Bailout This! Part Deux

The humans listened with dismay at President Bush's speech last night. This is what I, with my head on the couch throw pillows, heard them talking about:
"This explanation of the economic crisis and proposed bailout is wrapped in the same cool-heads-will-prevail/straight talkin' rhetoric very reminiscent of his drumbeat to go into Iraq.
Has Bush or elected officials, sat at the table with, say, any middle class citizens who, for example, couldn't even get foreclosed on because they could never get into the inflated housing market at all? And how did all of a sudden ordinary Americans pensions and retirement accounts get rejiggered into 401Ks? Did we vote on that? And what about the endless layoffs over the last eight years while CEOs profited? We doubt that all this public official handwringing must all be attributed to sub-prime mortgage meltdown.
And that notion in Bush's speech that Americans will get paid back because the bailout is really an investment. How will that work? Do we get checks in the mail just as Social Security is about to be raided?
It costs us $60 to fill up our Honda, AT&T has hiked the rates on all services, our Allstate auto insurance has gone up, we have to pay Bank of America monthly fees because we don't keep thousands of dollars in our savings accounts, mostly because we don't have thousands of dollars, we incurred $15,000 credit card debt just to pay ReMax and Coldwell Banker closing costs for the house we sold at a loss right before home prices fell even further.
It would appear that while Republicans and Democrats were looking the other way, we got screwed.
Why should we trust what is being said?"
Then they leaned over and kissed me on the head and called me lambypie.

Bailout This! Form Letter

Sept. 18
Dear Senator/Representative FILL IN THE BLANK
The humans in the house are are dismayed. They wonder how long you have been in denial. The so-called free market economy has been a free-ride economy for lobbyists who have contributed to your campaigns and unregulated cowboy CEOs. You're in limos, the middle class is taking the bus.
The spin is out-of-control it's kinda sorta a bailout of Bears Stern (but not not Lehman) yes Fannie/Freddie, absolutely AIG. We are not kinda sorta THAT stupid. Starting now, all elected officials should be required to shop at grocery stores, drive the freeways, deal with voice mail prompts, try ATT customer service, fix your own computers, buy things on time, deal with credit card companies, try to reverse bank fees.
And the humans want to add one more little something--how ridiculous was FEMA and Texas officials repeating mistakes of Katrina with Ike. Oh and that thing called the WAR in Iraq--wasn't Congress given a mandate to end it. Hope you have enjoyed your sleep at the wheel.

ill-fitting pants and other observations

The Vegetarian has standards. She'll pay $40 for French conditioner, but no more than $20 for clothes and shoes. As we walk through the Valley of San Fernando--where it's 100 degrees and no amount of Mediterranean plants sold at Armstrong's will put us any closer to the ocean--I am her ticket out from looking homeless, me freshly bathed and groomed and her in $16.99 pants a size too large and shoes with holes.
She's on a rant about Nick, the hair hater/stylist on WHAT NOT TO WEAR. She says he's such a misogynist. Every woman winds up looking like a variation of Prince Valiant. Oh and she's tired of journalists like L.A. Times writer Josh Friedman who took a swipe at X Files for no good reason at all.
Let's be honest. We are all a little tired. Allstate has hiked auto insurance premium, the window AC is on the fritz, my pills did not arrive from the vet, the flea medication didn't work, the specialty kibble was out of stock.
Me, The Veg and Piano Player are off to take a walk in the hills and stop for a giant chocolate chip cookie at Le Pain Quotidian on Ventura. Hope springs eternal in the air conditioned Honda.

Flu and Taxes: Down for the Count

Two things certain in the world: near-death and taxes.

First, the flu walloped Meateater/Piano Player. His head started swinging like a slack rope between his knees. Vegetarian screamed, "don't die!" then dragged him to the bathroom. He slumped like a marionette against the wall, his skin gray, his jaw locked, the small dark balls of his eyes rolling into whiteness. She threw water on top of his head, slapped him in the face, called him by his proper name. "What's happening?" was his slurred response. Then he faded. She got him into the shower and he came back. Not so much to her as just back.

45 minutes later we all three took a lollygagging victory lap in the hood..

That was the start of his miserable two-week flu, bracketed by chicken soup and chow mein, and after week one, the Vegetarian was invaded with the crap like Poland in winter. She was down for 10 days.

Then I hurt my leg. I howled every time I plopped on the couch. I couldn't lick the butter off the breakfast plate. It hurt to chase the cookie. I hobbled through the walks.

Priscilla, the angel of afghan rescue dogs, recommended immediate acupuncture. But Vegetarian waited. She has no love for vets. They always killed her beloved pets. Instead Piano Player, with his magic hands, administered acupressure, Vegetarian rearranged the pillows on the couch for me, gave me trace amounts of aspirin, and massaged my limbs while going through the motions of googling acupuncturists (even though her own experience with a Santa Monica acupuncturist proved just as fruitless as traditional MEAN-SPIRITED physical rehab at St. Josephs hospital).

We waited it out another week, against the advice of everyone.

Mmmmm I'm licking butter off the plate again. As Shakespeare said, of course not without the darkest fate looming first, "All's well that ends well."

Having less to do with fate than Capitalism, the next misery was income taxes. The accountant farted out so the bipeds were in warrior mode on April 15. Vegetarian doing the long forms, yelling at Piano Player to print them out 'faster faster" and we all jumped into the Honda and got to the Studio City post offfice at 5:27, just three minutes before the cheapskate privatized post office officials, officially declared local branches closed. Hey, a nice touch was that Starbucks was passing out free coffee at the Laurel Canyon branch P.O.

The Agoraphobe and Me

The Vegetarian comes home, as usual with some groceries and way too much emotion. She disembarks from the hot Honda. "Come help me," she calls to Meateater/Piano Player.

"I hate that Whole Foods, with its anorexics-only-sized parking lot and unstocked shelves," she says. "I'm telling you, the personal politics are so complicated it's on the level of Yalta."

"Where do you want me to put this?" Piano Player asks.

"Not to mention," (she can't be stopped here) "eat up, people, the Ralphs with cows dragged to slaughter and dead calves that stood all their days in a dark crate, or the chickens stuffed in ventless cages, and the unwiggled pigs, the abducted salmon.".

"OK. I know. Kill me. THERE WILL BE NO TALK OF DEATH in Everything's groovy L.A. Well guess what?" (she's going for it) "Fuck the beautiful weather!"

"Put those on the counter," she answers.

The Vegetarian-- who defies 12-step programs. resumes, Prozac, Type As, Oprah, blood-type diets, rock critics and protein powders, Joseph follow-your-Nazi-bliss Campbell, V8 cans attached Scientologists ears, GITMOS, IRAs, 401 Ks, APRs, S&Ps.--leans over, "Hi, honey boy," and kisses me. Me, I kissed back.

The Jig Is Up

Meateater has been laid low by a cold.

It's raining in L.A. and everyone's freaked out. The bipeds say weather shows character and they just don't do "character" in L.A. That's for people in the Old Country (aka Chicago).

The Vegetarian runs into Le Pain Quotidian for a giant chocolate chip cookie (best in the New World). Sneezing, Meateater has made a last minute decision to stay in the car while The Veg walks me in the Sherman Oaks drizzle and he amuses himself looking at insane pictures of fat pimp Ronald McDonald by Ron English.

After I shit, we drive down Ventura to Art's Deli and get two cartons of chicken soup. Then the Vegetarian ducks into Starbucks for Meateater's afternoon rocket fuel.

Sure enough, back home after coffee the Meateater got up and started dancing a jig. Something between the twist and a Dolly Parton march. Me, I barked.

Short-lived, the jig is up. The Meateater has retired to the couch and is reading "Logo," a book filled with circles, squares, triangles, trees and ovoids.

Time for our evening walk. Cough Cough.

Where's Huck?

The Vegetarian is looking for me."Where's Huck?" she asks.

"In the other room," Meateater answers.

Finding me in the office, she leans over and asks, "What are you up to Honey Boy?"

I, of course, am working on my collection of poems--"Me, I Barked."

She doesn't get it and plants a kiss the size of cabbage on my head. Now the mood is ruined. Art is a hard vegetable.

Until the muse strikes again, I'm gonna read the funniest writer at the L.A. Times Chris Erskine. This week he talks about a beagle, a distant relation of mine.

Chris Erskine column