Make me of clay, make me of steel,

But whatever you do don't try and make me real.

Make me your dream, a secretive deal,

But don't ever scheme to try and make me real.

Stop trying to make me real;
I haven't got the kind of heart a lover can steal.
Stop crying, I just can't feel
Any sympathy for someone trying to make me real.

Make me of shit in a two-teenier deal;
Make me of pornography—a pedophile wheel
Whatever I do, whatever I feel,
By your double standard I will never be real.

Stop trying to make me real;
I haven't got the kind of heart a lover can steal.
Stop crying, I just can't feel
Any sympathy for someone trying to make me real.

Why can't you settle for a fantasy?
You're so convinced that I'm the man to see.
I can't live up to
What you give up to
I fail to see the perfect man in me.

Make me from your magazine a listed ideal;
Dress me in the doll's house your knickers conceal.
Make me your brother-lover beau-ideal,
But you will soon discover lover can't be real.

Stop trying to make me real;
I haven't got the kind of heart a lover can steal.
Stop crying, I just can't feel
Any sympathy for someone trying to make me real.

Pete Townshend, Darrell, my husband, Sean Connery. It's really quite a short list.

And here's Jane Bond, from "I Made Love to a Communist":

Personally, however, I prefer Cubans. They seem so—well—experienced.

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They rape us with their minds, their dicks, checkbooks, their endorsements.

I mean—(wo)manslaughter is one thing. But getting behind Obama? I'm pretty crushed. I'll be in bed with a bottle of mediocre gin, if you need me.

Via Insty, who calls Kennedy's betrayal "an act of political infidelity." Clever euphemism for rape; heh.

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While itÂ’s unlikely Super Tuesday will be decisive in a mathematical sense, the nomination will likely be all but HillaryÂ’s by dayÂ’s end. Obama is both the candidate most appealing to the Democratic base and the one best positioned to win in the general election; a rare combination, indeed. HeÂ’s unlikely to be the nominee despite that, though, owing to the compressed schedule and ClintonÂ’s superior support network.

Emphasis mine; fortunately for the Dems, our candidates are even lamer than theirs, so even if they put Mrs. C up, they aren't in terrible shape. Unless we get someone feisty like Rudy involved, which we won't.

Read the whole thing.

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Looks like there'strouble in paradise.

It turns out that sometimes the Clintons don't tell the truth. Who knew?

Via Janette.

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I think this is a problem for Mr. "Free Speech Except When I Don't Like It." And I hope it's a big one.

Ace:

Of course campaign staffers do not work a couple of months every two or four years. They have jobs in the interim—usually as lobbyists.

The problem here is that the Reform Institute seems especially connected to McCain, and especially interested in promoting his agenda. And staffers seem to move fluidly between McCain's staff and the Reform Institute. And, of course, McCain served on its Advisory Board in the past. He seems to have resigned to avoid questions of conflicts of interest, or to avoid jeopardizing its tax-exempt status.

For a guy who campaigned on closing campaign donation loopholes and limiting how much money could flow from special interests to candidates, he seems to be exploiting a pretty big loophole.

And it's connected to Soros. Pretty distasteful.

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Stephen Green:

It just occurred to me that one of these jokers — Clinton, McCain, Obama or Romney — is going to be the next President. It’s almost enough to make one pine for the old days of Bush v Gore.

Almost.

Via Insty.

Drink up, now.

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This one is from the Montana Cafe:

Redhead: So I ask him, "Oh, for crying out loud: must you be such a guy? How about some details?—your girlfriend's name, which part of the state you're living in, what kinds of projects you're taking these days, what your aspirations are for the future, how the pieces of your life fit together, how much ass-sex you're getting, stuff like that . . ."

Blonde: But he is a guy.

Redhead: Exactly. And I kind of get that. But must a girl dig for everything?

Blonde: With that type of man—with most men—yes.

Redhead: That's what he told me. It's like, "If we were having coffee, or if you'd start giving up the goods, I'd have no problem in talking about my life. I avoid, however, doing that via e-mail. I really don't mean to be such 'a guy,' but that is, after all, what I am. And of course I'm not getting enough ass-sex for my tastes."

Blonde: For a macho guy, that's a lot of disclosure.

Redhead: Doesn't count. It's about sex. They're allowed to talk about that.

Blonde: You should consider playing for the other team.

Redhead: Again? Anyway, I can't stand women. They talk too much.

Blonde: Then it's time to jump the species bar.

Redhead: I hear dolphins are smart. Hm. How much do they talk?

And I thought I was messed up.

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It's time to send a starving blogger to CPAC! You can speak up for independent journalism/mindless, aimless verbosity by hitting Joy's PayPal button on the sidebar or below.

Remember: other bloggers put the content out there, and you can read it if you like. Around here, you have to prove you're interested, or I get depressed and go away.

I'd especially encourage you to contribute to this worthy cause—me me me me me—if:

1) You're a modern-day liberal. Money brings out the Marxist in me: that whole Hollywood-Manhattan-San Francisco mindset lurks somewhere in my consciousness, wanting only some dough-re-mi to bring it out;

2) You're a conservative. Never mind what I wrote just above—that's for my high-school friends. Just between us girls, I get more and more conservative when there's money in the bank. It makes me feel grown-up, so I start getting all moral and shit. Next thing you know, I'm watching Lou Dobbs on TV and stuff. I get either all protectionist, or very free market-ey. Take your pick; send me your vote via e-mail, along with the amount of your donation, as I go through this process of rank prostitution economic soul-searching.

3) You're a libertarian. Forget (1) and (2): that's for suck . . . other people. Someone of your discernment should be able to see right past that and understand that in order to fight from the inside, one has to fight from the outside, and the best way to protect the smallest minority from intimidation by the State is with some cold, hard cash. This will lead either to lots of private enterprise, or maybe enhanced property rights. And possibly the smoking of marijuana. And I have guns. Yay!

4) You're not Darrell, who sends me lots of wonderful stuff already. Non-Darrell readers should consider joining the "Gold Circle" of LMA patrons, which confers lot of benefits upon the reader—such as the special, vulgarity-laced Attila Report, chock-full of insightful political analysis, references to heritage rock acts, household hints, and pictures of my body parts.*

Sponsorship Levels, Little Miss Attila:

The Attila Girl Gold Circle—Just send me all your money, and don't stop until I tell you to. If you have disposable income, I have great news!—I know how to dispose of it! Just ask my husband.
The Attila Foundation Corporate Program—A generous contribution of $100 will pay for a single night's stay at CPAC, while I ferret out the truth about which speakers are least boring, and where the best parties are;
The Scimitar of Sensuality—A single contribution of $75 will allow me to actually eat while I'm at CPAC, which will dull the effects of the alcohol but allow me to pace myself while bar-hopping/providing superb coverage of this pivotal election year. Remember: If my blood-alcohol level drops too low, the jihadis have won!;
The Gay Boyfriend Special— For a mere $50, you too can find out why it is that gay men manage to get so close to straight women! Also, I can buy several ham and cheese sandwiches at Beltway prices, thereby supplementing my usual travel diet of lemon-flavored Luna Bars. Not that there's anything wrong with Luna Bars, mind you. They happen to constitute 50% of my caloric intake these days.
The Martini Patron—Thousands of times a year, bloggers are forced to nurse lite beers, looking lovingly over the bar at the bottles of premium gin lined up behind the bartender, and muttering Shakespeare's 29th Sonnet quietly to themselves. You can prevent your favorite blogger from falling prey to the dreadful melancholy that comes from mediocre beer, with your generous contribution of $25.

Make the world a better place. Support citizen journalism. Send me every dollar you can scrape up! Don't you have some old jewelry of your grandmother's tucked into a drawer somewhere that you can sell? Don't be a cheapskate; no one likes cheapskates.

* I'm making that up, but it's okay—after all, I'm making the whole thing up. Unless you people really want some sort of special newsletter, in which case $50 annually could buy you a hell of a lot. But the only body parts you see will be thrilling only to the jihadists among us: a bit of wrist here, an ankle there. Maybe a touch of shoulder on special occasions.

I'm afraid I'm not really a cost-effective source of pr0n. But dang—am I charming!

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Album art, writ large. And, I mean: large.

I've always felt sorry for my nieces and nephews, what with those itty bitty CD jewel cases . . . where's the art in that?

They are deprived. That's what it is: deprived. I shall make it up to them with alcohol, weed, pron, birth control (if they are certain they might need it), and lashings of classic rock and rolll from the 50s/60s/70s/80s. Also: alibis, trips to art galleries, work references, Los Angeles-based couch-surfing on my side of the study ("get up before your uncle starts tapping away . . . please,) in case of SoCal college/work interviews, great cheap recipes for college/early 20s dishes, and assistance in burying any bodies (or finishing off ones that were inexpertly dispatched.).

H/t: Beth of MVRWC who has, as I understand it, morals. So this post is my own responsibility. Scary, scary!

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"Relentless analysis and overthinking are sexy. And, as for me, I like to be the least intelligent person in the room. It alleviates the need to think."

"Has that ever happened to you, Buddy? Just askin'. And, by the way: how fucking easy do you think I am?"

Why do girls at the 17th St. Cafe ask questions like this? Surely they don't really want to know the answers . . .

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. . . about Boogie Nights.

One is the one about how it's my husband's fault that I never saw it, because men are relentless channel-surfers, and will not go upstairs to announce that an interesting movie is about to start in fifteen minutes, so grab your driving glasses, some gin/water/both and a lap blanket, and come on down. And I promise not to change the channel in the middle of the movie, because I value my . . .

. . . where the fuck was I?

Ah, yes. Here's my good story about Boogie Nights. When it was in the second-run theatres my mom was still living in the hoity-toity part of Santa Monica, California, for fairly arcane legal reasons. She had an elderly, shiftless roommate at the time. This gal was in her 70s at that point, whereas Mom was only in her 60s. But the movie was playing on Montana Avenue at the Aero Theater on Montana Avenue one afternoon, and these two old ladies drove down a few blocks to see it one day.

My mother handed their tickets to the young man in the lobby with the pierced (nearly) everything, who asked them quite soberly, "should I be letting you in her e to see this?"

"Yes," my mother assured him. "It's fine."

After all, she is a scientist. And her friend is a doctor.

Apparently, it was fine. Thank G-d for science.

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are having a perfectly normal, wholesome conversation about how many dead bodies get ditched in the area around the Rose Bowl every year, when my sister-in-law calls in from the other room to suggest that if we're going to talk late at night, we might pick a less-lurid topic.

Ah—the sacrifices one makes for family.

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is here at AOL World Music, where Mary McCann—aka The Bone Mama—is programming five of the categories therein: Klesmer music, Celtic Music, African, World, World Beat, and Hawaiian.

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But men aren't, as a rule, too bright, are they?

I meant that in the good way, of course.

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He's endorsing no one, yet, but has some thoughts:

Since I saw Romney at the 2007 CPAC heÂ’s struck me as looking the part of a President. He has an executive background, was a governor, and accomplished a few things. MittÂ’s problem is his conversion to conservatism. Supporting Romney is about how much you think his conversion is real.

Less so for me, of course. After all, I had a thing for Giuliani early on, and Rudy's no conservative. He's still my favorite candidate, and I'd love to see him win his current delegate gamble. I'm fairly certain he will not, however, which leaves me in the position of "settling" for Romney, or "settling" for McCain, or leaving the tent for the Dems or the Libs—or writing in Burge-Goldstein, which I would relish doing.

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I missed this place.

Hanging out with the Irish. I duck a lot when they fight.

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which will be picketing the Heath Ledger funeral, motherfuckers that they are.

No; we never did see eye-to-eye on Fred. But when Ace is good, he's very good. He sums up the Westboro Baptist Church:

Hmm... Marines, soldiers, Hollywood prettyboys... the Westboro Cult seems drawn to male beauty like a moth to a flame.

A flaming flame. A flamboyantly flaming flame which is en fuego.

Yup. I'm not one of those people who thinks every person out there who has reservations about homosexuality is a closet case. But the Westboro Baptists seem to harbor a lot of passion.

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. . . hate the least?

Karl at Protein Wisdom surveys the post-Fred landscape.

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But it's not like, cold-cold.

That honor is reserved for Southwestern homes wherein one only turns on the heat if one really cannot stand it, in the dead of winter, after putting on all the clothing one owns.

And one only turns on the a/c in the summer when one is about to pass out.

Frost on the ground? Yawn. I'm pretty bundled up when we go outside, and I sort of stomp around a lot and clap my gloved hands together when I have to.

It isn't anything to write home about. After all, it ain't like my sister-in-law's place in Phoenix around Christmastime: here, the house is heated 24/7 with an ultra-efficient fireplace.

Though I must admit that it was odd, the way people talked all over town about winter sunshine, and how wonderful it is. One might almost be tempted to think that it's rare in Washington State.

Almost.

Sun deck. Yeah, the ferry had a sun deck. And I went up there to do battle with the wind and the cold. A snippet of sun floated out from over the water, taunting me for my weakness and reminding me that this wasn't like skiing—there was nothing I could do,exactly, to make things feel warmer. So I took pictures, hatless. (I hadn't wanted to lose my favorite, and warmest, hat, should it be blown off of my stupid head and into Puget Sound.) I shivered.

And I hustled inside the ferry room again to warm up, amusing myself by reading real estate listings from the suburbs of Seattle, wherein one can buy large single-family dwellings for about $10 apiece.

The disadvantage being that one has to live in Washington State. Where, you know . . . it's brisk. Chilly, even.

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on Fred Thompson:

I hate to be a dick about this, but a politician should have a basic competence at politics, for crying out loud.

That attitude bought us eight years of Clinton. But, you know: have fun, AoS.

You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,

But that's the way I like it baby,

I don't wanna live for ever,

And don't forget the joker!

No. I shan't. Thanks for the heads up.

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