Oh, The Squid and The Whale, with your brownstones and 5th Ave. exteriors. With your shots of the blue store that A. and I almost lived above, with your teen break-up outside the Key Food and your meals in the Chinese place on 7th and the old timey pharmacy on the corner.

Oh, Squid, you've made me nostalgic.

Sartre With Loophole

Shades of Watergate?

The pattern of stunning arrogance, of doing everything they want to do and wiggling out of consequences may finally be over.

Let's hope, eh?

Oh, and for those of you who don't usually look at the New York Daily News, read this and then think about the fact that Bush repeatedly told both the American people and, it would seem, Fitzgerald that he knew nothing about the leaks at all.

Which begs the question, if perjury about blow jobs can get you impeached, can perjury about a violation of The Espionage Act get you impeached and convicted?

Okay. Bad shot, but it' hard to take your own picture. Are you happy now Wes?

Recently Wes was giving me grief about my use of the very functional word "Y'all." That word has been a part of my vocabulary since at least my first sojourn in Virginia in the mid 90s and I will argue that it's superior to the royal "you" or the Brooklyn-esque "You Guys" in terms of both utility and political correctness.

But, as a result of that conversation, I thought I should reveal that I do indeed have a hat. Though I will admit to only wearing it in with irony.

Chicken Shit Bingo: An Explanation For Wes

There is this bar I like. It's called Ginny's Little Long Horn Saloon. They have a chicken there, they keep her out back and call her Lil' Red. On Sundays, they put a chicken coop on top of the pool table. On the floor of the coop is a grid, marked off with numbers. For two dollars, you buy a ticket and get a random number. They bring the chicken in. Eventually, the chicken poops. If the poop lands on your number, you win the pot.

It's the best thing ever.

My mom was here over the weekend, staying in my house, drinking my beer and generally being amused by Austin and Texas.

It was a great visit. I realize how lucky I am, how fortunate, as an adult, to be able to relate to my mother as an adult and call her a friend. We ate and went to chicken shit bingo and drank Lone Star and more than a few margaritas. And we laughed and I felt blessed.

I was never really a difficult kid; I was far too much of a geek to be much trouble. And, when I did finally rebel, I was old enough to keep much of what I was doing from my parents--or at least join in the mutual charade of denial. But, I had more than a few moments. And I'm glad they're over.

My mom--perhaps the strongest person I know--has always allowed me to grow, to make my own choices and, as I reached adulthood, to respect and discuss those choices with me as if I were in equal. Somewhere along the line, I started to believe her.

She is a remarkable woman and I'm lucky to be her son.

Red's Front

Red's Front

You Talking To Me?

Via Bookslut and brought to me attention by my friend Lisa. This town sort of rules.

An Episcopalian school in Austin returned a $3 million donation rather than comply with a parent's request to censor the gay-themed Annie Proulx short story "Brokeback Mountain" (recently adapted into a film). St. Andrew's Episcopal School made the unbelievably gutsy decision despite pressure from rich guys like Cary McNair, whose daddy owns the Houston Texans, and Ben Crenshaw, a professional golfer. It might be 134 degrees in the summer, but God, I love this fucking city. (Thanks to Rodney for the link.)

Posted by Michael Schaub