they ever?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should bring him home. Fix up the spare room.”
“Honey.”
“Rent one of those beds. I could take care of him, I know it. I could quit my job, we’d get by.”
“You couldn’t. You can’t even lift him. I can’t either.”
There was another line of trees. Almonds. Dark and full of rain.
I’ve received a few comments and e-mails about my remarks on the flag protest in Montebello. It’s pointed out that protest is sweet, and that it sparks debate, which is always good and important in a free society. That this sort of protest, while ostensibly allowed here, would be met with severe reprisals in other societies. All good points.
Protest is sweet, often righteous. Normally, I’m all for defiance of the Powers that Be. I consider myself a civil libertarian, and I’ve always believed in nonviolent protest. I’ve been in a few myself. God bless that woman for screaming like a pitiful harpee at the president of China, right in the Rose Garden; for having the wontons to do her thing at exactly the right time and place. Now they’re talking about charging her with a crime for exercising her freedom of speech in W’s face, which sucks but isn’t surprising.
Come to think of it, it doesn’t bother me when people burn the flag overseas to protest US. I like it when they screw up and set themselves on fire. Darwin Awards, always good for a laugh. But see, it’s not their flag. They don’t owe respect and gratitude to the human sacrifice it represents, like I do, and I like to think we all do. I know people personally who served in WWII, Korea, Vietnam, having given much of themselves for US.
So there was something about these soft, privileged rude suburban teenagers, in their Levi jeans and Nike shoes, safe and sound on American soil, desecrating the flag under which their own rights and safety are protected, that just got my goat.
Excuse me, Mr. President. When you have a minute, mind having someone read this to you? Slowly.
“No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private
property be taken for public use, without just compensation.”— Fifth Amendment to the Constitution
This is the Due Process Clause. It means you can’t throw people in jail without a lawyer, and charges, and a trial. No matter who you think you are. Sorry. I know, what fun is it being king if you can’t throw folks in a deep dungeon, huh?
Metaphor 