I have a somewhat shameful secret—one that has nothing to do with psoriasis, scabies or the state of my cooch: I sort of liked withdrawn Supreme Court nominee Harriet Miers. Of course she was ridiculous, with her flowers and kittycats and that masterful suck, but she was sort of progressive in all manner of little ways that made the far right even nutsier than normal. She was for making it easier on blacks seeking a seat on the Dallas City Council, she brought in a bunch of feminazis to speak at Southern Methodist University, and I liked her public catfights with Priscilla Owen over the world's least likely man to inspire one. Old ugly people can have love dramas too! Sure, she was pro-life, and so's the Democratic Senate leader, Harry Reid, and so'm I, and so's even Commie Mom, though Commie Mom's managed to find a way to vote against the required parental notification of Proposition 73—she says teenagers shouldn't have to tell their parents shit. I'm voting against it because I think if anyone should have abortions on demand—without even a co-pay!—it's the teens, who can't very well loiter in the liquor-store parking lot with a baby on their tit.
Abortions for everyone! In fact, they should come with an iPod.
* * *
It has been a terribly exciting week for all of us. If you're a mean, old, nasty nutbar, you now have the nomination of Whatsis Alito to cream on—he whose powers of evil have included judicial opinions that you can fire people with AIDS because of “fear of contagion whether reasonable or not”; you can strip-search 10-year-old girls if the warrant names their daddy; and you don't have to hire black people if not hiring black people is predicated on your belief that the best candidate would by definition be white. Clearly, that wouldn't be racial discrimination at all! Look at you trying—again!—to “criminalize conservatism”!
I give it three minutes before the wingnuts start screaming that the Dems have to give him an up-or-down vote.
* * *
Meanwhile, in our part of the world—where we're only crazy in matters of the heart—I went to a party withPee-wee Herman!
I mean, I didn't talk to him or anything—I cured myself of talking to famous people during one of my multiple Chris Isaak fiascos—but I saw him! He was hanging out at the trustees dinner for the John Waters opening at OCMA with Mink Stole and Jeff Garlin and supergroupie Pamela Des Barres and our much beloved rockabilly Manson, Jimmy Intveld, who, like Chris Isaak, didn't remember me at all. Unlike Chris Isaak, he's met me at least half a dozen times going back a decade, but he did have the grace to look embarrassed, although it's possible he was embarrassed for me. Also, a very pretty married woman, who was terribly upset by the whole thing, was hit on relentlessly, and when we called the married lech (who we believe was actually there with his wife) an asshole in the women's room, RickiLake walked in and said with unabated gossipy glee, “Who's an asshole?” at which point we worried that maybe they were friends and said sheepishly and in unison, “Johnny Knoxville,” and she just kind of said, “Oh,” and went into a stall to take care of her business.
David Hasselhoff was expected at the opening the next night.
Why can't I have a party like that?
Like my parties, it was a sodden affair—there were only about a hundred of us in that big museum space, making for an intimate do no one wanted to leave—which would explain why I do remember trying (three times) unsuccessfully to dance a jig. Other than that, one Newporty blonde started weeping when an LA hipster told her, vis–vis the Newport look, “You're not as pretty as you think you are.”
I led our weeping lass away to try to make her feel better: “She's just trying to be honest!” I comfortingly explained.
And then I started yelling about Iran-Contra.
Billy agreed with me completely that the Plame Affair is bad—Dick Cheney's chief of staff Scooter Libby having been thrillingly indicted in the case that very afternoon. But I wanted everyone to recall that this wasn't the first time in recent history that Republicans had jeopardized national security for the sake of their own agenda. I pointed to Iran-Contra. Warned by Congress that he could not fund Central American terrorists to topple the Nicaraguan government, Ronald Reagan turned to the CIA to generate cash through drug and gun sales. Some of those guns turned out to be missiles—missiles that were shipped for cash to our erstwhile enemy, the AyatollahKhomeini.
And nobody cared. Nobody but John Kerry—did you know he chaired the Senate's investigation? (And did you know yummy, straight-arrow Plame Affair special prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald put away the terrorists behind the '93 World Trade Center bombing? Dude takes national security serious-like.)
But conservatives? They didn't care—because Oliver North looked good in his uniform.
Things are different today. Bush is sinking badly in the polls.
So for the folks repeating bravely that the White House has “dodged a bullet” because Karl Rove hasn't been indicted—yet—and Libby was “only” indicted for “lying repeatedly, and under oath,” they said the exact same thing about the city of New Orleans. Like Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, I do not think that means what they think it means. Inconceivable!
And then I tried again to dance a jig, which just wasn't good for anybody.
I think we've got more dancing in store for us. When the next indictments are handed down, drinks, as always, are on me.
Get yourself something nice. CommieGirlCollective.com.
