That I can recall, Quentin Tarantino hasn’t ruined any songs for me except that one.
Sorry I haven’t written much this week, dudes and dolls. Been in a somewhat harried place personally, and in a dark place politically.
I’m pleased that Carly Fiorina has connected as well as she has, given her somewhat modest opportunity to do so. Blasting it out of the park was the only play that would matter, and disemboweling Chris Matthews didn’t hurt either.
Tempering my enthusiasm somewhat is the continued relevance of the grease fire candidacy of Donald Trump. My gut tells me it’s still a bust (because how could it not be?) and to just be patient, but you know, sometimes fires get big enough to develop and sustain their own wind systems.
(And what a brutally apt description of a Donald Trump political campaign.)
It is now solidly established that Hillary Clinton has mishandled classified information, and lied about said mishandling, to a degree that would earn a mere mortal a slam-dunk felony charge or two. I still have my doubts that anything she deserves will actually happen to her, though I am glad the FBI is involved. The Bureau seems to me like less of an administration puppet than the Department of Justice, though that perception could certainly be illusory.
Oh, and there’s another secretly-recorded Planned Parenthood video from the Center for Medical Progress today, with yet more dehumanizing and appallingly callous content that we are supposed to pretend is “women’s health care.”
There are four post ideas I wasted in a somewhat organized babble.
The flip side is that writing just the babble was depressing enough, so I might not have had the stomach for a full post on any of the topics anyway.
Maybe something good will happen tomorrow or Friday.