When you spend two of your worst days attempting to convince wildly anti-Rove detractors that maybe, perhaps, with a bit of moderation perchance, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions about the guilt of the aforementioned vampiric deputy chief of staff, whose nightly visits to the press have revealed two puncture marks in the neck of the White House, shaped like Valerie Plame and Joe Wilson, you tend to get a little nutty. I do, at any rate. It’s astonishing how easily I get caught up in these ill-advised debates. One minute I’m advocating a “wait and see” policy, at least until Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald emerges from the bathroom to present the evidence that Rove really is the two-headed minion of a demon understudy named Billy Twanga, the next I’m arguing whether the Niger yellowcake story has any merit (it does–I’ve read the Niger report cover to cocyx). Before long, I’ve spent the better part of an hour researching the definition of “covert agent” and the specifics of the Intelligence Identities Protection Act–not that it does any good, since I’m arguing against someone who wins his debates by calling people names. Ten year olds aren’t this cute.
Eventually, you just have to end it, even knowing you’ll be accused of “running away”. I realized something though. What does it matter? They’re on the other side of the globe. As we know from Patriot Games, only extremist Irish sociopaths hunt down and kill those who piss them off. I think this one guy is from Australia, or New Zealand.
I’m on Day 4 of the infection, which will probably have people in droves suggesting I visit the doctor. I’m here to quell that little piece of advice. No. I have to admit to feeling a little like a walking science lab these past few days. My body has produced an inordinate amount of substances that would easily find a home on a slide or in a petri dish, and probably could be used to seed a distant planet for the growth of new life forms. I don’t know. It makes me realize just how gross things inside really are. Could I handle watching an operation, or an autopsy? I doubt it.
According to the calendar, I’m a mere 24 days away from turning a quarter of a decade old. I will be celebrating in Las Vegas, of course. Of course. There are few places in the country where debauchery and financial stupidity combine with wholesome family fun, but Vegas is remarkably cool about the whole arrangement. The minute you hit the Strip, there’s a sense that everyone’s not quite sure how they should act. And with the glitter, the lights, and the Bellagio fountain spectacular, it’s a clever arrangement, designed to disguise the fact that pornographic pamphlets float, wind-blown, down the street in reams. Sex sells, but it’s never quite as much fun when its being hawked by 15-year-old Hispanic boys. Regardless, Vegas is a town worth visiting at least twice in your life. Once, to get that visceral thrill, twice to realize how hollow it all is. Fun, but hollow.
And then it’s Push On to Los Angeles.
Can anyone tell me why Angeles spells its Los with an ‘o’, whilst Vegas spells its with an ‘a’? Is it a feminine-masculine thing? Just wondering. It’s something that’s bugged me for a long time, and I don’t feel like googling it.
I’ll be posting a review of Layer Cake later this afternoon. Not that it really matters at this late date. But you know me. Anything to substitute for a meaningful post.