The Anti-Christ in the Supermarket

The DP and I had dinner with his sister and brother-in-law over the weekend, and our conversation included a riff on how famous – or famous for Washington, DC – people can move around the city in relative anonymity. Mention was made of seeing LeBron James at Sequoia enjoying a drink at the bar, unmolested by anyone.

I didn’t think anything of this, and went on my usual weekend business of shopping, including a stop at the Temple of Yuppie Pulchritude, also known as Whole Foods. While perusing the organic, cruelty-free meat, I overheard this comment:

“Thank you for all you’ve done for the Republican Party! We’ll see how well we do against the Democrats in the next election cycle.”

I turned and saw a syncophantic woman giving Karl Rove a metaphoric blow job.

Now, my initial reaction was fury, followed by nausea. I knew that if I did what my rage was driving me toward – decking Karl Rove, in the middle of the Tenleytown Whole Foods – I would likely end up in jail, and on my way to Guantanamo Bay for a long term vacation with waterboarding, and not windsurfing, as my recreation. I would also end up on the front page of the Washington Post, possibly above the fold, which is a level of celebrity and infamy I have never sought or desired. I thought about asking Rove how his math was doing now, but realized that it would have violated the rules of public anonymity described above.

So I chose plan B: I pulled out my mobile phone (why did I forget to take a picture?) and called the DP.

“Hello,” he said.

“I’m standing next to the Anti-Christ at the meat counter at Whole Foods,” I responded. Rove shot me a cold look from the pig eyes stuck in his potato face, looking like a living, breathing Mr. Potato Head

“Cheney shops? At Whole Foods? I though he only ate kittens and babies?”

“No, not Cheney. Rove”

“Oh. Ewwwww.”

“Yeah. I feel dirty now.”

“I bet.”

“Love you. ‘Bye.”

“Love you too. ‘Bye.”

And that was it. Rove had wandered off. I saw him in the checkout line, and was glad I wasn’t immediately in front of or behind him.

What I want to know is how, in the spectrum of famous and famous for Washington people, do I get to see both Karl Rove (hideous) and James Carville (extra hideous in a shorty bathrobe with his pipe cleaner legs)? Not George Clooney. Not Angeline Jolie. Hell, not even Barack Obama. No, I get Rove and Carville. Hell, I tell you. A circle of hell.

What I'm listening to now: Duck Rock

Malcolm McLaren’s real work of genius (creation of the Sex Pistols aside). It’s a blender of influences, mixing the call to prayer, Trevor Horn’s electronica, Bronx scratching and MCing, South African “growlers” and tight female harmonies, ever sort of Afro-Caribbean flavor, and a liberal dose of “found sound” thrown in for good measure. Lyrically and musically, it's all over the map -- a real, joyful mess. Duck Rock was a mash up before the term existed, and was one of the last moments when there was anticipation of some crazy sunny multicultural future.

Just hearing the words “Too much scratching is making me itch” will send me into a shiver of joy.

Note: The album cover featured art work by Keith Haring.

We get mail

From the DP:
For my edification, what was that line by Stocker Channing about "Cats"?

My response:

From IMDB - It turns out it’s Tess (the daughter) not Ouisa Kittredge (the mother, Stockard Channing) who delivers the line:

He offered you parts in Cats? I thought you hated Cats. You said it was an all time low in a lifetime of theatre going. You said, "Aeschylus did not invent the theatre to have it end up a bunch of chorus kids in cat suits prancing around wondering which of them will go to kitty-cat heaven."

The same can and should be said of the Bush Administration, the Constitution, and democratic Republics. But I digress.

Home Sweet Home

Just catching our breathe. More to report, including adventures in plumbing, and learning how to push a lawn mower again.