Pay My Automo' Bills?

I talk with my friends about lots of things: love, family, books, other friends, music, food, dumb shit you've done, dive bars, vacations, and of course, money. Inevitably, someone says something like "I might have to dip into my savings," and I'm like "What the hell is that seven dollars going to save you from?" And then it's like, 'Oh, man, I am super fucking poor.'

I mean, no, of course I'm not actually poor, I realize what a great situation I do, in all reality, have, with my job and roof and groceries and health insurance. I also realize I got myself here all on my own: it's my swirly little signature on all those student loan papers, and it was 100% my own decision to walk away from any sort of stable, lucrative career path. So it's more like...luxury poor. Something I should feel bad complaining about.

I've never been good with money. I am an alarmingly impulsive person, which means that everything makes sense in the moment. I figured those two conditions would reverse themselves with time, but that does not appear to be the case. I've also always been of the opinion that faced with a choice between having fun, and not having fun, you should probably go ahead and see what's behind Door Number Fun, because we're not here for that long, man, and you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. You could! People get hit by buses every day. 

A few years ago, I was walking down Newbury Street, talking to my dad on the phone. It was January, and I'd just gotten out of work. It was dark, but warmer than I expected, and the lights along the sidewalks were on, and twinkling, and sometimes Boston at night in the winter is just exactly the way a city is supposed to look. I was on my way to see the Roots (and  ?uestlove DJ set!!!), and everything was perfectly right with my world, if just for that moment. And my dad said:.  "You know, it's something I've always admired about you. No matter what's happening in your life, you always manage to have a good time." Which seemed like an odd thing to say, but I get the juxtaposition now: I couldn't have afforded a meal in of any of those Back Bay restaurants that Tuesday night, because I'd spent all my money on concert tickets and a new dress. And I wasn't concerned in the slightest.

Because really, what should I have done that evening? Sat home and ate soup and watched television until a reasonable bedtime? I will always remember that show, that night, the music, my friends, and yes, the dress I wore. I have scores and scores of these memories: nights when I did not do the responsible thing, and in a thousand tiny ways that have all added up: I am so much better for it.

There's all kinds of odd happiness on this track: I don't get paid much, but my job is relatively easy and rather pleasant and I get to walk around and look at old buildings, which is one of my forms of therapy. I get to write all the time, and no one really cares how late I am in the mornings (a source of not-insignificant strife at my last job). My apartment is hilariously broke-down in a lot of ways, but there's a ton of space and a porch and Baylor likes it, and though I never would have guessed it, I've grown to love my neighborhood a little.

That's not to say there aren't days - LOTS of days - where I'm like 'this paycheck-to-paycheck nonsense needs to STOP, you need to get your shit together and get an adult-paying job and an apartment where the doorknobs aren't constantly falling off and maybe a car. At least a bed frame!' So then I look for jobs, and there either aren't any, or aren't any that pay substantially more. Or, like today, I find one that does pay really well, and I'm probably super qualified, but it's in Alexandria. I GoogledMapped that shit, and the trip takes over an hour and involves a bus AND a train. The tiny, rational adult part of me is like 'Come on, Katie, you could do --' then the part of me that inhabits my actual reality is like 'OH HELL THE FUCK NO' and I close the browser window in disgust.

Then I think 'maybe I should marry a rich old dude, or something, just to have someone take care of me'. And both the rational-adult and actual-reality parts of me take a pause to fully consider this, because I'm lazy and that sounds sort of cool. And maybe it would make my dad worry less. Then actual-reality points out that I'd be really unhappy, dependent on someone else like that. Also, that's gross. Rational-adult part chimes in 'plus, you're like, 31 now, so the dude would probably have to be REALLY OLD.' Double gross.

So I guess...luxury poor it is, for right now. Have as much fun as you can, make the best memories, and appreciate the freedoms you do have, how lucky you actually, truly are. Oh, and look both ways when you cross the street. Those city buses do not play.

ps: That said, anyone who knows a really awesome, non-gross rich old dude....we can talk, is all I'm saying.

I Swear, I Read Them For the Articles

Yesterday, one of our board members was in the office, doing what-ever-the-hell-it-is-he-does-when-he's-in-the-office, and, on taking in my outfit, said: "I don't think it's fair I have to wear a suit through this heat, and you get to run around in your fairy clothes." And my boss replied: "You know what's unfair? That women have to wear high heels." And I thought: "You know what's insane*? THIS ENTIRE CONVERSATION."

Later, I was reading an article in GQ about a Spanish bullfighter who'd been gored through the eye and returned to bullfighting. Besides being pretty much the most fascinating shit ever, it was brilliantly written. By Karen Russell! Who I love. A few months ago, I read a profile - also in GQ - of James Deen, also fabulously, fabulously written - by Wells Tower, another of my literary super-crushes. Benjamin Percy writes for Esquire.  The list of incredible writers who've published short stories in Playboy - Marquez, Nabokov, Nadine Gordimer, Margaret Atwood - is daunting. And then I started to get a little upset.

It's been years since I opened a Cosmo, or any of its ilk, so I can't say for sure, but I do read their covers in the grocery store just like everyone else, and I would be straight-up shocked to find pieces by say, Zadie Smith or Dave Eggers, a new story from Junot Diaz sandwiched between articles about keratin treatments and '85 Terrible Sex Tips We've Published 300 Times, Slightly Reworded'.

There's nothing wrong with articles about fashion and make-up; listen, I personally could talk about eyeliner for a goddamn hour. Probably longer. I also love bracelets and dresses and tips on deep conditioning and looking at pictures of shoes because that shit is awesome. Being a girl is the fucking coolest. But that's why I'm upset. Because pretty stuff is super fun, but we also need content. Real, 'use your brain and dissect this weirdness of the world' content. Which I've found sorely lacking in 'women's magazines'.

And then there's the tone. The men's magazines - which I am literally 'reading for the articles' because sometimes there's like, a four-page spread on tweed jackets and scarf pairings - just don't seem to have the same pall of negativity. Women's magazines are mostly a list of shit you're not doing right because of stuff you don't have. Men's magazines certainly do that, too, but you can skip those parts and get to the...wait for it...content.

I don't know man, people much smarter than me are out there analyzing this shit right now, with results they didn't just completely make up, but I think it has a lot to do with the general culture of sickness and self-hatred that is like, frustratingly pervasive among women. You can't just tell people what's wrong with them and call it a day. You have to feed their brains so they have weird, fascinating things to think and talk about besides purses and mascara (which are FINE to talk about sometimes, I actually want to talk about my new mascara a lot). And skip the parts that tell you how you have to be. I don't know about that whole suit thing - that seems to be some cultural craziness that everyone's signed up for, but sweethearts, you don't have to wear heels. You don't have to do anything.

Demand more, ladies. I think it'll make us all feel better.

(Also, if you want sex tips, put down that inane Cosmo already and just consult a slightly older, slutty friend. Boom. You're good for life.)


*Also insane to me: that man spent more on lamps last month than I'll make in a year and a half. And can we PLEASE with the fairy bullshit. 

A Dear James Letter

Dear James,

Maybe you remember me. It's okay if you don't. We met last year: a Sunday afternoon in early April, on the train from New York to DC. You sat near the front of the Quiet Car, by the window. By the time I boarded, it was one of the only open seats left. You indicated no one was sitting there, and did not seem at all alarmed when I collapsed shoulder-hauls of duffel bag and camera bag and giant purse and a plastic shopper of extra shit I could not manage to cram into my suitcase onto the seat next to you, then rustled through it all for ten minutes until I found what I was looking for and settled the fuck down.

I was about halfway through Anthony Doerr's 'Memory Wall'. There are those among us who feel very strongly about Mr. Doerr's stories. Specifically, we feel like 'keep small-talking at me while I'm in one of his worlds and I will fucking cut you.' I'm one of those people.

You did seem like a legitimately nice guy, what with the nice questions and the offering to get me something from the cafe car every time you got up. Even though I declined (politely, the manners don't waver easily, trust), and I tried to really shut it down by getting my own wine at one point, I still appreciated that you brought me back a water and a bag of pita chips. I am human. Pita chips are always nice.

So James, thank you for your lovely manners - buying a girl a water is actually quite chivalrous. Rare when a man meets a woman and doesn't immediately encourage her to drink. I was about to start drinking, but you couldn't have known that. I also wanted to thank you for the book recommendation. And apologize, a little.

When you noticed what I was reading, you made a thoughtful comment and mentioned you worked for...the publisher? I don't know, so sorry, I was straight-up half-listening to you. There's this thing, about being a woman travelling alone: creepy dudes are always out there, waiting to mack on you. And the best way to deal with this is by being totally aloof and writing in your beat-to-shit journal or like, crying over short stories or something that makes you look kind of too-intense and crazy. It's like - if you're a raccoon trying to make it through a field of coyotes, sometimes your best ploy is to pretend like you have rabies or some shit. Walk right through that coyote field in broad daylight wearing something insane. Coyote's be like 'woah, why is that raccoon out in the daylight wearing a long t-shirt and rain boots? Raccoons are nocturnal, bro! That rac's got the R for sure.' And the other coyotes are all 'Word. Leave that crazy ass alone. Also, we congregate in fields now? A whole field of coyotes? This is threatening as shit.'

Anyways. It had been a long week, and I was in Rabid Raccoon mode. It's a self-preservation thing. But my interest in self-preservation does not eclipse my interest in book recommendations, so when you mentioned Karen Russel's novel 'Swamplandia!' I asked you to write it down. And you did. And I ignored you for the rest of the trip, aside from exchanging a giggle over the old man being MAD DRACONIAN about the Quiet Car rules. You got off at the stop before Union Station. That must be someplace in Maryland. After you left, and said something lovely about meeting me, the woman across the aisle asked me if I knew you. I said no, and she proceeded to recap everything you'd done to her seat-mate, who'd boarded the train in Baltimore, closing with "I've never seen anyone be so nice." Then I kind of felt like a dick.

'Swamplandia!' followed me around for the next year. We must have met right before it's release, and Ms. Russell got mad press all through 2011. I kept running across it, and I kept not buying it. A book and I need to have a moment. I need to feel something, or find it someplace random, I don't know. I buy books compulsively, so I've set up really vague criteria that prevents me from buying too many, and allows a purchase when I really want it.

A few weeks ago - it had been almost exactly a year - I was in New York again, killing time between site visits when I wandered into the Strand. And there it was, a half-off Staff Pick, paperback and everything. I wasn't convinced - I carried it around the store to see if we bonded, like I do with a dress I'm not 100% sure about. Next thing I knew, I'd lost 75 minutes in there, and I just had to commit to whatever was in my arms and cash out.

I forgot all about it until I unpacked back in DC. I didn't start reading it until last week.  And...I tore through it in like, two days. That book was so amazing, James, thank you! I did love it! Exactly as much as you told me I would! And it's made me think about you, a little. I probably should have been nicer. I probably shouldn't treat everyone like they're part of a band of highly organized coyotes trying to maul my face off. I should probably be open and accepting and engaging, because there's all this love in my heart, and I should remember that people can enrich my life in myriad unexpected ways.

But really, James, fuck it. Whatever. It's fine. Because maybe if I'd talked to you, really talked to you, we would have become the best of friends, and you'd be a real and trusted source of perspective and love in my life. Or, maybe, you'd be one of those guys who texts me at 11.00 on Sunday night all 'what are you up to?' and I'm like 'Listening to New Edition and GChatting with D in my sweatpants, why?' and you, terrifyingly, respond 'I'm outside your apartment...I was in the neighborhood for a completely bullshit reason, because no one is ever in this neighborhood, but want to hang out?' and then we have to walk through why drop-bys are unacceptable, and no, the fact that you're 'already here' doesn't invalidate that. Ever. No. You have to go home. Unless...wait. Did you bring anything cool? Like a really fancy brownie with ganache from one of those pretty yuppie bakeries I pretend to hate? Season Two of the Sopranos? Xanax? Chai? Seriously, you didn't bring anything cool? Go home. And then I ignore your texts for two months, and you leave these really mean 2am voicemails about what a bitch I am. For not abandoning an evening of looking at pictures of crazy unicorn dresses on the internets with Miss D for your rude ass. It is Sunday goddamn night, bitch, please, the Amazing Race is on.
And then everything's awful.

This way, I write you a sort-of nice letter on my insane blog and thank you for bringing this amazing book into my life, and I'm totally going to read her short story collection now, too. See, James? Aren't you glad I didn't give you my number? We could have done this in person.

Seriously, though, everyone. Read 'Swamplandia!'

...PP, Yeah, You Know Me! Yeah, Everyone's Probably Making that Joke.

Planned Parenthood is not an abortion clinic.

That's like...that's not a hard concept. If all they did was perform abortions, they'd probably be called something like 'Termination Parenthood', or 'Abortion Place', or probably neither of those, because they aren't very catchy names*.

For reals, though, besides the fact that only like, 3% of PP's money goes to funding abortions...even if you're pro-life, you really don't see the benefits? I know my bleeding lefty liberal goggles make my vision all hazy and blue, but - seriously?

Listen, I've never had an abortion. I hope that's a decision I never have to make. But Planned Parenthood has definitely had a hand in helping my womb stay empty. (Or who knows, maybe they had nothing to do with it. Maybe I'm barren! Probably not. I'm Irish. We've got that rabbit DNA.) Boston, that mecca of wanton liberal urbanity, has plenty of convenient, accessible PP locations. Do you know how poor I was the first years I lived in Boston? I mean, I was poor the whole time - I'm still poor - but those first years in the North End? Dude. When your stove is also your heater, shit has gotten interesting. (Like, the apartment was set up that way. This was an OG North End apartment. By which I mean we lived in a tenement.) I was broke - and Planned Parenthood was my jam.

And just, even if you have insurance, birth control can be expensive as hell. You can get like, every kind of birth control at Planned Parenthood. So you can experiment with different kinds and see what works for you, which is important from a reproductive freedom standpoint. And, everything is WAY CHEAPER than at any pharmacy. Plan B is literally 50% cheaper at PP than at CVS. At least. And condoms are always free - they're in a big old bowl by the doorway, just like in gay bars. (Why don't straight bars do this, by the way? If you ask me, conservative straight people are irresponsible as shit. Wrap it up, yo!)

I went to PP, I never got pregnant. The same, completely sensical point that lots of people make: Planned Parenthood is keeping abortions off the street, friends. And I'm just a regular ass person with no additional shit going on in my lady cavities, but if there were trouble in the neighborhood, Planned Parenthood could give me a hand with that, too. Planned Parenthood: It's More than Just Birth Control (And It's Hardly Ever Abortions)**.

Whatever programs the Susan G. Komen Foundation wants to fund is up to them. That's their prerogative as a private organization. And it's your decision as an individual citizen where to donate. If you're uncomfortable with their politics, don't give them money. Honestly, I've never understood all this Racing and Walking and Biking and Scuba Diving and Dog Sledding for The Cure fuss anyway. If I want to donate money somewhere, can't I just give them the money? I don't see why anyone needs to like, perform feats of athleticism for it. (And all that pink swag seems a bit...precious. To me.) Cut down ya overhead, son! But again - personal choices.

If we had our socialist healthcare by now, this wouldn't even be an issue. But we don't, so this kind of shit happens. Health care shouldn't be politicized. It should just be. You know?

Seriously, has someone put a remixed version of 'OPP' on the internets yet? Because I've been making up lyrics in my head this whole time: "I'm down with the PP, that's why I've got no baby!" Yeah, you have to shoehorn that in there a little but it works, trust me.

*They'd probably stick with 'Planned Parenthood'.

**Man, I suck at slogans.

Yo, it was HARD to find an amusing image using the search term 'Termination Parenthood'. So - enjoy this still from the Motion Picture 'The Never Ending Story'. Because I think we can all agree: Falcor is the bomb.

Miss Heigl If You're Nasty

Just now I thought to myself: 'That Katherine Heigl seems like a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I want very much to like her, so I would like to know why she feels the need to go and make movies like '27 Dresses' and this new 'The Ugly Truth' thing that seems so dreadful it makes my brain sore, because that makes me feel like maybe she's an idiot who I've just talked myself into liking because she's funny and weird and doesn't care that people know she smokes and her skin is divine and she looks lovely in satin and that's a very hard fabric to pull off, especially in warmer climates.'

Then I was like: 'I am also a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I smoke sometimes and if someone offered me a million dollars I would make the shit out of a crap movie like 27 Dresses and this evening I left the house wearing a pile of extra long tank tops, leggings and some Reefs that the dog chewed most of the toe off of five years ago so maybe I should QUIT JUDGING Katherine Heigl.'

An Open Letter to Our President Elect

Dear Mr. Barack Obama,

I'm reading the news lately, and I'm noticing: people have some high fucking expectations where you're concerned. Even though we haven't yet struggled out from beneath the slow moving plague of shock and appall that was the presidency of George W. Bush, the American people are somehow of the belief that you're already well on your way to revitalizing the economy, solving the foreclosure crisis, curing AIDS, feeding every hungry child- and healthily, so as not to contribute to the obesity epidemic, finding homes for the abandoned pets in every animal shelter, eliminating the clusterfuck that is the BCS,removing heinous musicians from the airwaves, giving everyone a hybrid car by next Christmas and renaming all of Sarah Palin's children.

That's a lot of pressure, man. Especially considering that you recently had to move halfway across the country, your two (adorable and seemingly delightfully well mannered) daughters have to start at a new school, you're looking for a new pet and I'm sure your wife is totally stressed out about what to wear to Inauguration, considering the debacle that was her Election Night frock. (I'm not suggesting that's all Michelle is stressed out about - I'm positive she's stressed about all of the above, combined with the uncertainties of her new role and I'm sure some conflicted reluctance about the sacrifice of her own career - I have a lot of respect for Michelle Obama. I'm just saying - it's one more thing on top of a really huge pile.)

So, dear President Elect - I know I'm just one girl, and you likely won't hear me above the chorus of millions chanting their love, admiration and oh yes - their demands - at you, but if you can hear me, listen: it's all going to be ok. You're fucking awesome. Enjoy your party. People really love you, and if they're a little too insistent about everything, it's only because we've all been starving for so long, and in a lot of people's eyes, you represent the feast of what we've been missing for the past eight years/forever. We're excited.

I say - chill for a minute. Take the rest of January to settle in. Take February too, if you need it - it's a short month, and nothing really important happens. It's freezing in one half of the world, and the other half is on vacation because it's end of their summer. All that shit will still be here when you're ready to take it all on in March. In the meantime, I'll work on tempering everyone's insane expectations. Like seriously, you're not going to be able to get Nickelback roasted over a rotisserie spit on live television. That's fascism shit, you don't have that kind of power. But deportation? Maybe. It's all about managing expectations. No, no, you don't have to thank me, I'm happy to do it, really.

But if you could - tell Michelle I think she'd look divine in something long, and steel-grey blue with very simple lines. Or a maroon/purple hue. Just a suggestion.

WWPJD?

The election is making my head hurt. Every day I am in front of Brian Williams, his giant head all up in my living room delivering the nightly news, and I am saying "Why, Brian Williams? WHY? I am SO CONFUSED. Why does nobody care that the nutty Alaskan bitch couldn't win a seat on the PTA in most communities and that old man is obviously senile for appointing her and he is CLEARLY GOING TO DIE IN THE NOT SO DISTANT FUTURE AND THEN WE WILL HAVE A PRESIDENT WHO THINKS DINOSAURS AND PEOPLE ROAMED THE EARTH AT THE SAME TIME SO CAN YOU HELP ME UNDERSTAND HOW THIS IS HAPPENING BRIAN WILLIAMS, CAN YOU PLEASE?????"

And Brian Williams just gives me this look like, "No, kk, I can't. My head hurts, too. The physically inexplicable white rings beneath my eyes that you've been obsessing over for the better part of the last decade are even duller and less snowy-hued, haven't you noticed? I'm doing my best, I swear. I wake up every morning, and I look at my glorious coif in the mirror, and I say to myself: "Brian Williams - what would Peter Jennings do?" And then I think "JESUS CHRIST, Peter Jennings never had to deal with this shit. Peter Jennings had Nixon and Nam and the crack epidemic and Reaganomics and Bill Clinton and I have RETARDS IN THE OVAL OFFICE AND LARGE SCALE WEATHER DISASTERS AND AN IMPENDING ECONOMIC COLLAPSE AND OK MAYBE THIS IS A GREAT TIME TO BE A JOURNALIST AND MAYBE I'M JUST FREAKING OUT BECAUSE IT'S A LOT OF PRESSURE TO ENDEAR YOURSELF TO THE NATION AS A TRUSTED NEWS SOURCE AND I DON'T KNOW HOW PETER DID IT ALL AND STILL HAD TIME FOR HIS FAMILY, NEVER MIND A BALANCED DIET AND NOW I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND WHY HE SMOKED BUT THAT'S ALSO WHAT KILLED HIM, AND I'M JUST REALLY STRESSED OUT, OK, KATIE?"

And then I'm like "Jesus, Brian Williams, I'm sorry. I didn't realize." And he's all "WELL NOW YOU DO."

And then the news is over and Entertainment Tonight comes on and I have to give myself a lobotomy before they start talking about Miley Cyrus and my face explodes.

A Touch of Grey. Or Blonde. Shit. What Color Is This?

The important facts: I'm 26. I'm a brunette. I'm excessively, inordinately, obnoxiously preoccupied and paranoid about aging. Ok, you're ready to proceed.

Last winter, in the depths of a deep late December funk, I had my hairdresser add some lovely light brown highlights to my hair. Usually, I stay far away from dye of any sort, even in small doses - due to a heinously addictive personality and some really scarring choices in 9th grade - but there was just so much fucking brown everywhere, and it was so cold, and there had been no direct sunlight in like, a week, and I was just depressed as shit, man. I had to do something.

So I changed up my hair a little, and it actually worked, I think, for a few weeks. Or maybe it was the vacation to Florida. Either way, I stumbled out of my Seasonal Affective Disorder doldrums, and resumed my life with a 'do full of lighter pieces. In early spring, it started to look a little root-tastic, but since I can't even pledge allegiance to a brand of shampoo for the time it takes to use up one bottle, I didn't really feel like embarking on a lifetime commitment to hair-streaks. I let it grow. And then...well I don't know what really happened, but sometime in May I noticed that the shit all turned blonde. And the other day I discovered all these brand new blonde strands all over my head. They're just growing, totally independent of the highlights. The highlights like, infected my hair or some shit, and now it's like scattering dandelion fluff, the shit is everywhere. I can't explain this. And really, it wouldn't be a problem, except 1) I like my dark hair and 2) I CANNOT TELL IF THESE NEW PIECES ARE BLONDE OR GREY AND IT'S DRIVING ME FUCKING BANANAS.

Seriously. Every day I notice a new piece, and I summarily freak the fuck out, and examine it under seven different lighting conditions. Then I talk to myself in soothing tones for a while, explaining to my freaked out little soul that grey hairs are NOT the end of the world, that people fucking age, and that aging is natural, and that my age and the number of grey hairs on my head have nothing to do with my character and blahblah, fuck it, I believe that, but I'm really not listening to myself right now because I am DISTRACTED by this FUCKING HAIR, WHAT COLOR IS IT??? And then I pull it out. It's gross.

This just happened to me, three minutes ago. I was in the bathroom, cleaning a spot of yogurt off my dress (yogurt stains are THE MOST unladylike of stains, up there with vanilla, rice, and tapioca puddings, mayonnaise, and cream cheese. I don't know why I insist on eating these things at work, the place to which I most frequently wear black) and there it was - a new hair. I separated it from the others, I twisted it around...it was blonde. Pretty sure. But maybe grey. Shit. I don't know. So I pulled it out. And carried it with me back to my office, with the intention of showing to my colleagues and asking their opinion. I know! That's so fucking disgusting! It's completely, totally the sort of obscene request I routinely force upon my friends and family, but at work? So inappropriate. Jesus, I need a new job. I'm getting entirely too comfortable at this one.

Oh, and I threw the hair away. Once it's out of my head it's nearly impossible to tell what color it is. I wish I could somehow remember that before I pull those little bastards out.

Freaky Elephant (and Donkey) Love

Ok. So I originally wrote this whole long diatribe about the recent rash of sex scandals involving Republican political figures, and why I find them so especially heinous. The heinousness, in my opinion, is a result of the gross, drippy hypocritical situaion that results when someone who comes to power on a platform of mandatory minimums, abstinence-only sex ed, banning condom distribution, and decrying non-traditional, non-heterosexual lifestyles as wrong and immoral is caught chowing meth, getting down with prostitutes, texting teenage boys about their engorged genitals (ew) and tap dancing for anonymous sex in public bathrooms (ew squared).

I wrote about all that and it just came off as preachy and annoying, and I realized I was being hypocritical because 1) if I'm judging GOP-holes about violating the bonds of their party promises, I should probably be subjecting my own party to the same treatment. After all, I can't think of any Democrat who won an election by expressing their preferences for cheating on their partners and frequenting brothels. So that led to the realization that 2) Politicians are full of shit. And from there 3) When shit filled assholes get caught with their pants down (literally) it's ok to laugh at them. Because they deserve it.

Got it?

1) Judge everyone equally + 2) Politicians are full of it = 3) Time to make fun of them!

So here they are, in no particular order -

The Most Entertaining Political Scandals That I Have Time to Write About

1) Kwame Kilpatrick, Mayor of Detroit, And the Most Inappropriate Municipal Messages Ever

Explicit text messages crack me up. What a weird format. The inclusion of 'LOL' makes for unconvincing dirty talk. It's just so stupid. And the texts are like, riddled with spelling errors. Not sexy. Add the fact that they exchanged these messages on city issued Blackberries...you deserve to be laughed at, Mayor Kilpatrick! My favorite text isn't even one of the creepy "I'm waiting for you in the Ramada on Route 43" messages. It's the one where the mayor is at a Lakers game, and security won't let him in. The Mayor is like, 6'3", 250. Badass. Then he asks his chief of staff if he made her "feel good, sexually?" Oh, this shit had me laughing forever. Until they referenced Jerry Maguire. Then I threw up in my hands a little bit. This is still an awesome scandal, though.

2) Marion Barry, In the Motel Room, With the Crack Pipe. Oh, and that FBI Informant Who Looks Like a Hooker.

This one has everything. Scantily Clad Ladies/FBI Informants! Crack! Police busting in...to a cheap hotel room! Have you ever seen the video of this? He's in like, silk boxers and a wifebeater, smoking crack. Then when the police rush in he starts shrieking about being set up. Dude, shhhh. You're the mayor of the Capitol City of the United States. You're smoking crack in your underwear. It's damage control time.

The best part of this story, though isn't what happened in the hotel room. It's what happened later. First, he went to jail for six months. Then he got re-elected. And he keeps failing drug tests. This guy doesn't give a fuck.

3) Bill Clinton; Or Why You Should Never Cheat on Your Wife with Someone Who Doesn't Thoroughly Launder Her Clothes.

Right, everyone knows about this one. Clinton philandered. With ugly chicks. Including one particularly dirty little thing who got her dress messy in the action...and then didn't wash it. I adore Bill Clinton, and I wish this hadn't happened. Like, I wish he hadn't tarnished my image of him by hooking up with someone who apparently had extreme difficulty finding a decent dry cleaner in Washington DC. Gross.

4) Larry Craig, a Professional Freakazoid of the Seated Tap Dance

Another one that's had too much press. But are you really tired of hearing about it? It's hilarious. And pretend it didn't change the way you behave in public restrooms. Also, it opened my eyes to this whole sub culture of public sex solicitation that I knew nothing about. I wish this escapade had gone further. What's the next step here? Where do they go? Nothing happens in the bathroom, right? Is passing of notes involved?

5) David Vitter, Whose Fall Validates That Excellent Investigative Journalism Going on Over at Hustler

I lived in Louisiana for a while, and was always for the opinion that David Vitter was a particularly gross dude. He just has smarm-face. So I was not at all surprised to discover that he was an avid supporter of the world's oldest profession. I was, however, surprised and delighted to learn that Hustler was in large part responsible for breaking the story. It's spelled i-r-o-n-y, you conservative prick.

Oops. Am I getting preachy and hateful again? You're right, time to stop. I have to go delete all those weird emails from Ted Kennedy, anyway.

Don't Be Loony, Vote for...

I don't want to talk about the election. Because if I start talking about the election, I'll eventually get down to sort-of endorsing someone, and I don't want to do that. As a feminist, I should be really, totally stoked that I have the option of voting for a female president - which I am, in many ways. But the reality is that I'm now a disgruntled feminist (yes, there are other kinds) because here we are, with a lady on the ticket...and I don't like her.

So? I'm going to endorse my own candidate.

George Clooney.

I am 100% serious. George Clooney would be the best president ever. Americans have shown that they're totally ok with an actor in the Oval Office, and I think everyone can agree that George Clooney is a way better actor than Reagan. Plus, he's not a snitch.

George Clooney has done his time in the trenches of his profession. This shows us he is not afraid to work hard. He appeared in Return of the Killer Tomatoes. This shows us he doesn't take himself too seriously. He also had a reoccurring role on The Facts of Life. This shows us that he is human, and had bad hair in the 80's, just like everyone else.

Foreign dignitaries like George Clooney. George Clooney owns property in Italy, and can interact with people from other cultures without behaving as if he has entered an interactive zoo exhibit. George Clooney is making a movie to raise awareness in Darfur. Has our president been to Darfur? Can he find it on a map? Does he own a map?

George Clooney is a man of the people. He was once a carpenter (like Jesus! If that's your thing). He eats dinner with lowly reporters and locates the faulty carbon monoxide detectors in their apartments by scrambling around in their crawlspaces (I know this because I saw it last night on E News. Yes, sometimes I watch E News after I watch the regular news. Sometimes I need to. It's like a current events chaser.). George Clooney is pro-union. When the writers were striking, he explicitly stated that he would not cross their picket line, even at the Oscar's. And he is nominated for an Oscar.

George Clooney is intelligent, charismatic, grounded, charmingly self-deprecating, and has enough cash to finance his own campaign. George Clooney is also exceptionally attractive. This means that people will vote for him even if they have no idea why. This means that people who would otherwise not vote for anyone will leave their homes on election night and vote for George Clooney. This also, conversely, means that people who become pissed off when they witness the uninformed masses flocking to the polls to vote for George Clooney, will become inspired, and will themselves go out and vote, just to make their individual voices heard above the Clooney Chorus. In this way, George Clooney will have increased participation in the democratic process. Can George Clooney do no wrong?

That was a really great argument.

George, if you're interested, I will happily sign on as your assistant campaign manager in charge of visual aids. I've never made buttons or drafted nifty slogans before, but I could bedazzle the crap out of any campaign paraphernalia you send my way.