[As we know, all our EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library.]
Such a bore here today. Special elections, and there’s nothing special about them, although one has to be ever so slightly pleased with Virginia, especially Virginia, and New Jersey.
The only real amusement came from the Republicans – truly the stuff of vaudeville – and their premature ejaculatory declaration that they were going to launch an investigation into that Leak to the Post about those CIA black gulags.
Then all Congressional hell broke loose. Once again. Signatures were postponed, Frists’ disappeared, and all because Mr. Lott drawled that hell yes, one of his own had clearly done the dirty deed. Given that all that information had been provided and discussed at an all-Republican confab – with Mr. Cheney as special guest -just before the Leak happened.
And all because once upon a time Mr. Lott paid an alcohol-fuelled good old boy homage to a mummified former icon of Southern Goth. And was then quickly stabbed in the back by his own pack of living dead.
Honestly, how Byzantine and surreal has this corner of the Universe become when Monsieur Lott now presents himself as a gentleman with whom I would not mind sharing the odd pint or six?
And, if I could, it would be at the Velvet Elvis in Savannah, one of those almost perfectly crafted southern dives. Live acts every night, a vast array of musical genre, appealing to every subset of riff-raff in town. Swing [lots, sigh, with all the girls in their most fetching Rosie the Riveter costumes], faux-chicano ska, anything a girl might want. I always showed up on Tuesdays for the Bud-driven hard-core.
The barman was from Dublin, the owner from Bath, and they even had a “VIP room” - the attic cum storage loft. No lighting that I ever noticed, filled to the literal rafters with cobwebs and boxes, but the perfect place for sampling semi-illegal substances or the odd snog.