Who said THAT?

An irregular new feature, wherein our lazy ass capitalizes on the sound work of others . . . .

Fearguth, one of my oldest pals on the internets, observes that "FISA" spelt backwards is "as if" and, it seems, that he's none too crazy about Obama.

That funny Liam kid goes Mitch Albom ten times better, among the FIFTY People he wants to meet in Heaven: "Ernesto “Ché” Guevera, You’ll know him; he’s the guy wearing a t-shirt with a picture of an NYU Freshman on the front."

The faithful Will Divide, who kept me on his very selective blogroll despite my lazy ass ways this year, presents another in his themed series on a dying breed (spolier alert):

"The internet is not killing newspapers. They are just too stupid and uncreative to survive in a radically changed environment. I keep thinking that someone will figure out that presenting good writing and reporting, bold graphics, useful content, and a sharp progressive political sense will induce urban core readers to buy a daily paper. Maybe not in the numbers of old, but more than enough to make money in a secure niche. But such notions of practical creativity are not taught in J schools, and the business side is too busy pulling its thinking down to understand stuff like than anyway."

Another patient, and long-standing, electron-friend is Blue Wren, recently returned to the keyboard herself after experiencing her own own medical issues (I guess we are entering that time, dear), takes us on a gastronomical field trip, including "a sizzling hot ground beef loaf the size of a slightly flattened softball, spiced and savory, and on top of it, a huge sunny-side-up egg. Surrounding the meat is a monster portion of potatoes, lard-fried crispy outside and soft inside (and salted liberally), and, as an afterthought, a small serving of reheated canned peas. You put your fork into the meat and out leaks creamy, melted goat cheese." Fortunately, she excuses us from having to deal with the peas.

Closer to home, over at Coffee House Studio, my friend with the tie-dyed apron examines the latest SCOTUS activist judicial decision (oh, excuse me, when the right wing of the Court does it, it is called advancing orignal intent).

Bernie gets defamed.

Fellow alum, Neddie Jingo, has a go 'round with the WaPo, in which our hero's missive survives intact, despite threats later revealed as impotent.

Joe Bageant, a great writer with a worthwhile point of view, but bad judgment (he elected to tip his hat to Yours T. in his latest book), examines the Audacity of Depression:

"I am not kidding when I say rage fatigue victims have fallen into an ongoing mid-level depression. (Looks to me like the whole country has, but then I'm no mental health expert.) The less depressed victims can be found lurking near the edges of the Obama cult, consoling themselves that a soothing and/or charismatic orator is better than nothing. Obama may yet be borne through the White House portico by a Democratic host of seraphim, but he cannot do much without the consent of a bought and paid for Congress. Only George Bush can do that, and we can only hope God broke the mold after he made George. And like whoever else wins the presidency, Obama can never acknowledge any significant truth, such as that the nation is waaaaay beyond being just broke, and is even a net debtor nation to Mexico, or that the greatest touch-me-not in the U.S. political flower garden, the "American lifestyle," is toast. But then, we really do not expect political truth, but rather entertainment in a system where, as Frank Zappa said, politics is merely 'the entertainment branch of industry.' "

Gort takes a look at Luzerne County ding-dome antics, where everyone is shocked, shocked!, to learn that local judges and commissioners and their business partners might be making money on the side off the County taxpayers.

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Okay,Here's the Deal

While not exactly working with a clean bill of health, it is not dirty either -- let's call it a tad smudgy.

But I miss the grumpy souls who stumble in and out of this place and need to make a determined effort to get back in the old swing. Thanks to those two guys who check in every now and then . . . now, hand me my old guitar, pass the whiskey 'round, want you to tell everyone you meet that the candyman I is back in town.

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