these have to be the new bond themes

"I said, play it again."

I don't pretend to be a Bond connaisseur, but one of these songs has got to kick the next flick off...

My Mistakes Were Made for you - The Last Shadow Puppets

Black Plant - The Last Shadow Puppets

Can't you just see those silhoutteted ladies with pistols appearing in coolly crafted credits to either of these songs? They're perfect.

This album has been on heavy rotation as of late and I have to give it up eternally to Arctic Monkey frontman, and Sir-to-be, Alex Turner - the man has his way with words.

must be some kind of record

Hey kids!

It's your old friend Oil Can, just checkin in to see how y'all doin?

Myself, I've been bouncing around here and there. Saw Obama. Dude is tall!

I'm on one of those pay joints in downtown Philly right now, so I don't have much time to catch y'all up with my travels, so I'll be quick. Just in here now, getting my things dried up. Got my socks on the bannister, getting some heat to em, you know, cause shit, I just spent the last three nights at Citizens Bank, waiting on them Phillies to beat the Rays.

See, I couldn't leave the park cause I kind of snuck in for Game 5. Dude at security must of thought I was Jimmy Rollins or something. I was jacked though man, cause I ain't been to a Fall Classic since my days with the Bo Sox and I ain't gonna start bringing that up, cause that shit just pisses me right off.

But yeah, so the game gets going and she was a tight one and then the rain starts coming down in droves man, ona them Gullywashers, you know? Dudes were missing cut-offs, Rollins missed a pop-up, the wind was driving people crazy and they cancelled the game. Well man, what's the Can gonna do? I can't leave. This is the World Series, baby!

So I spent Wednesday night under a frozen malt stand umbrella in the second level concourse. Nobody bothered me none, and I stocked up on some sweets. I woke up at one point and there was some old mangey pooch cuddled up next to me, though, and I didn't like that.

Wake up in the Hotel Philadelphia

I had nothing to do the next day and just took my bore old self to the bullpen and looked around. Those ballplayers sure got it good now, boy. Them chairs they sit on out there, that's just excessive man. We used to have chairs like them steel jobs in the WWF, throw your back right out.

When nobody came to the park Tuesday, I figured they done postponed the game till Wednesday, but I couldn't really tell cause I don't got a cellphone and who knows what's happening these days man, maybe the stocks took another dive and everyone was shipping out to China or something and maybe it was just me, old Can, left to wander an empty ballpark. I did meet some girl on Tuesday, but I think she was a cleaning lady or something and I couldn't understand a damn word she was saying. She was cool though, gave me some cracker jacks she found.

So I spent Tuesday night in the Phillies bullpen, in a fort I built out of them chairs. 

I figured if no one came by Wednesday, then I would be okay with leaving.

Wouldn't you know it though, shit clears up and Citizen Bank gets live... I stuck around the Phillies bullpen (dude in security thought I was Jimmy Rollins' brother) and after three innings, the Phillies took it and the people went wild.

I was pretty tired and still kind of am. I was seeing shit too, I think, on  account of the tiredness by the end of the whole thing... You know, like fireworks and flying saucers and shit, cause man I was tired and all I ate was cracker jacks and frozen malts and this crazy energy shit they drink in the bullpen nowadays.

But I do remember seeing this one pudgy white boy on the Phillies -- Stairs, I think it was -- grinning like a damn jackal when the boys celebrated and hammered his ole behind...

Shit, the red light is blinking, I think I'm timed out...

Stay warm, kiddies and I'll hit ya when somethin

a lesson in relativity

Last Saturday, I was feeling a little caged in. The air was chilly, the wind blowing, rain/snow inevitable, and I had little energy and less imagination, meaning I meandered around the house for some time, bouncing off the walls, frustrated by my lack of things to do.

I finally grabbed my coat and my keys and a couple bucks, jammed my headphones in my ears, got in the truck and decided on coffee.

I hit a good streak of tunes through the drive-thru and so, coffee in hand and head nodding, I decided to take the airport loop downtown, where I was to meet a bud.

The streak continued and so, instead of turning right, into town, I took a left, off to the Ingraham Trail, thinking maybe I'd just drive out past Giant Mine and to the Yellowknife River and then turn around. I was really feeling the music -- some old, nostalgic Tripping Daisy.

And so when I got to the river, I just kept going, because I didn't want the feeling to end. It was nice just enjoying the moment, you know? No thoughts, really. Just things passing by the window, which would trigger spasms of nostalgia or stimulate old pictures and people and events.

I swung around corners -- the same ones I saw from 10,000 feet on my way out of Yellowknife this summer, which was the first time I'd seen the Ingraham Trail from above, which I found shockingly trivial watching it sprawl randomly through the mass of trees below -- and took in the sights, days before snow would surely cover all of it up for half a year. And I got to the Dettah turnoff and said, "What the hell. Why not?"

I hadn't been to Dettah in probably 20 years -- outside of ice road endeavors in winter. So I took the 18km road slow, and just prayed that the road would never end and I'd be able to keep driving and the moment. 

Cars would come up from behind and coax me to drive faster, and I would oblige because I am a societal product -- afraid to seem like a Sunday driver to a perfect stranger, you know...

Eventually, I found Dettah. And I drove around a bit, watching the late-fall wind blow whitecaps up on the lake, from the tip of Yellowknife Bay. I looked out at the great lake for a long while.

Turned the beast around, and drove past an old ball park, which I remembered being gigantic as a 5 year old kid, now a tiny, rundown relic -- maybe as your brain grows in dimension with age, it shrinks things from your smaller, kid memory storage device? Was that park actually bigger when I was a kid, because I was smaller?

Turning onto the road out, I looked forward to the long drive home. My buddy called. 

I say I'm in Dettah. 

"You're in Dettah?" 

I say I'm on my way back into town.

Then, out of NOWHERE, this old lady, decked out in the traditional purple skirt, stockings, black shoes, pink hood, purple coat, babooshka regalia, throws her thumb out at the side of the road.

I stop without realizing. I tell my buddy I'll call him back. Before the vehicle is stopped, she is already on her way to the door. I unlock the door and she hops right in.

She's very old. Her face is creased all over. It looks like a flesh-coloured raisin with three holes in it.

"Town," she grunts, pulling a tissue out from her pocket, to wipe the tears that had welled up in her eyes to protect them from the howling winds.

"Town? Okay, no problem," I say, slightly uncomfortable now that my solitude-bubble has been burst.

Now I don't want to sound like an ass here, but I sort of pride myself on my ability to strike up a conversation with anyone, from any walk of life...

Not on Saturday.

"Cold out there, eh?" 

Nothing

"Do your legs get cold wearing that?" pointing to her nearly bare legs, covered by thin leggings. 

Barely an acknowledgement.

I was completely out of my element. I had no idea what to say. I offered her some of the peach drink I had. No reply.

I saw the back of the one kilometre sign into Dettah. On the way in, it had brought dread that the drive had ended. Now it had the same effect, but this time illustrating that this was just the start. 

The long drive home now felt UNBEARABLY LONG. I didn't want the drive out to Dettah to ever end, now I couldn't wait to get into Yellowknife, with nothing but the radio murmuring on my blown, buzzing speakers.

I hit 90kph on that road heading back, when I barely nudged 55kph on the way out.

This elder had taught me all I needed to know about the theory of relativity.

I felt bad that I couldn't start up a conversation. I would look over at her strong hands patting away at her face. She stared out the window, no doubt assessing the changes in the land surrounding the road from Dettah to the city, and all that she had probably witnessed over her at least 75 years commuting between the two locales.

We drove over the river, through Giant, past the dump, and the ski lodge without once exchanging a hint of communication.  Finally, we reached the reduced speed area outside the Legislative Assembly turn off and I asked, where do you want me to drop you off?

"Town," she said, almost annoyed that I didn't seem to understand the first time.

Okay, I smiled.

We got outside Extra Foods and I slowed down.

She turned to me and smiled. "Mahsi." She pulled her legs out the door.

"No problem. Take care. Stay warm." Who knows what else mindless small talk B.S.

I must have looked confused or weird or something. 

Because once she was out, she said, "thank you," very slowly, to make sure I understood.

Yep.

And that was it. No look back, she was walking toward wherever it was she needed to go. 

And I was off to... now where was I going again?

the roger clemens of dogs

My friend showed me this picture last weekend and it's haunted me since...

C'mon... do it. I dare ya... Tell me to rollover. I fuckin' dare ya.

Just thought I'd share. You know, if you were having a bad day or something, just be thankful you aren't a small runt sharing a litter with old Brutus here. He looks like he's got some serious insecurity issues.

digging in the crates

Found this from a couple years ago, figured it was a good time to throw it back out there (apparently, I had a great disdain for punctuation, although I'm still not very punctual)...

looking around walmart the other day for halloween stuff. i had the lazy thought of going with a kid's costume... you know, real funny, small costume/big person, potential grape-smuggler laughs...

so i'm browsing around batmans and ninja turtles and i notice something... each costume has a picture of a kid on its packaging and on every single one of them, there's a white kid. like a nurse, or a fireman, or a doctor... white kids on all of them... and then i see the jailbird costume, and wouldn't you know it, no white kid. instead, there's a picture of some poor, sad looking mexican kid in handcuffs...

pretty bad

if that last one was too much...

Random musings:

More people walk through North American mall food courts with limps than Vietnamese hospitals or the streets of East L.A. Those food court wanderers are like Urban Carnies.

DA had a great line while I was in Calgary:

"We can kill a couple birds with some stones." -- after deliberating for 15 minutes about how to hit a liquor store before we went to the pub. Do we call those Ricky-isms now?

Met MLB 3B Casey Blake at the Ship and Anchor (I'm pretty sure it was him? Was after the Neil show and the gong show at our table. I invaded the table, where he sat with three pretty girls. Maybe they were lying?).

He said Manny probably won't sign with the Dodgers. Probably will sign with the Yankees. And said, sorry TO.

And to finish off on a baseball note, apparently Matt Stairs like to get... ahem... hammered.

Matt can't wait to hit that dugout, boy!

Poor Matt. Poor, poor Matt. (hit the link)

I can just imagine if he had a 13-year old kid, and he's all pumped to go to school in Philly and brag to all his buddies about his old man's heroic homerun. And then he watches the press conference, pride-a-bubbling, until his dad uncorks that doozy of a Freudian slip.

"Ah, come on, dad..."

I'm sure that quickly made it go from most to least anticipated day of his school career up to that point.

forever young or unreal young... or something cornier and more predictable

A whole week, eh? Dang! At least I have an excuse.

...uh... not much of an excuse...

Back in Yellowknife, after one of those gone in a flash whirlwind weekend trips, and coming to grips with winter.

Had a hell of a time though, meeting up with so many people it had been years since I'd seen. It's very strange to keep in touch with people through facebook and text message and then when you see them face to face, you still do all the catching up on things that you could pick up from profiles and stuff. Something we haven't reconciled socially yet, I suppose.

Slinginlingo got big-upped in a big way Saturday night. Thanks for the words, Jung (although I still can't decipher if you were pulling my leg or what, but it's nice knowing there are people that read this thing). It was good to catch up, man. We should definitely shoot shotguns next time I'm through.

So the genesis of the trip was to see Neil Young on Sunday. I'd seen the old man about five years ago in Vancouver, where he kicked off the Greendale tour at the Queen E. Not that it wasn't a great show, because it's Neil Fucking Young, but he played the entire Greendale album, which is like a smalltown concept album, and there were characters mouthing all the lyrics, acting out the album and I'd never heard any of it before, and so that went on for an hour, before he came back out for an encore and tore through 'Rockin' in the Free World' and 'Hey Hey, My My!'.

This time, I had no idea what to expect, and similarly how the crowd would react. I couldn't get any kind of feeling of how the show would be, as grandparents walked in with grandkids, and groups of youngsters paraded around beside the bearded and braided and balding in the concourse. It all seemed random.

Me and V found our seats despite the pints and Stampede beers (which Jung used to call heroine beers because of the punch they pack) and watched Death Cab plow through their set.

The Saddledome felt dead. We left to the concourse again. Grabbed more beer. Returned. I spoke with a dude in line who had read up about the previous four tour dates, and he told me to expect all the classics. (And another one for an encore).

Anyways, upon returning, something had happened inside the dome. It was buzzing. Like majorly. We sat on the second level, with an unobstructed side view of the stage and floor.

"Neil! Neil!" chants began and every second, an orange light would flash for a few moments then a puff of smoke poofed above groups mashed together on the floor, as they prepared for the show.

Neil apparently heard the chants and patiently walked up the stairs beside the stage with the six musicians that would accompany him that night. 15 minutes early.

Their entrance was markedly different from the way Death Cab sprinted up the stairs with exuberance and nervous energy. Neil and his crew were cool. Patient. Learned.

And then he grabbed his guitar and he ripped into 'Love and Only Love' and it was like everyone in the whole place released at once. And the place literally felt electric. And the crowd celebrated every word.

The Youngest 62-year old out there. (pun kind of intended)

And immediately, I could tell it was real. This wasn't a money grab. This wasn't a soulless old man trying to cash in one last time on his fame and catalogue. This still felt kind of edgy. And the energy! He ripped and thrashed through solos like he had on the Rust Never Sleeps tour I saw on DVD, filmed 30 years ago. It was all so sincere. It didn't look like he had been playing those songs for decades.

I'm pretty sure Neil Young could have kicked Elton John or Motley Crew or even Metallica's aging, safe, choreographed and over-structured asses that night.

Neil bounced and shuffled and his grey hair waved and he had a big bald spot on the back of his head. But he was wailing. And he still looked young, somehow.

V couldn't get over his sneakers.

The man sitting beside V watched with welled up eyes. He'd been a grade school classmate of Neil. And I imagined how it might feel to watch someone who I knew as a kid command such respect and awe and such a genuinely joyful reaction from such a massively wide demographic. Twelve year olds sang to 'Old Man'. Seventy year old crooned to 'The Needle and the Damage Done.'

This was a celebration of the man. This was a truly Canadian icon: a man who has always taken risks. A man with bigger balls than Kellen Winslow. A Canadian who was one of the only artists to take shots at the war in Iraq and President Bush when it was still taboo to do it. And he's Canadian. And no one got in too big a tiffy, because he did it and people knew he was right.

Anyways, I clapped so hard that my palms were swollen after. I yelled some crazy things, I'm sure. I think I realized how much his odd lyrics (at times) are so personal but universal that they are relatable to pretty much anybody and that pretty much explained the range in ages.

It was something else.

And he played for two hours.

He's 62.

And he had an aneurism just over a year ago.

He played everything. All the good ones, but they're all good ones. He played 'Powderfinger'. I almost shat during 'Cinnamon Girl' and wanted to text every girl I ever loved to go put on that song because it was so perfect at that time and made all that good stuff feel all real.

'Out on the Weekend' and 'Oh Lonesome Me' brought me back to the bottom of that roller coaster, but at the same time, he flipped the latter and made it sound new, somehow.

He played 'Unknown Legend', an ode to his once-waitress wife. She was onstage singing background and bashing a tambourine. He spelled it out to the crowd after the song was over, pointing to her: "There's the Unknown Legend." Damn, Neil. You're good.

When the show ended, there was no doubt they were coming back out after 'Rockin' in the Free World.' Everyone held hands onstage and acknowledged the crowd, which was one of the most grateful and giving I have ever been part of.

And it was then when I remember what song the dude had told me they would perform.

The final track off Sgt. Peppers.. A Day in the Life.

So out he came and then it started and I don't think anyone clued in until he sang the first verse and then the roof collapsed.

It was great. Not only did he do a fantastic job with the Lennon/McCartney track, but he stayed completely true to himself. He didn't do what so many do, and repeat the original singer's accent. He sounded SO Canadian when he sang that song. I laughed out loud.

Lennon: "Faw thousund holes in Blackbuhn, Lankasheeya"

Young: "Fohwer thousand holes in Blackbern Lank-u-sherrr"

And then when the concert ended on that note the Sgt. Pepper album does (the same one Apple jacked for when their computers start) it was just like "Yesssss!" And then he thrashed off the strings from Old Black and smashed and scratched them against the neck, getting every last ounce of energy out of that guitar.

And the crowd roared with every thrash. It felt like a celebration. Like something special had just happened.

I devoted myself to a 700-page biography -- 'Shakey' -- during my last few weeks in Calgary in '06. I think I learned as much about the man from the show as I did the book. It completely solidified his place as the greatest Canadian artist in my eyes. I couldn't believe how many of his songs have connected with me over the years.

Even the horribly corny. (See: Wonderin')

And then it was over.

I apologize about the length of this thing (Holy shneykees!). That was long. And possibly overdrawn. And probably not very interesting to non-Neil fans, but I just got carried away. And I'll most certainly feel like a knob tomorrow for swooning over the show like a schoolgirl. But alas...

Trust, it was not just I that thought it was something powerful... (again, just so it doesn't seem fanboy and biased)

The Reading Rainbow-style 'Don't take my word for it!'

Calgary Herald

Calgary Sun

i want to write...

... but after doing it all day, I really feel I can't even get a coherent thought together on here some nights.

This feels like one of those nights.

I want to comment on the election though. Okay, brain, 10 more minutes and then you can go pass out and dream about plane crashes.

I'd like to respond to tonight's blue-washing of Canada, but I  feel some sort of duty as a reporter to remain objective (even on a personal blog, I know) and even if I don't agree with the way the country is leaning (that's as far as I'll go on the record!).

Although I will say... It's time for proportional representation!

It's downright crummy that 18% of the country can vote NDP and they only get 37 seats, which works out to about 12.5% of the spots in Parliament. The Greens get 6.5% of the vote and receive nothing. 

The Bloc gets 10% of the vote but 50 seats, nearly 20% of those cushy Parliament positions.

And that's where the whole hope for proportional representation falls through: Quebec.

They would never go for it, because all their political clout is based on their ability to elect a strong Quebec-first party. If Canada elected its leaders based on the percentage of the popular vote their parties received, Joe Six Geese's vote in 'remote NWT community' would be worth the exact same as a citizen of Quebec. 

Again, no one in Quebec would ever go for that, and that's too bad, because this system rewards the ass clowns. And there are plenty of them to go around.

I have more faith in George Clinton's Parliament at this point.  At least there would be a lot more Green in his Parliament.

And funk.

Update: It's 11:50 p.m. and this probably won't last, but I was just taking one last look at the map of Canada and stared in astonishment that NDP candidate Linda Duncan in Edmonton-Strathcona was leading Conservative incumbent Rahim Jaffer (who's held that seat for four terms) by 450 votes with 222 of 223 polls reporting.

There's a little orange blip in the middle of blue Alberta (Alberta has a heart?). 

This is like watching a duck fly out unscathed from the Exxon Valdez disaster.

That would be a coup for the NDP, which also won a seat in Quebec for the first time outside of a by-election.

Damn, now I have to stay awake.

Shoot, did I just murder objectivity?

Oh well. 

I will say I don't have any real confidence in anybody right now, although some parties make sense to me.

I can't wait for this thing to turn, I'm going to sleep. I hope nothing changes between now and tomorrow...

different endings

I know there are people out there that aren't interested in other peoples' dreams. 

Not me. And that's why I'm sharing an interesting development in a reoccuring dream I've had for probably the past 7 or 8 years.

To start, I've always been a reluctant flyer. As a kid, I dreaded it like bathing, but after working for an airline and hopping on planes on a weekly, if not daily, basis for a year, I've gotten over much of the fear.

For quite some time, and as often as once a week for a while, I would have dreams about being involved in a plane crash. It was odd, because usually I would be tasked with flying the thing, even though I have no clue at all how airplanes even work. Still, I would get in the flight deck, knowing full well I was going to crash the thing, and go through with all the motions, and obviously I would crash the plane. Often, the plane would have some sort of deformity, like it wouldn't be completely pressurized or there would be no top half, so it would be convertible-like. Even when I didn't fly the plane, like the times I was a passenger, I would still know the whole time that it would crash. I would accept it, resigned to fate, and just go along with it for some reason. And I was always alone, or separated from the people I was with. And the plane always crashed. And I always woke up just before it went down.

This isn't me, but this picture popped up when I typed nervous flyer into Google Images. I think it's an accurate representation and probably what I look like in the dream.

Lately though, and I would say in the past six months, things done changed.

I still dream of planes with regularity, but now, when I'm on them, I'm not preoccupied with it crashing. It doesn't even cross my mind. And even though the plane still usually starts to go down -- either by losing pressurization or by blowing an engine -- I stay relatively calm and I now always seem to survive the crash. 

The last one I remember, I was over what looked like Salt Lake City, teetering in a steep turn when the right engine blew and we dipped even further. The plane hovered over the city for some time, and we somehow maneuvered toward the airstrip. 

And then, in the time it took to blink my eyes, I was laying on a grassy little patch, beside a small city intersection, and a tall cliff overlooking the ocean. I was lying in the fetal position.

I don't know what any of this means. I'm glad, I guess, that it seems to be getting better.

I also feel foolish for writing this now, as I'll be flying in a couple days. I hope I don't get that feeling.

so, so fulfilling

Tough

Fluff

6 - 0 tonight. So, so fulfilling. And a fitting tribute to Luc Bourdon.

The boys stood up for each other. They looked fast. They answered toughness questions. The only question mark for me from that game was Pyatt, but you can't complain when you demolish the Calgary Flames... Oh man, was that good.

And the Flames... proved they were overhyped. Iginla is a whiner and Phaneuf is no kind of presence defensively. I don't see why they were being treated like a contender.

It's only one game, I know. But damn, was that good.

Burrows 2 - Iginla 0

one of my favourite words

Earlier this year, I used to take great pleasure in jotting down new and ridiculous words and their definitions as I'd come across them during my days. 

Cleaning up the filth around my home, I found such a list, compiled back at the end of March. I read it only to realize the relevance today, of one of my favourite words at the time.

The word is tappen.

What is a tappen, you ask?

Tappen: an obstruction, or indigestible mass. found in the intestines of bears and other animals during hibernation. Also referred to as a "rectal plug." They make it difficult for the animal to defecate during hibernation, but are often passed with great pain in the spring time.

And why does this word take on added significance now?

Three words: The Sarah Palin

The Sarah Palin: a tappen for the new American Century

She is one indigestible mass of rhetoric.

Hopefully, she passes before spring, like sometime early next month.

draft day

I'm a big ball of nerves today. In a few short hours, I will be deciding the fate of the next twelve months of my relationships with good friends, by choosing my fantasy hockey pool team.

Those of you who have never been involved in a hockey pool will no doubt think I'm exaggerating things. Believe me, I'm not.

If I pick a bunch of bums, I will never, ever have the last word in arguments, rassings, and things of that nature. In Canada's male-culture today, one's social stature amongst friends is determined by his hockey pool position. 

If you're dwelling in the basement of the pool, you are looked at as weak and foolish by your peers and ridiculed for your foolhardy picks.

You truly can achieve alpha dog status by dominating your friends in your league.

Currently, Kevbot holds this title. No matter what happens anywhere, he can always hold his supremacy last year (and near supremacy in the playoffs too) against us. 

To his credit, he doesn't bring it up too often, but, at the same time, whenever we're busting balls, I remember his title winning team last year, and I stop instead of pushing too far, lest he brings up last year. (Note: whenever he does, I pathetically resort back to the injury argument. I mean, there is some merit there. I used a very high pick last year on point-producing defenseman Dan Boyle. The next day, he was doing an interview in the dressing room and a hanging skate fell off a hook in his locker and sliced like three tendons in his wrist, putting him out for months. When I heard the news, I knew I was toast.)

Why so glum, Dan? Oh, right. You're the hardest luck hockey player ever. Yes, yes. I remember during the Cup Finals in Calgary, when you returned to Tampa Bay to find that your house had been burnt down. Here, let me buy you a coffee.

I have played out all excuses now. Last year, is just a bitter memory. Today, is a clean slate, a fresh canvas. I've been prepping for the past few hours. I feel ready for this. This is the most important day of the year. 

This evening will determine where I stand on the social pecking order for the next 12 months. If I completely fail tonight, I may just be the most miserable guy walking the streets of Yellowknife this winter.

Wish me luck.

Mr. T does Dilla

Uncle T wants you... to click on the link below

Mr. T is mashin!

He ain't got no time for no jibba-jabba. The godfather of bling too, I guess.

P.S.

Here's a sickening beat from Waajeed I stumbled upon during youtube.com meandering:

Scales - Waajeed

I think this needs to be cranked next time you do some night time highway driving... or time-traveling.

Palin-comparison

Usually I try to be funny on here, but I'm not in the mood. I'm too horrified to attempt humour.

A bold statement to begin: If McCain and Palin somehow pull this thing off, I won't step foot in that country as long as they are in power. Not for a wedding. Concert. Vancouver Canucks, Stanley Cup Game 7. No chance. I'd be too petrified to be surrounded by people who believe she is capable of being a heartbeat away (NOTE: I was told 'heartbeat away' was lazy, so I'll substitute it for 'a slip getting out of the bathtub away'. Cool?) from, basically, becoming the leader of the world.

She couldn't lead my nuts.

"Garsh holy heck, shucksamagoo!"

Before ranting, I just want to say I will refer to her as 'the Sarah Palin', because tonight, she clearly was not a human.

'The Sarah Palin' is the scariest thing presently sucking air. Actually, that's wrong. I'm sure she's a nice enough lady, you know, watching hockey and such. But this position is too big for someone as unaware as she is to be elected into. The fact that she has made it this far is the scary part, I guess.

She never answered one question during the debate, although she called herself a 'straight talker' throughout. If she was uncomfortable with a question, she moved to issues she knew about, regardless of what the moderator asked. She brought her family into everything. She repeated the same stock words, over and over. She winked more than once. She shucked. She said darn more than I can recall. She said doggonit. At one point, she referenced her fucking disabled child to pander to the disabled vote. She avoided specifics like she probably avoids books. She attacked relentlessly, and then accused Biden of attacking.

It was shameful.

On the other hand, I think I'm going to go out and buy a Biden T-shirt. Dude is cool. 

Joe Biden: Old Spice guy.

I've never wanted to have a beer with a politician before that debate.

I feel so bad for him, though. By the middle of the debate, he started repeating things, almost in frustration, reacting to the completely hollow asstalk coming from Palin's mouth, getting worked up to try to explain things to someone as dunce as Palin... which actually might play against him, because people will think he was talking down to the public. I remember hearing him sigh at one time.

Biden spoke issues. Showed his vast wealth of experience.

Biden speaks about at least five specific things that happened in and around Israel during the Bush administration that destabilized the region, showcasing his historical knowledge of the country and the people and the politics over there.

'The Sarah Palin' responds, "I love Israel. I'm glad we can agree on this," and then proceeds to re-spout the same basic gibberish everyone knows about Iran and the threat they possess.

Good Christ! After the debate, pundits are saying Palin did great. 

Fuck the heck?!?!

"She hit a homerun from the heartland." - Sen. Leiberman. Really?

"She seemed to stay on topic more than Joe Biden." - Undecided voter from Idaho, speaking to CBS reporter.

Honestly? I felt like I could have beat her up there.

Biden ANNIHILATED 'the Sarah Palin' tonight. It wasn't even close. She gave a 'shout out' for Jimminy Crickets (yikes, that sounds like something 'the Sarah Palin' might say).

But, of course, the media are talking about the wrong things. Who cares that people feel she's just like you. Or that it's like watching you on stage. 

No offense, but you collect shopping carts outside Wal-Mart. You are not qualified to be vice-President.

Neither is she. She's grossly, grossly incompetent. 

I'm legitimately frightened over the future of the United States of America, in that they would even consider her as vice-president.

This is all the media's fault for lowering public expectations so far for her that the fact that she didn't blank out and puke on herself like burpie baby means people are claiming a victory.

I mean, cah mawn! She didn't answer a damn question. She was pathological. She changed the freekin' subject every single darn, rootin tootin time... Oh, no. I'm becoming Palinized.

Note: Gwen, the moderator, told Biden straight up after the debate "you did great."

He sure did. But I hope Americans realize that.