This just in from ADS's new age correspondent, Featherfate Starbelly:
Dude, check this out: I'm listening to Mike Oldfield's Incantations, because I'm totally hip and into the modern, edgy music, and at one point, a female chorus repeats, over and over, the words "Diana, Luna, Lucina." These are, as all new age seekers know, names of moon goddesses, and here's a website that lists a particular Wiccan chant using these names. Right about this time, as I was listening, the music went into a new section, and the chorus sang a new word - "Lumen"! That's the name of one of your cute, very moonly cats (Oranj is the other), I know, so I read further.
About halfway down the page I list above, there's this:
"The full moon which occurs during the month of September is known as the Harvest Moon. Since olden times it has been believed to be the source of the greatest magickal power....
Artemis, Diana, Luna, Lucina,
By many names you have been known.
O Mother aspect of the triple goddess
This humble prayer I offer to thee."
Then I checked your cats' little webpage, and I noticed that the cats adopted you on September 20, 2002. What date was the Harvest Moon (September full moon - see above) that year? September 21, 2002 - so Lumen came home to you just in time to bless you on the Harvest Moon festival!
Whoa. I need another bong hit...
Indeed...
6.28.2004
6.27.2004
petty complaints
Why is it that no one knows what lanes are for anymore when they're driving? First, people swing the opposite direction to turn (i.e., swing far left to turn right), even when they're not driving a semi. Then, they swing all over the road in completing their turn - which means people can no longer safely assume that if they're making a right turn, they can turn into the right lane and not get sideswiped by someone making a left turn from the opposite direction. Theoretically, that left-turning driver is supposed to turn into the left lane. But try assuming that...and let me know how happy your insurance company is that it'll be able to raise your premiums.
You probably think I'm going to make some kind of political point: something about cutting off education funding so no one can afford to properly learn how to drive (except the wealthy, who can afford private tutors), or something like that.
No: I blame it all on Sammy Hagar, whose contempt for safe driving knows no bounds. (Relatedly: it seems David Lee Roth is quitting music and going to become an EMT. I wonder if he'll be disappointed by the fact that few real nurses look like the ones in music videos?)
You probably think I'm going to make some kind of political point: something about cutting off education funding so no one can afford to properly learn how to drive (except the wealthy, who can afford private tutors), or something like that.
No: I blame it all on Sammy Hagar, whose contempt for safe driving knows no bounds. (Relatedly: it seems David Lee Roth is quitting music and going to become an EMT. I wonder if he'll be disappointed by the fact that few real nurses look like the ones in music videos?)
6.25.2004
wishful lack of thinking
A week or so ago I went to our award-winning local bookstore, Harry W. Schwartz, to hear Thomas Frank speak on his new book, What's the Matter with Kansas? Frank addresses the question of why the people of Kansas - one of the poorer states in the nation - overwhelming favored George W. Bush and Republicans in recent elections, despite the fact that Republican policies quite obviously do not favor them. The quick answer is that right-wing Republicans in particular have mastered an effective bait-and-switch, running on conservative social positions (which, despite unfortunate "progress" toward such goals, are unlikely ultimately to prevail) while actually enacting conservative economic issues. These are the terms of the compact between the newer, religious-based conservatism and the old-line Establishment conservativism.
The key component of this appeal, though, is the designation of an all-powerful, yet elusive, villain. That villain is, of course, The Liberal. The portrait of The Liberal that emerges in this right-wing discourse is familiar, of course: a latte-sipping, Volvo-driving snob with effete and decadent tastes, disdainful of the rabble, mistrustful of its freedom, and unaffected by the tender feelings that animate regular, God-fearing people. In his talk, Frank noted that switching only a very few of these signifiers gives us the 1930s Popular Front portrayal of The Evil Capitalist (with the economics put back into the picture, along with a plausible line of cause and effect) - and switching only a few more gives us a portrait of classic anti-Semitism. However, what seems to animate everyday right-wingers these days isn't anti-Semitism, and it certainly isn't economics: it's resentment, and mistrust of The Liberal's intellectual voodoo.
For me, one of the clearest illustrations of this anti-intellectual mindset was demonstrated in an incident Rose encountered at work a couple of years ago. A cow-orker (whom I'll call "Julie," since that was her name) was ditto-ing Limbaughisms at Rose, who responded by pointing out that actual facts made mincemeat of Rush's bloviations. I don't remember the specific issue under discussion, only that the facts Rose cited indeed blew Limbaugh out of the water (and this was the younger, larger Limbaugh - so more prodigious force was needed to accomplish such a blow against gravity).
Julie's response, though, wasn't to argue the facts, or their interpretation, or their relevance. Instead, she took off after Rose: "The problem is, you know too much about the situation, so you're biased. I'm looking at it from the heart, so my response is more honest."
Facts, as the man said, are stupid things. And the man knows stupid.
The key component of this appeal, though, is the designation of an all-powerful, yet elusive, villain. That villain is, of course, The Liberal. The portrait of The Liberal that emerges in this right-wing discourse is familiar, of course: a latte-sipping, Volvo-driving snob with effete and decadent tastes, disdainful of the rabble, mistrustful of its freedom, and unaffected by the tender feelings that animate regular, God-fearing people. In his talk, Frank noted that switching only a very few of these signifiers gives us the 1930s Popular Front portrayal of The Evil Capitalist (with the economics put back into the picture, along with a plausible line of cause and effect) - and switching only a few more gives us a portrait of classic anti-Semitism. However, what seems to animate everyday right-wingers these days isn't anti-Semitism, and it certainly isn't economics: it's resentment, and mistrust of The Liberal's intellectual voodoo.
For me, one of the clearest illustrations of this anti-intellectual mindset was demonstrated in an incident Rose encountered at work a couple of years ago. A cow-orker (whom I'll call "Julie," since that was her name) was ditto-ing Limbaughisms at Rose, who responded by pointing out that actual facts made mincemeat of Rush's bloviations. I don't remember the specific issue under discussion, only that the facts Rose cited indeed blew Limbaugh out of the water (and this was the younger, larger Limbaugh - so more prodigious force was needed to accomplish such a blow against gravity).
Julie's response, though, wasn't to argue the facts, or their interpretation, or their relevance. Instead, she took off after Rose: "The problem is, you know too much about the situation, so you're biased. I'm looking at it from the heart, so my response is more honest."
Facts, as the man said, are stupid things. And the man knows stupid.
6.18.2004
foaming like a wave (at the mouth)
This is a version of a piece I wrote a couple years back for an online zine, gone over lightly with the Healing Edit Tool (okay, only three people will get that joke - so sue me).
I have a long history with "MacArthur Park." I was fascinated by it as a kid, when it was initially popular. (I'm talking about the Richard Harris version: the Donna Summer version is a pointless abomination for many reasons, which I will make clear later.) Even then, there was something about the song for me that was both attractive and repellant: I liked (and still do) the harpsichord intro, the odd, hesitant rhythmic shifts, and the lurching, brass-accented modulations at the end of each verse - but what the hell was Harris singing about, and why did he deliver it like Charlton Heston's Moses bringing the Ten Commandments down from the mountaintop?
I bought the 45 in the early seventies, but a few years later, finally leaving my prog-rock teens for a punk and new wave early twenties, it became a full-fledged guilty pleasure. Incidentally, I love how so many people in early punk bands claimed to have liked only the Velvet Underground, or Iggy, or the MC5: yeah right - you probably had singles of "In the Year 2525" just like every other music-loving kid of that age. And that was the most hip thing in your collection. At least the Sex Pistols were slightly honest in this regard, covering the Monkees' "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone."
In college, at Ann Arbor in the early eighties, I remember doing up a series of flashcards, one for each line of the lyric, the point of which was to show up the absurd incongruity of its piled metaphors. (Alas, my dorm cohorts and I missed the surrealist metaphoric eroticism whereby "love's hot fevered iron" meets "striped pants"...) And yet the song still fascinated me, probably because even though Harris's singing is pictured in the dictionary next to "over the top," at the same time its actorly conviction translated: he meant something, and it meant something to him. So, at some point, I found myself trying to figure out how this song worked, and why.
First, it helps to go back to an earlier Jimmy Webb-penned hit, "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" (made famous by Glen Campbell). Probably most people, if asked what this song is about, would say something like: it's this guy who's left his girlfriend, and as he's driving along he's thinking of her and her reactions. No - it's way sicker than that. He hasn't left her; he's only thinking about doing so...and he's imagining, in near-pornographically precise detail, exactly how broken up she'll be as he drives his truck back to Phoenix. (No way this guy would drive anything but a pickup truck.) The more upset he imagines her as being, the more involved he gets in his own narrative. All of this, of course, serves to amp up the emotion of the song, and make this great doomed love affair all the grander for him. As the notes to a compilation of Jimmy Webb's hits point out, this is the kind of guy who'd fake his own funeral just to find out what everyone says about him.
And "MacArthur Park"? It's that song's sequel. The narrator never did actually leave her - but she wised up, and left him. But the self-aggrandizement of the narrator, his need to make himself a larger-than-life protagonist in (what he wishes were) a Shakespearean-level tragedy, remains. (And now the brilliance of finding Harris to sing this - a cured ham of the highest order, but also a genuine Shakespearean - begins to come clear.) Right from the start, the narrator's enormous, Sting-like ego bursts forth: it's not that he, or she, or anyone, was impatient about Spring - no, Spring Itself has been pressganged as an actor in their romance, refusing to wait for them. But the real key is in the bridge (not the instrumental, faux-hip, white go-go boots dance section, but the vocal bridge). Here the narrator whingingly claims that he'll go on, he'll love again...but never as richly, truly, or strongly as in his great lost love. Obligingly, he'll sacrifice when necessary, drinking piss-temperature wine and blinding himself without benefit of the proper solar viewing apparatus, but mostly in settling for second-best. (Wonder what those putative other lovers would think if they knew?) Here we have a sort of false humility, a purely gestural attempt at not being a martyr - which last is, of course, exactly what he imagines himself to be.
Okay, you're wondering: what about that damned cake? What the hell is it doing in the rain, and why can't he just make another one? And what kind of insane cake decorator uses green icing? If you insist, I could claim that, literally, the cake was in the rain because it was his wedding cake, she left him at the altar, and it rained, and everyone was too upset to do anything about the stupid cake. Or maybe same scenario, it didn't rain, but he's crying (for fans of Hallmark Cards -level bathos). Or more likely, the wedding cake, the rain, the park, and other things (speaking of another sonically overstuffed sixties hit) are all in his mind: he's dreaming of the wedding that's never to be, imagining the break-up as disappointing meteorological phenomena (and inadvertently providing Alanis Morissette with another opportunity to misunderstand the concept of irony). He'll "never have that recipe again" because, you see, Their Love was just so special that he's doomed to life of warm wine and self-administered blindness. But I'll bet he thinks being drunk and wandering around in Ray Charles' glasses will help him pick up chicks as he trolls the sad pick-up joints of his town's abandoned warehouse district.
Finally, though, the song becomes a triumph - because all of its excesses, therefore, are narrative: they're part of what the song's about, not incidental details of arrangement or poor choices in interpretation. Alright, I'll acknowledge they may be those, too - but as a record, as a sound object, the whole thing hangs together, regardless of what Webb, Harris, or anyone else wanted. (And Summer's version doesn't work because she doesn't understand that, because she sings the whole thing in a monotone - just like its arrangement - and she misunderstands the nature of Webb's weird metaphors and so pointlessly changes "checkers" to "Chinese checkers" in an apparent attempt at lily-gilding.) But even without this rather weighty interpretation (and yeah, I'm aware that it is itself nearly as overblown and pretentious as the narrator I describe - but really, I'm just trying to put words around an idea of how the song works for me), I still like the song's basics: its chord structure, melody, and some of its subtler instrumental ideas.
But I still don't know why anyone would ever use green cake icing.
I have a long history with "MacArthur Park." I was fascinated by it as a kid, when it was initially popular. (I'm talking about the Richard Harris version: the Donna Summer version is a pointless abomination for many reasons, which I will make clear later.) Even then, there was something about the song for me that was both attractive and repellant: I liked (and still do) the harpsichord intro, the odd, hesitant rhythmic shifts, and the lurching, brass-accented modulations at the end of each verse - but what the hell was Harris singing about, and why did he deliver it like Charlton Heston's Moses bringing the Ten Commandments down from the mountaintop?
I bought the 45 in the early seventies, but a few years later, finally leaving my prog-rock teens for a punk and new wave early twenties, it became a full-fledged guilty pleasure. Incidentally, I love how so many people in early punk bands claimed to have liked only the Velvet Underground, or Iggy, or the MC5: yeah right - you probably had singles of "In the Year 2525" just like every other music-loving kid of that age. And that was the most hip thing in your collection. At least the Sex Pistols were slightly honest in this regard, covering the Monkees' "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone."
In college, at Ann Arbor in the early eighties, I remember doing up a series of flashcards, one for each line of the lyric, the point of which was to show up the absurd incongruity of its piled metaphors. (Alas, my dorm cohorts and I missed the surrealist metaphoric eroticism whereby "love's hot fevered iron" meets "striped pants"...) And yet the song still fascinated me, probably because even though Harris's singing is pictured in the dictionary next to "over the top," at the same time its actorly conviction translated: he meant something, and it meant something to him. So, at some point, I found myself trying to figure out how this song worked, and why.
First, it helps to go back to an earlier Jimmy Webb-penned hit, "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" (made famous by Glen Campbell). Probably most people, if asked what this song is about, would say something like: it's this guy who's left his girlfriend, and as he's driving along he's thinking of her and her reactions. No - it's way sicker than that. He hasn't left her; he's only thinking about doing so...and he's imagining, in near-pornographically precise detail, exactly how broken up she'll be as he drives his truck back to Phoenix. (No way this guy would drive anything but a pickup truck.) The more upset he imagines her as being, the more involved he gets in his own narrative. All of this, of course, serves to amp up the emotion of the song, and make this great doomed love affair all the grander for him. As the notes to a compilation of Jimmy Webb's hits point out, this is the kind of guy who'd fake his own funeral just to find out what everyone says about him.
And "MacArthur Park"? It's that song's sequel. The narrator never did actually leave her - but she wised up, and left him. But the self-aggrandizement of the narrator, his need to make himself a larger-than-life protagonist in (what he wishes were) a Shakespearean-level tragedy, remains. (And now the brilliance of finding Harris to sing this - a cured ham of the highest order, but also a genuine Shakespearean - begins to come clear.) Right from the start, the narrator's enormous, Sting-like ego bursts forth: it's not that he, or she, or anyone, was impatient about Spring - no, Spring Itself has been pressganged as an actor in their romance, refusing to wait for them. But the real key is in the bridge (not the instrumental, faux-hip, white go-go boots dance section, but the vocal bridge). Here the narrator whingingly claims that he'll go on, he'll love again...but never as richly, truly, or strongly as in his great lost love. Obligingly, he'll sacrifice when necessary, drinking piss-temperature wine and blinding himself without benefit of the proper solar viewing apparatus, but mostly in settling for second-best. (Wonder what those putative other lovers would think if they knew?) Here we have a sort of false humility, a purely gestural attempt at not being a martyr - which last is, of course, exactly what he imagines himself to be.
Okay, you're wondering: what about that damned cake? What the hell is it doing in the rain, and why can't he just make another one? And what kind of insane cake decorator uses green icing? If you insist, I could claim that, literally, the cake was in the rain because it was his wedding cake, she left him at the altar, and it rained, and everyone was too upset to do anything about the stupid cake. Or maybe same scenario, it didn't rain, but he's crying (for fans of Hallmark Cards -level bathos). Or more likely, the wedding cake, the rain, the park, and other things (speaking of another sonically overstuffed sixties hit) are all in his mind: he's dreaming of the wedding that's never to be, imagining the break-up as disappointing meteorological phenomena (and inadvertently providing Alanis Morissette with another opportunity to misunderstand the concept of irony). He'll "never have that recipe again" because, you see, Their Love was just so special that he's doomed to life of warm wine and self-administered blindness. But I'll bet he thinks being drunk and wandering around in Ray Charles' glasses will help him pick up chicks as he trolls the sad pick-up joints of his town's abandoned warehouse district.
Finally, though, the song becomes a triumph - because all of its excesses, therefore, are narrative: they're part of what the song's about, not incidental details of arrangement or poor choices in interpretation. Alright, I'll acknowledge they may be those, too - but as a record, as a sound object, the whole thing hangs together, regardless of what Webb, Harris, or anyone else wanted. (And Summer's version doesn't work because she doesn't understand that, because she sings the whole thing in a monotone - just like its arrangement - and she misunderstands the nature of Webb's weird metaphors and so pointlessly changes "checkers" to "Chinese checkers" in an apparent attempt at lily-gilding.) But even without this rather weighty interpretation (and yeah, I'm aware that it is itself nearly as overblown and pretentious as the narrator I describe - but really, I'm just trying to put words around an idea of how the song works for me), I still like the song's basics: its chord structure, melody, and some of its subtler instrumental ideas.
But I still don't know why anyone would ever use green cake icing.
6.17.2004
Word of the Millennium
Eureka! I have stumbled across the one word that sums up and embodies just about everything I could think to complain about in contemporary culture and politics (not that that'll stop me from doing so using more than the one word). I found the word in a quote taken from series creator Ryan Murphy's commentary track on the DVD of the first season of FX series Nip/Tuck and cited in a review from The Onion of that DVD - and incidentally, that matryushka of prepositional phrases and embedded possessives equally serves to express the giddy faux- pomo-ness also resident in this wonderful new word, which is...depthy.
As in, "Ryan Murphy says he set out to create a 'depthy show about superficiality.'"
Depthy.
How brilliant is that.
Speaking of The Onion...is it just me, or is there actually more humor content in the masthead's subscription info than in the typical installment of "Say Something Funny"?
As in, "Ryan Murphy says he set out to create a 'depthy show about superficiality.'"
Depthy.
How brilliant is that.
Speaking of The Onion...is it just me, or is there actually more humor content in the masthead's subscription info than in the typical installment of "Say Something Funny"?
6.16.2004
seasonally inappropriate; a/k/a My All-Time Favorite Halloween Costumes
In the mid-eighties in Madison, when Halloween turned State Street into a costumed bacchanale, we encountered lots of clever, creative, and elaborate costumes. But sometimes the simplest costumes were the best, when shot through with a conceptual brilliance.
So, two guys who went as "Shit!" and "Fuck You!" "Shit!" was a shorter, stouter guy, who covered himself in a brown garbage bag and muttered and shuffled down the street with downcast eyes. "Fuck You!" on the other hand, was a thin wiry guy, gesticulating wildly in the air with a half-closed, broken umbrella, turning his epithet into a noise rather like a startled chicken's cry.
I think it's the broken umbrella that works best for me: it's become a sort of iconic image for me. So if by some chance the creators of those costumes read this, have a drink on me.
So, two guys who went as "Shit!" and "Fuck You!" "Shit!" was a shorter, stouter guy, who covered himself in a brown garbage bag and muttered and shuffled down the street with downcast eyes. "Fuck You!" on the other hand, was a thin wiry guy, gesticulating wildly in the air with a half-closed, broken umbrella, turning his epithet into a noise rather like a startled chicken's cry.
I think it's the broken umbrella that works best for me: it's become a sort of iconic image for me. So if by some chance the creators of those costumes read this, have a drink on me.
6.11.2004
in honor of...
Today's day of mourning (most noticeable, I suppose, because of the lack of postal service) honors the memory of Ray Charles, who most likely contributed far more to America and the world than that other guy - and definitely did less harm.
And don't let anyone tell you different.
And don't let anyone tell you different.
6.09.2004
yet more...
Josh Marshall's Talking Points site Monday linked to an article in (of all places) the Wall Street Journal, which points out that the legal memo composed at the behest of Bush and seeking to justify the use of torture explicitly places the President above the law: "authority to set aside the laws is 'inherent in the president.'"
In other words, if the President doesn't like a particular law, he simply may choose not to obey it.
Previously, I have dismissed as unduly paranoid the idea that if Bush loses the election, he might cite some "crisis" or other and simply refuse to step aside. Now, I'm not so sure. This administration's disregard for law, custom, and anyone other than themselves is appalling and astonishing.
In other words, if the President doesn't like a particular law, he simply may choose not to obey it.
Previously, I have dismissed as unduly paranoid the idea that if Bush loses the election, he might cite some "crisis" or other and simply refuse to step aside. Now, I'm not so sure. This administration's disregard for law, custom, and anyone other than themselves is appalling and astonishing.
6.08.2004
dreamtime
Peculiar dream last night: I was sitting on the couch, listening to music, when I noticed that the digital readout on the CD player had stopped. (This being a dream, I didn't notice the music itself...) I shortly realized that this wasn't an electronic glitch, because everything had stopped: the trees outside the window were frozen motionless, the cats were completely still, and so on. And I realized that "I" - in this instance my consciousness, and visual point of view - could move outside my body, which remained seated, motionless, on the couch. I could go anywhere, view anything, nearly instantaneously (from my perspective) - but time itself, it appeared, had stopped. I realized that, in fact, I had died, and that this is what death was: consciousness was inhibited from moving forward in time, though no longer limited in space to one's own body. It seemed both peculiarly liberating and dreadfully final: from my perspective, nothing would move, change, or evolve again, and everything was frozen in that moment's tableau.
I suppose (and now I'm thinking about the dream: this wasn't part of it) that one could find plenty of interest just in exploring that moment so thoroughly (a literalization of Eno's "Long Now"?), but it seemed an odd twist on the conventional notion that one's "soul" or perceiving self might persist beyond death, in the sense that it could take in events happening after that death.
And in my waking life, I don't believe in an afterlife or in any such entity as the "soul" (consciousness is an emergent tendency of the complex neural net of all our senses and perceptions: something like that), but the emotional logic of imagining a "self" beyond one's body is evidently compelling enough to work itself out in dreams.
(Another subject entirely: thanks to Puala-Bear for this link, to Greg Palast's blast against Reagan hagiographizing - a word every bit as ugly as the process...)
I suppose (and now I'm thinking about the dream: this wasn't part of it) that one could find plenty of interest just in exploring that moment so thoroughly (a literalization of Eno's "Long Now"?), but it seemed an odd twist on the conventional notion that one's "soul" or perceiving self might persist beyond death, in the sense that it could take in events happening after that death.
And in my waking life, I don't believe in an afterlife or in any such entity as the "soul" (consciousness is an emergent tendency of the complex neural net of all our senses and perceptions: something like that), but the emotional logic of imagining a "self" beyond one's body is evidently compelling enough to work itself out in dreams.
(Another subject entirely: thanks to Puala-Bear for this link, to Greg Palast's blast against Reagan hagiographizing - a word every bit as ugly as the process...)
distractions...
Some conservatives, I am sure, are quite shocked that today, on the third day after his death, Ronnie hasn't risen up out of his tomb.
Reagan, Reagan, Reagan...and don't pay any attention to this - or to this...
Here's a far more worthy subject of mourning, and another.
(Feel free to login to the New York Times as "qwetlitwerk" (random keystrokes...), password "password")
Reagan, Reagan, Reagan...and don't pay any attention to this - or to this...
Here's a far more worthy subject of mourning, and another.
(Feel free to login to the New York Times as "qwetlitwerk" (random keystrokes...), password "password")
6.07.2004
St. Ronnie
If not for Ronald Reagan, we couldn't breathe air, we couldn't drink water, and probably gravity wouldn't work right. He's solely responsible for sunlight, dappled clouds, and soft pink things, including cute little lambies. We should dynamite those other guys and put his face up on Mt. Rushmore - in fact, every mountain in the nation should be sculpted to look like him.
Of course, his real legacy is having made the presidency safe for stupid people.
Hooray.
Of course, his real legacy is having made the presidency safe for stupid people.
Hooray.
6.03.2004
geography lessons
Milwaukee (the band) is from Sacramento. The Milwaukees (not the same band) are from New Jersey.
And New Harmony Indiana (the band)? They're from Milwaukee. (Well, okay: a couple band members are originally from Indiana.)
And New Harmony Indiana (the band)? They're from Milwaukee. (Well, okay: a couple band members are originally from Indiana.)
laws are for little people
Thanks to cursor.org for this one: Our boy-king apparently fetishizes a handgun taken directly from Saddam Hussein when Saddam was captured. Of course, it appears that the weapon was removed from Iraq illegally, presented to Bush illegally, and is kept within the city of Washington, DC, illegally.
It's not as legit a reason for impeachment as the Gonzalez Memo...but since nothing's going on even on that, I don't suppose a little Oval Office gunplay will get anyone upset. (And what is it with that office, Presidents, and phallic objects, hmm?)
(As an aside: where the hell was the guy who could make these remarks, back in the 2000 election?)
It's not as legit a reason for impeachment as the Gonzalez Memo...but since nothing's going on even on that, I don't suppose a little Oval Office gunplay will get anyone upset. (And what is it with that office, Presidents, and phallic objects, hmm?)
(As an aside: where the hell was the guy who could make these remarks, back in the 2000 election?)
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