Who's that talking smack about our President? Not me.

It seems I've been mistaken about George W. Bush. He really isn't gay, drunk, cowardly, incompetent or sleeping with Condi Rice. And I know the reason our Cowpoke-in-Chief doesn't ride a horse has nothing to do with his being afraid. It just looks that way.

No, this administration is an efficient, well-run machine and Bush's compassion, intellectual rigor and work ethic should be models for us all.

What made me change my mind about The President™?

I'd really like to be able to board an airplane sometime in the near future.

It seems that people who have criticized The President™ are having problems getting on flights. Here's a letter [edited for short attention spans] from a retired Marine officer, decorated combat veteran, and professor of Constitutional law at Princeton:

"When I tried to use the curb-side check in at the Sunport, I was denied a boarding pass because I was on the Terrorist Watch list ... I presented my credentials from the Marine Corps to a very polite clerk for American Airlines. One of the two people to whom I talked asked a question and offered a frightening comment: 'Have you been in any peace marches? We ban a lot of people from flying because of that.'

I explained that I had not so marched but had ... given a lecture at Princeton, televised and put on the Web, highly critical of George Bush for his many violations of the Constitution.

'That'll do it,' the man said."

You can read the complete letter and more at Talking Points Memo.

So, all those terrible things I wrote about The President™ were the result of a chemical imbalance. Or someone else wrote them. I don't know, I can't recall and I'm pleading the Fifth.

From now on, The Planet will have nothing but praise for The President™ and his excellent leadership in these times of terror. Thank God for George Bush, the bestest president we've ever had.

Now can I get my boarding pass?

All Hail Dear Leader!

This came out a while back but I've been too busy to mention it. But in case you've missed it, Bush is installing political officers in every branch and bureau of the Federal government.

You read that right. Political officers. And no, this is not one of Olen Steinhauer's novels about Soviet oppression of Eastern Europe. This is America. Or it was last time I looked.

But like Stalin, Bush wants total control over everything that moves. That means his political hacks will have oversight over anything involving public health, the environment, civil rights and our quickly evaporating rights to privacy.

In an executive order, Mr. Bush said that each agency must have a regulatory policy office run by a political appointee to supervise all documents and all rules that regulate anything larger than a chicken fart.

This means people with real expertise will have to submit everything to this "regulatory policy office" to, in the words of the New York Times, "make sure the agencies carry out the president’s priorities."

You know, like FEMA in New Orleans and the CPA in Iraq, because those groups have done such sterling work. Particular targets? The EPA and OSHA. Jeffrey A. Rosen, general counsel at the White House OMB said, “This is a classic good-government measure that will make federal agencies more open and accountable.”

Open and accountable. The Bush administration wants open and accountable. Done laughing? No, I'll wait.

OK, let's continue.

The way things usually work is, agencies enforce laws enacted by Congress, but Bush doesn't like Congress, so he's decided to to say "fuck them." He's done this with his signing statements before, plenty of them, but that hasn't give him the reach he really wants. No, Dear Leader needs political officers throughout the bureaucracy to make sure nothing gets by that might give Dear Leader a rash.

Peter L. Strauss of the Columbia Law School said the executive order “achieves a major increase in White House control over domestic government.” Which is such great news. This administration has been so competent at governing, why not give them more power? Hell, let's abandon Congress altogether and install Bush as Emperor for Life.

Over the past few years I've written short films for two Federal agencies and each time the script was gone over for anything that colored outside the lines of administration policy, so this has been going on for a while. The old hands told me they'd never seen anything like it. Well, with this new executive order, they ain't seen nothing yet.

And for further proof this stinks like a dead fish on a hot manifold, the Times reported that "business groups hailed the initiative."

And if that doesn't keep you awake nights, you haven't been paying attention.

Wow. The NY Times says nice things about one of our own.

I didn't want to pile on the plaudits when Laura Lippman hit the Times best seller list because, well, Dan Brown and Ann Coulter have made the Times best seller list. So while it was worth celebrating (especially if you're Laura's agent), it didn't rise to the drink-raising-inspiration of the review by Janet Maslin.

After a few hundred words of praise Maslin says:

“What the Dead Know,” like the best books in this tradition, is doubly satisfying. You read it once just to move breathlessly toward the finale. Then you revisit it to marvel at how well Ms. Lippman pulled the wool over your eyes."

Now that's worth celebrating. Congratulations, Laura.

And don't you just love that picture, all dark and sultry? The woman's a class act, through and through.

Where the hell is everybody?

It's come to my attention that readers of The Planet wonder why so few comments lately. Easy. Everyone's over at Crimespace. Go check out the Forum. Lots of chatter and plenty of opportunities to kill time. Like you need more.

I have been remiss in not adding Crimespace to my linky things over there but I'll rectify that this weekend.

Maybe.

Justice, with a small "j."

Yes, it's Photoshopped, but one can dream.

The day Karl Rove is tossed into the joint will be a grand day for America. This festering boil on the ass of American politics was speaking at American University last night, invited by the campus College Republicans, the ones who love the Iraq War but not, you know, well enough to enlist. (For more on that, visit Operation Yellow Elephant.)

After speaking to the assembled Brown Shirts, Rove went outside and was heckled by students, some of whom threw things at him, and although we don't know what, it probably wasn't monkey feces or human blood, either of which would be applauded here at The Planet.

Of course, those intrepid members of the 101st Fighting Keyboarders think this is just terrible and are wringing their Cheeto-stained little hands over Rove being heckled because, you know, that's just wrong.

Not as wrong as stealing 1,000 sheets of letterhead from the office of a Democratic candidate and printing “Free beer, free food, girls, and a good time for nothing” on the stolen sheets and sending them out as an invitation to the candidate's rally, but still wrong.

And not as wrong as Donald Segretti, Rove's mentor and one of the felonious bastards uncovered when Woodward and Bernstein rolled over that rock on Watergate. But still, wrong.

And not as wrong as bugging his own office and then claiming Democrats did it so the FBI and newspapers would investigate. But still, you know. Wrong.

And not as wrong as starting the whisper campaign that John McCain was unbalanced from his time as a POW or that McCain's adopted Bangladeshi daughter was his illegitimate black child.

And certainly not as wrong as questioning the service of a decorated veteran who volunteered for combat in a war both of his bosses dodged.

But still wrong.

Because these protesters actually confronted Rove, (the horror!) and embarrassed him. No, he was in no danger. Unlike the thousands of young men and women he helped send to Iraq.

Protesting one of the vilest humans in America makes me think there's hope for this country yet. Every one of those kids who laid down in front of Rove's car showed more courage than all 600 of those College Republicans hiding inside the speaker's hall combined.

Rock on.

Update: All the liberal blogs and talk shows have been tut-tutting the throwing of things at Mr. Rove. Not me. I was talking to a friend last night and we decided that this would be a better country if everywhere Karl Rove went, citizens would pelt him with whatever's at hand wherever he is - at home, work, a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike, or a bath house in Georgetown. Wherever.

I'm not talking bricks, people, but stale dinner rolls would be perfect.

The Essential Book

There have been quite a few posts lately about books you read as a child, books that inspired you to write, and books you're reading now.

This is about a book that made me realize I wasn't crazy, or if I was, I was in good company. But first, like all bad writers everywhere, I want to stop this narrative to inject a little backstory.

I was seventeen in the Summer of Love, living in a small town in the mountains of Pennsylvania. We got three channels on TV, maybe four with a fuzzy UHF receiver. There was no Rolling Stone. There were no videos, DVDs, or Internet. I knew little beyond what Time and Newsweek reported and it was only luck that steered me toward vinyl by a guitar player named Hendrix and a singer named Joplin. In that same store, among the paperbacks, was The Essential Lenny Bruce.

I knew next to nothing about Bruce. I knew he was considered a "sick" comic and I knew Paul Simon wrote a line about him in a song. That was enough. I bought the book, took it home and read it.

It was a revelation. For the first time I didn't feel like all those uncivilized thoughts rolling around inside my cranium were weird. Here was a guy talking about language, so much language, and sex and the lies we accepted every day from the church and government. It was comforting to know that it was OK to talk about these things (it wasn't OK, of course, but I didn't learn that lesson until much later) and in fact, people I respected encouraged this kind of thinking.

For a boy in the middle of the Pennsylvania woods in 1967, this book literally changed my life. The Essential Lenny Bruce became my essential book. I would never think about religion, sex, language or politics the same, small-town way again.

There was so much more to learn, but that book was a start.

So, the question is, do you have a book like that? One that twisted the top of your head off and shook things around up there?

Talk to me.

BTW, the video up there is Thank You Mask Man. Enjoy.

My Favorite Practical Joke

It should surprise no one that, as a kid, I loved hand buzzers, whoopee cusions and stink bombs. Which would lead you to think, quite wrongly, that I loved April Fool's Day. But to those who know the nuances of fake vomit (tip: sprinkle water on it), April Fool's Day is like New Year's Eve is to a serious drinker.

Not that any of the jokes worked worth a damn. What third-grader could keep a straight face when a plastic dog turd was involved?

But as we grow older, the pranks become more sophisticated and the really great jokes are the ones that play off a person's own weakness. The best I ever saw was pulled by a pretty country blonde receptionist named Buffy, a woman you underestimated at your peril.

Our boss was known to rifle through trash and desk drawers after hours in order to find out what his employees were up to, because he was sure they were up to something. He would sneak around corners and stand in hallways, hoping to overhear the mutinous staff hatching their plots against him.

And as paranoid as he was, he was even more of a misogynist. Pretty women were stupid and pretty women with country accents were really stupid. When Peter talked to Buffy, he was so condescending that no one would have blamed her if she'd shot him. But she didn't. What she did do was even better.

Buffy began carrying a manila folder that held a few typed sheets of paper. She would pretend to read it at her desk and when the boss approached she would casually close the folder, smile, and say, "Is there something I can do for you, Peter?" No, he would say, and slink away as the only thing he hated more than secrets were confrontations.

When Buffy went to the bathroom, she took her folder with her. When she left for the day, she took the folder home. And with each passing day, Peter became more and more obsessed with fiding out what Buffy was reading.

But of course, she wasn't reading anything. The typed sheets of paper were just that, merely office effluvia she'd picked up for the prank. Buffy did this for almost two weeks, the folder her constant companion and Peter so strung out on the secret that he could think of nothing else.

Then the folder went away.

It took Peter a few days to stop spinning. And I believe that to this day, just as Peter is falling asleep, the picture of Buffy with that folder comes into his head and he starts awake in the dark, unable to close his eyes for hours.

Practical jokes. When they're this smart, you've got to love them.

Insurance industry unveils new monument to the elderly.

There are weasels in America and they work in the insurance industry. The latest proof comes from a NY Times story about denying old people's claims until they die. One of the biggest weasels is Conseco, a company that in 2006 took in more than 4 billion dollars in premiums and yet denied assisted living claims made by an old woman who had paid her premiums when healthy and now needed help.

Denied, said Conseco. They said she was healthy as a horse at age 81 and implied the old woman was a malingerer, goldbrick and potential fraud for having the audacity to file a claim.

The nerve.

Then, that tactic not holding water, Conseco said she'd waited too long. Then it said her state-licensed assisted living home wasn't an "approved facility." Jesus, these guys change their stories so often they could work in the White House.

But it would be wrong to pick on Conseco alone. There are, unfortunately, other weasels in the pen. In fact, the investigation by the Times uncovered the shocking fact that insurance companies will do anything to avoid paying. Some insurers prohibit their employees from returning calls from policyholders.

And neglect is one of the more benign tactics. A subsidiary of Conseco, Bankers Life and Casualty, sent an 85-year-old woman suffering from dementia the wrong form to fill out and then denied her claim because she had filled out the wrong form.

I don't know how the executives sleep at night on their 400-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

From the Times article:

“The bottom line is that insurance companies make money when they don’t pay claims,” said Mary Beth Senkewicz, who resigned last year as a senior executive at the National Association of Insurance Commissioners. “They’ll do anything to avoid paying, because if they wait long enough, they know the policyholders will die.”

That's their strategy. Put off the old people long enough and they'll die. If there is any justice, all these insurance executives will contract a horrible, disfiguring, painful disease and their claims for coverage will be denied.

And don't even get me started on health insurance.

Weasels. Every last one of them.

P.O.V.

This is all about the voice. When you write in first person, you're telling that story from one character's point of view, in that character's voice. It's the classic PI perspective and allows the hero to make all sorts of comments on the action, comments that might be out of place in third person.

The first version of Panamanian Moon was in first person and third person because I had no idea how to build suspense when I was limited to what John Harper could see for himself. But I thought that switching from first to third was cheating, so I rewrote it all in first person.

One of the reasons my WIP is taking so long is that I'm writing in third person and that magnifies issues of plot, rhythm, voice and in each scene I risk switching points of view, something that is so easy to do and so hard to fix. The advantages are a bigger book with a wider scope, subplots that are well-developed, and the ability to set things in motion with one character and watch as it plays out with other characters. All good, but it's a lot harder, at least it is to me.

What about you? What POV do you use and why? What do you sacrifice and what do you gain by the choice? And I know several writers who switch from first to third and pull it off just fine, but is it kosher?

Talk to me.

Update: For those interested in the comments, go to Crimespace.

Tom Waits knows more than you.

Thanks to my old pal Jerry (aka secretdeadartist), we learn that the Vatican digs Tom Waits. OK, maybe not all the Vatican, but Jesuits, the mensa members of the Catholic Church, think Waits is the man.

This stands in sharp contrast to the Pope who said he doesn't like this new-fangled rock music. He did, however, enjoy a polka or two with Cardinal Bernard Law of Boston. "He can cover the dance floor," Benedict said, "as smoothly as he covered up all those buggered altar boys. You got to give the man his props."

In the latest issue of Civilta Cattolica, the Jesuits said that Waits represents “the marginalised and misunderstood.”

I'm looking at you Mr. Banks.

According to the London Times, Father Antonio Spadaro normally writes about literature but is quickly becoming the Church authority on pop music. Spadora said that Waits had lived a youthful life of “drugs, alcohol and sex” and can understand the desperation of men and women who live on the fringe. But out of desperation, Waits finds “capacity for hope and instinct for happiness.”

Damn, I wish I had written that. Capacity for hope and instinct for happiness. I love that.

The article quotes Waits from a 2004 interview: “I don’t know what’s out there any more than anyone else, cause no one’s really come back to tell me. I think everyone believes in something. Even people who don’t believe in anything believe that.”

Contrast this enlightened attitude with the Holy Father's. When he was a Cardinal, Benedict condemned rock music as the work of the Devil. "Except for Fergie. She's fabulous," he said, casting doubts on the notion of infallibility.

Father Spadaro respectfully disagreed. Rock is “not the music of Satan but has great expressive power which reaches peoples’ souls.” It would be churlish of me to point out that this news is about 40 years too late, but hey, it took the Church a few centuries to admit they had that whole sun around the earth cosmology wrong, so there's hope for Mother Church and Benny of the Big Hat yet.

Well I've been faithful
And I've been so good
Except for drinking
But he knew that I would
I'm gonna leave this place better
Than the way I found it was
And Jesus gonna be here
Be here soon

Sing it, Mr. Waits. Sing it.

And thanks, Jerry, for the tip.

Getting High With The High Court

The Supreme Court is firing up a fat one with the first free speech case since Barbara Bush told a veteran in a wheelchair to "walk it off, you big pussy."

OK, I made that up, but it could happen.

It's true that for the first time in nearly 20 years, the highest court in the land is hearing a case about how far a school principal can go in shutting up one of her students.

The facts, if my short term memory is accurate, are these: In 2002, Principal Deborah Morse of Juneau, Alaska let her young charges skip class so they could watch the Olympic torch pass by.

As an aside, isn't that one of the lamest field trips ever? When I was a young boy they let us out of school so we could watch the Vice President whisk past in his limo and that was Richard Frickin' Nixon. We're talking history here, children, not some ectomorph trotting by with a ball of flame on a stick.

Anyway, one of the students, a kid named Joseph Frederick, waited until the TV cameras were almost on him and then unfurled a banner reading "Bong Hits 4 Jesus." Immediately Principal Morse got a migraine. Then she suspended Joseph.

Now the Supreme Court is contemplating whether stupidity is protected by the First Amendment or whether school principals can use the Bill of Rights to roll up a big fat doobie and set a match to it.

David Souter, a guy who looks like he's no stranger to a one-hit toker, said, "It's political speech, it seems to me. I don't see what it disrupts."

Ruth Bader Ginsburg added, "And no one was smoking pot in that crowd."

Asked why he did it, Joseph Frederick said he just wanted to get on television. That I can believe.

But Principal Morse has her panties in a twist. She said she suspended Frederick because "bong hits" referred to smoking marijuana. Well, duh. She also said the banner advocated or promoted illegal drug use in violation of school policy although I suspect she was more disturbed by the thought of Jesus firing up than she was anything else. Just a suspicion.

Stephen Breyer, who is named for yummy ice cream, said a ruling for Frederick could result in students "testing limits all over the place," like students don't already test limits in high schools across the land. On the other hand, he also said that a ruling for Principal Morse "may really limit people's rights on free speech."

Can we guess what side the Bush administration is on? Headed by a surly drunk who famously said, "there ought to be limits to freedom?" Is there any doubt that the government is siding with Principal Morse? Not once you see Morse's lawyer is. He's none other than Ken Starr, the guy who started out investigating a failed real estate deal and ended up encouraging a homely girl to tape a fat girl so he could nail the president for lying about a little humma humma on the side.

Starr said that Morse is right for censoring speech about drugs and another government attorney argued that public schools don't have to tolerate a message inconsistent with its educational mission and that makes me wonder if teaching the Constitution is part of this school's educational mission.

Sam Alito doesn't like that line of reasoning any better than I do. "I find that a very, very disturbing argument," he said. He argued that schools could define their mission so broadly that they could suppress any political speech.

Anthony Kennedy asked if Principal Morse had the authority to squelch the banner if it had said "vote Republican, vote Democrat" and the government hack said she did have the authority, so there.

Clarence Thomas asked, "Have you ever really looked at your hand?"

Frederick's lawyer, a guy named Doug Mertz (no relation to Fred) said, "This is a case about free speech. It is not a case about drugs," and asked the court to remember the famous 1969 ruling that said students don't "shed their constitutional rights to freedom of speech ... at the schoolhouse gate." But that was a different time.

Lately the court has come down more in favor of the hobnail boot ruling that students' right to free speech isn't absolute, interpreting the words, "Congress shall make no law ... abridging the freedom of speech..." unless it's about drugs and it's just kids who can't vote anyway so fuck 'em.

A decision in the case is expected by the end of June around 4:20 PM.

Bad guys and good writing.

I was doing a bit of research (OK, I was goofing off) following the bread crumbs wherever they took me. I started looking at events in 1941 and wound up reading a review of Saving Private Ryan written by a former soldier of the Waffen SS, those guys in black with the Death's Head on their caps. The guys who ran the camps. Yeah, those guys. Real nice. This old soldier's movie review is written as an open letter to Steven Spielberg and I'm doing fine with it until I hit this:

"...almost all the German soldiers seen in "Private Ryan" had their heads
shaved ... something totally in conflict with reality. Perhaps you were
confusing, in your mind, German soldiers with Russians of the time.

Or else, your Jewishness came to the fore, and you wanted to draw
a direct line back from today's skinheads to the Waffen-SS and other German
soldiers of the Third Reich."

The rest of the review is more anti-Jewish spew, inadvertently revealing more about the man than the movie and reinforcing all those negative things we thought about Nazis.

And that got me thinking about writing bad characters, the kind of person who would spend all day counting shoes at Auschwitz and then go home feeling like she'd done a good day's work, blind to their role in the evil that surrounds them.

If we're to write these people honestly, we have to climb inside their skin and walk around a bit. We have to know how they were bent as children in order to grow up so twisted as adults. When they say things that we find unacceptable, and there were plenty of things people said in 1941 that we would find grossly inappropriate today, we have to understand the context, right or wrong, because no one except Richard III has ever set out to be a villain. They rationalize. They accept the unacceptable. They twist things around in their heads so that they're right and everyone else is wrong. They're human.

See where following bread crumbs can lead you?

I'm curious how you write villains, if you'd like to comment. But it's Monday, so there's no pressure.

Oh, and I'll cross post this to Crimespace. It seems to be the place everyone is hanging out these days.

Further adventures in the passive voice.

Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, known to the president as "Beanie-Baby," channeled the ghost of the Gipper today when he said, "mistakes were made," a favorite GOP locution of near-guilt. That's right. No one actually made those mistakes, they just appeared on the porch of the Justice Department like a flaming sack of dog turds.

Gonzales held a press conference today to explain away the politically motivated firings of US Attorneys. But Congress, now with New and Improved Subpeona Power™, wants to find out just who it was who put the match to the burning sack.

Could it be Karl Rove, a man quite willing to sell out anything, including justice, in return for a slim political advantage? Or could it be Harriet Miers, the gushing former Supreme Court nominee who thinks George Bush is like, the bestest president ever?

We don't know and Alberto the Torture King isn't saying. Because that would require the active voice and no Republican has used the active voice since the Eisenhower administration.

In despair?

Think today's young people are feckless and America's glory days are just a dot in the rearview mirror? Well, think again, Mr. Glass-Half-Empty. As long as we have great young Americans like John Cornwell, our place at the pinnacle of international influence is secure.

John, a recent graduate of Duke University, our high-priced local bastion of beer and b'ball, has invented the greatest boon to college dorm rats since the inflatable doll. John created a mini-fridge that can fling a brewski across the room and into your hand (or at your roommate, depending on your level of hostility and how many Miller Lites you've already imbibed).

With a range of 15 feet, a remote-controlled guidance system, and a 10-beer magazine, you're good for the entire first half of an NCAA Tournament game. Add the Stadium Pal and you never have to leave the couch.

Beer is not the only projectile Cornwell has launched across a room, just the most practical. I mean, it's great that he invented a potentially lethal potato cannon but, outside of Ireland, how does that add lustre to Western culture? The answer is, it doesn't.

No, beer's the thing, and John is flinging it. Check out his video up there and if you don't know what a Stadium Pal is, click on the link and listen to David Sedaris explain the practical joys of this ultimate sports accessory.

Then raise a glass to John Cornwell, Duke graduate, inventor, entrepreneur and Great Young American.

Hoo-rah.

Ken Bruen Appreciation Day

I don't know what happened, but when the bell rings this old fire horse comes running. Apparently someone with little taste and less sense dissed The Pope (aka Ken Bruen) and I want to go on record by saying that I wasn't anywhere near a pub all weekend.

Sandra Ruttan, being too Canadian to kick the offender in his dangly bits, has asked everyone to show Ken a little love, so here we go.

I don't know Ken. I've never met him and I'm sure he's unaware of my existence on the planet, but he's a damn fine writer. The White Trilogy is so good that I've given away several copies. Right now I think my last copy is on its way to Iraq, so I couldn't look up the page I wanted to quote. It's a scene in a bar between a cop and a snitch and Ken does more in a page and a half than I can do in ten. It's as close to poetry as prose can get, with each word, each sentence, each paragraph communicating so much about the place, the people, and the crime that it takes your breath away. And he makes it look so damn easy.

So here's to Ken Bruen. If it wasn't first thing on a Monday morning, I'd raise a pint in your honor, sir, and express my gratitude for this opportunity to add my voice to the chorus of appreciation.

Sleeping...

Until I get up the energy to post something new, I suggest you check out the Demon From Down Under's new hangout called Crimespace.

All the usual suspects.

Later.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

The news over at Contemporary Nomad is that Granta's list of Best Young American Novelists is out.

And seven of them have not published a novel.

Which takes a lot of the pressure off, doesn't it?

That means I can win the Cy Young award without pitching a single game, or the Pulitzer without reporting or

(cue the choir)

the Oscar, without producing a single frame of film.

So, what awards are you lining up for? Accomplishment not required.

Are people who write about murder...

more fun than writers who write about women finding empowerment through quilting?

That's the question of the day.

This came up in a bar, naturally, in a confab of writers - some crime, some literary, and some downright criminal. Ad Hudler, literary novelist, admitted to homicidal ambitions. Why?

Because crime writers, he said, have more fun than literary writers.

I know a few literary writers, like Soren Palmer who's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize (you go, Soren). These are kudos rarely handed out to those of us who dabble in murder but Soren, aside from the dour Scandinavian name his folks hung on him, is an enjoyable guy to hang with, as is Mr. Hudler.

So, if it's true that crime writers have more fun, why is that? Following are three theories, the first of which is my favorite but it is almost assuredly bullshit.

Theory #1: We write away our demons. Yeah, it's all like poetic and all, but as much as I like it I don't buy it.

Theory #2: Crime writers are tap dancers. Elmore Leonard isn't wrestling with any deep philosophical conundrums. He's writing about bad people in bad places. Those of us who write crime are, at bottom, trying to entertain the reader, not enlighten them. So it's no wonder that we're entertaining. As long as our standards are low and the bar is open.

Theory #3: Literary writers come, mostly, from academia and everyone knows that academia is a bog of petty politics, back-stabbing, and professional envy. Someone smarter than I am (and we're talking multitudes here, people) said that the politics in academia are so brutal because the rewards are so small. I know one professor at Duke who cannot stand Reynolds Price, mostly because Price is wildly successful by literary standards. So it stands to reason that if you get a group of literary writers in a room together, the similarity to a snake pit is not coincidental. No wonder so many of those books make me want to take a bath with my toaster.

That's what I think. Anyone else want to weigh in on why we have more fun than literary novelists? I'm open for your theories, the more outrageous the better.

Talk to me.

A Friday treatise on all that is good about James O. Born.

It's come to my attention that certain members of our community (Karen) think we've been too tough on Jim Born, author of books and nemesis of hombres malo in the Sunshine State.

That's Jim up there, putting a hammerlock on the septugenarian Dutch Leonard so that it looks like Dutch is actually endorsing Jim's book.

I heard that Jim once wrestled Laura Lippman to the ground demanding a blurb, but that could just be a rumor. I don't know. I wasn't there.

But I was in South Carolina this past weekend, thanks to Jim. He wrangled an invitation for me and I am not one to be ungrateful.

Which brings me to a larger topic.

Last Saturday a group of us adjourned to a local bar making the regular patrons wonder if a senior citizens' tour bus had broken down outside.

While in the bar, Ad Hudler joined us and decided to kill someone. Jeff Shelby suggested he start with Jim Born, but Ad meant to kill someone in fiction, not real life, and after our initial disappointment we asked why. Ad said it was because crime writers had more fun than literary novelists. That surprised me, and it got me thinking. In the next day or so, I'll air my theories as to why that might be.

But for today, I want to publicly thank Jim. He takes a lot of grief, and gives his share, and I'm happy to be his friend and colleague.

Now, can someone take these cuffs off?


Update - Seems Jim's having a good week. I received this note this morning:

Just found out that I, that's right, a Florida redneck, am the recipient of the inaugural prize for best novel (Escape Clause) in popular fiction for the Florida Book awards. Not bad, huh. Nice end to the week.

Why do I love the SC Book Festival?

Yes, I got a chance to hang with Michele Martinez, Jeff Shelby, Bob Morris, Cornelia Read and, because every good experience must be karmically balanced with something evil, Jim Born.

Yes, I met people who had actually read Beneath A Panamanian Moon and seemed to enjoy it (or were excellent liars). Yes, I saw a friend I hadn't seen in 30 years. Yes, I even sold a bunch of books.

Yes, the organizers were all brilliant (and here's a shout out to Paula Millen Watkins, Mary Harris, Paula Benson and Jim and Debby Johnson. They all did their jobs with a casual aplomb that belied the amount of work it took to make the festival roll out so seamlessly.)

Yes, there are many reasons why I love the SC Book Festival. Then yesterday I received a Thank You tin of chocolate chip cookies.

What a class act.

And Mary? I know Jim Born told you scurrilous lies, but if I ever suggested that South Carolina was full of rednecks, I apologize. I didn't see one redneck the entire weekend.

Except Jim Born.

Just what I needed. More books.

If you're ever invited to the South Carolina Book Festival, do not hesitate. Say yes. Go. You will not be sorry.

They treated us like rock stars (minus the groupies, cocaine and A&R weasels).* This kind of star treatment might be a bit too rich for novelists, like feeding chocolate to a starving man, but for a few days out of our lives I think we can survive.

I'll write more on this when I have time and can stretch out a bit, but for now, let me tell you what I brought home:

Joseph Bathanti's Coventry; a few Bob Morris novels including what has to be the best damn title ever, Bermuda Schwartz; the new Field of Fire by Jim Born; A Field of Darkness by Cornelia Read; Finishing School by Michele Martinez; and by special request, a couple of Carl T. Smith's including his latest Louisiana Burn.

There's so much to report and I just don't have the time right now. But in the next few days I'll write about the tireless organizers of the festival, why crime writers have more fun than literary novelists and my theories as to why that's true, the swag of festivals, why Michele Martinez is the perfect panel partner, the readers who buy our books and actually read them, and the special man-love that certain writers share when they're on the road.

Stay tuned.

*I'd appreciate it if the organizers would work on the groupies and blow shortage in time for the next festival, if it's not too much trouble. Thank you.

Why I love the Bible.

I think it was Richard Brautigan who wrote about the pretty girl who got drunk at parties, enticed men into driving her across town to her apartment, and then left them sitting alone at the curb once they got there.

Strangely, the Bible has nothing to say about that sort of unpleasant behavior.

But it does have something to say about anyone who has ever bought a lady a drink with more on his mind than merely quenching her thirst.

One of the prophets - a whiny, insistent dude named Habbakkuk - said this about any man who seduces a woman by getting her so blotto that she pukes on his car:

"Woe to him who gives his neighbor drink, pouring your inflaming wine until they
are drunk, so that he may gaze at their naked bodies!"

Which is why God gave us naked women on the Internet instead.

Tomorrow: Why Jim Born is not my boyfriend.

Good news for the Bush twins.

The Bushies have always thought of themselves as America's reigning royal family, which is why they got so upset when that cracker from Arkansas handed Poppy his ass in '92.

But the Bush twins, while treated as royal spawn, can't really carry the title, what with this being America and all. So, how do we fix that?

We do what rich American families have done for generations. We snag a foreign blue blood.

But, how do you meet a prince like the dreamy Prince Harry of the UK? You can't just flash your cooter at him, Jenna. He's a prince for God's sake. Women flash their cooters in his direction a hundred times before tea.

So what's a social-climbing young girl gotta do to get the Prince's attention? Here's a hint. Prince Harry is about to be sent off to Iraq. That's right. In the UK the well-connected (and who's better connected than Prince Harry?) fight their own wars. Unlike our rich, who like war as long as someone else does the heavy lifting.

So, how can Bar or Jenna get in the Prince's good graces?

By doing something bold and unexpected. Something like going here.

That's right, they can enlist for service in Iraq, taking the place of a reservist about to go for his third or fourth tour. That should impress young Harry.

So watch for it. Soon we'll see the Bush twins showing support for their father's foreign policy by signing up.

Oh, and you might also watch for those pigs that are about to fly out of my ass.

More art.

This is by John Puglisi. I can't afford his paintings, but I did buy this print and one other. I'm quickly running out of wall space in our tiny cottage. But if anyone would like to buy me a present, here are some artists I'll be happy to find a spot for:

Robert LaDuke

Morgan Carver

Bruce Cody

Glenn Ness

Daniel Peacock

and

R Kenton Nelson

Art. Buy art. When your grandchildren schlep those old canvases to the Antique Road Show, wondering why Grampaw had this weird fixation with diners, they'll thank you.

Bad news for John Rickards.

"...you won’t find men’s genitalia in quality literature," said librarian Dana Nilsson.

This rather abrupt and sweeping castration of "quality literature" was instigated by this year's winner of the Newbery Medal, the big kahuna of kid lit accolades. The book is "The Higher Power of Lucky," and from what I can tell, it has little to do with God or 12-step programs.

But it does have the word "scrotum" in it and as Big Bill would say, "Aye, there's the rub."

Because even a passing mention of all that is south of the beltline has the more sensitive among us clutching our faux pearls and calling out for a book banning, if not burning.

Not that the author, Susan Patron, set out to rub anyone the wrong way. In fact, she never, ever mentions men's genitalia. She does, however, have her heroine overhear someone say they saw a rattlesnake bite a dog on the scrotum. Ouch. And in a Santorum-like leap, Dana Nilsson read dog scrotum and thought about men and their jiggly parts, proving just how dangerous these words in these books can be.

Which coincidentally ties into the recent story about a theater in Florida catching heat for putting up The Vagina Monologues on their marquee, because a mother didn't want to tell her daughter what a vagina was, or even that the little girl had one, for fear she might actually look down and see it and wonder what it was for.

God forbid we use theater or books as springboards to education, not if that education focuses young attention on those tingly areas that wise parents refer to as "the devil's place." Because, children don't need to know about their bodies, not ever. Take it from me, those dangly bits just lead to jail time and trouble, so it's best to not talk of them at all.

The author lives in California, naturally, where I assume people talk about scrotums willy-nilly, children be damned. Ms. Patron said she was stunned because the story of the rattlesnake chomping on the canine nutsack was true. And, as the left coast author said, "...one of the themes of the book is that Lucky is preparing herself to be a grown-up. Learning about language and body parts, then, is very important to her."

Then she goes on to reveal just how truly twisted she is by saying that “The word [scrotum] is just so delicious.”

I'll bet that in your hippie-dippie, Free Love world it is delicious, Ms. Patron. But in God-fearing Bush country, we don't think about the taste of scrotums unless we're invited to a teabagging party and then I suggest you rub a bit of almond extract down there in consideration of your partner.

So, people, before you start using grown-up words to describe your naughty parts in those filthy books you write, I suggest you consider your audience and instead use child-friendly words like "peaches," "man kiwi," and "junque" instead.

Fox Yucks Redux

This is more Fox comedy from the new Half Hour News Hour. But be warned, do not watch this if you have a weak stomach.

This promo is introduced by the giant-headed Sean Hannity and features the trice-married, Viagra-popping, drug-addicted, former comic Rush Limbaugh as the president.

Rush makes some real knee-slappers here. He talks about Howard Dean getting much-needed meds, something Rush knows something about. I expected some El Rushbo-style advice on threatening your Latina maid so she cops your Oxycontin for you, but I was disappointed.

I was also disappointed in the joke about Cindy Sheehan's cross-country shooting spree because, I admit, I didn't get it. Did I miss something?

If he'd said Dick Cheney's shooting spree, that would be funny because of that whole Cheney-shooting-a-friend-in-the-face-thing. But Cindy Sheehan? Maybe if he'd made a joke about her losing her car keys because, you know, she lost a son in Iraq, maybe there's something funny Fox could find in there.

What was that Oscar Wilde line? "To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness."

See how easy it is to turn that tragic frown upside down, Rush?

No, don't thank me. I'm only trying to help.

Later, Ann Coulter makes a cameo and delivers her famous laugh-out-loud line about killing all Arab leaders and converting their people to Christianity. Nothing beats the classics, Ann. Thanks for reminding us just how hilarious you can be.

Fox comedy. And here I thought O'Reilly had that sewed up.

Fox brings on the funny.

For those who may be blissfully unaware, Fox News is debuting a show that is to comedy what Fox News is to news. It's called The Half Hour News Hour because, see, it's funny. Just like it was when another network had the Half Hour Comedy Hour back in the Pleistocene.

This Daily Show ripoff is going to be hi-larious, judging by the sample we get up there. Because they make jokes about Obama's drug use with a timely reference to Marion Barry, they joke about Obama's middle name, and they do a side-splitting routine about his initials because BO is funny.

If you're twelve.

And you've suffered a head wound.

Add a raucous laugh track and you've got Comedy Gold my friend.

Now, I like funny right-wingers. Both of them. Larry Miller used to be funny until he discovered Israel. And I enjoy P.J. O'Rourke. In fact, I enjoy O'Rourke more now than when he helped turn the scathingly satiric National Lampoon into a sophomoric collection of naughty, frat-boy rib-ticklers. (Think of an entire magazine made up of Playboy party jokes.) But that was a long time ago and I've forgiven him. He was young.

And so is this show. Maybe they'll find their legs (and new writers) and actually make a genuinely funny news show that skewers the ample targets of Democratic fecklessness and Hillary's ass. It could happen.

Uh-huh. And Ann Coulter could turn into a real human being.

But don't count on it.

Whodunit?

The story of the purloined bird has made the rounds of the crime blogs, the latest (and with a cool pic) is from our pal Dusty Rhoades.

I'm not here to add to the chorus. I'm here to sing a bit of counterpoint and ask, who signed the damn thing? In all the stories I've read, I've seen the detail that the bird was autographed by a cast member, but I don't know who. It couldn't be one of the stars. If it had been Sidney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Mary Astor or even Ward Bond, surely that detail would have made it into the news.

So here we go. The first person who can tell me who signed the stolen bird gets his or her choice of a signed copy of Jim Born's new book, Field of Fire, Jeff Shelby's best-selling Wicked Break, or Cornelia Read's Edgar-nominated Field of Darkness. (OK, you can ask for Beneath A Panamanian Moon, but given the choices I don't know why you would.)

I'll see all three authors in South Carolina later this month (more on that later) and get the winner's choice signed between drinks.

So, do your Google thing and be the first to identify the cast member of The Maltese Falcon who signed the stolen bird. I honestly don't know, so you're on your honor here.

But I would love for it to be Gutman's gunsel, the under-appreciated Elisha Cook, Jr.

Update: Yay! It was Elisha Cook, the gunsel. And if you think a gunsel has something to do with guns, you probably think catamite has something to do with cats. So, Jerry, let me know whose book you want signed and I'll bring it back from South Carolina, freshly autographed. And thanks for playing.

Getting dumped - an inquiry.

Yesterday I was driving home, listening to NPR, and I hear a story about getting your heart stomped on, and what better time of the year is there to explore heartbreak than this Hallmark-manufactured holiday dedicated to totally unrealistic expectations?

The story on NPR was astonishingly pedestrian given the topic. Is it just me or has NPR's quality declined? I mean, does Juan Williams even know what a follow-up question is?

But I digress.

The story did raise the question of whether men and women deal differently with getting the ole heave-ho.

It never occurred to me that men and women handle heartbreak differently. I thought we all curled up on the carpet like a bug in a frying pan. I thought we all made drunk calls at 3 a.m. with our IQ, dignity and pants down around our ankles and the slim glimmer of hope in our alcoholic haze. I thought everyone sat outside our former lover's house, a pistol in our laps, a vodka bottle and a bag of fast food burgers on the passenger seat.

No? Really? Just me?

I obviously need a bit of edification. Do men and women really cope with getting the shaft in different ways? I need to know.

Talk to me.

*Illustration by Chase Melendez

More Music News - The Piedmont Shieks

What a great weekend. Jenny and I watched a few movies, slept in, went to a party where I played the blues, got drunk and had my finger chomped on by a very large parrot named Goldie.

I also got news from my agent that we're moving to another agency (more on that later) and then Sunday we saw Valentino and the Piedmont Shieks. That's them up there, with Daniel Valentino on harp, Chris Berry on guitar, Tracy Wieback on bass and Ed Myzynski on drums. (I have to come clean here. I am a committed Ed Head. Not only is he an amazingly tasteful drummer, he's also a regular reader of the Planet. Say hi, Ed.)

I could tell you how good these guys are, but you can hear them yourself. Go to YouTube, search for the Piedmont Shieks and you'll find a dozen or so cuts. They're also here: Myspace.com/thesheiks. Check 'em out.

Daniel's tone knocks me out. He's got that big fat tongue slap, backed by seriously smooth vibrato (very hard to get right, by the way), and his whole approach is like opening up a big ass can of 1952.

Again, if you have a chance to see these guys, do it. You won't be disappointed.

Play the blues, boys.

Magnetic ribbons won't help these guys.

But books will.

Another family member is in Iraq. This time it's my niece's husband, a doc stationed with a Forward Surgical Team (FST).

As anyone who has ever been in the service knows, boredom is an unavoidable part of military life. Books help, especially the kind of books we read. Nothing takes your mind of the brutalities and war like a good multiple homicide.

So I'm sending out a call to all the people who read this blog. I want you to send books. More important, if you blog and I know most of you do, I'm asking you to post Brett's address at your place and ask your readers to send books. Paperbacks are probably best, but hardbacks are fine, too.

For those who don't know, there are some restrictions. You can't send porn (I'm looking at you, Stephen) and there's some restriction against religious evangelism that I don't think will be a problem here.

I don't ask much of this crowd. I give and give, always for your amusement and edification. Oh, sure, I urge you to buy a book every now and then, and occassionally I invite you to say something that would derail any potential political career you're considering, but other than those small sacrifices you're pretty much free to come and go as you please.

But not today. Today I'm asking you to step up. You can send your books to me and I'll forward them, or you can send them direct. And please, if you want to do something more than slap one of those three-dollar magnets on your car, pass this address along to fans, friends and family.

I know you guys won't let me down.

Here is Brett's address:

Cpt. Brett Sachse, MD
240 Med Det 28 CSH
APO AE 09348

Here is my address:

David Terrenoire
5 Chipley Ct.
Durham, NC 27703

I'll let you know how it's going in future posts.

Discussing Uganda

I love euphemisms for the horizontal hula. There's everything from the baseball fan's charging the mound to the former altar boy's dunking the bishop. So I was particularly pleased to read that in the UK, Discussing Uganda has become the euphemism du jour for extramarital bouts of hide the banger.

The story is, a young woman had an illicit tryst at a party and when asked what she and the gentleman were doing upstairs, she responded, "Discussing Uganda." I like that.

"What did you do this weekend?"

"Oh, not much. The wife and I stayed home and discussed Uganda until we couldn't walk."

I was surprised to discover, after a bit of research, that certain groups have specific euphemisms for checking the old oil. For instance, accountants can file an extension, Canadians can stuff the beaver, and Star Wars fans can shake hands with the wookie. Politicians can enter Congress and lawyers can raise an objection, but what about writers? According to my quick search of the web, writers are as useless as a eunuch at a teabagging.

So I've come up with a few euphemisms of my own. Here, for the first time ever, is a list of writers' eupemisms for making the beast with two backs:

1. Inserting an exclamation
2. Foreshadowing the climax
3. Employing the active voice
4. Sharpening the pencil
5. Penning a romance
6. Simultaneous submissions
7. Pulling a Reacher
8. Polishing the query
9. Pillaging the slush pile
10. Interviewing the wombat

What are your euphemisms for love spelunking? Come on, give it up. You know you want to.

This and $3.85 will get me a cup of coffee.

I'm not complaining. I've given away stories for free. In fact, right this moment you can read Things Could Be Worse over at Demolition and know that I got paid exactly what it will cost you to read it.

And that's OK.

And I certainly don't have a beef with Michael Bracken, editor of this Fedora anthology, the man who just sent me my second royalty check for my story, Freddie Swings In. So far, I've raked in ninety cents for a story that came this close to selling to Playboy for a grand.

And that's OK.

Because Freddie Swings In is the story that was nominated for a Derringer along with stories by Ray Banks, Dave White and Duane Swierczynski. And those names introduced me to this blogging community, and that's worth more than ninety cents.

OK, maybe not enough to cover that Starbucks java frappuccino, but still, it's something.

And there are other names in this anthology you might recognize. Writers like Graham Powell, Tom Sweeney and Lee Goldberg. What ever happened to those guys?

So, you might wonder, if we don't do this for the money, why do we do it? Why put ourselves through years of rejection for a job that comes with little money, no health benefits, no job security, and no pension plan? Why do this?

And if you have to ask, perhaps this isn't your line of work.

So I'm listening to the Wild Tchoupitoulas

on the best damn radio station on the planet and the man comes on the radio telling me more and more about who's playing around New Orleans, and I hear that Mighty Lester is in the Crescent City playing a benefit gig for the New Orleans Musicians Clinic.

Mighty Lester is a horn-driven band graced with a killer guitar slinger and a big front man who sings his ass off. These are my home boys, guys I've known for years and played with when they've been generous enough to invite me up.

You can buy their new CD, We Are Mighty Lester, right here and for a free listen visit their web site here.

These guys have worked hard to get where they are and if you have a chance to see Mighty Lester, do it, you won't be disappointed. Oh, and when they take a break, buy 'em a drink and tell 'em I sent you.

Look out Hollywood, here I come.

When I set out to write that feature, the one with the gratuitous breast shots and inexpensive exploding mayhem, I bought a cheap but useful bit of screenwriting software that made the formatting tolerable. Apparently, that put me on a list.

Because David Freeman is offering me a spot in his screenwriting class. Up there is one of the inside panels from his brochure. Hmmm, doesn't look like proofreading is covered.

But that doesn't dissuade this screenwriter. God knows I need professional help, so I checked out the course offering. Mr. Freeman promises to show me 10 techniques for creating complex characters, 25 types of character quirks or eccentricites, 37 techniques for giving my characters depth and techniques "to create interesting villains."

And here I've just been listening to the voices in my head. Had I known there were techniques, I would have signed up long ago.

But wait, you also get "14 techniques to capture the rhythm and sound of conversation in written dialogue." And that's just on Saturday. We have a whole other day of techniques to go.

Sunday we get 100, count 'em, 100 techniques for creating compelling plots and scenes, including 70 types of plot twists.

Why hell, I take this class, my next script will practically write itself. Sweet.

But I wasn't born in the turnip truck yesterday. I checked out Mr. Freeman on line and he's written a few movies. Four of them. And while I haven't seen them, I'm sure they're swell, what with all those techniques. But what really sold me was this line:

"This is the workshop taken by many novelists, as well as by the screenwriters, directors, producers, stars, and key creative and marketing executives from the companies which make or made:" and then a whole list of movies and TV shows follow, everything from Everybody Loves Raymond to Meet the Fockers. Yes, key creative and marketing executives have taken this course.

Elsewhere in the brochure, they tell me that if I sign up and pay my $400, I can get "Final Draft," the industry's gold-standard screenwriting software for the bargain price of $129 (and really, that is a bargain). Sadly, the offer is good only up to the end of November, 2005. So, lacking a time machine, I'm fucked.

But all things considered, it's good to know that someone out there is helping writers like myself develop characters with eccentricites (25 of them!) because all my people are hopelessly normal.

Unfortunately, I'll have to skip this seminar because right now I'm busy working on my drinking techniques. But if you're interested, I'll be happy to send you this brochure along with a copy of my cheapy screenwriting software, absolutely free.*

*Offer expires August 31, 2004.

Let's talk caveman.

Or woman. This cavewoman, of course, is Raquel Welch from One Million BC, the film that proves beyond any doubt that depilatories existed at the same time as dinosaurs.

But I'm not here to talk about hot cavewomen, although I can think of worse things to mull over on this last cold day of January. No, I'm here to talk about the Geico caveman, the insurance primate who is not half as attractive as Ms. Welch.

Have I completely sold out? Yes, I have, and if Geico wants to send me a check, I will happily spend their money on vodka and art. But as we wait for my unlikely remuneration, let me direct you to this web site.

Here you will discover just how today's caveman lives. You will see what he reads, listen to his iPod, even get a glimpse of how today's metrosexual caveman does the fashion thing. And why, if I'm not getting paid, am I doing this?

Because the caveman's crib is actually my nephew's house. He's a young film maker who has worked with Geico on a number of projects and when they needed a place to shoot this, my nephew offered up his place. So take a look. And as you wander from room to room, think of how my nephew and his wife took an unassuming ranch in northern Virginia, gutted the inside and rebuilt this interior with their own four hands. Pretty cool. And the web site is entertaining, too.

Not as entertaining as Miss Welch in her animal-skin bikini, but then what is?

Proof that Hungarian beer can destroy your critical faculties.

This is Olen Steinhauer, the Edgar-nominated author of Liberation Movements and other highly-regarded novels that you should rush out and buy right now. Go ahead. We'll wait.

OK, now that you're back, let's look at something Olen's done that most people, including my mother, would find incredible. He's read my book and liked it enough to tell others about it, which is not unlike standing on a subway platform yelling at strangers about the joys of lime jello.

Thanks, Olen, you delusional fool. Thanks.

Planetary Update: It should be clear to all of my readers (both of you) that I'm blogging again. I've remodeled and I'll try to stick to my resolve to post only when I see a worthwhile story like if the president eats a bug.

For instance, I've got this bit of shameless self promotion: Jim Born, Jeff Shelby, Cornelia Read (another Edgar-nominee) and I are going to be at the South Carolina Book Festival, February 23 - 25. I understand it's a free event, so if you're in that neck o' the woods, stop by. We'll be the crime writers swimming in the sea of literary nabobs.

As for The Planet, we're going to go slow for a while and see if I can keep from obsessing about this.

Uh-huh. Now who's deluded?

Tomorrow: Caveman News!

"I thought I was going to get my life together,"

Ronald Doston told the judge. Well now he's got plenty of time to work on that.

After being arrested for the zillionth time for the same crime, the judge sentenced Dotson to 30 years in prison. What was Dotson's crime? He smashed a window of a cleaning supply place on the corner of 8 Mile and Woodward in order to make sweet sweet dummy love to a mannequin.

"I think he lacks social skills," his lawyer said. Ya think? (And if lacking social skills is a crime, why isn't Jeff Shelby behind bars?)

Dotson's been here before. In 1993 he snatched three female mannequins. Seven years later he was arrested again after becoming entranced by a mannequin with bobbed hair in a pink dress.

And who could blame him? Really.

Even though Dotson is an habitual offender, 30 years is a pretty harsh sentence considering the mannequin was asking for it by wearing a French maid's outfit.

"He needs to be kept off the streets," the prosecuting attorney said.

Now, maybe I'm a bit simple-minded, but couldn't this be accomplished by giving the guy his own mannequin and a tub of KY? Because I'm willing to take up a collection.

The judge, master of the obvious, said, "It's clear there is an illness here that needs to be dealt with."

But who's thinking of the victim? Nobody. She continues to be exploited by the store, parading her in the window in that degrading maid's outfit like she was nothing more than an inanimate chunk of flesh-painted plaster. "It attracts a lot of attention," said the store manager/pimp.

Yeah, she sure got Dotson's attention.

If Dotson is intent on making love to something that has no emotions and doesn't move during sex, I have an old girlfriend I could introduce him to.

On second thought, maybe prison is less cruel.

Less satire ...

... and more fart jokes.*

The White House Correspondents' Association, the group that hired Stephen Colbert to provide the yuks at last year's kissy-face confab, have decided that Colbert played a little rough with our Cowpoke in Chief and hurt the little fella's feelings.

Not wanting to bruise the thin-skinned Decider again this year, the WHCA has hired 60's comedy sensation Rich Little and asked him not to make fun of you-know-who or mention the war in you-know-where. Little has promised to confine all jokes to airline food and those wacky hippies. "Not a word about the war," Little said. "I won't even mention Vietnam."

That's right. Young men and women are getting shot at and blown up every day, but the guy who sent them to Iraq is too fragile to face a few jokes from a TV comedian.

Don't get me wrong, I loved Rich Little when I was little. His Nixon is dead-on, but then again, Nixon is dead. So is Reagan and a whole host of other people Little impersonates, which makes me wonder: What happens when all the people you impersonate have joined the choir invisible?

Ladies and gentlemen, Warren G Harding!

You book a gig with the Liberal Media's White House Correspondents.

Just be sure to lay off the Boy King. Colbert made him cry.

*According to US News, Bush is uncomfortable around women because he loves "to cut a few for laughs, especially when greeting new young aides..." That's Klassy with a K.

If Texas didn't exist, we'd have to make it up.

A friend forwarded this story to me and it was too good not to post it.

John Kelso of the Austin Statesman asks if this man is the most politically incorrect person in Texas. I don't know, but the competition has got to be fierce.

Let's say that for now, this guy is in the finals.

Charles Johnson III, oil wealth oozing from his ears, is taking Jesus' commandments to heart and helping clothe the naked, although Jesus didn't say anything about Hooters T-shirts so Johnson extemporized.

Yes, Mr. Johnson flew to New Guinea, where other people have been eaten for less, and handed out Hooters T-shirts to the women.

I love this guy.

That's Johnson up there in the bowling shirt and fez, a look I might adopt for my next gig. In the story Johnson also gives vent to his inner Maragret Mead by enlightening us as to the local customs. Speaking of one woman carrying a pig (not Johnson) he said, "She was nursing that pig when we saw her. A lot of women in New Guinea nurse their pigs to fatten 'em up."

And speaking of pigs, Johnson rides around with a stuffed hog in the sidecar of his motorcycle.
"I stuff him in my sidecar and take him barhopping," he said. "We put dollar bills in his hooves for the girls in the strip clubs."

Johnson has also sponsored topless dove hunts next to a maximum security prison. This means he hires topless dancers to act as bird dogs, fetching the downed birds for the hunters. "When they bring back a dove," he said, "they get a dollar." Nice.

But, according to Kelso, "Perhaps the apex of Johnson's politically incorrect career occurred when he brought a 378-pound Dallas transvestite named Rhapsody as his date to his 20th high school reunion in Amarillo.

"She was a great date. Drank a whole fifth of vodka," Johnson said.

Mom, is that you?

Kelso tells a few other stories about our man Johnson, but you have to go read him. Go ahead. It's funny stuff.

Or maybe it's just another day, another dude, down in Texas. You gotta love 'em.

(And no, I'm not out of retirement. I just couldn't let this one pass by without comment.)