Oh, I remember now: Bush is on drugs.

And has been for more than a year. I knew I hadn’t dreamed it, and with all the posts and articles talking about how “offhand” or “zoned” or even “cheerful” he’s been appearing lately, I went and played Internet Research.

From Capitol Hill Blue:

President George W. Bush is taking powerful anti-depressant drugs to control his erratic behavior, depression and paranoia, Capitol Hill Blue has learned.

The prescription drugs, administered by Col. Richard J. Tubb, the White House physician, can impair the President’s mental faculties and decrease both his physical capabilities and his ability to respond to a crisis, administration aides admit privately.

“It’s a double-edged sword,” says one aide. “We can’t have him flying off the handle at the slightest provocation but we also need a President who is alert mentally.”

He’s not alert mentally even unmedicated. He’s actually rather stupid. So, kids, that’s what happened.

I’m betting he’s also “drinking heavily” again. Anti-d’s and alcohol are fuelling him.

Yes. The US of A is being “led” by a drunk, medicated moron. That explains it.


I haven’t written anything about the New Orleans disaster because other people are doing just fine expressing the feelings of fury, confusion, and rising blood pressure that I feel.

In fact, I was going to get all vitriolic about how FEMA has refused a team of self sufficient emergency aid workers from Chicago. But I can’t. I’m just too soul-crushingly upset at the fuckwattage of all this. You can read about it over at Majikthise.
All they asked for was a truck. Fuckwits.

I just can’t get my head around it at all. Help is being offered, people. Help was being offered even before the situation went critical. Why not take it? Why the fuck not?

For fuck’s sake, I’m too angry for even the rudiments of eloquence.


Did I have a good time?

Sometimes being a Rock and Roll Girlfriend™ just makes me irritated, but sometimes it makes me damned near shout for joy.

Tonight, case in point. Jericho Sailing Centre for the Vancouver Lifeguards’ end-of-summer blowout. Lots of tight little young bodies, mind-numbingly loud music. The band (alt. country, btw) is playing in between a DJ spinning mostly rap tunes. Who did that ‘Boombastic’ song? I heard it tonight. Sheesh. It’s hard to imagine people whose kids were teenagers in the seventies saying, “Who is that Led Zeppelin band? Why do you like them?” Now, okay, I do adore Zeppelin, but really, I reserve the right to be an old fart and say that having my eardrums assaulted with bad rap shit really, really pisses me off. There wasn’t even any good internal rhyme, like there is in some rap. It was all just shit, purely and simply.

But in between gyrating flat tanned tummy sets, I heard some great music, particularly E’s solid bass backbone and some flying guitar solos.

I adore the guitar player. He has a sad clown’s face that blossoms into the most fantastic, slightly wry, self-deprecating smile. He can sound like he is Mark Knopfler, all wild and sweet and lonely, but more often he’s got this sound like a pack of Alabama wolves all jitterbugging in the moonlight. Damn skippy.

I like the sometime drummer as well. He should be creepy, because he has kind of greasy black hair and tends to touch people when he greets them. But he’s not, because he’s one of the most genuine people I’ve ever seen in a band with E. He looks more like he should be doing Diesel Jeans ads than drumming in a country band, but he seems to relish it. Also, unlike a lot of drummers, he can focus for more than five minutes.

The band leader is a work of art. He must have thirty years of experience writing songs that express the core of his truth. They’re sometimes sad, sometimes hopeful, and, musically, they couldn’t be more Canadian. He writes songs that make me think of the high wild reaches of the Cariboo and the smell of a campfire in the Kootenays. In his music, I hear the susurrus of waves on the beach on the Sunshine Coast. Sadly, he is also insane. ADHD and conspiracy theories and way too many drugs all rolled up into one fun, unpredictable package. I mean, he’s pretty harmless in his insanty, but it still makes me want to slap him.

Also featured at tonight’s gig: Trying Unusually Hard Guy. I often dance at E’s shows. I like to dance. And I’ve never had a problem with guys who want anything other than to dance, especially when I mention that my boyfriend is the bass player, and they look wa-a-ay up at him, and then nod to themselves and continue dancing. Usually I dance with middle aged guys who also really like to dance.

I don’t know if TUHG was just too fucking high to string thoughts together, but he just seemed to glom on to me. Listen, buddy, it’s all well and good that you think I’m sympathetic to you, but when I’ve just spotted you snorting coke after seeing your asinine dance floor tactics, I just have to walk away. No offence, but your issues are way too complicated for me to try to navigate the coked-out synapses of your mind. No, I can’t really tell what you mean when you ask if I am in love. Are you trying to steal me away from all of this? Do you want me to talk about love? Are you trying to tell me you have been in love? Are in love? No, relating it to the New Orleans disaster doesn’t help either. Umm, you’re just too short and jittery. Sorry to be shallow, but buh-bye.

So, gentle readers, did I have a good time, or didn’t I? make up my mind. I’m too tired to know.

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