(since, when I said, and they can vouch I said, Hey, it's motherfucking Captain Kangaroo, they said, Who?) is motherfucking Captain Kangaroo stepping out of a Mercury limo two cars behind us, glancing at his watch, kicking a tire, pulling out his cell and cursing into it while getting back in the limo, though it's true! I didn't have time to get a shot off, he was back in the car before I could dig my camera phone out of my pocket, before I could get him. Once traffic was waved on, he ordered the driver to speed and weave, but this was the GW Parkway, and if we mere (but made) assholes want to frustrate major assholes, well, we (and by we I mean me and a some guy in a Camry with vegan stickers and some woman in a prius with one of those coexist stickers) can tandem lane @ 50 mph all the way to National Airport, motherfucker. Resistance, bitches. Giggled day.
- Giggled day except for that putting Planet on a plane back to Bamgier, which we're visiting next weekend, yay us! I can't wait.
- OWS once, twice.
- Teevee's day at Occupy Seattle.
- Lame agents provocateur. Nothing so pathetic as a wannabe K Street cracker-baiter in his 20s.
- Occupy K Street.
- Occupy all streets.
- This generation's greatest academic fraud (I say this admiringly) at OWS.
- This generation's greatest academic fraud (I say this admiringly) at OWS.
- Though I say this without admiration - what a fucking dry-humper.
- Panic of the plutocrats.
- Finance anti-capitalism.
- Memory Lame.
- Geraldo!
- Directions in feminism.
- Decade of folly.
- Not an obamapostasy, but Reich's getting closer.
- Killing citizens.
- Perspective from liberal heaven.
- Romney's brave new world.
- The penis metaphor is strong!
- Football Quiz!
- Al Davis?
- The Eagles will win next Sunday by 25. Pint.
- Avid Diva.
- Flying weather.
- Claviers.
- Darkblack's Sunday Overnight.
NURTURE
Maxine Kumin
From a documentary on marsupials I learn
that a pillowcase makes a fine
substitute pouch for an orphaned kangaroo.
I am drawn to such dramas of animal rescue.
They are warm in the throat. I suffer, the critic proclaims,
from an overabundance of maternal genes.
Bring me your fallen fledgling, your bummer lamb,
lead the abused, the starvelings, into my barn.
Advise the hunted deer to leap into my corn.
And had there been a wild child—
filthy and fierce as a ferret, he is called
in one nineteenth-century account—
a wild child to love, it is safe to assume,
given my fireside inked with paw prints,
there would have been room.
Think of the language we two, same and not-same,
might have constructed from sign,
scratch, grimace, grunt, vowel:
Laughter our first noun, and our long verb, howl.