So it's official: the Democratic Party will be presenting the sacrficial cow that is Phil Angelides at the altar of Kalidor, Governor of California. I think it was a good choice. If you're going to make a meaty sacrifice to our supreme ruler, Westly was just too skinny and probably quite grissly. I mean, if I were Arnold, I'd cook him in a nice lemon & white wine sauce before I ate his face. Just two terrible, terrible cantidates. At least there won't be campaign ads on Jeopardy for a few months. So, that's a plus.
A couple things today, besides aimless, cannibalism-laced, political whine-fests. First, I invite everyone to check out some songs by our soon-to-be tourmates the Talk. I like all four. "Good Songs" indeed.
Second, we boarded up Sir Patrick last night, sticking her in Sebastopol while we're galavanting around the Right Coast. Hopefully, the fresh air and the rest will do her well and, so long as she doesn't have hay fever or wisteria alergies, I'm predicting she comes home rested, happy, and ready to be abused anew. We'll be cheating on her on the East Coast (with a rental of all things, the loose, promiscuous whores of the van kingdom), so if you see her: don't. Say. Anything. She thinks we're going to a wedding for our old van, which is actually dead, stripped, and mashed into a sad little cube somewhere. We keep all your secrets, so, you know, it's time to return the favor.