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But Was Anybody Wearing Parachute Pants?

Every Presidential election cycle has a Humor Apogee, the point which defies written commentary, the point that puts me out of a job for a day or two. If you asked me about it last week, I would have told you that the apogee of 2008 would arrive in late September or mid-October.

But like many members of the media as of late, I've been incorrectly applying conventional wisdom.  I committed that most classic of political blunders: I did not consider the potential impact of the Sinbad.

In other political news, I give The Whore of Spitzer exactly seven days to a book deal, which shall follow in the train of the plea deal--truly, the source of all the world's great literature.  Always exactly what MFA's love to see.

go hillman at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


The Jammin' That Will Not Stop

Okay! Now I gots me an email from the editor of JamsBio (as attention-getting goes, that's pretty cool, but in the grand scheme of global impact, I'd still rank it somewhat below the Incident of the Mormon Lolita Prom Dress.) Apparently I read some site information in error, and the public launch hasn't been shoved back; JamsBio is indeed going mega-live on March 31. I was wrong, and I am sorry, and I hereby resign my post. I shall now run for Governor of the great state of New York.

I am in the process of cleaning up my JamsBio site, as yesterday I woke up and some of them were all-- you know that thing when you do an attachment, and a completely innocuous character like " suddenly becomes *%&@? That thing. I am not swearing at you. I am merely somehow misformatted. Neither hate nor hit.

Some of you have reported not receiving the invitation email. To you, I say: Check your spam filter. I registered into the site with my public email address, mbe@drinktothelasses.com, which apparently is distasteful to many a Yahoo! inbox. If you're still having issues, please let us know at the media@drinktothelasses.com address.

A few bounced back. We're working on that. If this affected you, please give us another email address.

Endeavor launched last night. Fortunately for the rest of us, I was not in charge of the countdown clock.

your personal Lent at:  mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Welcome MSNBC.com Readers

...and many thanks to those of you who were already here and shared your reactions on all things Seuss. I totally talked about you!

P.S. Drew Carey article people, thanks for stopping in as well.  Have a glass.

whoing and Plinkoing and just double-fisting at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Further Jammin', Albeit No Longer on the One 

The public launch of JamsBio has been shoved back another month, but in exchange, we writers are now permitted to share posts with the unwashed on an email-only basis. So what I'm going to do is create a pseudo-listserv for The Readers, because, let us face it, the only good Kool & the Gang discussion is the kind that is shared.

Kool & the Gang Discussion UPDATE: In the time I typed those two sentences, we broke the email thingie. But the rest of this post still applies, because I simply have this feeling that they'll have it back up again just in time for you.

If you're interested, leave a comment with your say-so, and I'll have my minions pull your addy from the administrator's comment view. In the event you're comment-shy (and I know you're out there, bashful flowers) then send an email to media@drinktothelasses.com with "JamsBio" in the subject line. You'll receive an alert every time a new JamsBio piece is posted, complete with an invitation code which will allow you into the site. No spam, no fuss, just a warm and cozy five minutes with Maurice Starr and the many scars he left behind.

And! Specify, if you please, whether you'd like links to all the past posts, or just the content I will add from this point forward. I am given to understand that a new invitation code is required for each post, so if you would like to see every single thing I've posted there so far, you will find yourself briefly, but extremely, popular with JamsBio.

As I found out about the application deadline eighteen hours before it struck, some of the text was frantically recycled from the original bottle of BlondeChampagne. This is because we were asked to provide ten sample clips, and while I can do a lot on two cups of Peach Attack Tea, there's not enough caffeine in the world, people. Those initial clips were plugged into my baseline JamsBio URL as the great webby-code powers continued to slap up the plaster and install the toilet in the guest bathroom. However, I've banked posts to the point where the content is now largely new.

Obviously, JamsBio is a virtual construction site at the moment; it is the NASDAQ off its Ritalin, up and down again without notice, and people tend to get hit in the head with paint rollers and showered with asbestos every now and then. So if there are glitches, remember, as the widgets come crashing down around us, that I took your hand and gazed soulfully at you and assured you that it's not you... it's them.

It's Not You It's Them UPDATE: The publicity minions are reporting a lot of email, and that's awesome, but many of them don't have "JamsBio" in the subject line, which is somewhat less awesome. So if you're joining the cool kids via email, please subject up, as this helps differentiate your much-cherished emails from other media requests, wheelin'-dealin' with clients, and suggestions from highly legitimate drug companies that my male genitalia is too small.

roooooobert at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Fruited Plains

When I moved to the DC area, I packed many power suits and business cards, envisioning cocktail parties and luncheons and such phrases as, "Well, you know what they're like in the Office of the Principal Deputy Assistant Undersecretary for Natural Resources"... all the trappings of Nearness To Democracy. This, then, was how I would put my degree in political science to work: The consumption of hors devours at the very center of government.

The first such opportunity took place this week at a reception hosted by the University of Airplanes. It went down at the Rayburn House Office Building, which is extremely important to the consumption of hors devours at the very center of government, and therefore presented all sorts of opportunities to self-humiliate.

Josh The Pilot and I made good use of our time, self-humiliating before we even entered the building, because we could not figure out how to enter the building. We approached from the back side, and at first weren't even sure we were at the correct building, because although DC is often very good about labeling itself and its mighty seats of power, no matter how much that seat resembles a very large grade school preparing for Concrete Celebration Week, it often fails to label itself on all four sides.


So we found ourselves cupping our hands around our faces and breathing upon a locked glass door, on the other side of which many beribboned military officers were exchanging email addresses and things-blowing-up stories (excellent open bar, btw, with hard liquor. Semper fi.) This was not, sadly, our reception.

Once we found our way in, I received a stinging lesson on the power of Being In Charge within Congress. The last time I was in the Rayburn Building, it was to visit the office of my hometown's Congressman, Steve "Cup Man" Chabot. Cup Man, as a majority-power Republican, was ensconced in a plush office with a plush view. But now? Behold the might of the GOP:


They were in the basement, two hallways from the cafeteria and chair-to-chair with a community Xerox machine and the mop closet. Enjoy gazing upon the box of the shared office printer.

copy-of-clock.jpgOur reception room featured this awesome clock, which had lights and a buzzer and lit and buzzed at regular intervals to let the members of Congress know that they were needed on the House floor for a vote This made me feel, as an American, highly comforted, that my Congressman, no matter where he might be in the building, was available at all times to vote on some issue vital to national security, including National Wild Federation Turkey Day legislation.

In the Beltway, life is all about receptions-- who's invited, who comes, and who doesn't. My very inclusion in this particular to-do ranked it somewhere below the Annual Reunion of Lettuce-Tearers In the Cafeteria of the Department of the Interior, and slightly above the two guys on an escalator at the Federal Triangle Metro stop screaming "HEY!" at one another.

It was really cute, therefore, that the University of Airplanes also invited the former Administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration:


Marion did not show.

Josh the Pilot walked very quickly through the Rayburn Building, because he was (1) not wearing high heels and (2) wanted to get to the reception before all the food was gone, because, as a non-political science major, he did not fully comprehend that this would be one of those deals in which the food comes to you. As if one could expect the former Administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration to stand in a buffet line, as a mere peasant might!

copy-of-food.jpgSo the caterers began circulating with the finger foods, which included tiny heartbreaking lamb chops, white things on a cracker, scary things on a cracker, little balls of chicken, Unidentifiable Red Crap on a Stick, furry raspberries, and my personal favorite, bits of potato on an edible spoon. I bit off a spoon handle and called it a night, but not before I also found the pastry table, which offered shiny little cakes that fell apart on human contact. Given the fact that I hate people (but not, of course, you) and am highly agitated in social situations, I became paralyzed with fear of the caterers, who were forever showing up with more scary things on a cracker for me to tremulously turn down, because I just knew, after a while, that I was hurting their feelings with my constant refusal of their trays bearing yet more chicken balls. Fortunately, however, I found a lovely old friend to occupy me:


The reception was on behalf of Rep John Mica, a ranking member of the Transportation andcopy-of-award.jpg Infrastructure Committee, and for his service the President of the University of Airplanes presented him with a pointy piece of Sucesssories, upon the receipt of which the Congressman declared for five minutes that he had never seen a more wonderful pointy piece of Sucessories in all his life, and then he ran away.

At this point everybody realized that there wasn't a camera at hand, and, as I had previously been undertaking the vital journalistic duty of taking pictures of the furry raspberries, I was tapped for pixel contribution. So one of the officials commandeered my camera, and Josh undertook the distinct honor of holding the box which held the piece of Sucessories. Oh, indeed, democracy would have fallen apart entirely if it weren't for us.

When it was time to go--we knew it was time to go because the guy with the wine stopped coming around--Josh and I returned to the entrance we'd found after our original wanderings, which was, helpfully, blocked. At the door we found other members of the reception, and so we formed a survivor's band, plaintively wandering the halls of the Rayburn Building without any wine until one of the Representatives--from Texas, I believe-- came upon us as he exited his office, recognized us for the terrorist threat we were, and directed us out. And that, my friends, is your tax dollars at work.

called to order at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com