My wifi card died last night after only six-months of use. No problem, it has a three-year warranty. I bought the card from Circuit City, which I’ve discovered, has a 30-day return policy. If I wanted a new card, I was told I had to send it back to the manufacturer.

Can you imagine driving your car to Detroit to get a new water pump? Me either.

The saleswoman told me that as a favor to me, she would sell me the extended, four-year warranty for only $14.99. And then I could get a new card. I declined. And it wasn’t because of the money. It’s the horrible service. I buy at a store because I don’t want to deal with shipping thngs back and fiorth.

Well, Circuit City is one store I won’t be buying from again. (And for the record, that’s where I bought my current laptop two years ago.)

I told the sales woman what I was going to do:

First, I was going to her competitor and buy a new card — MicroCenter, two doors down, $34.95. Done.

Second, I was going to blog about the experience. I’m not Jeff Jarvis, but a little local buzz won’t be too bad. Done. And,

Third, I’m sending emails to the local store manager and everyone up the chain that I can find. In progress.

I sent a copy of this post in letter form to the general customer service email. Here’s the automated reply I received:

Dear Customer:

Circuit City Customer Support

As they say in Texas: that’s a lot of hat; ‘spose there’s any cattle?

Do I seriously expect to get any real response. Of course not. But we have to keep flinging those starfish and maybe, just maybe, one of them is going to land in the right place.

Hmmm… It is now Thursday morning and not a peep from customer service.

My Soundtrack: Kissing Families by Silversun Pickups on WOXY.

On Sunday, 16 October, the American Civil Liberties Union is bringing Sen. Russ Fiengold (D-Wis.) to Cleveland as the featured speaker at the 2005 Ed Likover Memorial Lecture. One of Feingold’s claim to fame is that he was the only Senator to vote against the USA Patriot Act.

Andrew Sullivan has set up a special email account to allow people to send their good wishes to Captain Ian Fishback. The Captain doesn’t have direct access to the emails, but Sullivan has made arrangements for his family to get them. It is then hoped, they will deliver the messages to the heroic Army officer.

Reading today’s poem brought back a flash of pre-car summers when I would convince the girl next door to take long bike rides down our country road. Of course I was too insecure to ever make a move. But I thought about it, planned it, plotted every nuance. Ah, the stupidity of a 15-year-old.

Hey, does this mean I don’t get a check? I’ve missed my chance to get rich shilling for the Bushies, and I sure as hell aren’t going to get rich writing about Hillary Clinton. I guess I’ll just have keep slogging along. Maybe I can get a gig crafting bon mots for Tim. Maybe not. From today’s New York Times:

Federal auditors said on Friday that the Bush administration violated the law by buying favorable news coverage of President Bush’s education policies, by making payments to the conservative commentator Armstrong Williams and by hiring a public relations company to analyze media perceptions of the Republican Party.

In a blistering report, the investigators, from the Government Accountability Office, said the administration had disseminated “covert propaganda” in the United States, in violation of a statutory ban.

Blistering? I suppose that when you issue a ruling that has zero penalty, the best you can do is be blistering about it.

My Soundtrack: Dear Sarah Shu by John Vanderslice on WOXY.

This is the Part IV of a short story inspired by my 9th grade students last Sunday morning. We started out talking about the relationship between Space and Time and whether or not anyone could be said to own either. Then we talked about things and why we use that word. I don’t know where this is going. What you’re reading is a first draft.

Part III

“But it”s so hard.”

“Why?”

“Because you”ve got to remember all the names.”

“So?”

“It makes my head hurt.”

“And you don”t have to remember all the names. You already know them. You just have to be mindful of them.”

“Mindful?

“Yeah. It”s like this story I read about Indians. When they used to hunt deer and buffalo they”d apologize to the animals and thank them after they killed them.”

“Like, I”m sorry Mr. Buffalo, I didn”t mean to stab a spear through your heart?”

“No. They were honest about it. They”d cradle the animals head in their arms and tell the animal that they were sorry the animal had to die, but they had children who were hungry and needed the animal”s meat to survive themselves. Then they”d thank the animal for the meat.”

“Eating meat is gross.”

“That”s cool. But sometimes you don”t have the option. The Indians couldn”t store a lot of food for the winter the way we do. Meat was about the only food you could find when there was three feet of snow on the ground.”

“Do you think about that when you help your friends slaughter in the fall?”

“I didn”t use to. But I did last year. You know what really bothered me?”

“What?”

“The way we just killed them. There wasn”t any dignity. The killing was so mechanical. It kind of reminds of how Sinclair Lewis wrote about the Chicago slaughter houses in The Jungle.”

“I hated that book. It made me sick.”

“Lewis wanted his book to make you sick. What the meat packers did back then really made people sick.”

“I”m sticking to carrots and broccoli.”

“I know. But we really can”t live without taking the life of something else. That is just the way life works?”

“Carrots don”t feel.”

“Probably not, but that”s not the point. We have to eat living organisms because they have the nutrients we need to survive. We have no choice on whether or not we eat. But we do have a choice of how we eat.”

“How do you eat?”

“I don”t know yet. I”m still working on that. I just try to spend a moment of two to think about where what I”m eating came from. To think about the all the people who had to touch what I”m eating.”

“Ewwww.”

“No. Not like that. I mean like the farmer and the truck driver and the baker or the butcher or whomwever.”

“Like you”re making a connection?”

“Yeah. Like that. I just try to thank everybody who got the food onto my plate.”

“You mean you”re saying grace?”

“Not grace. I”m not sure about the whole god question anymore. I mean. I can see my mom and the grocer and the butcher. And if I wanted to I could see the truck driver or even the farmer if I took the time. But god? God is a cool idea, but what has anyone ever seen god do? Why should god get all the credit?”

“Oh, don”t talk like that around my mother. She”d run you out of the house and we”d have to sneak out to see each other.”

“Don”t worry. I”m not telling the world. Besides, I”m not really all that sure about any of this myself. I”m still thinking.

“Good.”

“Can you imagine what it would be like if everyone wrote thank you notes once a year to farmers? Like at Thanksgiving or something. Just pick a farmer at random and send them a note telling them how much you appreciate all the hard work they did that year so that you could have cornbread stuffing in your turkey.”

“Or how about if stores could put little labels on things? Like: This bread brought to you by Farmer Frank, Trucker Thomas, Miller Mike, Baker Bernard and Grocer Gerald.”

Conrad laughed. “Exactly. I love that idea. Life used to be that way. When all the food you ate came from your own farm or from the community you lived in, you could thank all those people when you saw them. Now we don”t see anyone but the blue-haired lady at Krogers when she rings up your purchases.”

“And then there”s mystery meat.”

“Oh yeah. You don”t even know what animal to thank.”

“Or like McNuggets. Did you ever wonder what part of the chicken is the nugget.”

“Now that”s gross. The whole pieces-parts nastiness.

“My grandfather has a good attitude about that,” Caitlin said. “He won”t eat any food he can”t identify. He likes his meat, his potatoes, his gravy and his vegetables in clearly recognizable portions. He won”t touch food hidden under sauces.”

“Good for him. Is your grandmother OK with that?”

“Yeah, I think so. Sometimes she makes fancier stuff for everyone else, but grandpa gets his chop or his chicken leg, and there”s like this wall between all the foods. They never touch.”

“Your grandma should get a bunch of those plates with little compartments.”

Caitlin laughed at that one. “You”re right. Maybe I”ll get one for grandpa for his next birthday. I bet he”d get a kick out of it. God, Connie. You make me feel so alive. When I talk with my girlfriends, they say their boyfriends are only interested in making out and talking about sports. You”re always talking about so much more. You make the outside seem real.”

“It is real, Cate. And I”m going to see as much of the world as I can. And I much rather,” he said, coming close for a still longer kiss, “make out than talk about making out.”

“Mmmm. Me too.”

“Why don”t we just leave now? Go to Chicago, or New York, or San Francisco?”

“We could. Do you suppose our parents would come after us?”

“I suppose. But it”s a nice idea isn”t it? Just you and me in this Buick cruising down the highway.”

“Oh yeah. You know where I really want to go though?”

“Where?”

“Paris.”

“France? Why?”

“Because I want to live in a garret and drink shots of Pernod in the morning and write long stories with a fountain pen outside some backstreet café.”

“Hemmingway, right?”

“No. Gertrude Stein.”

“Same difference.”

“No it isn”t. Stein was there years before Hemmingway and his whole lost generation showed up. They”re all babies compared to her. People just don”t pay attention to her because she was a woman.”

“OK, OK. You”re right. Can we not talk about the whole feminism issue?”

“No. We cannot not talk about the whole feminism issue,” Caitlin said, pushing Conrad in the chest. “If there is any thing, that has to do with what you”ve been talking about it is feminism. Women have been things forever. Shit, my grandmother has told me about what it was like when she couldn”t even vote!”

“I never thought of you as a thing, Cate.

“Really? How about before you knew me? Or maybe you thought of me as two things,” she said, lifting her boobs up with hands.

(To Be Continued…)

My Soundtrack: Sorry Somehow by Husker Du on WOXY.

At least one politician down under has his feet firmly on the ground and his head screwed on tight. From James Randi comes this exchange between an Australian voter and Brendan Nelson, Member of Parliment and Minister for Education, Science and Training, Queensland:

Thank you for your email of 22 August 2005 to the Hon. Dr. Brendan Nelson MP, Minister for Education, Science and Training, concerning the teaching of Intelligent Design in Australian schools. The Minister has asked me to reply on his behalf.

It is important that Australian schools aim to provide students with a balanced exposure to the wealth of ideas – orthodox or not, scientific or not – which enrich our society, and to equip students to make their own informed judgments about the validity of those ideas….

Randi’s comment?

I can”t see how it could get better than this, folks; I agree with every point made here. I wonder whether the United States Department of Education might want to look at this cogent, succinct, and sensible statement, and consider adopting a similar attitude and decision…

Once again Randi is dead on. But I fear that as long as the Neo/Theocons run roughshod over civil liberties and basic freedoms in Washington, D.C., we’re not like to see the likes of Mr. Nelson speaking out here.

My Soundtrack: Topsy Turvy by The Scotland Yard Gosple Choir on WOXY.

At the last blogger MeetUp we talked a bit about what drives traffic to our sites. My response was: who the hell knows? I checked my Awstats this evening and came up with a perfect example. Two weeks ago, on Friday, 16 September, I posted an espresso shot about a current horror movie.

Writing about The Exorcism of Emily Rose drove more traffic to my site than any other.

According to Awstats, that post accounted for 463 of the 2,052, or 22.5 percent of my search-engine hits during September. The next highest hit — Post Secret — wasn’t even close with only 85, or 4.1 percent, hits.

The lesson is, I guess, if you want lots of traffic, pick a movie that has teen/college appeal and drop the name a few dozens times.

My Soundtrack: Spark by Tori Amos on WOXY.

This is the Part III of a short story inspired by my 9th grade students last Sunday morning. We started out talking about the relationship between Space and Time and whether or not anyone could be said to own either. Then we talked about things and why we use that word. I don’t know where this is going. What you’re reading is a first draft.

Part II

“But see, you do care about the dress. You hate it.”

“You are so weird.”

“No. No. Listen. I think this is part of what I”m trying to figure out. I love you.”

“I love you too, but what”s that got to do with this?”

“If you didn”t love me, what would you say?”

“I hate you?”

“No. That”s exactly the wrong answer.”

“Oh gee, thanks. I”ve got too much of a buzz for a pop quiz.”

“I”m sorry. I”m not giving you a test.” Conrad leaned in and kissed her quickly on the lips. “You just cracked my eye open and its fantastic.”

“It sounds painful. What do you mean?”

“It”s just, well, it”s like.” Conrad slid of the hood of the Buick and began to pace. “You know Melinda Gaff, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Do you hate her?”

“No. Why would I hate her?”

“What do you think about her?”

“I don”t know. I don”t think I”ve ever thought about her.”

“Does anybody hate her?”

“What has she ever done that someone would hate her?”

“Does anybody love her?”

Caitlin started to answer but stopped. She leaned back against the windshield. “I don”t know. I suppose her family loves her.”

“Yeah, you”re probably right about that, but does anybody else love her? Does anybody else like her? Does she have any friends? Who does she eat lunch with? Have you ever seen her laughing with anyone at her locker between classes?”

“I don”t not like her.”

“That”s not what I”m asking. Does anybody pay attention to her. If she dropped out of school and didn”t show up for classes on Monday, would you miss her?”

“Not really. Why would I?”

“You wouldn”t. She”s like Tinkerbelle.”

“Tinkerbelle? Did you drop something?”

“No. I can”t believe how incredibly clear my head is right now. The wine buzz is even gone.” Conrad put both of his hands on the fender and lowered his head and shook it so that his hair brushed beige metal. “Remember watching Peter Pan when you were little?”

“Of course, I love that story.”

“OK. What happened when Tinkerbelle drank the poison milk?”

“She started to die.”

“And how did Peter save her?”

“By getting everyone to clap and say I believe in fairies. You think Melinda Gaff is a fairy?”

“Kind of. She”s mythical.”

“This is getting really weird, Connie. Fairies aren”t real.”

“Of course not, although it would be really cool.” Conrad looked up Caitlin. She loved the way his straight black hair fell across his eyes. She wanted to brush it aside but didn”t. “But we act towards Melinda as if she were a fairy, as if she wasn”t really real. Nobody ever claps and tells her that they believe in Melinda.”

“Why would they?”

“Because she”s a person, Caitlin. She breathes and feels and eats and dreams and pisses…”

“Don”t be gross.”

“I”m not being gross. She does all of that, and more, just like we do, but nobody notices.”

“It”s still gross.”

“That”s the opposite of love.”

“Gross is the opposite of love?”

“No. Not being noticed. Being… A… Thing.”

Without realizing it, Caitlin began to cry. “That is so sad. What can we do? I”m going to make her my friend first thing Monday morning.”

“That would be really cool, Cate, Conrad said, softly stroking her arm. “But I”m not really trying to fix Melinda”s life.”

“Guys are always thinking that way, that everyone wants to fix things. That”s not what I mean. You”ve made me feel sad and I don”t like feeling that way.”

“I”m sorry. You”ll be doing a really good thing. But I”m trying to think about the way we all treat each other. Melinda was just an example.”

“I know, but you have to start somewhere. It”s like when I”m babysitting in the church nursery on Sunday mornings.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you have a dozen kids and one starts crying and then two are crying and before you know it they”re all screaming their heads off and you don”t know where to start. You feel so helpless because you can”t pick them all up at once.”

“What do you do?”

“I just pick one.”

“How does that make them stop screaming?”

“It doesn”t, but it comforts that one.”

“But the all the others are still crying.”

“Yes. But sometimes you have to realize that you can”t help everyone. You just have to do what you can do.”

Conrad kissed her on the lips again, a little longer this time; and wiped the tears from her face with the bottom of his black Alice Cooper t-shirt. “You are so amazing. You know that?”

Caitlin kissed him back and then hugged him close, pressing her cheek against his heart. “You make me feel amazing. That”s one of the main reasons I love you.”

“Can you imagine what it would be like if we could somehow make everyone we met feel amazing?”

“How would you do that?”

“By lifting them from thinghood.”

(To Be Continued…)

My Soundtrack: This Scene Is Dead by We Are Scientists on WOXY.

Test your knowledge of obscure and forgotten news.

My Soundtrack: (Shine Your) Light Love Hope by Bob Mould on WOXY.

Generally speaking, I’m not a mixed-drink person. I like the taste of adult beverages straight. If given a choice, I’ll select a shot of small-batch Bourbon to sip on. This practice extends to my coffee, which I drink black, and, when I can find a good barista like Tina at Phoenix on Lee, I really enjoy a double espresso.

That’s why as I was reading through one of our many, many best-of-Cleveland lists this evening, my eye came to rest on the best coffeehouse category. I agreed that the establishment so honored was a good place to go — I’ve been there many times before — but when I read the writer’s first reason for the selection, my jaw dropped.

For $3.50, you can get a good-sized mocha, with enough chocolate to disguise the bitter taste of a double espresso.

With enough chocolate to disguise the bitter taste of a double espresso? If you have to disguise the taste of what you’re drinking, then you shouldn’t be drinking it.

A properly made espresso is not bitter. I don’t think the writer was commenting on this establishment’s espresso. I think the un-named writer has simply suffered through too many ill-prepared espressos made by servers (you can’t call them baristas) with no training and no idea that an espresso made in 7-seconds is a bad thing.

My Soundtrack: Zoom! by Super Furry Animals on WOXY.

Dear Senator McCain:

I am a graduate of West Point currently serving as a Captain in the U.S. Army Infantry. I have served two combat tours with the 82nd Airborne Division, one each in Afghanistan and Iraq. While I served in the Global War on Terror, the actions and statements of my leadership led me to believe that United States policy did not require application of the Geneva Conventions in Afghanistan or Iraq.

1st Battalion,
504th Parachute Infantry Regiment,
82nd Airborne Division,
Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Andrew Sullivan has long been the blog champion on shining light into the dark corners of prisoner abuse and torture in the prosecution of our War On Terror. Today Sullivan is on a serious tear as the lackey’s of President George Bush attempt to stuff the cork back in the bottle that is Captina Ian Fishback.

Just a few samples from Sullivan’s posts today:

The torture end-game is approaching — and Rumsfeld and Cheney know it. What is now being done to the hero, Captain Ian Fishback, who braved 17 months of obstruction, threats and intimidation by military brass to keep quiet, is a national disgrace. Fishback has now been sequestered at Fort Bragg under orders restricting his contacts (the pretext is that he is a key witness in a criminal investigation and that he should not be in contact with outsiders while it continues).

[Snip…]

Another source informs that the word is around that Rumsfeld has taken a strong interest in this. He is quoted as saying “Either break him or destroy him, and do it quickly.” And no doubt about it, that is just what they are doing. Expect some trumped up charges against Fishback soon, similar to what they did to Muslim Chaplain Captain James Yee, whom they accused of treason with no solid evidence and then, when those charges evaporated, went on to accuse him of adultery.

[Snip…]

What more do you need to know? We have administration memos allowing for de facto torture of “enemy combatants” if “military necessity” demands it; we have new, Bush-approved legal definitions of torture that nevertheless allow all the kinds of horrors we have seen at Abu Ghraib, Camp Cropper, Bagram, Guantanamo, Basra, Camp Mercury and dozens of other sites in the war arena. We have decorated captains testifying at great risk to themselves what has been happening – and we have a clear record of the administration’s attempts to silence and initimidate them.

[Snip…]

Stop looking the other way. Fight back. Demand new legislation to stop this. Demand an independent investigation that can find the real culprits, not the scapegoated grunts. The Democrats, by and large, have been useless. Only McCain can save us now.

I have to say I don’t have much hope for help from McCain. As much as it pains me to say it, I think the Senator handed over his manhood when the Bushies whipped him like a red-headed step child in the 2000 primary race in South Carolina. And that’s a very sad thing to say.

My Soundtrack: While You’re Away by New Buffalo on WOXY.

My friend Jill Miller Zimon alerted me to this story in the 3 October issue of Fortune. If one entity could be said to have come out of the disaster that is Hurricane Katrina smelling like a rose, it is Wal Mart. I’ll wager that this will become a major business case in every business school in the country.

The company didn’t do everything right — it hauled the money but not the guns out of the stores — but if President George Bush had done as well with his response, we’d be talking about repealing the 22nd amendment.

The whole piece is worth reading, but these paragraphs struck me as particularly telling:

Katrina swept through the southern tip of Florida on Aug. 25 without inflicting too much damage. The National Weather Service predicted that she was on her way up to the Panhandle. But the following morning, Jackson was warned by Wal-Mart’s meteorologists that Katrina had changed her mind and was headed just east of New Orleans-more than 12 hours before the National Weather Service issued a similar advisory [Emphasis mine, JH].

[Snip…]

Wal-Mart employees arrived so early in the disaster area that they often wound up running their own relief efforts. If the federal government would have responded as quickly as Wal-Mart, we could have saved more lives, says Jefferson Parish Sheriff Harry Lee. FEMA executives were there, but they didn’t do anything. They weren’t up and running for four or five days.

My Soundtrack: Numb by Portishead on WOXY.

Why is the former, and disgraced head of the Federal Emergency Management Association still drawing a tax-payer-funded paycheck? That this whinning, poor excuse for a public servant is still sucking at the public teat is yet another example of President George Bush’s failure to stand up and lead.

Russ Knocke, a flack for the Department of Homeland Security told the Associated Press:

The reason he will remain at FEMA about a month after his resignation, is that the agency wants to get the proper download of his experience. During that time, Brown will advise the department on some of his views on his experience with Katrina, as he transitions out of his job.

Meanwhile, during a break from his downloading, Brown addressed a hostile, mostly Republicna House Panel yesterday and blamed, wait for it, a blogger for his headaches. Brown told the panel:

…in the middle of trying to respond to that, FEMA”s press office became bombarded with requests to respond immediately to false statements about my resume and my background.

Next, one national magazine not only defamed me, but my alma mater, the Oklahoma City University School of Law, in one sentence alone leveling six false charges.

Oh the humanity. How could we expect poor Michael Brown to do his job when people were asking about his resume?

My Soundtrack: To Be Young (Is To Be Sad, Is To Be High) by Ryan Adams on WOXY.

On sale tomorrow, 28 September.

My Soundtrack: Rhythm And Blues Alibi by Gomez on WOXY.

Last week I noticed that I was getting framed by an Internet slimeball site. What that means is that the asshat was hijacking my entire blog and posting it inside a frame on his own site. He’s doing this to a lot of other bloggers as well. Will Kessel, our own Word Press Magician (we’re not worthy, we’re not worthy) provides the solution.

If you don’t want someone placing your pages inside their framed pages, just add this tiny JavaScript to the head of your HTML (well, PHP) document:

[script type=”text/javascript”]
if (top.location != self.location)
top.location = self.location;
[/script]

*note, replace all the [ and ] brackets with < and >

It should be placed in the head area of the document, right before the /head tag. It’s simple and seamless, and renders instantly. Works like a charm… ;-)

It does indeed, work like a charm.

Thank you oh great and powerful wizard.

My Soundtrack: Stop Stay Calm by Kimone on WOXY.

This is the Part II of a short story inspired by my 9th grade students last Sunday morning. We started out talking about the relationship between Space and Time and whether or not anyone could be said to own either. Then we talked about things and why we use that word. I don’t know where this is going. What you’re reading is a first draft.

Part I

“No, Caitlin. I”m not trying to make you mad. This shit just drives me crazy, that”s all. If I talk like this to anyone else they think I”m either nuts or queer.”

“Yeah, well what would you expect, hanging out with your FFA buddies.”

“There are a few jerks, but most of them are OK. They”re just trying to figure out life the way we are.”

“Like any of them spent time trying to figure out things.”

“They do, they just have different angles to deal with.”

“Angles? What do angles have to do with anything?

“OK. Maybe angles isn”t a good word. I haven”t sorted out my thoughts. I try to write them down, but when I look at words that way they make even less sense.”

“Why do they have to make sense? My head hurts. They just are,” Caitlin said, taking back the bottle of wine.
She unscrewed the cap and tipped her head back to swallow the last drops. “Another dead soldier,” she said. “Give me a cigarette.”

“See! That”s a perfect example.”

“What is, asking for a cigarette?”

“No,” he said, pulling the smashed pack of Marlboros out jean-jacket pocket. “Dead soldiers. Why do we have the name for an empty bottle?”

Caitlin took the extended cigarette from the pack and smoothed it between her fingers before putting it between her lips and leaning into the flame from Conrad”s Zippo. On the exhale she said, “Why shouldn”t it have a name?”

“I”m not saying it shouldn”t. I”m just saying, it”s just an empty wine bottle, but we pay some kind of fuck”n”
homage to it by calling it something it”s not when we throw it away.”

“Hoo mahge? How French,” she said, resting one elbow on her hip and waving her cigarette around.

“Now you”re making fun of me.”

“I”m sorry. I didn”t mean to.”

“Give me a drag.”

“Why don”t you light one of your own?”

“I”m trying to quit.”

“Oh,” she said, holding her cigarette out between two finger, the filter end pointed at Conrad.

“See, it”s kind of like what we learned in Spanish class about the formal and informal. In Spanish, if you”re talking to a friend, or someone in your family the word for you is different from when you”re talking to someone in authority.”

“You mean like saying mister or misses?”

“Kind of, but it”s more than that. It”s like when somebody call me boy or you little girl. They”re giving us names that mean we”re less than they are. That we don”t deserve respect.”

“I know what you mean. Mr. Brossard does that when I stop at the store. It creeps me out.”

“Yeah, that”s right. And I get the same thing from Cradwell in gym class. It”s like it makes them feel bigger when they can make us feel smaller.”

“I get that, but what has that got to do with things.”

“Let me have another drag.”

“Keep it, I don”t want any more.”

Conrad leaned back on the hood of the car and spread his arms out. “A book is a book. This car is a car. Your dress is your dress. If we call them things, then we”re trying to make ourselves bigger by making them smaller.”

“How can you make a car smaller? Cars don”t have feelings.”

“No. But we have feelings about cars and books and dresses.”

“I don”t care about this dress. I hate it. The pink looks horrible with my hair.”

(To Be Continued…)

My Soundtrack: Danko/Manuel by Drive By Truckers on WOXY.

Where ever there is strife in the world; where ever human souls cry out for relief; where ever there is a buck to be made: there you’ll find Gonzo journalist and diplomat extrondinare Uncle Duke and his Chinese love-slave Honey. Uncle Duke sees the writing on the wall. The money gusher in Iraq is running dry and the Big Easy beckons. Can there be anyplace on the planet that better suits this man? Can you just see Duke taking up residence in the Garden District. Perhaps he’ll buy Anne Rice’s old home and corner the market on Mardi Gras beads.

My Soundtrack: Rialto by Laura Veirs on WOXY.