All posts by Joe

Have a sandwich.

Where did my paring knife go? Anyone seen it? It was here just a minute ago. Hey, anti-Lincoln — have you seen my knife? You were just in here a minute ago… uh-oh…..

Oh the butt-aches of living in a communal residence! Yes, yes, it is good to be back at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill — our adopted home — after so long an absence, especially given that this may have been the most irritating Big Green tour ever. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, sure, he says that every time, right? Okay, well maybe I did say it after our Journey to the Center of the Earth tour a couple of years ago. And maybe I did say it after our last tour, when we were kidnapped and held against our will on a hostile alien planet. And I grant you — I may well say it again after our next tour, whatever kind of disaster that may turn out to be. But I’m sure I’ll be just as convinced of its suck-acity then as I have been all the previous times. (Now you’re thinking, God, what a pain in the ass this fucker is! Why do I read this blog? WHY?)

Okay, so I’m not a very good mind reader. No matter — here we are, back at the mill, having extracted ourselves from the dreaded Doo-Dah parade (where Big Zamboola was a massive hit, I should tell you). The condemned sign has been torn from our front door. Reprieve from the city? Not quite. I asked Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to pull it down. It amounts to the same thing in this city. (They won’t get around to knocking this place down for another couple of years, at the very soonest. Other fish to fry.) He will be tacking up a “do not disturb” sign in its place, in hopes that this will discourage the curious (and the creditors) from trying to gain access to the mill as we turn our attention to what has become the most monumental labor of our careers — making an Irish stew without meat or potatoes. (Oh, yeah… and then there’s that album thing we’re working on. Where the hell did we leave that, anyway?)

Great day in the morning, I know it seems like Big Green has spent way too long in production. It’s nearly possible to calculate the trajectory of our latest CD project in terms of geological time. What the fuck, we started planning the sucker shortly after the release of our first album, 2000 Years To Christmas, back in 1999. Of course, there was some slap-dash songwriting after that, then we started recording the bastard in early 2003. Here it is three years later, and we’re finally to the point of mixing / mastering. Can hardly believe it. My guess is that, in a few more of your earth time units known as months, we will actually have something to show for all of this seemingly pointless activity. (No, Mitch. Not money. That’s your day job, okay?)

So, back to the console. But first the stew. Or perhaps just a sandwich. Where the devil is that knife? No, Anti-Lincoln, I can’t use a gun. Just put it away, now. Slowly…. slowly…. (Hey, out there… somebody call the cops… I’ll have Marvin take down the “do not disturb” sign again…)

Bitter end game.

We’re just days away from the close of one of the most asinine election seasons I can remember (and trust me — I can remember quite a few). Like the Howard Dean “scream” of 2004, the media has latched onto a phrase from a John Kerry speech, the interpretation of which apparently was fed to them directly by Jack Abramoff friend Ken Melman or White House blimp Karl Rove. At this point in the game, can anyone possibly believe that this administration gives a flying shit for the fighting men and women in Iraq? Just this week it was reported that the Pentagon cannot account for thousands of guns, rocket launchers, etc., that we have sent to that sorry husk of a nation. (My guess is that our troops know what happened to them, since they’re being shot at all the time.) And yet these Bush clowns feel confident enough to actually field Kerry’s lame laugh line as a campaign issue. But that’s our corporate media — Kerry botches a joke (so what’s new?) and it’s a story. Bush lets 104 young Americans die pointlessly in Iraq during the month leading up to the election, and it’s ho-hum.

This election is very important to the party in power, and they are pulling out all the stops to keep it from being a total disaster for them. Both parties have dumped millions of dollars into mostly negative advertising here in my backwater hometown district (New York’s “fighting” 24th), but it’s worth saying that I’ve received a different glossy mailing from the Republican Congressional Campaign Committee every other day, each one attacking the Democratic candidate. As someone who’s worked in advertising and done a fair amount of direct mail, I can tell you that this represents enormous sums of (unregulated) money, to say nothing of how much they’re spending on local television air time. Where campaign law is concerned, this is considered legitimate party-building activity, but really all it is is an attempt to depress turnout and build cynicism. Cynicism helps to ensure that the powerful will not be inconvenienced by “meddlesome outsiders”, as Walter Lippman put it — that is to say, people like you and me.

Some of the ads stoop pretty low, as you probably are aware. Bogus shit about triple-X 800 lines and all that. One purports that Democratic congressional candidate Michael Arcuri pushed for the release of a convicted rapist. It features an excerpt from a letter sent to a parole board by one of Arcuri’s assistant DA’s, the text of which noted the convicted man’s role in helping prosecute a murder case, closing with: “Please consider such in your overall determining of whether Thomas should be released on parole.” The excerpt featured in the RCCC mailing? “Thomas should be released on parole.” This attributed to Arcuri. The Republicans are apparently applying the same standard of accuracy to these ads as they applied in the run-up to the Iraq invasion. Next they’ll be telling us Michael Arcuri has been building weapons of mass destruction. (They’ve probably already linked him with Osama.) Will the investment pay off? Not if I can help it. Don’t get me wrong — I think the Democrats are about as ineffectual an opposition party as can be imagined. But we need to shake up this one-party state a little bit.

So here’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Vote this repulsive Congress out of office. Then turn right around and hold the new Congress’s feet to the fire. Either way, keep at it. ‘Nuff said.

luv u,

jp

This is home?

Rubble. Dust rising. The dark silhouette of an ancient structure looms in the background. I can just barely make out its profile… something strangely familiar about it. Deep and foreboding. A frightening presence — home!

Greetings from what might euphemistically be described as “home”. Big Green here, more or less. We have arrived back at the Cheney Hammer Mill after a long, long, loooooonnnggg sojourn in the outer reaches of the galaxy, living the dream (or nightmare, perhaps) of performing for adoring fans (albeit five-legged ones with green antennae and ion-charged grappling hooks for claws). Always falls a bit short for this group, quite frankly… the excitement factor, that is. Sure, everyone thinks it’s “exciting” to be a rock performer and to travel to different planets, make them explode, and all that. Well, when you’ve seen one exploding planet, you’ve seen them all, right? But I digress. (Got to keep talk like that to a minimum — where Big Zamboola comes from, exploding planets are no laughing matter.)

Last you looked, we had somehow talked Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into dragging us over land back to our beloved homestead. It doesn’t pride me greatly to say that, yes, he did complete that task — one worthy of John Henry himself. In fact, I’ve been calling him Marvin “John Henry” (my personal robot assistant) for a couple of days now. (Probably won’t stick.) Actually, it wasn’t that bad for our atomic powered automatonic assistant. He just threw it into low gear and tugged us onto the nearest highway (about 40 miles inland, as it happens). We just scraped the rest of the way, sparks a-flying. (Marvin had to stop and take a leak at one point, but otherwise…) Probably made a curious spectacle for our fellow travelers. Reminded me of going “skitching” when we were kids — the renowned winter pass-time of hanging on to the back bumper of a car and dragging along the icy pavement with your boots. Great fun (’til you fell off in front of a logging truck). Don’t try this at home!

Yes, it took a few days, but before any of us were ready, the looming hulk of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill came into view. It was, contrary to our expectations, still standing, but the neighborhood had definitely gone downhill in the past eight weeks or so. Street fires, excavations, random acts of mayhem, some kind of carnival people were referring to as “The Doo-Dah Parade”…. shall I go on? There was so much dust rising it was kind of hard to tell what this strange ritual entailed, but it appeared as if there were three… perhaps four men on stilts. Jugglers, too. So strange was this spectacle, neither the man-sized tuber nor Big Zamboola drew any significant attention when they piled out of our space RV into the middle of the street. If anything, they looked… well… almost normal. So did Lincoln. (Not anti-Lincoln. He just doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere.)

There goes the neighborhood. For chrissake — leave town for five minutes and they choke the fucking place with doo-dah parades! And us with an album to finish… and I mean finish … in the next few months. Where’s my blindfold?

Busted?

Well, it only took two solid months for the Israeli government to admit that, yes, it had used white phosphorus bombs against what it termed Hezbollah targets — though the vast majority of targets so termed have proven to be civilian homes, apartment buildings, shelters, hospitals, family cars, etc. Of course, the admission came (to me, at least) via a small item tucked inside my Gannett daily newspaper. If memory serves, Tel Aviv’s indignant denials were displayed a bit more prominently. Now that no one’s paying attention, it’s okay to admit that you used chemical weapons in violation of international law. First law of modern warfare, I suppose. (It certainly worked for the U.S. in Fallujah, where similar weapons were enthusiastically deployed.) We live in a strange world where war crimes such as these are not taken seriously unless (a) they are committed by our enemies, or (b) they rise to the level of Nazi war atrocities. It apparently raises few eyebrows anymore to drop burning phosphorus on people and generally trash the Geneva Conventions. What next — a reality show?

Actually, it seems as though the Bush administration is actually sweating this election a bit more than previous ones, since the possibility (however remote) of investigations and prosecutions looms a bit larger should the Democrats win control of either or both houses of Congress. My illustrious brother was commenting on this the other day, and judging by the increasing shrillness of Dubya and his crew, I suspect he may be right. It’s interesting to watch the GOP slime our local Democratic congressional candidate as being “soft on crime” while their candidates consistently warn the voters that Dems will launch congressional investigations and tie up the legislative process with this foreign thing called “holding people accountable.” Apparently they’re only concerned with certain types of crime — not the kind that involves dropping bombs on people or leaving unexploded ordinance lying around where some kid can find it. For that kind of crime, it is sufficient to merely express your regret at the always unintentional deaths and injuries that result.

This last couple of weeks have seen a good many more “unintentional” deaths added to the bill of particulars against Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Blair — more civilians blown to bits in Afghanistan, more people caught up in the most recent counterinsurgency sweeps in Baghdad… to say nothing of the 2,800th U.S. soldier to die in Operation Iraqi Fiefdom. All this death and misery provides a morbid backdrop for this year’s political campaigns — few candidates speak directly to the issue that is in the back of everyone’s mind, namely, when and how is this all going to end? The response from the administration is to change their rhetoric so that they will seem more flexible, while denying (quite laughably) that Bush was ever big on the phrase “stay the course”. Fact is, they’re trying to avoid the issue as well, hoping some superficial atmospherics will help grease their way to another slender victory.

End of the road for these clowns? I’ll believe it when I see it.

luv u,

jp

Land ho-no!

Hear that scraping sound? Dragging my ass this morning. Literally. Don’t lo0k at me like that — you know what I’m talking about, that blog look you always give me. I can see you in the back there… don’t try to hide behind the fat guy!

Sorry if I came across a bit touchy just then. This has been a long hard slog, but I have no right to take it out on you — you who have stood with me every league of the way. Damn it, I’m ungrateful! But isn’t that the way it goes with pop band denizens. Anyways…. our wayward breeze did come along eventually, and pushed us on our way-ward. (Or forward, as it were.) Once we were clear of the strange psycho-miasma surrounding the dreaded Sea of the Weekly World News, we were able to navigate using something other than Trevor James’ Orgone Generator (which, with the polarity reversed, acts as a crude bio-plasmic compass. It’s a little hard to explain, actually. Okay… just drop it, all right?)

Right, right — back to my tale of woe and intrigue. We were on the high seas for several days, making fairly good time (as pops used to say), when Marvin (my personal robot assistant) spotted the silhouette of a substantial coast line to our port side. Land! But what land was it? Iceland? Greenland? Long Island? It was hard to be sure. We thought it best to send a scouting party in the long boat to check it out before attempting to land. Trouble was… no long boat. (We didn’t even have a short boat.) Matt, John and I began to roll our eyes around the ship’s cabin, searching for a gullible… I mean, workable solution. Which one of our party had the greatest natural buoyancy? The answer came quite quickly…. BIG ZAMBOOLA — a true living, breathing floatation device.

Well, friends… Zamboola went ashore and did the recon, as they say (looking more than a bit like that “Rover” critter from the sixties TV show The Prisoner), quickly determining that we had, indeed, sighted land and that — yes — it was indeed the land of our homestead, the besieged, much maligned Cheney Hammer Mill, which we call home. (Did I say that it is our home? The mill? Okay, then.) Next step: get the ship on dry land. But how to accomplish this? Though it was capable (until recently) of interstellar travel, and has of late been modified to serve as a sea-faring vessel, the imitation J-2 space cruiser has zero capability as an over-land vehicle. We needed some means of locomotion — not wind power, not ion power… something that would give us traction for the long road ahead.

When it came to a vote over who would be elected to drag the ship back to Colombo, Marvin won by three votes. (My vote was on posi-Lincoln, but that was out of bitterness… sheer bitterness.) So forward we went, propelled by the power of Marvin’s ion reactor. Hammer Mill, here we come! Giddyap!

Keep dreaming.

October is turning out to be one of the bloodiest months for U.S. troops since the war in Iraq began — their lives being expended so carelessly that even the generals on the ground are publicly re-thinking their latest pacification strategy in Baghdad. (One can only guess ho many Iraqis are dying in these operations. One can only guess because, as I mentioned last week, no one in an official capacity in the U.S. seems interested in counting them.) At the same time, we’re hearing more and more about how our leaders are “losing patience” with the Iraqi government, and there’s been some suggestion of a possible coup, martial law, etc. (see Saigon 1963). One can see a screw job in the making, for sure — a well-worn imperial gambit. Those damnable natives; they just can’t get it together! (See Saigon, pretty much any time between 1946 and 1975.) This whole Iraq thing was going great until they got in the game.

Once again I’m reminded of a comment I heard from a Canadian official a couple of years ago — something to the effect of, “When’s the last time you can recall the Americans taking responsibility for anything?” Well, it still rings true, particularly with regard to the perpetual explosion that is Iraq. Blame will be assigned to the Iraqi government, the Shi’ite militias, the Sunni insurgents, the Iranians, the Syrians, “foreign (i.e. not American) fighters,” Hezbollah, Hamas, Bill Clinton, Barbara Streisand — anybody but “me”. (That’s MBA backwards: Anybody But Me. Bush has got one of those, hasn’t he?) But no matter who is to “blame”, the game will remain the same — stay the course, get the job done, etc. That’s all Bush has now, and since he can’t run again, he’d just as soon not be one of those presidents who had to reverse their Custer decision and pull troops out from where he’d sent them, mission decidedly un-accomplished.

Correct me if I’m wrong (honest — there’s a comments form!) but I believe the mission now is to keep George W. Bush from looking bad… well, worse, let’s say. As long as we stay in Iraq, his political allies can ride around on their unicycles and tell all who will listen that Dubya is like Lincoln and Truman, taking political heat for an unpopular but necessary war, later to be vindicated by history and celebrated as strong and visionary leaders (Lincoln for saving the union; Truman for building the U.S. empire). If we leave Iraq now, that fiction evaporates. So 20, 22, 28, 35-year-old Americans are dying in combat to preserve Bush’s bogus claim to future greatness. That, at least, is what it looks like, since they appear to have no real plan behind what they’re doing. Just keep it going. Like Rumsfeld suggested last week, the War on Terror may never end. Sounds like wishful thinking to me.

If wishes were horses…

luv u,

jp

A band adrift.

What’s this I spy with my little eye? ‘Tis a man in a wee lifeboat. Soggy, nautical-looking gent with a captain’s hat on. Smoke rising lazily from the bowl of his pipe. Looks to have been out here a while…

Oh, yes… hello out there in cyberspace. It’s your old pal Bozo… I mean, Joe-zo. (Been at sea a little too long, me thinkst.) As you may have surmised from my previous utterance, we did manage to shove off last week, as the saying goes. Our dear friend Trevor James Constable cooked up a little nor’easter with that orgone generating device of his, and we were carried off to open water by a most congenial ocean breeze (12 knots, I believe — knot that that means anything to me). Around 1300 hours GMT, we crossed the tropic of Capricorn and headed into uncharted waters. Take it from someone who’s spent the better part of the last month on a desert island — if you’re going to be in uncharted waters, you’re better off keeping in motion rather than standing still. Word to the wise.

Now I don’t know how many of you have actually been to the Sargasso Sea or any of those other forgotten corners of the world that only seem to show up in naval lore, but let me tell you, friend — they exist. Oh, yes. Our nor’easter blew us into a fog-bound stretch of ocean. Aye, grim and foreboding it was, with the smell of decaying hulks hanging heavy in the air around us. Our pilot Marvin (my personal robot assistant) spotted an albatross — t’was then we knew we were in for a rough passage. Shiver me timbers, I’ll be a peg-legged polevaulter if we didn’t spy a small craft off the starboard side, its master a lone ship’s captain, his haggard features bearing a tale of many months at sea… or perhaps years. Aye, an eternity in the doldrums, perhaps. His pipe still lit, he gave a jaunty little dance… and I knew. T’was the captain of the Titanic. We had entered the dreaded Sea of the Weekly World News.

What lay ahead for us? Bat boy? Bigfoot? The space alien who plays presidential kingmaker? We had to get out of here fast. But nay, there was a strange dampening field at work, a peculiar miasma that kept the orgone generating machine from functioning as our weather-maker. If we wanted to avoid being trapped in supermarket checkout lines for all eternity, we needed to find an alternative source of power — one strong enough to push us clear through to the subcontinent. There was only one option: Big Zamboola. But would he do it? We formed an ad hoc delegation and brought the proposal to our beachball-sized planetoid companion. (He’s been hovering in the power core for the last week or two, pining for the Pleiades).

Well, it was more complicated than you might have imagined. Zamboola wasn’t hot on the idea. And as they say, you can lead a planet to water, but you can’t make him blow. (That didn’t come out the way I meant it to, but let it pass… let it pass….) See you in the checkout!

Kill ratio.

I didn’t hear much about the Johns Hopkins study of civilian deaths in Iraq before hearing people jeering at its conclusions as gross exaggerations and — in the tiny mind of our president — an incitement to further violence in the nation he has destroyed (sadly, with our help). Like most politicians, Bush likes some statistics and detests others, and nowadays the sound of a mere $250 billion federal budget deficit is so much sweeter than that of 655,000 dead Iraqi non-combatants. A grim tally indeed. One of the study’s authors, Les Roberts (recent candidate for the democratic nomination for congress in my hometown district), seems to me not at all the hysterical exaggerator type. A physician and epidemiologist, he has been working on public health issues for many years, including time in war zones like Bosnia. This study is a follow-up on the one his team released a couple of years ago that put the number of “excess deaths” (i.e. those resulting from the U.S. invasion) at that time conservatively at 100,000. (The administration hated that number too, as I recall. )

Of course, this is a statistic that was born to be an orphan, and I have little doubt that while it is excoriated by the Republicans, the Democrats will treat it like a leper, just as my hometown newspaper had done so far (no story as of yet). Bush’s reaction is understandable. Hey, what the hell — practically the only “good” news coming out of Iraq for Bush is the Saddam Hussein trial, so when someone claims that Dubya has killed more Iraqis than Saddam, this is not at all a good thing. And as the Democratic leadership knows, he’s not the only one on the hook. There’s enough blood here to stain us all, and that always makes politicians uncomfortable. Don’t want to be giving people the impression that they are, well, responsible for anything their democratically elected leaders do, now do we? That’s no way to get votes. Just give the people happy talk about how we’re the greatest country in the world, and how we’ve never done anything wrong to anybody… and by the way, there’s that evil menace out there. Oh yeah… and you can have war and tax cuts at the same time.

Whatever the pols would have you believe, if this new Iraq casualties study is anything close to true, this is truly one of the major bloodlettings of our time — Rwanda league, for sure. But even if it were closer to the lower figures I hear the administration bandying about — a mere 50,000 or 100,000 — isn’t that bad enough? Isn’t the real crime that those deaths are so unimportant, regardless of their magnitude? For chrissake, does anybody still think that this war was unavoidable? If we’re close to unanimity on that, isn’t it time we consider the degree to which we are responsible for the suffering in Iraq? Is it somehow less disturbing to imagine a 2:1 ratio of Saddam’s killings to our own than something closer to 1:1, when we’re talking about hundreds of thousands of bodies in either case? Shouldn’t totals like this bother us at least as much as some lame-ass Congressman pulling a boner on teen pages?

Democracy = responsibility. That’s why we need to speak up, act up, and vote to end this stupid war.

luv u,

jp

Ship ahoy.

Ship ahoy, ship ahoy… who wants to marry a sailor boy? Washed ashore, washed ashore… How’s the rest of that cheesy Hollywood shanty go? Mitch? Trevor James? Marvin (my personal robot assistant)?

Okay, okay… so anti-Lincoln had a good idea — I admit it. Even a stopped clock, know what I mean? Besides, in my book, anybody who is anti the guy who booked this last tour has got to be something close to a freaking genius. So… I guess my book must be all wrong, because anti-Lincoln is no genius, but he is — and this is important — smarter than his opposite number. So, okay, we stuck the mast into the bubblegum machine on the roof of our spacecraft, and we threw together a makeshift sail from bits of discarded bedclothes. And like many a castaway before us, we attempted to set sail from this veil of tears know to us as Ben-Lostawhile island. Ship ahoy!

Reader’s note — “attempted” is the operative word in that last line. Sure, we made the sail unfurl and we climbed aboard, expectant of a rapid deliverance from the tropical tedium we had endured over the past weeks. And, well, nothing happened. Nothing. No wind. No freaking wind, here in typhoon alley. We beckoned to our resident quasi-meteorologist (Mitch Macaphee) and asked him what was what. He consulted his pocket weather satellite device and shook his head mournfully. We were in the midst of a kind of tropical doldrums — not even a lazy breeze to push us out to sea. This was the limit. As if it wasn’t bad enough that we should have to resort to wind propulsion to get us out of here… now wind turns out to be at a premium. (Perhaps Mitch was right about that coconut fuel idea. Or perhaps not.)

After a bit of head scratching, it was Trevor James who came up with an idea worth considering. How about training his patented orgone generating device directly on the main mast and turning up the volume to eleven? How’d that be? But was it practical? “Sure,” said Trevor James. “We just lash the O.G.D. to the hull and crank her up.” Mitch had some quibbles about leverage and the principles of thrust, but who the hell cares what he thinks, eh? The idea had more merit than chucking coconuts in a reactor chamber and tossing matches at them in hopes they would cause a mighty fire — one mighty enough to destroy Tabunga. (Tabunga? I’ve been on this island way too long…) So, okay, Mitch. Next time we want to stop the Tabunga, we’ll give you a call.

Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us this week. And now the man-sized tuber isn’t talking to me because of the Tabunga reference. A relative of his, apparently — who knew?

In the game.

Quite a spectacle this season, and I don’t mean the changing leaves. Our Republican friends trying to cling to power, fucking things up with such consistency that even so moribund an opposition as the Democrats can give them cause for worry. Still, there’s no day so sunny that the Dems can’t coax a little rain out of it. Hard to see what kind of dramatic difference they would make in power after having provided a dozen votes in the Senate to eliminate habeas corpus protections and give the president extra-constitutional powers and unprecedented legal immunity. Sometimes it seems like they feel they’ll only get to run the store by giving it away first. Weird people. But that’s what corporate money does, I guess — it just promotes a mind-numbing sameness; a narrowing of the political spectrum so that there will be virtually no risk of the ownership class’s interests being threatened. Our republic is definitely in trouble if only because the vast majority of people can find no effective political means of addressing our most pressing problems. Encouraged towards cynicism by both parties, they are increasingly likely to drop out of the political game altogether.

So… why do I have a horse in this race — namely the 24th Congressional district in upstate New York? Well, not because I think it’s going to make all the difference. I’m supporting the Democrat — Michael Arcuri — because I want to give the party currently in power a pain in the ass. Also, the Republican in the race is one of my hometown GOP politicians who’s been considered next in line for this seat for at least a decade. He’s a disgusting little vermin who will support the most reactionary policies of Bush, Hastert, Boehner (pronounced “boner”), and company, and he richly deserves to lose. Of course, the national Republican party has been sending boatloads of money his way, running ads that accuse Arcuri (a district attorney) of being soft on crime, a “tax and spend liberal,” plus funded by shady businessmen and comrade Barbara Streisand. Our backwater district has been graced by visits from Dick Cheney (who raised $200,000 for his boy Ray Meier) and Laura Bush (who raised $150,000 from local fat cats eager to shake her hand), so it’s pretty clear that the Bush White House wants… needs to hold onto this seat, which the GOP has held longer than anyone can remember.

That is why I’m putting some effort into this campaign — not because I’m all that fond of the Democratic candidate, but because Cheney and Hastert and Dubya want the seat so bad. Let’s face it, whoever is elected in November will work to bring federal contracts, projects, and cash home to the 24th district — that’s a given. They all bloody do it. The only meaningful point of comparison is which set of national policy priorities either one is going to support. If Arcuri wins and the Dems take over the House, John Conyers, Barbara Lee, and Dennis Kucinich will be banging the gavel at committee meetings. If the other guys win, it will be Boehner and Foley (well… not, Foley… though something tells me he’ll still be busy with Boehner… pronounced “boner”). That is enough reason for me to help put Arcuri over the top, then return to normal agitating the day after.

Electoral politics is just one small part of the game. And even if the “gains” are negative ones (e.g. slowing down the most pernicious aspects of the Bush agenda), it’s worth putting a few hours into. Nuff said.

luv u,

jp