Like father, like son.

"I can understand tempers flaring, but I don't want to contribute to that. I'm not going to participate in the blame game." - President George H.W. Bush responding to criticism of slow federal assistance following Hurricane Andrew in Florida in 1992.

"The results are not acceptable. We'll get on top of this situation." - President George W. Bush responding to criticism of his administration's assistance following Hurricane Katrina.
And another thing I'd like to see addressed in the press is the ecological impact of all those oil rigs in the Gulf that were tossed around like so many matchsticks.

Of course, anyone who objected to drilling in that body of water was a nut-case, tree-hugging, pinko, patchoulli-wearing looser. (That would be me, yes.)

But now what? Here's a little story from the Associated Press, all four sentences of it.

"NEW ORLEANS (AP) - A huge oil spill was spotted near two storage tanks on the Mississippi River downstream from New Orleans, state officials said Friday.

The oil was seen in a flyover to the Venice area by the Department of Environmental Quality.

"Two tanks with the capacity of holding 2 million barrels appear to be leaking," the department said in a statement.

No further details were given."

Oh, I hate this administration; I hate the ultrarightwingneocons holding his puppet strings; I hate what this country is becoming.

I'm off to have still another drink and see if I can quit grinding my teeth.

The Rude Pundit, as usual, hit the nail squarely on the head this morning when he wrote:

"Totally Black" in New Orleans:

Before Katrina, one way that white middle and upper class people in New Orleans used to show that they were hip, cool, and down with the city was to find out where the coolest bars and clubs and the tastiest restaurants were in the black neighborhoods and streets of the Crescent City. White people loved discovering these places (if by "discover," you mean the same thing as "Columbus discovered America") and then bringing their white friends to chow on the soul food at Chez Helene or listen to the funky brass bands at Donna's. When these places showed up in your Fodor's and filled with tourists, the DeSoto-like white people would keep searching for the the Fountain of Authenticity that, of course, only the poorest, blackest places could bring. Chez Helene closes? Move on to Big Shirley's in Treme. Donna's not dark enough to be exotic anymore? Head deep into the Bywater and go to Vaughan's for Kermit Ruffins' Sunday Barbecue and Jazz. Yessirree, nothin' showed how cool you were as a white person than bein' able to come down from Uptown to party where the negroes played.

At Antoine's Restaurant in New Orleans, wealthy white people would have their favorite black waiters who could cater to their every whim, who, for that couple of hours of interchange, made those white people feel as if every joke was hilarious, every story compelling. And the Rude Pundit knew young white people who could sit with musicians in the crappiest little dives and have intense conversations about what makes a jazz improv transcendant. Either way, though, at the end of the day, the white people headed off to one New Orleans, and the blacks headed to or remained in another. Either way, for all but a few whites, those in social services, those who chose to live where the rents were cheapest, the real black New Orleans was a hidden place of poverty, gangs, run-down housing projects, and the evidence of the neglect of a society as surely as the unfortified levees surrounding them. And, like the waters that have filled the streets, it is hidden no more.

So when the head of FEMA, a poor bastard who's way out of his league named Michael Brown, says, "The lawlessness, the crime that is occurring, did surprise us," it's just like saying you didn't know the levees would be breached. Hungry people steal food. Parents will feed their children no matter what the niceties of your laws are. As New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin said in his heartbreaking interview on WWL radio, drug addicts will get their fixes. And, yes, some will be stupid enough to steal TVs, which in a city that won't have electricity for weeks or months, is either the most optimistic or idiotic of gestures. To not anticipate looting and lawlessness is a crime of incompetence, a blindness to the wretched poverty so many in New Orleans attempted to exist under, something real and not just exotic and thrilling for whites to touch on for their entertainment.

And now that the President has been injected with the mad array of chemicals that are needed to jump start his brain like the coughing, oil-leaking lawnmower motor that it is, he declares that "The results [of the relief effort] are not acceptable." And that's great, but they were also unacceptable on Tuesday, when Bush was making one of his worthless piece of shit speeches about how mighty a battle the Iraq War is, just like World War II or some such nonsense. But the Bush adminstration has broken the basic social contract in New Orleans, the one that goes all the way back to Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, the one that says we adhere to laws because you agree to protect us, and thus the city and its citizens have returned to the state of nature, which is to survive, motherfuckers, just survive.

Bush is visiting the affected areas as this is written. You can bet he's gonna hug some negro, maybe two, maybe he'll feed a negro child. It's the way of black people in New Orleans, you know, to always be the props and the set dressing to make the white people feel powerful.

(The title comes from a CNN reporter talking about the lack of light in the city at night.)

Thank you Rude Pundit.

And here's the proof:

I can't watch the news about New Orleans. I don't want to see footage of children crying because they can't take their dog where ever it is they are being sent as refugees. I don't want to hear how the desperate are shooting at the rescuers. I refuse to know about the dead lying in the streets.
Moreover, this is, as Yogi would say, deja vu all over again, because the first Bush in the White House responded with the same total disregard for humanity when Hurricane Andrew hit south Florida 13 years ago.

It was exactly the same picture: devastation in the heartland and the overwhelmed locals begging the feds for help. I remember what George the First said: "Oh. Do they need help? They haven't asked for it yet."

Here's a little something from that genius, Reecie:



God, I hate that man.

Anyway, here's a thought: How about we bring home our National Guard troops who are over there building roads and schools and keeping the "peace" in Iraq and Afghanistan, and put them to work here in the Homeland down there in Louisianna?

How's that for an exit strategy? No cutting, no running, nothing except doing what needs to be done for the folks back home, which is what the National Guard is supposed to be doing anyway, not serving as target practice for every militant in the Arab world.

But then, I'm an old bleeding heart, yellow dog democrat who wouldn't vote for a Republican if you put a gun to my head, and frankly, don't I just expect that that is what it'll come to sooner or later if Bush and the rest of his power-mad christian jihaadists get their way.

Well, fuck me, but I'm going to have a stiff drink and go to bed.

Reecie, damn her freckles and dimples, tagged me with this meme. Which I only do when she tags me. Because I like her, that's why. And when you read her answers, and my answers, then you'll see that we were clearly separated at birth, or at least share a part of a brain. So, when Reecie plays meme tag, I play along. Ready? Let's go.
7 things I plan to do before I die:
1) Take in a game in every major league baseball park.
2) Spend Bastille Day in France
3) Have a buckskin mare
4) Have a family reunion in Newport, Rhode Island
5) Eat my way across India
6) Publish my book
7) Make my living as a real artist*

7 things I can do:
1) Drive a stick shift, and actually, damn near anything with an engine and wheels
2) Curse fluently. Like a longshoreman. Or a sailor.
3) Drink you under the table.
4) Remember huge chunks of Firesign Theatre dialogue.
5) Bake. Pie crusts that float. Cakes that are moist. Bread that is crusty.
6) Swim like a fish.
7) Handwork. **

7 things I cannot do:
1) Vote Republican
2) Snow ski***
3) Suffer fools lightly.
4) Watch talk show television.
5) Speak French so that French people can understand me.
6) Stick to the speed limit
7) Forgive my first husband.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:
1) A big, wrinkly brain
2) A dark/twisted sense of humor
3) Height (the taller, the better)
4) A slender build (the skinnier, the better)
5) Long legs
6) Musical/artistic talent
7) Big hands

7 things that I say most often:
1) What the fuck are YOU lookin' at?
2) Fuck me blue.
3) There is just not enough alcohol in the world.
4) What the fuck is WRONG with you people.
5) Hmmph. Darwin in action.
6) What a good dog.
7) I love you

7 celebrity crushes:
1) Bob Dylan (give it a rest. I don't care what you think.)
2) Tony Bourdain (he and I were in New York in the same years, hanging out in the same places. How I missed him --tall, skinny, bad attitude, junkie -- I'll never know.)
3) Little Steven
4) Crash Davis (the character that Kevin Costner played in Bull Durham)
5) Jeff Conine (the real-life version of Crash Davis)
6) Bruce Springsteen (what, you thought I'd leave him off this list? Huh. As fucking if.)
7) Johnny Depp.

7 people I want to do this (Dorothy's disclaimer applies here as well; anyone not on the list who'd like to play is invited, and no one I've tagged should feel obligated):
1) Jodi, even though she will never do a meme
2) Jules
3) The Manolo
4) Jennifer
5) Miss Bliss
6) Wrapped Up Like a Douche
7) Allie

* as opposed to a corporate hack

** Shut up. You have a dirty mind. Embroidery. Beading. Sewing. Knitting. THAT kind of handwork.

*** Nor do I want to: it's fucking cold, wet and hard work for little payoff.

The last tv I saw was about seven oclock on Thursday evening. It was the local news channel, and they were showing the latest radar on Hurricane Katrina. It was a large green blob. To the southwest quadrant of the screen, was a big orange blob. The talking head announced to the watching audience that that big orange blob represented the worst part of the storm, and that, sadly, it seemed to be stationary. Over southern Dade County. The Kendall area, in particular.
My house to be exact. Or at least that's the way I feel about it. The power went off right about then, and it just came back on less than half an hour ago.

Good thing, because the refrigerator was beginning to get funky, we were down to the last bag of ice in the chest, the koi were looking a little green around the gills, the Noble Dog Nails decided to take a bite of bufo toad today and we sluiced his mouth out with water, and tried to find an open doggie emergency room. Couldn't find one, as it happened, but we did find an open Mexican restaurant with cold beer and hot tacos (not a Taco Bell, either). And the Noble Dog Nails, who has taken on the evil bufo before seems to have recovered 100% and with no additional treatment other than a mouth wash and ride in the car.

The RLA and I spent yesterday cleaning up the yard. Photos of the hurricane can be found here.

It was exactly as a hurricane should be: wet, devastating, underestimated by the newbies in the state, exciting like a thrill ride while it happens, boring, hot and hard work when it's over. The power outage was a mere 50 hours more or less. Just enough to be annoying, not enough to cause real personal problems.

But here I am, back in the saddle again.

And, please could someone tell me why "Forever Amber" is considered a classic? I want to slap this main character into a coma. She is all of Scarlett O'Hara with none of the class. Argggh. But I won't put it down. I love the historical part of the hysterical fiction. Restoration England. Yum. Anyway, when you are stuck in a house with no power, and you need something to do other than cut up fallen trees, this sort of trash is great. One thousand pages long, it's good for a forced march of reading. It was even fun to read it by candle light. With a good supply of red wine. And hard cheese.

Before.



The tail.



The cut.