Go Feet!

Another day, another letter. B is for...

The Beat.
The English Beat, for us Yanks. This band is one of my favorites in the world, and that fact always sneaks up on me.

When I worked in the record store and was dating the Diego Luna ex, he did a really sweet thing for me. We each were able to pick out music to play in the store, and he had chosen the English Beat's "Just Can't Stop It" to listen to that day. A co-worker said, "Oh great! I love the English Beat!" And Diego Luna ex said, "I didn't pick it for you, I picked it for her." Because he knew that whenever I hear the English Beat, I am a happy gal.

The English Beat is another one of those bands that didn't sound like anything else. Yes, you could tell what genres they took their cues from, but they never sounded exactly like those genres. They were part of that second wave of ska, but they didn't stick with that "boom-chicka-boom-boom" rhythm so particular to those bands. Their first big chart hit was a cover of Smokey Robinson's "Tears of A Clown." Reggae, dub, soul, rock... it all found it's way in. The band was a total mishmash of Birmingham lads and their styles, nothing excluded - everything included.


They lasted five years and put out three full length albums. Supposedly, singer Dave Wakeling said that every band only has three good albums in them, and that's it. So they broke up after the third album.

Listening to the Beat makes me think of sunny days, the beach, convertibles, fruity cocktails, scooters, trenchcoats and snazzy black hats, little mod girls and beat boys. Their music is absolutely beautiful. They stood up for what they believed in, played with who they wanted and in the styles they felt like, and ended before they started to suck. And they had fun.

I know you already know the hits from these guys, so I advise you to seek out the rest. There is nothing so beautiful as "Walk Away," groovy as "Doors of Your Heart," and menacing as "Noise in This World." And anytime I play "Too Nice To Talk To" at a DJ gig, everyone gets moving.

Buy all their records! You'll love them... and there are only three, after all.

Alphabet City

Today is being brought to you by the letter A.

I'm gonna go through the alphabet musically with you kids. It'll keep me busy, at least. This has kinda been sitting in my mind... hmmm... throw a letter at me and what's the first musical act that pops into my head? It won't be logical, that I know.

So A:

Adam Ant.

I didn't love Adam Ant or anything. In fact, he's kinda lame. I really dug his early stuff with all the crazy drum action and silly lyrics.. "I'm the dandy highwayman" or whatever... Although it is fun. I can think of "A" acts I like a lot better, like Abba or ABC or Actionslacks or the Afghan Whigs. But Adam Ant - what a character, eh?

His real name was Stuart Leslie Goddard, and he was a wild punk who suddenly got the idea to dress like a pirate and do tribal stuff. (I think Malcolm McLaren was involved.) And you've got to admit that there was practically nothing else that sounded like Adam & the Ants, except maybe Bow Wow Wow. It tapped into some little wild person in you. I had a couple friends who, around 1999 or so, decided that dressing like pirates was the thing to do and took direct cues from Adam Ant. (Keep in mind - this was waaaaaay before the current Johnny Depp fueled pirate craze.) That was fun.

Anyway, I saw Adam Ant in concert around 1996. The tickets were free, and he still sucked so hard that we walked out. He did, however, start the show by swinging onto the stage on a giant black swatch of cloth tied to the ceiling. That was pretty cool, but it was all dowhill from there. Painful, actually.

A couple years ago, he was institutionalized briefly for waving a fake handgun in a bar and threatening pub-goers. Then he stormed out and threw a car alternator threw the window, hitting a musician on the head.

Car trouble, oh yea!

The Name Game

I was at a show recently and ran into some old co-workers of mine. I used to work in a record store, so we all were a bunch of characters and had lots of drama. Anyway, we were catching up on the current gossip at the store when one of my friends said, "Oh hey - did you hear about the movie?" "What movie?" "Well, we decided that when the movie gets made about us, we're going to choose who's going to play who." This was a fun little game, as we picked out several actors who could portray our pals, and one person said, "We already decided who was going to play you, Mo." "Oh really? Who?" "Catherine Zeta-Jones."

Ummm... I ain't no Catherine Zeta-Jones, but that was really nice of my co-workers to think so.

Anyway, that brings me to the topic for today. The celebrity doppleganger. We all have one, kinda. At least other people try to tell you so, right? Haven't you heard that before? "Yea, you look kinda like that chick on Law & Order" or "Your dad totally looks like Dan Rather" or something like that. I generally do this when referring to my ex boyfriends.

My first boyfriend from high school and I are still super buds. Back in the day, I really didn't think about who he might have looked like, but these days, he bears an uncanny resemblance to one Jim Carrey. It's so uncanny, in fact, that people have asked to have their picture taken with him. I even have a picture of my friend making this exact expression; maybe I can sell it...


Another ex of mine used to remind me of some random actor I could never remember the name of, until this guy came along...

Julian McMahon - as his character from Nip/Tuck, anyway - really is the spitting image of that ex, personality and all. Scary, I know - but he really knows how to work the ladies. I just went to a Pixies show with him and he had some tales about young co-eds and bathroom stalls. Ick. He's always entertaining, that guy.

Then there was Indie Rock Boy. It was the early 90's, we worked at a community radio station, and were ragin' full-on indie kids. He had kinda shaggy hair and glasses on occasion, and we wore flannel. Oh yea, and he was in a band. Lead singer, guitar, wrote the songs - the works. At the time, he really looked like indie demi-god, Lou Barlow.

In fact, after we broke up, I found this very cute picture of Lou singing in a record store or something with a poster of Frank Sinatra crooning as a backdrop, and I cut it out and hung it on the fridge. People made all sorts of "Um... Mo.. you really should take this picture of So & So down... it's over." Oops.

Then there was the guy that was always told looked like David Duchovny. Being a huge X-Files fan, I could appreciate this and kinda see it, but had to disagree. He looked way too much like Ken Andrews of Failure.

But very few people seem to know who Ken Andrews is, so I just let people keep comparing him to David Duchovny.

Then there was a brief liaison with a moody painter whom a couple of my friends compared to Montgomery Clift. Oooh, how I love gay 50's icons! And they weren't too far off.


And last, but not least, another guitar player. When I tell stories about this guy to others, I refer to him as "my Diego Luna ex-boyfriend." (Everyone in my lexicon has some sort of qualifying statement - "my friend with the cars," "my friend who cooks," "my friend with the rabbits" etc.) And this ex happens to work at the record store still (romantic entanglements are also part of the story which will eventually wind up in the movie), so while we were plotting the film version of our lives - I threw that out there. "Duuuuude - don't you think Diego Luna should totally play him?" "Genius! That is so spot on!"


The game continues... who do you look like?

I'm With Stupid (unfortunately)

"As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."
H.L. Mencken (1880 - 1956)

California, Here I Come!

Or go, rather...

One in Four Californians Consider Moving
By JIM WASSERMAN, Associated Press Writer

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - A fourth of all Californians are thinking about moving — either out of state or just to another town — to bring down their housing costs, a new survey shows.

High rents and rising home prices have residents, particularly younger ones, rethinking the value of the mountain views and ocean shores they say they treasure. Of the respondents under 35, for example, nearly half say they might relocate to somewhere cheaper.

One thing you will find while living in California is that most residents aren't from here originally. Especially if you are in LA or San Francisco. The USA is a melting pot of many different countries (or so we like to say), and California represents many different countries AND states.

I was born and raised here in California, as was my father and his father as well. That's a bit strange for this state, but I know quite a few folks who go back many generations in this state. I met a guy whose family dates back to the pre-state ranchero days, and my cousins are native Americans who have major claim on the territory.

I grew up in a town called Encinitas in north San Diego county, a mile from the ocean. Our town's nickname is "The Flower Capital of the World," which I think either originated with or was furthered by the fact that a hell of alot of this country's pointsettias are grown there. All along El Camino Real, there were fields and fields of flowers - very colorful and vibrant open spaces. Now that long stretch of road is full of mini malls and condo developments. Welcome to California.

You can still find open space here and there, but living near a city? Forget it. When it gets really crowded, we Cali-kids joke around about the next earthquake since that inevitably chases some people out.

And, keep in mind that the study referenced above says that one in four folks only consider moving. I'm not sure how many actually do... Well, more friends for me, I guess!

Motorcycle Boy

I haven't been around much lately to watch TV, and when I do, I watch cable. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am very easily sucked in to reruns of CSI and Law & Order, but that's about it. Reality TV especially scares me.

HOWEVER... a show started up recently that I knew I'd have to catch. Bravo's Long Way Round. This is a reality show about two guys who decide to hop onto their motorcycles and ride around the world, starting in London and ending in New York City.

They went some 20,000 miles, crossing through France, Belgium, Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Ukraine, Russia, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, Siberia, Alaska, Canada before hitting the Big Apple. These two lunatics are actors Charley Boorman and Ewan McGregor.

I Heart Ewan McGregor.



Anyway, these guys took their bikes and cameras (a small truck of two or three more guys followed them to help document the journey) across some insanely inhospitable terrain, through beautiful villages, down canyons, into media traps... and that's only been the first couple episodes. Maybe this is boring to some of you who don't lust after Ewan like I do (and even my lust wanes as his beard grows on the program), but it is as close as I'm going to get to actually traveling this world for a few more years. Granted, when I travel, I try to avoid eating baked goat head or camping alongside wild camels, but that's just me. The trip, despite the tiny support crew, is pretty bare bones, rugged, and macho, to be honest. It takes a certain kind of person to do this sort of thing.

One of my dearest friends is one of these guys. Not actually on the show, but a former motorcycle boy who could just ride and ride and ride... I overcame my fear of riding with this guy. Pretty soon, I had my own helmet and boots and was nearly scraping the pavement with the best of them. Well, I think I did pretty good as a passenger, anyway.

But my friend was very serious about his riding. He was very safe, and carefully chose his routes so that we would see some amazing things. Even just in the not-so-wild Bay Area. We were wandering a back road one time and encountered a huge black bull standing in the middle of the road. It wouldn't budge. It was twice the size of us on our bike, and we wound up carefully inching our way around it as it sort of just zoned out on the street. I know that's not as exotic as a camel, but come on - we're talking Marin county here.

Currently, this same friend is riding his bicycle up and down the West Coast. Last summer, he rode across the entire United States on the same bicycle, camping out at farms and by the side of the road or wherever was going to work out that night. I was stunned after he crossed the Rockies, which was not very dangerous at all since the tourists on the road were cruising to take in the scenery. I remember him sending me a postcard which said: "There is a special place in hell for truckers." On one occasion, his arrival in a small town prompted the local press to ask if they could write a story about his journey. Because people just don't ride their bikes any further than the park or something.

His current tour has taken him from the Bay Area to Canada, and then he flipped around and came here to LA, riding on or alongside freeways much of the way down. He rolled into my driveway with a funny hat on, a bandana around his neck, gloves and a smile, having really enjoyed the trek through LA (his hometown). And he rode off in much the same manner.

So, of course, I thought of this friend when watching Long Way Round. Watching how these men are a curiosity to the people they met, not just because they are not native to the area, or even the fact that they are somewhat well established actors, but because they are RIDING THEIR MOTORCYCLES AROUND THE WORLD. And watching their very basic existence, pared down to keeping both body and machine in good shape and getting through each day, while encountering all sorts of humanity, made me a bit jealous of my friend's adventure, because I don't have the stamina to do something quite that untethered.

And then there was the fact that they also wore funny hats and a bandana around their necks...

Lively Up Yourself

Perverse pleasure is the best revenge
Get back at red America -- with kinky sex, pretentious French movies and a hasty divorce.
By Rebecca Traister

Nov. 11, 2004

OK, it's worse than we thought. It's not just post-election blues. It's full-on, why-am-I-even-here depression. Who knew that last week's 48-hour cycle of hope, premature celebration and crushing defeat would have aftershocks that reverberated so far?

At first it was just exhaustion and the damaging psychological reversals of Tuesday's demoralizing polling-results debacle. We were left sore and nauseated, as if we'd taken a baseball bat to the belly. But it didn't get better after a good night's sleep. Next came rage -- at friends, family, entire states, individuals we've never met. If I could have burned Rudy Giuliani in effigy, I would have. This blinding, electric fury was at least an embrace of something vivid and alive, before the inevitable turn to existential despair. It wasn't about politics anymore. It was about life: There is no hope, no belief. Everyone and everything lets you down. There's been crying -- so much crying. At work and on the street and on subway platforms and at my friend's 30th birthday party on Saturday night at a swank private club. Just little rivulets of tears falling down the faces of people I don't know to be easy weepers. So common that no one even remarks on it anymore.

So yeah, it all sucks, elementally. We lost. We don't have anything to look forward to. We have been defeated, by our own country, by ourselves. We gave everything we had, just like our parents told us to do, and it wasn't enough. The Enlightenment is being rolled back before our eyes. We can't get a firm enough grip to hold it in place. We're dying. We're all going to die ...

So the question is: How do we pull ourselves out of this tailspin? How do we keep ourselves from the rabbit hole of despair and paralysis that will eventually smother us? How do we get ourselves out of bed in the morning?

There have been lots of suggestions already -- "Go see 'Ocean's 12'!" "Join the ACLU!" "Volunteer!" -- that are all very well and good. Yes, yes, yes, by all means, join the ACLU. But what about bringing back the pleasure? We -- whether we are in red states or blue -- need joy, ecstasy, or at least distraction, to keep us off the ledge and maybe even irritate the evangelicals at the same time. Below are some ideas for how we -- the losers, the sinners -- can throw off our comforters and scramble back to the land of the living, reclaiming whatever remains of our country, our day, our way of life -- before we're all rounded up and shot.

1) Have extremely deviant sex. Sadly, unlike the blackout, or the aftermath of Sept. 11, the post-election period doesn't seem to be bringing us much post-election sex. Where the fear and recovery from those events were about unity and embracing life, starting anew, and at the very least, getting lucky, post-election depression has thrown a soggy blanket over our libidos. We feel isolated and alienated from each other, defeated. Our eagerness to bring new life into this world has abated, and with it, the confidence that should we accidentally bring new life into this world, we might not be able to get rid of it.

But we have got to get over that. Holing up alone and abstaining from nooky is letting the terrorists -- and the abstinence advocates -- win! Plus, what better way to annoy the family values brigade than having really kinky sex. Make like Toni Bentley and celebrate your right to sodomy, now legal in all 50 states, though, let's be honest, probably not for long! Take a page from Paris Hilton's book and flip on a camera. Distribute it on the Internet, tell your friends. Feel free to dress as your favorite Bush twin.

2) Get a divorce. No, seriously. Even if you don't need one. It's a way to show your solidarity with your homo brethren, who in 11 states are about to lose whatever partnership benefits -- you know, like health insurance -- they've managed to scrape together for themselves. Besides, if you're straight, you can live safe in the knowledge that you can always remarry -- again and again, to as many different straight people of the opposite sex as you desire -- later. Meanwhile, if you and your partner are still getting it on, you'll be upping the rates of sex outside of marriage.

3) Read a book. And when you're done with it, donate it to your local public school. Start with "The Origin of Species" and move on through some other tomes sure to expand the minds -- if not the church-sanctioned morality -- of the young. Yeah yeah, make sure to include the standard baddies: Margaret Sanger's "Family Limitations," "Huck Finn" and "Go Ask Alice." But look to some of the lesser knowns for more nuanced inspiration: Pick up Maurice Sendak's "In the Night Kitchen," where Mickey shows his willy, and Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," which covers the poet's sorrow over seeing his nation divided and gay sex! Reread the whole Judy Blume canon (masturbation, sex, periods, erections, birth control, religious questioning, yadda yadda yadda) and then box it up and ship it off to a sixth grade class. You can scare yourself silly all over again by reading Margaret Atwood's "A Handmaid's Tale" and then make a gift of it to the local junior high. If you still need inspiration, take a gander at one of the banned books lists online. I don't know what "Daddy's Roommate" by Michael Willhoite is, but it sounds like something my alma mater in Abington, Pa., could use a few more copies of.

But I don't mean to suggest that you have to be all pious or crunchy. Go with your gut, pick out what feels good, work your way deep into a book -- any book -- and forget the rest of world. Chances are, if you're enjoying it, it's probably pissing someone off. Even Bridget Jones has anal sex. And never forget to laugh: I recommend Woody Allen's "Without Feathers." I have no idea if it's ever been banned, but I can't be the only person whose 10th grade universe expanded -- hilariously -- when she picked it up for the first time. And come on: The man married his life partner's Asian daughter and spends time playing the saxophone in Paris! Yay Woody Allen!

4) Go to the movies. The cinema has taken our minds off of both World Wars, the Depression, Vietnam and Watergate. But please, even though it's really funny and great, don't go see "The Incredibles"! Or Shark Tale. Or anything else that is going to beam a dollar-studded message to the studios that the way to make a buck is to continue releasing good clean family fun. Slap down money for exorbitantly priced tickets to the transgressive fare currently getting beaten to a pulp at cineplexes: John Waters' "A Dirty Shame" (tag line: "threatening the very limits of common decency") or the totally offensive "Team America," or that Nicole Kidman flick where she takes a bath with a 10-year-old. Celebrate deviance, grotesqueries, cannibalism -- if you can find it in the multiplex. And you probably can't.

But you could rent "Sweeney Todd," or 2000's "Keep the River on Your Right: A Modern Cannibal Tale." I bet you think you can make yourself feel like you're doing something by renting or buying the "Fahrenheit 9/11" DVD. Please. It may lead you down the path of righteousness, but trust me, it's only going to make you cry more, remembering how you thought it was going to make a difference. And who needs more goddamn crying? Treat yourself right -- and remind yourself that the holidays are right around the corner -- by renting last year's "Bad Santa" with Billy Bob Thornton. When a kid asks Thornton's department store Santa, "Do you and Mrs. Santa have kids?" he replies, "No, thank the fuck Christ." And while nailing someone in the dressing rooms, Santa screams this sweet nothing: "Oh yeah, baby, you won't be able to shit right for a week!" Happy holidays!

5. Give in to the zeitgeist and dumb down. Stop with the Atlantic and NPR and Air America already. They'll still be there when you get back. Just take a couple of days and download images of naked B-list celebrities. We'll help you cheat a little with this video of Tara Reid's dress falling down. You're on your own from there.

6. Start writing your novel, or song, or splattering your canvases with paint. As everyone I know in the entertainment industry keeps telling each other, reassuringly, desperately, sadly: "Bad politics makes good art. Bad politics makes good art. Bad politics makes good art." Whatever. Just don't expect to get any money or anything in return. By next year, NEA reins should be safely in the hands of some of the more "creative" Halliburton execs.

7. Take a walk. Go hiking. Take some pictures of what's left of America's natural landscape. Take several. No one needs to explain why this is important.

8. Forget your big plans to boycott red states: We don't need to become condescending jerks so consumed by our own sense of what's right that we leave the economies of hardworking, thinking people in the middle of the country hanging in the breeze. All we need to do is boycott Wal-Mart.

9. Get loaded. Quit drinking? Start again. Quit smoking? Congratu-fucking-lations. Light up. It's going to be a long, strange, ugly four years. Nicotine helps.

10. We don't know how to say this, but: Exercise your choice now, girls, while the exercising's good.

Oh, Baby! (part duex)

From the People's Republic of Berkeley:

I just read your Oh Baby posting and thought I'd share a scary story with you.

On Saturday, my boyfriend and I were walking up to College Avenue and noticed a large poster on a telephone pole outside our house. It had a photo and published the name, street address and phone number of a ob/gyn who does abortions. It said "Your neighbor Shelley S. is a Lesbian abortionist!" with skull and crossbone symbols. I felt nauseous and was so, so outraged. Then we noticed little rolled up "newspapers," thrown in every single driveway, that turned out to be pro-life propaganda bullshit with a smaller copy of the poster in there.

Did I magically wake up in Alabama, or what?!

My boyfriend and I ripped down the posters and collected all the propaganda from peoples' driveways for 3 blocks around our house. I felt like crying, it was so depressing. My sister told me later that she'd read an article recently about Dr. S. talking about how so few people will perform abortions in Kansas that Dr. S. flies there once a month to work in a clinic; I mean "abortion mill". (That's the term the poster used).

I'm re-entertaining the idea of moving to Canada.

Oh, Baby!

Hello. How are you? Me? I'm fearing for my reproductive rights. Seems that some pharmacists out there in Jesusland are so emboldened by the hardcore Christianity going on in this here country of "ours" that they won't fill your prescriptions if they have a problem with it. And states are passing measures to make sure they can continue denying you medication, if they object to it.

Or, maybe they will fill it out, and as they hand you your morning-after pill yell "Whore!" while casting stones. Something like that.

Ummm... what century is it again?

American Beauty

I Heart Kevin Spacey. I am a big fag hag after all... Oh, sorry. He's not gay.

Last night I attended the AFI Film Festival's opening night party. Because I was DJing the event. Besides free food and booze and celebrity spotting, I got to see the new Kevin Spacey flick, "Beyond the Sea." Well, I only saw about 45 minutes of it due to a seating snafu. The AFI kids gave out so many passes to the screening to both smarmy and non smarmy types, that an overflow theatre had to be set up for those who were not necessarily A-listers.

It's nice to be reminded of what is disgusting about LA from time to time, and this was a great place to do it. After not finding my seat, I stood at the edge of the Arclight Theatre's infamous Cinerama Dome waiting for someone to tell me where to go next. I did this for about a 1/2 hour, with a bag of CDs slung over one shoulder, a record box, a cup of soda and a tub of popcorn I could only eat lizard style. I watched the crowd come and go, dressed in the latest Stella McCartney or whatever, earpieces dangling from their perfecty similiar hairdos, complaining about the 12 minute wait outside. Sometimes someone would complain about not having a seat: "I mean, this is terrible. I had to wait outside in the cold (62 degrees) and I've been standing here for 5 minutes. Don't you guys know how to organize? Jesus Christ!"

At this stage, I only spotted a couple star types. The teeny tiny Giovanni Ribisi was my first sighting, fumbling for a seat. The dude from Smallville was there, looking very scruffy - ie HOT. He was working the unshaven rock star thing. And it was working.

And then Udo Kier showed up with his lady friend. I mean, his fag hag. They were denied seats too. Udo was a little taken aback: "But vee vere supposed to come. Vee shouldn't haf to stind here, did sey book too many peee-ple?" Overall, he wasn't being a bitch about it, just babbling. As he talked to the AFI woman, he was looking over at me (which was very unsettling - I mean, Udo is uber-creepy), so I just nodded along to what the lady was saying to him. No, I shook my head, there are no more seats. Yes, I nodded, it's terrible. I think I made a face at him too.

Finally, I asked this woman if I could just go to the overflow theatre I'd been hearing about, and was on my way. About an hour after the alleged start time, Kevin Spacey bounded into our little theatre with a microphone and a wave and said, "Hello, I'm Kevin Spacey. Thank you so much for waiting - it means a lot to me that you're here. So this is the overflow? Wow - at that other theatre, everyone seems so... overdressed." He then introduced his labor of love, told us all that it was filmed in Berlin (posing as LA) and that when it was over, we would love and respect Bobby Darin as much as he did. And then he was gone.

Like I said, I only got to see about 45 minutes of "Beyond the Sea." I had to move on to the afterparty and setup, but what I saw was fun. Not Oscar buzz, but fun. Anyone wanting to see this movie: be warned. It's a musical. And I mean we've got Kevin singin', dancin' and hammin' up a storm. It's a movie within a movie, and that movie happens to involve alot of spontaneous group dance numbers.


Oh yea, and Kevin Spacey is not gay.

The party at the Fonda theatre afterwards was more fun than I thought it would be. I DJed some swing and lounge numbers before the big band started and while the crowd was arriving. The band played a long time, and we were free to wander.

I know that you want to know who was at the shindig. Kevin Spacey, of course, and his beard.... Um, I mean, mom. Kate Bosworth and her boyfriend, Orlando Bloom. Sofia Coppola with a little perm. (Sorry I kept pointing at you, Sofia.) Udo & Smallville dude made it, and the real Dude - my pal Jeff Dowd. I think there were some other people too, but I'm tired and can't remember.

The drinks were good. Bartenders cute. Bonus.

There were no gift bags. In the words of Uncle Grambo... NO BUZZ.

As we wrapped up the night, my friend told me that I was being toasted by the crowd below - including Mr. Spacey. I didn't see it, but I'll believe it.

We were given a CD by sponsor Audi on the way out. It was German style electronica (surprise!) which didn't make us want to buy an Audi. I think they made it for Udo, actually. To make up for not having a seat for him, you know.

Nuff said.

Step Into the Light

HOW MANY MEMBERS OF THE BUSH ADMINISTRATION ARE NEEDED TO REPLACE A LIGHTBULB? The Answer is TEN:

1. one to deny that a lightbulb needs to be changed,

2. one to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the lightbulb needs to be changed,

3. one to blame Clinton for burning out the lightbulb,

4. one to tell the nations of the world that they are either for changing the lightbulb or for darkness,

5. one to give a billion dollar no-bid contract to Haliburton for the new lightbulb,

6. one to arrange a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor, standing on a step ladder under the banner "Lightbulb Change Accomplished",

7. one administration insider to resign and write a book documenting in detail how Bush was literally "in the dark",

8. one to viciously smear #7,

9. one surrogate to campaign on TV and at rallies on how George Bush has had a strong light-bulb-changing policy all along,

10. and finally one to confuse Americans about the difference between screwing a lightbulb and screwing the country.

Please remember to vote tomorrow!