In the blogosphere, we get to talk about what we want to talk about ...
With further escalation of the chatter that Deep Throat is ill and his WaPo obituary has been written, we can finally confirm: fuck, the Pope is Deep Throat! The papal journo gets around, I tell ya.
And here we were sure it was Nancy Reagan all along.
Huh, now... who else in D.C. is terribly ill... hmm... hmm... no, we got nothing.
Of the usual suspects, David Gergen & Pat Buchanan are robust and working everyday, I think. Rehnquist? How's Fred Fielding?
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DELL-Shalom, a company out of Israel, now manufactures kosher computers. according to Cindy Adams:
The cursor moves right to left, the start-up music is "Hava Nagila," should you click onto porno the screen says, "If your mother knew this she would die," it shuts down automatically on Fridays, all viruses can be cured with matzo ball soup, if it dies you must dispose of it within 24 hours," Internet Explorer has a spinning Star of David in the upper right-hand corner. But, best of all, with a kosher computer you can't get SPAM.
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Also from Cindy Adams:
ELIZABETH EDWARDS, wife of VP- candidate-who-didn't make-it John Edwards, is "responding well" to aggressive chemotherapy. It's exhausting. Intense. Tougher than the family anticipated. But she remains — the words you're told are — "upbeat . . . positive . . . great face forward."
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SEARCH ORDER - by Raúl RiveroWhat are these gentlemen looking for in my house?
What is this officer doing
reading the sheet of paper
on which I’ve written
the words “ambition,” "lightness," and “brittle”?
What hint of conspiracy
speaks to him from the photo without a dedication
of my father in a guayabera (black tie)
in the fields of the National Capitol?
How does he interpret my certificates of divorce?
Where will his techniques of harassment lead him
when he reads the ten-line poems
and discovers the war wounds
of my great-grandfather?
Eight policemen
are examining the texts and drawings of my daughters,
and are infiltrating themselves into my emotional networks
and want to know where little Andrea sleeps
and what does her asthma have to do with my carpets.
They want the code of a message from Zucu
in the upper part of a cryptic text (here a light triumphal smile
of the comrade):
"Castles with music box. I won’t let the boy
hang out with the boogeyman. Jennie."
A specialist in aporia came,
a literary critic with the rank of interim corporal
who examined at the point of a gun
the hills of poetry books.
Eight policemen
in my house
with a search order,
a clean operation,
a full victory
for the vanguard of the proletariat
who confiscated my Consul typewriter,
one hundred forty-two blank pages
and a sad and personal heap of papers
from this summer.
The police confiscated (poet Raúl) Rivero’s books and papers at the time of his arrest, but the poet’s wife, Blanca Reyes, was able to rescue the manuscript of a poem describing an earlier police raid on his home. Letras Libres published the poem in Mexico. This poem seems to show the modern, Almodóvar-like qualities of impudence, wit, irreverence, irony, playfulness, and freedom, so fully alive in Latin America, and to be found right now in a Cuban prison. 
The Five Thousand Dead Iraqi People You Meet in Heaven
Beats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Abu Ghraib
Baby-killers' Club Friends Forever # 12: Wolfowitz and the Disaster Date
Me Talk Pretty One Day
Blank : The Power of Thinking Without Thinking
He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Gays
Dreams from My Father : A Story of Golf and Inheritance
This I Believe: An A to B of a Life
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(Click to view - or don't . . . )
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