James Lileks hits it out of the park:

The other day a young girl came to the door to solicit my support for her presidential candidate. I asked her why I should vote for this man. She was very nice and earnest, but if you got her off the talking points she was utterly unprepared to argue anything, because she didnÂ’t know what she was talking about. She had bullet points, and she believed that any reasonable person would see the importance of these issues and naturally fall in line. But she could not support any of her assertions. Her final selling point: Kerry would roll back the tax cuts.

Then came the Parable of the Stairs, of course. My tiresome, shopworn, oft-told tale, a piece of unsupportable meaningless anecdotal drivel about how I turned my tax cut into a nice staircase that replaced a crumbling eyesore, hired a few people and injected money far and wide - from the guys who demolished the old stairs, the guys who built the new one, the family firm that sold the stone, the other firm that rented the Bobcats, the entrepreneur who fabricated the railings in his garage, and the guy who did the landscaping. Also the company that sold him the plants. And the light fixtures. It’s called economic activity. What’s more, home improvements added to the value of this pile, which mean that my assessment would increase, bumping up my property taxes. To say nothing of the general beautification of the neighborhood. Next year, if my taxes didn’t shoot up, I had another project planned. Raise my taxes, and it won’t happen – I won’t hire anyone, and they won’t hire anyone, rent anything, buy anything. You see?

“Well, it’s a philosophical difference,” she sniffed. She had pegged me as a form of life last seen clilcking the leash off a dog at Abu Ghraib. “I think the money should have gone straight to those people instead of trickling down.” Those last two words were said with an edge.

“But then I wouldn’t have hired them,” I said. “I wouldn’t have new steps. And they wouldn’t have done anything to get the money.”

“Well, what did you do?” she snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“Why should the government have given you the money in the first place?”

“They didn’t give it to me. They just took less of my money.”

That was the last straw. Now she was angry. And the truth came out:

“Well, why is it your money? I think it should be their money.”

Then she left.

And walked down the stairs. I let her go without charging a toll. ItÂ’s the philanthropist in me.

Hat tip: James.

Posted by: Attila at 02:20 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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The Chaos Overlord just perpetrated a hilarious interview with Jeff Goldstein.

Even if you've heard of neither of these guys, you must go read it now.

(Your eyes are getting heavy. Your mouse hand is moving. You are clicking the link . . .)

I only wish the issue of Jeff's facial hair--or lack thereof--had been addressed. CO played footsie with the secondary sartorial issue (tux vs. tie-dye). But he didn't ask which picture (the cute one, or the cuter one) looked more like Jeff.

Posted by: Attila at 02:05 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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a quiz whose "go" button is labeled "Loon me up!" I cannot, of course.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

And here I thought I was only somewhat insane. More like severely eccentric than a person who needs to be locked up. Oh, well.

Maybe my husband and I can play the "Psychiatrist and Patient" game. "Oh, doctor. Cure me. [breathlessly] Cure me now." That's hours of clean fun right there.

Hat tip: Reverend Pixy.

Posted by: Attila at 03:10 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Michele's teenage daughter has her own blog. Hilarity ensues.

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Kelley broke her arm in Hawaii, and then flew home to Georgia before going to the emergency room to get it set.

It reminds me of the time when we were teenagers, and went to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Tiffany Theatre in Hollywood. We didn't always have access to cars, and usually when we went to midnight shows of RHPS it was at the Fox Theatre in Venice (now a swap meet) or the Nuart in West L.A. (which still shows that movie on occasion at midnight on Friday or Saturday night). So going as far as Hollywood to see it was a special treat.

My friend Ally broke her foot that night before the movie, and we weren't willing to give up seeing the show (including Ally). So we elevated her foot throughout the movie (easy because Ally is less than five feet tall) and went to the emergency room after Rocky Horror. And never said a word to any of our parents.

And now Ally has given birth to her first child. Which puts me, come to think of it, in a great position to extract a little blackmail money.

Posted by: Attila at 09:43 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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My traffic's in a bit of a slump. I assume that's because I drove off all my non-political readers with a week of pure politics, alienated my political readers with another week of personal entries, and have nothing left but a few fans who either are die-hards or have lots of time on their hands.

I guess it's time either to post a picture of my rack, or blog about anal sex . . .

Hey!--It was a joke, dammit! Where's everybody going? Aw, geez.

Well, I'm off to finish working on this cookbook manuscript, and attend a pool party tomorrow afternoon. I'll be back and brilliant quite soon; light blogging (or none) until then.

Oh, and--my birthday's in four weeks. Buy me stuff, or—even better—send me money. Money makes my prose sparkle like you wouldn't believe . . .

Posted by: Attila at 05:24 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Oh, man. If you've been following the coverage of Wonkette (world's shallowest blogger) and the Washingtonienne (the blogosphere's first "out" ho)—or experienced the agony of reading either of their blogs—you need to get over to The Commissar's Place, fast, and read his interview with Ana Marie Cox. Here's a taste: the title is "Does This Font Make My Blog Look Fat?"

Via Dean Esmay.

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