Scandol...Scandolous

In the face of a looming scandal about whether the Department of Justice acted properly or improperly" in firing the eight U.S. attorneys who were forced to resign last year, White House counsel Fred Fielding said Karl Rove and Harriet Miers could testify, but only in private, not under oath, and without a transcript.

Um...what would be the point of that?

If they can pretty much say what they want without threat of perjury, then the whole point of testifying is moot.

Wasn't this the administration that was supposed to restore integrity to office? My question would be why would these bastions of moral turpitude and good character not WANT to be sworn in? Do they have something to hide?

Although a liar before congress who is not sworn in, and I understand it's up to the individual committee, can be prosecuted for "making false statements" (is that really a charge?) we in the public know that you go to JAIL for perjury. I mean technically in the eyes of the law, Karl Rove and Lil Kim should be the same person. The concept that some people would not have to be sworn in harkens back to the Animal Farm Orwellian thought that "some animals are more equal than others."

I wish I could say I was neutral in this, that I approached it from neutrality and merely want a fair and honest hearing on the matter, but I am biased because it appears to me that this whole administration believes itself above the law, rules or even in some cases reality.

Closed door meetings on the Energy Policy.
Falsified data to justify war.
Improper use of goverment powers with the Patriot Act.
The VP shooting a man and reporting it days later.
Outing undercover agents for political purposes.
and now this...

The last guy, all he did was get a blowjob. Um...integrity?

Bartender....water. I need to stay sober for this.

The champ is groggy...the champ is down!

Yesterday marked the start of the annual sports frenzy that is the NCAA March Madness. (which in case you didn't know is trademarked and I could get in trouble for saying that). Every year, offices around the country slowdown as mysterious colds arise on Thursday morning and personal time gets exercised to it's fullest. I cannot tell you how many empty parking spaces there were at my job.

But I dutifully turned in my brackets to the office pool (they say I left Texas A&M empty) and didn't bother to check any scores until after 6pm. All day I heard groans and the phrase "last I heard they were up by six" time and time again as people surrpitiously checked scores all day long. Which if you must know is a bitch at my workplace as the they only alot you and hour of "quota time" a day for no approved websites, under which falls anything carrying sports information. Bastiches.

So one of my picks, one that chose with relish, was Duke losing to VCU in the first round.

Usually the much hated Blue Devils (Bill Simmons of ESPN shouldn't have had to apologize, we all hate Duke) are a one or two seed, and a pick against them is spitting into the wind. But this year they had lost three going in and were a six seed. A SIX, do you hear me? Sixes lose to thirteens all the time, don't they?

So I inked it up, put in my money and went back to work.

After work and somebody's "I gotta better job" leaving party, I crawled into the house and checked my brackets. I'd gone fairly conservative this year(although I did have Gonzanga and Texas Tech), lo and behold, it had happened. The champ was in trouble, the champ was groggy, and with lead that lasted maybe two minutes the champ...was down.

I don't know why I don't like Duke. Maybe it's the perceived arrogance of the program, or the smug fans or that they're always there, in the thick of it every season.

I just know I don't like them. And now they're gone.

Ha ha.

Bartender. Let me get some of that Old Crow.

It begins again

So again with the finding of a house I can deal with. I've found a charming little three bedroom two bath that will be turned into an even more charming two bedroom two bath. The price is right, the renovations are coming in well below the limit and dammit the old guy across the street has lived there 47 years so the neighborhood is even livable. In town no less.

After Sporty talked me out of reporting folks for Mortage Fraud and holding properties and dozen other illegal activities (the state of Georgia needs to be ashamed), it seems that things might finally be coming together.

The house isn't big, but it's got good bones. Okay, I've been reading a lot of Renovation and Design Magazines, so I've adopted a few terms. I'm going to gut most of the first floor, put in new floors, new kitchen, new drywall with mouldings, and if they're are a few pennies left over maybe a little bathroom reno and nice deck off the back.

In a shamelss plug I hope will earn me a free gift card, Ikea is about to be my new home away from home. They got everything!

I've been looking a searching for a minute and I have to feel it when I walk in. I have to be able to look at a spot, and envision the possibilities, to see the future just looking at it. The last one I was already placing furniture and picking paint. With this one I can see me whipping up something while a hottie sits and the new kitchen counter waiting for me to the start cooking with her.

At this point all the numbers line up, I just need the inspecitons and estimates to line up. Then it's on.

Bartender, a bit of the Cutty Sark.

The start of something big.

If you go out in Atlanta, you generally want to go the hot spot. The spot where everyone is or wants to be. The place where everybody wants to see and be seen. Where there is a line of folks waiting to be part of the IN crowd.

I generally have been there and am gone long before that.

I did Fridays at the W for Jazz before you couldn't breathe up in the spot.
I did Twist before they started charging.
I did Compound when the original promoters made Friday's hot.

Old School Saturdays? Back when they could have it in a restaurant.
Leopard Lounge? First time I went they had twenty folks.
Verve? They hadn't even finished construction.
Strip? Back when you could move.
Barleys? Before they put the band in on Fridays..
The Mark? Two club names ago...

Don't get me wrong some of my haunts never made it, some stayed on the low, others are still threating to blow up.

Why is that? Why do I get there like the advance scout team? I want to say it's because I'm always on the cutting edge, looking for the next great hangout or spot, ahead of the curve in style and fashion. But...

...that's not true.

I guess I'm just adventurous. I've been to Atlanta's Latin Clubs, Rock Clubs, Swing Clubs (the sex swinging), the Blues Clubs, and I guess I've just gotten lucky. I tend to like a spot before it gets crazy. Or rather before people show up expecting it be crazy, which is a whole different group from the people who come to have a good time and crazy things happen.

It's tough to explain.

Which spot is next? I couldn't tell you.

Barkeep, I'll need the Knob Creek, with just a dash of spite. Don't bruise it.

A short sermon

Basketball great Dennis Johnson died the other day, and I suddenly miss pro basketball.

There was a time in the mid-eighties when basketball season actually meant something. You had Magic and Kareem running the Showtime Lakers out West, and the in the East the battle for supremacy meant that whoever got the Finals had already run the gauntlet to get there.

Bird, Parrish and the Celtics.
Dr. J and Seventysixers.
Isiah and Pistons.

Those were playoffs you watched like March Madness, roaming the day after a game with oft repeated "Did you sees?" at the physical artistry that was a pro basketball game. The Sky Hook. The Finger Roll. The wild momentum shifts and the last second heroics better than anything on the movie screen.

Then came Jordan.

Some consider Jordan the greatest basketball player of all time. I'm not one of their ranks. Much like the old "Evander Holyfield-Charlie Steiner" commerical from ESPN...I not sure I would put him in the best 50 basketball players. Of all time, you ask? In the Eastern Divison.

To me Jordan, who seems like an affable fellow mind you, represents what went wrong with pro basketball. Before Jordan there were stars, but those stars were attached to teams. After Jordan there were only players.

Players obsessed with shoe contracts.
Prima donnas who swear they're the best thing for basketball.
Ball hogs who don't even remember the fundamentals.
Players with more going on off the court than on.
Players who won't be remembered for their game.

Dennis Johnson was from another era of basketball. Back when you rooted for the team, for pride. When the team meant more than a place for the player to collect his paycheck. Dennis Johnson, who was for a long time THE Ugliest Man in Basketball, played on a real team, not a supporting cast for this year's basketball prodigy. Teams that ran plays, had well coached people contributing off the bench, and in many cases at the final buzzer you couldn't concentrate on keeping it out of one players hands....cause all of them were liable to toss it up.

DJ. We'll miss you.

Barkeep...just some vodka and ice.

Me and the City of Atlanta

Okay, for the last few weeks I've been looking for a house, so that I can "get out of the trap of rent and start earning some equity"...or whatever.

So I find a spot I like, it's roomy, the price is right and it's right on time. I get the appraisal back for more than I'm paying, the inspection only spots minor stuff and the neighborhood has about ten or twelve new houses in the area, so values should be holding steady.

I'm laying out the floorplan, how I'll convert this bedroom into the library/bar, this is the guest room and this other my office, how I'm gonna arrange furniture and picking paints. I've figured out the new route to work and my new grocery store. I'm getting estimates on the minor repairs, appliance shopping and checking out lighting and I'm climbing the walls to get out my spot an into this spot that is just has potential out the ying yang. (By the way...a copy of Metropolitan Home is like Old Man porn).

Then the city of Atlanta smacks in the face. Just goes to town on a brother. *whap whap*

The taxes we got at the beginning weren't the real taxes. The taxes don't double, they almost triple in the week of closing. And I balked.

At one point my mortage broker is yelling at me through the phone, like I'm not about to come out of pocket in a major way for her benefit....but that's a whole other story.

I told the finance person that I had no intention of living in this spot and eating tuna fish five nights a week to make ends meet. I know a few folks that have gone that way and I know they're miserable. For some reason they thought I could afford it, and I'm thinking second and maybe third job to make it work...and then what's the point of having the house?

I was supposed to close on the 8th...I'm out looking at more houses now.

This is some bullshit.

Bartender, some of that boot you keep under the counter. In a dirty glass.