maybe he and bush have more in common than i thought.

CNN.com - Kissinger tape: Nixon too drunk to speak with�British PM - May 26, 2004: "In October 1973, U.S.-Soviet tensions were peaking over the Arab-Israeli war, and British Prime Minister Edward Heath's office called the White House just before 8 p.m. to ask to speak with Nixon.
'Can we tell them no?' Kissinger asked his assistant, Brent Scowcroft, who had told him of the urgent request. 'When I talked to the president, he was loaded.'
Scowcroft replied: 'We could tell him the president is not available and perhaps he can call you.'
Kissinger said Nixon would be available in the morning."

I mean, besides the lying, cheating, disgraceful behavior.

and a welcome to john, my fellow hurler of rage at all things idiotic.

First in secession, last in your hearts

Some South Carolinians want to take their state out of the Union.

Go help 'em out.

Worst. State. Ever.

revelation

sneakers are now referred to as foot gloves. just because.

chasing balls

ahem. it's been 5 years since i've played - and about that long since i've last posted - but sunday found me out on a tennis court in brooklyn. this is not like riding a bike, for those who don't know. you forget how to hold the racquet. you forget that it's important to tie your shoes tight. and you can't for the motherloving life of you remember how you used to drive a two handed backhand with anything resembling power or accuracy. humbling, to say the least. but a blast, and good to be out in the sun with some great friends.

the best part of it all though is how this serves as a reminder of where i live and how and why. tennis is a silly sport. a location-specific sport. often country clubby. above all, one that is not typically played within earshot of the brooklyn queens expressway, within sight of the woolworth building, and next to a pier and cranes used for hauling around shipping containers and metric tons of lumber like so many erector sets. but there we were, smacking balls around just like i did years ago, with me in the sun getting unnoticably crispy, car horns and ambulance sirens wailing, and my mother somewhere wondering where those hundreds of dollars in lessons went after all.

sadly, no heineken guy selling bottles for $7, but as steve quickly pointed out, we'd be at the u.s. open in forrest hills this summer. the beer man had best be there as well.

couple my return to pseudo-athleticism with a good old fashioned court street street fair [reason for occurring?], drinks in a garden and goldfish at a tiki bar with friends and a cracked out jack russell, and there stands the best spring day in a very long time. more of this should be written down.