Writers Strike

Please don’t tell anyone I’m writing. Let’s just say I’m journaling and then file-sharing. Otherwise there will be a huge inflatable rat outside my apartment.
Some of you have reminded me that I’ve said that a campaign should only be six weeks long and that we’d be a better country if we used the fourteen billion saved to forgive all student loans. You also remind me, rather testily, that I’ve said that in those six weeks the only thing on television should be politics. And the air time would be free. Those of you who have run through your TIVOed backlog think that we are getting dangerously close to such a time. I had nothing to do with it. I don’t want my fella writers to be maligned.
This weekend in NYC, the stagehands went on strike and Broadway pretty much shut down. The traffic was horrific. No cabs were to be found. The New York Times covered the story of one family visiting from Virginia. Unable to see Monty Python’s Spamalot, they instead went to St. Patricks Cathedral. It was a natural substitution in their minds. No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition.
Especially not Dianne Feinstein and Chuck Schumer who were able to vote in favor of Michael Mukasey, who wouldn’t say torture if his mouth was full of bits of his own front teeth. “This country does not torture people,” George groused recently, “we outsource that to other countries,” he did not add.
This from our Sadist-in-Chief. And I beg to differ. I’ve experienced sleep deprivation. Listening to him try to talk is like taking blows to the head. FEMA waterboarded New Orleans and more.
I’ve got to stop writing now. I made a new resolution for my sixtieth year: I’m doing that four hour work-day regimen. I’ve got about three minutes left on my meter. Support the workers/writers! Entertain yourselves!