10.02.00 - 18:09:55

"Prostate is slightly boggy."

My question: is this a technical medical term? Or am I a late-coming witness to some physician's 1980 attempt to be amusing and/or insert something of metaphor, something of poetry, something of play into his treatment notes.

I'm certain I would never wish to feel someone else's prostate, boggy or no.

Isn't is strange how certain glands and/or processes become vaguely familiar, shallowly household words, as they take their status as disease-of-the-week and/or disease-of-the-highly-vocal-minority/majority/group? For example, I think a prostate is one of those things I could've gone my whole life blithely unaware of its existance. Especially the boggy ones.

I prefer other organs, particularly vestigal and superfluous ones, appendices, gall bladders, spleens. Spleen joined the little club because it is a fun word to di-splay. It has the lovely, hissing closed-opening movement of sssssssssssssssssssssssssp on the lips, but then it leers into this long eeee sound that you kinda hafta smile, falsely, to achieve.

I am impressed with this word. It is a word of undeniable character. (And Baudelaire named a section in Fleurs de Mal after it. And there's a Dead Can Dance album or song named after that aforementioned section. And... This is an obscure organ with a goddamned pedigree.)

There is a disconnect with no worthwhile segue here, between sections. I got up and did other stuff. I attempted some humorous comparison between gastrointestinal organs and the presidential contenders, but I came up with nothing satisfying. Therefore, please read, realizing that the following is absolutely unconnected to the preceeding except to the extent that both flavors of musings were wandering around my head this afternoon.

Dubya was in town today. I didn't go to see him, as I have more self-respect than that.

Okay. It is possible that the reason was more quotidian and less partisan - I can see the riverfront park from my office, and, well, I had work to do. Plus it was hot and I'm wearing dry clean-only clothing, therefore, I squeeze two wearings outta each cleaning by doing as little as possible.

smirk.

I'm sure my fan club is impressed by my frugality. This is not, however, meant to be a maundering wool-gathering little fuzz-headed post. Far from it. This post is, in fact, to be an account of the almost-disaster of historical proportions that played out before my entranced and horrified eyes.

Dubya is a down home guy.

Dubya, you just know, has a BBQ pit in Kennebunkport.

Dubya knows what 'squealing like a stuck pig means.' At a few frat parties, he played the part of the stuck pig.

Dubya likes to talk, but not to whole big groups of people he cannot charm with his secret hormonal cologne. Therefore, Dubya pads his speechifying with gimicks like fireworks.

fireworks

fireworks

fireworks

...in the middle of the afternoon. Well, my assumption is that he was trying to pad his speechifying, and not kiss ass with the 'pollution is good' lobby, though the latter is distinctly possible.

You know what happens when you set off fireworks on a sunny day?

Lots of fuckin' smoke. Lots of fuckin' noise. Vauge snickers of amusement every time they almost hit 'Chopper 13', the helicopter for 'on-the-spot' 'in-the-air' 'late-breaking' stories for a local newscast.

I'm not sure who plans fireworks displays for mid-afternoon on a sunny, hot autumn day, but whomsoever he/she is, he/she deserves serious scorn. There is a reason we wait until after dark, and rarely give a start time for such shows. Did this person completely miss this essential, central fact of existance in the United States of America? How sad is it, that you have so much money in a presidential campaign that they can waste it on fireworks at a 30-minute stop in a pissant little town in the middle of the goddamned day?

I'm sure they could've spent that cash on, like, prescription drugs. Or whatever.

Whatever.

Also, if you have not read my last entry, you should go read it now. I was complimented on it. Of course, that assumes that anyone other than my flatterer is reading this, which I doubt.

Now go save someone's life! Shoo!