hu Sep 11, 2008 at 04:12:53 AM PDT
From the GREAT STATE OF MAINE...
Questions
When he was warned in the August 6, 2001 PDB, "Bin Laden Determined to Strike In US", why did the president do nothing except tell the guy who delivered it to him, "All right, you've covered your ass, now"?
Why did Rudy Giuliani put the anti-terrorism command center in the World Trade Center against the advice of experts who knew better?
Why did the president sit in that Florida classroom for several minutes after being told "America is under attack"?
Why were members of the bin Laden family allowed to fly out of the country when all planes were grounded?
Could there be any greater examples of heroism than the passengers who fought back on Flight 93, the rescue teams at the Pentagon, or the NYPD and NYFD responders who ran into the towers without hesitation?
Father Mychal Judge: Saint...or Supersaint?
-
Why did firefighters have faulty radios instead of dependable ones, Mr. Giuliani?
Was it really necessary for the president to tell us to go shopping?
Why were rescue workers at Ground Zero told by the EPA director that the air was safe to breathe when it wasn't?
When rescue workers got horribly sick from breathing contaminated air, why were so many given perfunctory treatment and then left to fend for themselves?
Why did Rudy Giuliani say he "was at the site as often, if not more, than most of the workers," when he only visited the site for 29 hours over a span of 41 visits?
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When Glenn Beck---one of the most respected figures in the Republican party---said, "When I see a 9/11 victim family on television, or whatever, I'm just like, 'Oh shut up!' I'm so sick of them because they're always complaining," why wasn't he banished into obscurity?
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When the president stressed the importance of safeguarding our ports and vital infrastructure, why did he take so long actually safeguarding them? Are they much safer today?
When the president called for greater security at airports, why was there such a lopsided focus on passengers and very little on cargo until recently?
When we found out that most of the hijackers were from Saudi Arabia, why did the president continue holding hands with their leaders?
Why were habeas corpus rights suspended years after the attacks of 9/11, when the country wasn't in a state of rebellion or invasion?
When Congress found out the president had broken the law before 9/11 by snooping on American citizens without warrants, why did they patch up the law to make his---and the phone companies'---illegal activities retroactively legal?
The president nominated Bernard Kerik to be the head of Homeland Security...and he wasn't joking???
-
When Ann Coulter---one of the most respected figures in the Republican party---said, "These broads are millionaires, lionized on TV and in articles about them, reveling in their status as celebrities and stalked by grief-arazzis. I've never seen people enjoying their husbands' deaths so much," why wasn't she banished into obscurity?
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When Bush had bin Laden in his sights at Tora Bora, why didn’t he take the shot?
Why were we told repeatedly that Saddam Hussein was partly responsible for the attacks when he had nothing to do with them?
When we needed more troops to vanquish the Taliban in Afghanistan, why did we invade Iraq?
If we're winning the "War on terror," why hasn't the color-coded terror alert level changed from Yellow to Green or Blue in 2,382 days?
How unspeakably crude was it for the Republican party to exploit the 9/11 attacks in a promotional video during their convention in St. Paul?
Why hasn't the president caught Osama bin Laden?
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When Jerry Falwell---one of the most respected figures in the Republican party---got on TV and said, "I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen'," why wasn't he defrocked and sent to work in soup kitchens for the rest of his life?
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Why is there still a giant hole in the ground in Lower Manhattan?
-
Are terrorists pricks, or what?
-
Are politicians who use fear to scare citizens into submission pricks, or what?
-
Will the shock ever wear off?
DJHJD
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Questions on the anniversary of 9/11
Lifted directly from "Bill in Portland, Maine," on DailyKos
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Bitter - party of one hundred million...
So, the Wall Street Journal today had an article...
It seems that the red hot new Pontiac model - the G8 - has had but 1915 buyers in August. That's fewer than one sold per franchised dealer.
The article goes on to discuss how a huge swath of GM's models sell next to nothing. The entire Buick lineup sells fewer cars in the US now than does Mitsubishi, if you don't take fleet sales into account.
Very few of these cars are profitable at these low volumes.
The Chevrolet Malibu, which was a car that used to sell more than a million units a year through the 1980s, struggles to reach the numbers achieved by the Impala, a TRIM of a model that used to sell more than a million units a year. The Impala, which sells about 30,000 units a month for Chevrolet, is artificially pumped by its heavy rental and corporate fleet purchases.
So, what went wrong? There are still a few die-hard American iron buyers in my circle; me, Larry, Jeffrey and Steven, Kent .. but that's IT. Substantially anyone else I know first considers the Japanese brands, the Germans or Hyundai. American brands are dead last.
If I reflect back on when I was first experiencing adulthood, GM had just downsized the full sized and "A" bodies - Malibu, Grand Prix, Regal, Monte Carlo, Cutlass. The fall of 1979 was filled with gorgeous examples of these cars, and the most amazing of them was the 1979 Regal. I remember a black one, with a turbocharged 3.8L V6, gleaming chrome, t-tops, full console, and gorgeous gold velour seats.
How about this? My Firefox spell checker doesn't recognize the word "velour."
I saw this car at the local Buick dealer - they occupied the entire corner pad of the second largest mall in town - their lot had at least 150 brand new cars. The Regal was magnificent; it looked every bit as classy as the Riviera that was decked out nearly the same way, but there was no way I could afford a Riviera. The Regal, though. Maybe not the Turbocharged, maybe not the t-tops .. but I could see myself in something that looked that good.
Back then, in a world without the Internet, without text messaging and without endless, mindless video distractions, my best friend and I haunted the car lots at night, after we'd left all our normal friends off at home to hit the hay.
We'd walk the unsecured lots looking at rows of Eldorados, touching the exquisite knurled stainless roller knob that controlled the then very new "interval" wipers on a Riviera, marveling that Lincoln could get a metallic green finish to leather that matched the exterior paint and the opera vinyl roof. We'd go out in misty, fall weather - the new models always came out around my birthday the first weekend in October.
Now, you can hardly get me worked up about going to an auto show.
I know that David was lost to American brands after his '79 Regal Turbo ate its piston heads, his '88 Dakota and his '88 Aerostar also were terminal cases. He went Japanese and hasn't looked back in twenty years. He's a car nut, as I have always been. He's recently been interested in the new Malibu, which is a looker. I keep looking at it and thinking 'wow, that is a GREAT looking car'.
Back when you could stick a screwdriver between interior panels of a Regal, standards were different. We didn't expect a car to do 0-60 in 7 seconds. We expected it to look great. We expected so much less, but expected far more of how it looked.
I guess my point of that we could look at a car like that Regal, which was loaded like a Riviera. It looked JUST as good as did that Riviera. We could buy one that gave us the feeling of the richer, smarter looking car, and by cutting back on equipment, we could convince ourselves that we were driving the nicest wheels.
In the spring of 1980, I was about to graduate from college, and there was still the occasional patch of snow that had been a big pile from street plows. The cherry blossoms were out, and I was still wearing a heavy jacket and gloves. It was sunny, and everything smelled wet and fertile. I drove by DeNooyer Chevrolet, and up on a stand was a black 1979 Camaro Berlinetta.
Now, n this time, I could look at a '79 Camaro, and see that it was a hack job on a Nova chassis, had a trunk the size of an Altoids box, and had a 305 V8 that made a whopping 110 horsepower. Back then, the Camaro was something. Chevy sold hundreds of thousands of Camaros every year.
This one was something ELSE. Black, with bright red stripes that accented the wheel wells, the window reveal moldings, the rocker panels, the trunk lid edge. Alloy wheels in a honeycomb pattern, with white walls (okay, it was a different time. Remember that the spell checker doesn't remember "velour".)
Red vinyl interior, it had most of the optional equipment that one would now consider obligatory on the lowest Hyundai minicompact. It had a rear defroster. A stereo AM/FM radio with two rear and one front speaker. Hand crank windows and manual locks.
Dual exhausts. Well, dual exhaust TIPS. It was a single exhaust from the 305 back to the muffler, and then it split into two pipes that came out the back.
It stood there, on the metal stand, shoulders above the other cars on the lot. They had had this beast for months; the recession of 1979 was severe. Pink cherry blossoms framed the car. I instantly fell in love.
I've been hit by love at first sight only a few times in my life. Seeing that Camaro there. The evening I was introduced to Jackie (my chow chow) was another.
My dad and I had bought several cars from a guy - I wish I could remember his name; I can see his face in my mind. I went inside and talked to him. He let me take the car out for a drive; he just let me have the car.
I was wearing soft, black leather gloves that day. It started to mist. I drove the car all the way out to Mattawan, and rang the bell at Kevin's house. The car sat, burbling and idling in their wet driveway, the slight rain beading up on the mirror black paint. Kevin thought it was gorgeous.
On the way back, I stopped at the office where Mary Ann worked. She thought it was beautiful as well, but she asked if I thought I could pay for it.
I'd been paying on my 1978 Monte Carlo for 22 months; I had put 55,000 miles on that car. Two sets of brakes. I didn't care a whit for what it cost, only whether the monthly payment was affordable to me. I drove the car back to DeNooyer - it was the first time that I had ever been allowed to test drive a car without a salesman in the car or an adult, other than just around the block.
I don't even remember negotiating.
I didn't know he called my dad and got him to co-sign for me.
I sold my Monte to my friend Deb, and bought the Camaro. I felt so SEXY driving that car; dignified but sporty; elegant and athletic.
Back then, Camaro came in four trim levels - there was the base model, which looked kind of like a granny's Malibu, with zippy sheet metal, there was the Rally Sport, which had comb over two tone paints and stripes, and was a poor man's Z28, there was the pavement ripping (if you can call 150 horsepower "ripping") Z28 and the Berlinetta, which that year replaced the LT model of earlier years.
Each one of these trim levels was targeted toward a different customer.
The Berlinetta and the Z28 were the only two that had upgraded interior trim and fabric. The Berlinetta was "classy" and the Z28 was the bar bully.
I was that car. That car was me.
The next spring, I put a Clarion biamplified stereo into the car - 6x9 rear deck speakers, and separate tweeter/mids in the doors. It rocked. When I got to Houston, I upgraded to a Sony system, and that REALLY rocked.
One afternoon, my law school friend Tracey and I were driving up Voss Road, and stopped next to a car load of high school kids, who were blaring their music.
Clearly, they didn't understand the concepts of auto sound fidelity. Tracey barely glanced in my direction and said "Hit it." I cranked that knob on the Sony receiver, and there was a thermonuclear blast of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" album that ripped through those kid's choice of music like a chainsaw through balsa.
I drove that car everywhere in Houston, working as a singing telegram messenger. In that mail slot of a trunk, I not only carried four costumes, paper hats, party horns, balloons, and blank telegrams, but also tools and other necessities. I used to work with this awesome male stripper, Mark, who one day was about to choke with glee because I had run out of gas. He was cawing "I can't WAIT to tell everyone that the GREAT Douglas has run out of gas." His facial expression collapsed when I opened the trunk and pulled out my gas can and said "take me to the gas station."
I had every confidence in the world, driving that car.
The last winter I lived in Michigan, I never resented that car when I had to chip the ice and snow off of the windshield, and when I had to start it and let it warm up for fifteen minutes before I could drive it off. In the blistering summers of Houston, I never resented that the car was a furnace when I opened the door.
Even after driving it for four years, I still felt like a sophisticate pulling up in front of a very tony nightclub. Valets still treated it with respect.
I put 119,000 miles on that car. When I graduated law school, I had read a review of the brand new Thunderbird TurboCoupe - the first paragraph said that the car made the reviewer want to sing "Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine..."
I decided I had to have one. I traded the Berlinetta in at Chuck Miller Ford, and when they gave me my trade in bid, I was stupified that it was so high. We wrote everything up, and they came in to me with the paperwork including the odometer certification. They had thought the car had 19,000 miles.
I gave that Berlinetta away to buy a car that didn't drive as well, didn't have the horsepower, and didn't sound as sexy.
Since the Berlinetta, I've had seven cars, all American iron. Three Pontiacs, three Fords, and, the car I never thought I could have, a Riviera. Of all of those, only the Riviera was what I could call a "good" car. The 1990 Grand Am SE HO Quad 4 (that was what it was called, really) was a good car until I got about 90,00 miles on it, then it just started to fall apart.
The Riviera was bullet-proof and gorgeous, right up until 98,000 miles. I couldn't keep the rear suspension working, and the driver seat frame kept breaking. One December morning, Bram backed into it, and that was all it took for me to drive it to CarMax and buy a 2005 Bonneville GXP, my first V8 powered car since the Berlinetta.
The GXP has been an outstanding car, as far as being a car goes. It's not perfect, but it looks like sex, it goes like stink, and the exhaust sounds delicious. Strange how the monthly payments aren't anything like my $178/month on the Berlinetta, though. Of course, I was only taking home about $130 a week in 1979.
I am very happy with the GXP, but it doesn't make me .. um.. the way that Dorothy Boyd did for Jerry McGuire. The way that the Berlinetta did.
The W12 silver Phaeton four seat that I drove two years ago would have completed me in the way the Berlinetta did. It's funny that there was so much derision about the Phaeton when I was so hooked on them.
What have I lost, that none of the designs today bring me to a place where it changes my confidence and elevates my mood each and every day? What has the industry lost? It's not me; yes, in three weeks, I'll be a half century old; in my lifetime, I've seen a lot of refinements, but they filtered out the excitement.
"We Build Excitement." Pontiac, in the 1970s.
I think that the Phaeton W12 would have inspired me back in 1979; impossible as that would have been to happen. A young man who stayed up until 3 am to look at Mark V, Riviera, Grand Prix, Cordoba would have found the detail exquisite and the performance thrilling.
And the exhaust note the most compelling of any.
I assert that it isn't me who's changed. I can still be moved to a higher level of existence by the creation of automobile engineers and designers.
I just don't know what it is that is now gone. Everyone used to have it, and millions of cars were sold because of it. Now, they're all toaster ovens, and we're mostly concerned about which one uses the least power and is the easiest to clean up.
It seems that the red hot new Pontiac model - the G8 - has had but 1915 buyers in August. That's fewer than one sold per franchised dealer.
The article goes on to discuss how a huge swath of GM's models sell next to nothing. The entire Buick lineup sells fewer cars in the US now than does Mitsubishi, if you don't take fleet sales into account.
Very few of these cars are profitable at these low volumes.
The Chevrolet Malibu, which was a car that used to sell more than a million units a year through the 1980s, struggles to reach the numbers achieved by the Impala, a TRIM of a model that used to sell more than a million units a year. The Impala, which sells about 30,000 units a month for Chevrolet, is artificially pumped by its heavy rental and corporate fleet purchases.
So, what went wrong? There are still a few die-hard American iron buyers in my circle; me, Larry, Jeffrey and Steven, Kent .. but that's IT. Substantially anyone else I know first considers the Japanese brands, the Germans or Hyundai. American brands are dead last.
If I reflect back on when I was first experiencing adulthood, GM had just downsized the full sized and "A" bodies - Malibu, Grand Prix, Regal, Monte Carlo, Cutlass. The fall of 1979 was filled with gorgeous examples of these cars, and the most amazing of them was the 1979 Regal. I remember a black one, with a turbocharged 3.8L V6, gleaming chrome, t-tops, full console, and gorgeous gold velour seats.
How about this? My Firefox spell checker doesn't recognize the word "velour."
I saw this car at the local Buick dealer - they occupied the entire corner pad of the second largest mall in town - their lot had at least 150 brand new cars. The Regal was magnificent; it looked every bit as classy as the Riviera that was decked out nearly the same way, but there was no way I could afford a Riviera. The Regal, though. Maybe not the Turbocharged, maybe not the t-tops .. but I could see myself in something that looked that good.
Back then, in a world without the Internet, without text messaging and without endless, mindless video distractions, my best friend and I haunted the car lots at night, after we'd left all our normal friends off at home to hit the hay.
We'd walk the unsecured lots looking at rows of Eldorados, touching the exquisite knurled stainless roller knob that controlled the then very new "interval" wipers on a Riviera, marveling that Lincoln could get a metallic green finish to leather that matched the exterior paint and the opera vinyl roof. We'd go out in misty, fall weather - the new models always came out around my birthday the first weekend in October.
Now, you can hardly get me worked up about going to an auto show.
I know that David was lost to American brands after his '79 Regal Turbo ate its piston heads, his '88 Dakota and his '88 Aerostar also were terminal cases. He went Japanese and hasn't looked back in twenty years. He's a car nut, as I have always been. He's recently been interested in the new Malibu, which is a looker. I keep looking at it and thinking 'wow, that is a GREAT looking car'.
Back when you could stick a screwdriver between interior panels of a Regal, standards were different. We didn't expect a car to do 0-60 in 7 seconds. We expected it to look great. We expected so much less, but expected far more of how it looked.
I guess my point of that we could look at a car like that Regal, which was loaded like a Riviera. It looked JUST as good as did that Riviera. We could buy one that gave us the feeling of the richer, smarter looking car, and by cutting back on equipment, we could convince ourselves that we were driving the nicest wheels.
In the spring of 1980, I was about to graduate from college, and there was still the occasional patch of snow that had been a big pile from street plows. The cherry blossoms were out, and I was still wearing a heavy jacket and gloves. It was sunny, and everything smelled wet and fertile. I drove by DeNooyer Chevrolet, and up on a stand was a black 1979 Camaro Berlinetta.
Now, n this time, I could look at a '79 Camaro, and see that it was a hack job on a Nova chassis, had a trunk the size of an Altoids box, and had a 305 V8 that made a whopping 110 horsepower. Back then, the Camaro was something. Chevy sold hundreds of thousands of Camaros every year.
This one was something ELSE. Black, with bright red stripes that accented the wheel wells, the window reveal moldings, the rocker panels, the trunk lid edge. Alloy wheels in a honeycomb pattern, with white walls (okay, it was a different time. Remember that the spell checker doesn't remember "velour".)
Red vinyl interior, it had most of the optional equipment that one would now consider obligatory on the lowest Hyundai minicompact. It had a rear defroster. A stereo AM/FM radio with two rear and one front speaker. Hand crank windows and manual locks.
Dual exhausts. Well, dual exhaust TIPS. It was a single exhaust from the 305 back to the muffler, and then it split into two pipes that came out the back.
It stood there, on the metal stand, shoulders above the other cars on the lot. They had had this beast for months; the recession of 1979 was severe. Pink cherry blossoms framed the car. I instantly fell in love.
I've been hit by love at first sight only a few times in my life. Seeing that Camaro there. The evening I was introduced to Jackie (my chow chow) was another.
My dad and I had bought several cars from a guy - I wish I could remember his name; I can see his face in my mind. I went inside and talked to him. He let me take the car out for a drive; he just let me have the car.
I was wearing soft, black leather gloves that day. It started to mist. I drove the car all the way out to Mattawan, and rang the bell at Kevin's house. The car sat, burbling and idling in their wet driveway, the slight rain beading up on the mirror black paint. Kevin thought it was gorgeous.
On the way back, I stopped at the office where Mary Ann worked. She thought it was beautiful as well, but she asked if I thought I could pay for it.
I'd been paying on my 1978 Monte Carlo for 22 months; I had put 55,000 miles on that car. Two sets of brakes. I didn't care a whit for what it cost, only whether the monthly payment was affordable to me. I drove the car back to DeNooyer - it was the first time that I had ever been allowed to test drive a car without a salesman in the car or an adult, other than just around the block.
I don't even remember negotiating.
I didn't know he called my dad and got him to co-sign for me.
I sold my Monte to my friend Deb, and bought the Camaro. I felt so SEXY driving that car; dignified but sporty; elegant and athletic.
Back then, Camaro came in four trim levels - there was the base model, which looked kind of like a granny's Malibu, with zippy sheet metal, there was the Rally Sport, which had comb over two tone paints and stripes, and was a poor man's Z28, there was the pavement ripping (if you can call 150 horsepower "ripping") Z28 and the Berlinetta, which that year replaced the LT model of earlier years.
Each one of these trim levels was targeted toward a different customer.
The Berlinetta and the Z28 were the only two that had upgraded interior trim and fabric. The Berlinetta was "classy" and the Z28 was the bar bully.
I was that car. That car was me.
The next spring, I put a Clarion biamplified stereo into the car - 6x9 rear deck speakers, and separate tweeter/mids in the doors. It rocked. When I got to Houston, I upgraded to a Sony system, and that REALLY rocked.
One afternoon, my law school friend Tracey and I were driving up Voss Road, and stopped next to a car load of high school kids, who were blaring their music.
Clearly, they didn't understand the concepts of auto sound fidelity. Tracey barely glanced in my direction and said "Hit it." I cranked that knob on the Sony receiver, and there was a thermonuclear blast of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" album that ripped through those kid's choice of music like a chainsaw through balsa.
I drove that car everywhere in Houston, working as a singing telegram messenger. In that mail slot of a trunk, I not only carried four costumes, paper hats, party horns, balloons, and blank telegrams, but also tools and other necessities. I used to work with this awesome male stripper, Mark, who one day was about to choke with glee because I had run out of gas. He was cawing "I can't WAIT to tell everyone that the GREAT Douglas has run out of gas." His facial expression collapsed when I opened the trunk and pulled out my gas can and said "take me to the gas station."
I had every confidence in the world, driving that car.
The last winter I lived in Michigan, I never resented that car when I had to chip the ice and snow off of the windshield, and when I had to start it and let it warm up for fifteen minutes before I could drive it off. In the blistering summers of Houston, I never resented that the car was a furnace when I opened the door.
Even after driving it for four years, I still felt like a sophisticate pulling up in front of a very tony nightclub. Valets still treated it with respect.
I put 119,000 miles on that car. When I graduated law school, I had read a review of the brand new Thunderbird TurboCoupe - the first paragraph said that the car made the reviewer want to sing "Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine..."
I decided I had to have one. I traded the Berlinetta in at Chuck Miller Ford, and when they gave me my trade in bid, I was stupified that it was so high. We wrote everything up, and they came in to me with the paperwork including the odometer certification. They had thought the car had 19,000 miles.
I gave that Berlinetta away to buy a car that didn't drive as well, didn't have the horsepower, and didn't sound as sexy.
Since the Berlinetta, I've had seven cars, all American iron. Three Pontiacs, three Fords, and, the car I never thought I could have, a Riviera. Of all of those, only the Riviera was what I could call a "good" car. The 1990 Grand Am SE HO Quad 4 (that was what it was called, really) was a good car until I got about 90,00 miles on it, then it just started to fall apart.
The Riviera was bullet-proof and gorgeous, right up until 98,000 miles. I couldn't keep the rear suspension working, and the driver seat frame kept breaking. One December morning, Bram backed into it, and that was all it took for me to drive it to CarMax and buy a 2005 Bonneville GXP, my first V8 powered car since the Berlinetta.
The GXP has been an outstanding car, as far as being a car goes. It's not perfect, but it looks like sex, it goes like stink, and the exhaust sounds delicious. Strange how the monthly payments aren't anything like my $178/month on the Berlinetta, though. Of course, I was only taking home about $130 a week in 1979.
I am very happy with the GXP, but it doesn't make me .. um.. the way that Dorothy Boyd did for Jerry McGuire. The way that the Berlinetta did.
The W12 silver Phaeton four seat that I drove two years ago would have completed me in the way the Berlinetta did. It's funny that there was so much derision about the Phaeton when I was so hooked on them.
What have I lost, that none of the designs today bring me to a place where it changes my confidence and elevates my mood each and every day? What has the industry lost? It's not me; yes, in three weeks, I'll be a half century old; in my lifetime, I've seen a lot of refinements, but they filtered out the excitement.
"We Build Excitement." Pontiac, in the 1970s.
I think that the Phaeton W12 would have inspired me back in 1979; impossible as that would have been to happen. A young man who stayed up until 3 am to look at Mark V, Riviera, Grand Prix, Cordoba would have found the detail exquisite and the performance thrilling.
And the exhaust note the most compelling of any.
I assert that it isn't me who's changed. I can still be moved to a higher level of existence by the creation of automobile engineers and designers.
I just don't know what it is that is now gone. Everyone used to have it, and millions of cars were sold because of it. Now, they're all toaster ovens, and we're mostly concerned about which one uses the least power and is the easiest to clean up.
You're going to vote for the liars? Really?
Let me be more clear - you're going to consciously choose someone who lies AND steals your tax dollars?
You get what you deserve, then. I hope you've enjoyed the doubling of your national debt on Sunday. There will be more of it.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Michael Moore's six ways Obama can lose this election:
1. Keep saying nice things about McCain.
2. Pick a running mate who is a conservative white guy or a general or a Republican.
3. Keep writing speeches for Obama that make him sound like a hawk.
4. Forget that this was a historic year for women.
5. Show up to a gunfight with a peashooter.
6. Denounce me!
If you're counting, Obama's five for six so far.
From his Rolling Stone column
1. Keep saying nice things about McCain.
2. Pick a running mate who is a conservative white guy or a general or a Republican.
3. Keep writing speeches for Obama that make him sound like a hawk.
4. Forget that this was a historic year for women.
5. Show up to a gunfight with a peashooter.
6. Denounce me!
If you're counting, Obama's five for six so far.
From his Rolling Stone column
Sunday, September 07, 2008
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