Monday, October 27, 2008


I am going to assume most readers are familiar with the acronyms above, as I do not want to insult anyone by actually spelling things out. Really.

But I am consternated, having just discovered that the Blogspot people who kindly carry my messages were also the first to put up a Palin for VP blogsite waaay back in 2007. OMG!!!

It's getting down to the wire, and I thought I would throw a sabot into the works by suggesting a slight change in party nominations. Ready? I propose we elect the team of Obama and Palin. Insane, you say? Read on.

First, an Obama/Palin presidency would unite the country. Left and right could get together and attempt to solve the problems left and right have.

Second, by having a Black President and a Caucasian VP, we will be representing a very large segment of the population. All we will need may be a Latino Secretary of State.

Third, one has a penis, one has a vagina, thereby representing every single person in the U.S.!!

Fourth, our European friends would think we're very cool.

Fifth, we could create and promote the sport of snowmobile basketball, rules TBD.

Sixth, there would be a lot of kids at the White House, which is always a good thing.

Seventh, Condi Rice, who is of indeterminate race, could step in if there's ever a tiff between the Prez and the Veep.

Eighth, Obama's urban, Palin is rural.

Ninth, this ticket would encourage very rapid growth of country hip hop music, for which we have all been waiting.

Tenth, Palin's favorite food is moose stew. Obama prefers Italian from Chicago's Italian Fiesta Pizzaria. No more rubber chicken at the White House.

Think about it; tell your friends!

Here's installment 52 of Wasted Miracles.

Herbie talked and talked and talked, stayed up all night flapping his mouth and Mollie listened, smiled, made approving sounds in spite of the fact that she was dying to go to sleep, her eyes wanted to rest and only sheer force of will kept them open. He told her about his parents, about his sainted grandmother, his first drunk, his first drug deals with the Georgetown students cramming for finals, his one and only encounter with heroine, which, he claimed, almost killed him. “Felt like my veins were on fire. Then I threw up. Then I fainted. Never, ever, do that again.”
When Herbie played with her breasts she let him, when he ran his hand between her legs she let him do that too because she knew it would lead to nothing.
Between snorts Herbie kept saying, “This is great, you know? I can’t do this with Josie. If we’re together I can’t even do a little dope to cool myself out, she wouldn’t stand for that. So this is great, being with you and all...”
Coked to the gills, he said, “Hey, you know? I got this deal working, I could maybe use somebody like you, somebody smart and pretty, we can make a fortune, guaranteed, whaddya think?”
Mollie smiled, she remembered one of the rare men she respected, this old guy who used to shoot pool in a bar where she worked. Between racks he talked to himself and one day she heard him mumble, “Never partner with an asshole. It’s the dumb ones that’ll kill you...” And that had stuck.
After awhile Mollie was handling the razor blade, mincing and chopping and powdering the coke into fine even white lines and she had to admit it was tempting, she could almost feel the rush but then she’d remember the fountain of blood spurting from her nose, the doctor’s tired eyes and defeated gaze. So she fought it all the way and she won, it wasn’t as hard as she’d thought and the payoff was worth the difficult moments because Herbie, the coked-out, runny- nosed, shiny-faced, fucked up drunken fool, told her everything. Everything. The drugs, the theft, the Zulu, the hiding place, the million bucks. Every single thing. And by the time Herbie crashed on the floor full of beer and Laphroag and Bolivian Marching Dust, Mollie Catfish knew her life was going to change for the better. It was only a question of time, and she had plenty of that.
Meanwhile, Herbie stank like a distillery, his rank breath seemed to fill the room. A rivulet of spit ran down one corner of his lips. There could have been a turkey shoot in his living room, he wouldn’t have noticed. Mollie loosened his belt, stretched him out on the couch, made him comfortable so on the off-chance he came to, he wouldn’t feel the need to move.
Then she began searching the apartment. She did it meticulously, putting things back just the way they were. She looked in all the drawers in the kitchen, beneath the folded shirts in the bedroom chest, in his shoes. There was nothing in his desk, nothing beneath his mattress, nothing, seemingly, anywhere.
The sun had come up and Herbie was going to be out for a few more hours, so she drew the curtains and kept looking. She was getting frustrated and angry, beginning to make mistakes, forgetting where she’d already looked. The phone rang once, twice, three times and she almost jumped out of her skin. Herbie stirred slightly. She took the phone plug out of the wall. She was just about to give it up when she looked into his closet, saw his clothes neatly lined on plastic hangers, began patting down anything that might have pockets. Inside a godawful olive green sportcoat from Britches, she found a Radio Shack electronic address book, no bigger than a business card and almost as thin. She pushed the On button. The tiny liquid display screen blinked. She pressed Phone. The screen asked, “Name?” She pressed Index. She got a pencil and a piece of paper from Herbie’s desk, began copying names and numbers. There weren’t that many, barely a dozen. Under J she found Josie, under Z she found Zulu. When she was done she put the thing back into the Britches sportcoat, walked around the apartment three times to make sure nothing was out of place. Herbie hadn’t moved. His breathing was shallow, labored. Maybe he’d die?

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