Including a Bumshot Mountain symposium, but first a brand-new sponser:
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
The Cheney Shooting: What Might Have Happened
One week ago, an event occurred that has since transfixed the nation. Though the two principals have spoken to the press, there is still much we don't know about last weekend's accident in Texas. Until a definitive account is published or broadcast by major media, perhaps only fiction can bring us close to the truth...
In the summer of 1963 when Richard "Dick" Cheney first met Harry "Harry" Whittington, neither was a big wig in Republican politics. They were just simple ranchhands. Tall, lean and handy with a rope, Harry had dreams of someday starting a law practice in his native Texas. Chubby, steely-eyed and crooked of mouth, Dick's goals were more base: to repeatedly enter and exit the revolving door of government and corporate life, while making millions for himself, his clients and contributors. But herding sheep that summer on the Wyoming plains, both realized there was a lot more they wanted - and could never have.
In fact, it was clear from their very first night around the campfire together that a very special kinship was forming.
"I tell ya, this is mighty good grub," Dick grinned. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Oh, Dick, you know I'm an ol' Texas boy," Harry smiled back. "I done been campin' and cookin' fer years."
"Texas?" Dick's eyes lit up. "I hear there's a lot of money in oil down there, and a burgeoning Republican party that will slowly take over the state, then the nation in the years after Kennedy gets his head blown off in Dallas."
Harry looked perplexed. "What, Dick? The president's gonna be shot? In Dallas? How do you know that?"
"Don't ask me how I know," the young Westerner sneered. "I just know."
It was almost sundown when Harry heard a noise near the tents he and Dick had set up earlier.
"What's that, Dick? I think we got some mean critters tryin' to raid our food stash."
"I know what that is," Dick calmly replied before grabbing his trusty shotgun. "Coyotes." He then fired eight shots into the night air, four of which ricocheted off a tent pole and landed in Harry's backside.
"Damnit, Dick! You nailed me in the ass somethin' fierce!"
"You shoulda had the sense to get outta my way."
"Well, you should have better aim!"
"Hey old coot - go fuck yourself."
Not wishing to cause more trouble, Harry murmured, "I'm sorry, Dick. It really is my fault."
After twenty-two minutes, Dick's humanitarian instincts took hand and he dragged Harry into his tent. With a first-aid kit in hand and remembering all he'd learned as a Cub Scout, Cheney began to stitch up the wounded posterior. As he did, Harry felt not just relieved but actually soothed by Dick's bulky fingers and gruff, authoritarian manner. Then Dick lurched his hand away.
"Goddamnit Dick, if you stop right now, I won't be able to sit fer the rest of the summer!"
"You know why I stopped, old man," Dick replied, sneering again. "I'm not no queer. I don't know how they do things in the Lone Star State, but here in Wyoming, we don't cotton to that. My daddy told me about men what got shot, stabbed, dragged behind a pickup truck, sent home without severance pay for doing what I just did to you."
"But Dick....you were just stitching up my rear-end!"
"It's all about appearances. Maybe public relations won't matter when you go off and become a lawyer, but it sure does where I'm headed. That's why we can't let anybody know about what happened tonight. When you go back to Texas and they ask you about those bullets in your ass, you tell 'em you were shot by a Cuban national."
"Well, ok, Dick. I won't tell a soul. A one-shot thing. Nobody's business but ours."
What neither man realized is that they weren't completely alone that night. Watching their silhouettes was the owner of the Legal Limit Ranch, a lanky Connecticut WASP turned Texas wildcatter whom everyone called "Poppy."
"Poppy" had bought Wyoming land in hopes of establishing a beachhead for his family's ambitions in every one of the lower forty-eight. He'd hired the Cheney kid after seeing him in action at Yale a few years earlier. It was obvious that he was a troubled young man but also determined, crafty and very loyal. And with knowledge of what he'd seen through the lens of his binoculars, "Poppy" knew that Dick would be in debt to he and his clan for the rest of his natural life.
At the end of that summer, Dick and Harry shook hands and went their separate ways. But the memory of Bumshot Mountain was something that never left them. Individually, their dreams were realized: Harry become a prominent attorney and political contributer; Dick got married, sired a lesbian daughter and profitted off his public service. But despite their busy lives, they always set aside one weekend a year to be together. Sometimes the wives got suspicious; Lynne, Dick's missus, once asked, "What is it you do on these 'hunting trips'? You never bag any quail and Harry always comes back limping." Dick insisted his wife had no right to know of his activities and referred all further questioning to his Chief of Staff, L. "Scooter" Libby. As the years passed, the get-togethers became less frequent yet somehow they needed them more.
On their last visit, at the Armstrong ranch in mid-February, the vice-president of the United States confided in his old riding partner.
"Harry, Washington life just isn't working for me. Everyone I know is either under indictment or distancing themselves from me. We can't keep meeting like this. That's why I'm thinkin' about going south, and I want you to come with me. Harry, let's go to Mexico."
"Mexico, Dick? They'd kill us there!"
"No, they wouldn't. There's lots of places they'd kill us but not there. Think about it - in the day, we'd fish, hunt, go riding. And in the evenings, we'd cuddle but nothing more, because I believe in the sanctity of a committed heterosexual union."
Harry was just about to answer when he heard a rustling in the bushes.
"What's that, Dick? I think we got some war protesters afoot. Secret Service here?"
"Don't need em," Dick calmly replied as he grabbed his trusty shotgun. "I know what that is. Cindy Sheehan."
He then fired twelve shots, most of which landed in Harry, who had gone to check for demonstrators.
As he lay wounded, with injuries in his chest, neck and face, Harry muttered words that would define the essence of their relationship.
"I wish I could quit getting shot by you, Dick Cheney."
One week ago, an event occurred that has since transfixed the nation. Though the two principals have spoken to the press, there is still much we don't know about last weekend's accident in Texas. Until a definitive account is published or broadcast by major media, perhaps only fiction can bring us close to the truth...
In the summer of 1963 when Richard "Dick" Cheney first met Harry "Harry" Whittington, neither was a big wig in Republican politics. They were just simple ranchhands. Tall, lean and handy with a rope, Harry had dreams of someday starting a law practice in his native Texas. Chubby, steely-eyed and crooked of mouth, Dick's goals were more base: to repeatedly enter and exit the revolving door of government and corporate life, while making millions for himself, his clients and contributors. But herding sheep that summer on the Wyoming plains, both realized there was a lot more they wanted - and could never have.
In fact, it was clear from their very first night around the campfire together that a very special kinship was forming.
"I tell ya, this is mighty good grub," Dick grinned. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Oh, Dick, you know I'm an ol' Texas boy," Harry smiled back. "I done been campin' and cookin' fer years."
"Texas?" Dick's eyes lit up. "I hear there's a lot of money in oil down there, and a burgeoning Republican party that will slowly take over the state, then the nation in the years after Kennedy gets his head blown off in Dallas."
Harry looked perplexed. "What, Dick? The president's gonna be shot? In Dallas? How do you know that?"
"Don't ask me how I know," the young Westerner sneered. "I just know."
It was almost sundown when Harry heard a noise near the tents he and Dick had set up earlier.
"What's that, Dick? I think we got some mean critters tryin' to raid our food stash."
"I know what that is," Dick calmly replied before grabbing his trusty shotgun. "Coyotes." He then fired eight shots into the night air, four of which ricocheted off a tent pole and landed in Harry's backside.
"Damnit, Dick! You nailed me in the ass somethin' fierce!"
"You shoulda had the sense to get outta my way."
"Well, you should have better aim!"
"Hey old coot - go fuck yourself."
Not wishing to cause more trouble, Harry murmured, "I'm sorry, Dick. It really is my fault."
After twenty-two minutes, Dick's humanitarian instincts took hand and he dragged Harry into his tent. With a first-aid kit in hand and remembering all he'd learned as a Cub Scout, Cheney began to stitch up the wounded posterior. As he did, Harry felt not just relieved but actually soothed by Dick's bulky fingers and gruff, authoritarian manner. Then Dick lurched his hand away.
"Goddamnit Dick, if you stop right now, I won't be able to sit fer the rest of the summer!"
"You know why I stopped, old man," Dick replied, sneering again. "I'm not no queer. I don't know how they do things in the Lone Star State, but here in Wyoming, we don't cotton to that. My daddy told me about men what got shot, stabbed, dragged behind a pickup truck, sent home without severance pay for doing what I just did to you."
"But Dick....you were just stitching up my rear-end!"
"It's all about appearances. Maybe public relations won't matter when you go off and become a lawyer, but it sure does where I'm headed. That's why we can't let anybody know about what happened tonight. When you go back to Texas and they ask you about those bullets in your ass, you tell 'em you were shot by a Cuban national."
"Well, ok, Dick. I won't tell a soul. A one-shot thing. Nobody's business but ours."
What neither man realized is that they weren't completely alone that night. Watching their silhouettes was the owner of the Legal Limit Ranch, a lanky Connecticut WASP turned Texas wildcatter whom everyone called "Poppy."
"Poppy" had bought Wyoming land in hopes of establishing a beachhead for his family's ambitions in every one of the lower forty-eight. He'd hired the Cheney kid after seeing him in action at Yale a few years earlier. It was obvious that he was a troubled young man but also determined, crafty and very loyal. And with knowledge of what he'd seen through the lens of his binoculars, "Poppy" knew that Dick would be in debt to he and his clan for the rest of his natural life.
At the end of that summer, Dick and Harry shook hands and went their separate ways. But the memory of Bumshot Mountain was something that never left them. Individually, their dreams were realized: Harry become a prominent attorney and political contributer; Dick got married, sired a lesbian daughter and profitted off his public service. But despite their busy lives, they always set aside one weekend a year to be together. Sometimes the wives got suspicious; Lynne, Dick's missus, once asked, "What is it you do on these 'hunting trips'? You never bag any quail and Harry always comes back limping." Dick insisted his wife had no right to know of his activities and referred all further questioning to his Chief of Staff, L. "Scooter" Libby. As the years passed, the get-togethers became less frequent yet somehow they needed them more.
On their last visit, at the Armstrong ranch in mid-February, the vice-president of the United States confided in his old riding partner.
"Harry, Washington life just isn't working for me. Everyone I know is either under indictment or distancing themselves from me. We can't keep meeting like this. That's why I'm thinkin' about going south, and I want you to come with me. Harry, let's go to Mexico."
"Mexico, Dick? They'd kill us there!"
"No, they wouldn't. There's lots of places they'd kill us but not there. Think about it - in the day, we'd fish, hunt, go riding. And in the evenings, we'd cuddle but nothing more, because I believe in the sanctity of a committed heterosexual union."
Harry was just about to answer when he heard a rustling in the bushes.
"What's that, Dick? I think we got some war protesters afoot. Secret Service here?"
"Don't need em," Dick calmly replied as he grabbed his trusty shotgun. "I know what that is. Cindy Sheehan."
He then fired twelve shots, most of which landed in Harry, who had gone to check for demonstrators.
As he lay wounded, with injuries in his chest, neck and face, Harry muttered words that would define the essence of their relationship.
"I wish I could quit getting shot by you, Dick Cheney."
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Cartoon Stirs International @#%!Storm
Well, the Muhammed cartoon controversy continues to rage. Not since Gary Larson drew the ire of Hindus for his portrayal of cows in The Far Side series has the world witnessed an uproar like this. Things have gotten so bad that tourists in Muslim-dominated countries have been advised to return home as quickly as possible, and to absolutely, positively avoid doodling.
The cartoons, originally published in Denmark, have yet to be reprinted in the US. Also, as a preemptive measure of sorts, major American cartoonists have begun reaching out to the Islamic community:
Like many in my field - such as it is - I've done a lot of thinking on this topic. For rarely have my private and public values - such as they are - come into such stark conflict. I am, of course, a staunch proponent of the Muslim cause. But the TV scenes of violent protest leave a queasy feeling in my stomach, and not just because the phrase "burning Danish consulate" stirs up improper hunger pangs. It seems that despite my best efforts, the angry, Allah-fearing youth of the Middle East have yet to really "lighten up." As with our efforts to promote Arab democracy, it may take decades, even centuries for Muslims to understand, much less embrace the hip, irreverent, let-it-all-hang-out humor that's become synonymous with both Lomblog and Scandinavians.
Every culture has its own concept of "funny": The French laugh at slapstick; the British, drag humor; the Germans, the futility of existence. This is why accomplished humorists and raconteurs so often tailor their remarks to fit the tastes and mores of whatever audience they happen to speak before.
For instance, whenever I talk to a AIPAC meeting, I like to begin with this joke:
But when I speak at a Hamas fundraiser, this is how I like to start:
Either way, the line kills. Which I think proves that we all have a lot more in common than we realize.
Is there a solution on the horizon? I see only one: President Bush should appoint a special humor envoy to the Middle East. Someone who understands the sensitivities of the region but has a real desire to rebuild and reshape the Islamic fundamentalist funnybone. If Danny Thomas were still alive, he would be perfect for this. Since he's not, I suggest Robin Williams. He has an international following, voiced a character in Aladdin and has that manic quality the Arab street seems to appreciate. Yes, desperate times call for desperate measures, and nothing conveys desperation like Robin whipping out a Richard Simmons bit from 1987. But even that would bring the Muslim world one baby step closer to understanding contemporary satire.
Must dash - I have to polish up my entry in Iran's "Make A Funny Blog About The Holocaust" contest.
Yours,
LF
Well, the Muhammed cartoon controversy continues to rage. Not since Gary Larson drew the ire of Hindus for his portrayal of cows in The Far Side series has the world witnessed an uproar like this. Things have gotten so bad that tourists in Muslim-dominated countries have been advised to return home as quickly as possible, and to absolutely, positively avoid doodling.
The cartoons, originally published in Denmark, have yet to be reprinted in the US. Also, as a preemptive measure of sorts, major American cartoonists have begun reaching out to the Islamic community:
Like many in my field - such as it is - I've done a lot of thinking on this topic. For rarely have my private and public values - such as they are - come into such stark conflict. I am, of course, a staunch proponent of the Muslim cause. But the TV scenes of violent protest leave a queasy feeling in my stomach, and not just because the phrase "burning Danish consulate" stirs up improper hunger pangs. It seems that despite my best efforts, the angry, Allah-fearing youth of the Middle East have yet to really "lighten up." As with our efforts to promote Arab democracy, it may take decades, even centuries for Muslims to understand, much less embrace the hip, irreverent, let-it-all-hang-out humor that's become synonymous with both Lomblog and Scandinavians.
Every culture has its own concept of "funny": The French laugh at slapstick; the British, drag humor; the Germans, the futility of existence. This is why accomplished humorists and raconteurs so often tailor their remarks to fit the tastes and mores of whatever audience they happen to speak before.
For instance, whenever I talk to a AIPAC meeting, I like to begin with this joke:
Q. What's the first thing Yasir Arafat heard when he went to Heaven?
A. Sorry, wrong door - we thought you were Ringo Starr!
But when I speak at a Hamas fundraiser, this is how I like to start:
Q. What's the first thing Ariel Sharon will hear when he goes to Heaven?
A. Ariel Sharon will not go to Heaven. He will burn in the putrid bowls of Hell along with the other infidels, butchers and defiers of God's will who have bloodied the people of Palestine. All hail Hamas!
Either way, the line kills. Which I think proves that we all have a lot more in common than we realize.
Is there a solution on the horizon? I see only one: President Bush should appoint a special humor envoy to the Middle East. Someone who understands the sensitivities of the region but has a real desire to rebuild and reshape the Islamic fundamentalist funnybone. If Danny Thomas were still alive, he would be perfect for this. Since he's not, I suggest Robin Williams. He has an international following, voiced a character in Aladdin and has that manic quality the Arab street seems to appreciate. Yes, desperate times call for desperate measures, and nothing conveys desperation like Robin whipping out a Richard Simmons bit from 1987. But even that would bring the Muslim world one baby step closer to understanding contemporary satire.
Must dash - I have to polish up my entry in Iran's "Make A Funny Blog About The Holocaust" contest.
Yours,
LF
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