Amen to Sen. Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa) for challenging the tax exempt status of evangelicals cruising the nation in private jets. Most GOP stalwarts plead small government, erode the human services bureacracy and funnel billions to the Pentagon and Family Research Council. Not this dude. I call on donors in both parties to give generously to his re-election campaign, whenever it rears its ugly head–don’t ever forget that it’s an ugly, ugly pageant. Always pray. I mean that sincerely. Self-medicate whenever possible. Fight AIPAC. Keep Mark Penn out of the mix. Draft Sam Nunn for the veep spot. Wake up on time. Get a train pass the night before. Read George Herbert, Ted Hughes and Robsinon Jeffers when you finish the op-eds. Get the whole persepective. Go to bed.

When I think of patriotism I think of Conrad refusing to bail Sir Roger Casement out of Scotland Yard because the man dared to write a few polemics against the novelist’s adopted empire. This stands as perhaps the worst example of an ex-pat becoming “more English than the English themselves.” I’d of course rather read Conrad’s novels than Casement’s pamphlets. But after a snub like that, Conrad’s not fit to groom Casement’s beard with a fine-tooth comb.   

Did Pound and HD ever really screw? I can’t see it, somehow. HD should have patented her initials. Her heirs would make even more hay, what with the cable craze n’ all. As it stands now, they probably have to choose between a summer beach vacation and a winter ski trip every year. If HD took out that patent, they’d have both. They’d have more cars. More kids. More fun!

So Manny shoved an old guy. In one respect it’s unconscionable. But ask anyone who’s worked in retail or waited tables, and they’ll say they’ve wanted to do the same thing on countless occasions. So it turns out we can live vicariously through Manny in lots of different ways! Beats holy hell outta the real thing (la vida, I mean).

Can you guess which senator put Tropic of Cancer on his top ten list in a recent interview? It’s not Russ Feingold or Uncle Ted or any other “liberal voice” in the upper chamber. It’s no one, in fact, from the Blue Crew. It’s someone unexpected. First prize to the reader who scoops it off The Google and drops a comment.

Rob Ney, the disgraced congressman from Ohio, could probably write fine short stories in prison if he set his mind to it. Think Sherwood Anderson. Think melancholy. Think big, and softly.

Martha Stewart said she’d “do more” for incarcerated women once she got out. I’d like to know what she’s done. Created an ex-con internship program? Hooked them up with custody lawyers? Started a book-club? If she’s done nothing, I’ll lose all faith I had in the benevolence of global corporations. And at one time I had so much.

The newest edition of Poetry has “Summer Break” emblazoned across the cover. Guess we’ve officially cut through the bullshit. American poetry is owned and operated by academia, case closed. And now it’s time to take a break while everyone draws up lesson plans for the fall. Thanks for letting me know.  

I’ve heard Thomas Mann used to dress up to write. He’d put a white gown on. He’d do some breathing exercises. Today he’d write crystal books. You’d buy them at the check-out line.

Urban libertarians are the sort who like to party but would never buy drinks on a pub crawl. They’d stay up all night, run your tab into the hundreds and preach to you about choice and accountability when you defaulted on credit card debt the following week. They’re astounding.

Who’s behind Spare Change? A philanthropic publisher? Goverment program? Non-profit grants from different outfits? A combination of all three? I vote for the latter. I vote for cigarettes in all the bars. Processed tomatoes in all the schools. Universal health care. Civil unions. I’m what you call a Democratic ”centrist.” I’m what you call inevitable. 

I’ve never read Dreiser, but I bet he’d really strike a chord during any economic “slowdown.” If Barack quoted him on the stump I’d get goose-bumps. I’d get trashed.

Guy Maddin is unwatchable. I had such high hopes for The Saddest Music in the World, but then I got lost in all that grainy footage. The Canadian auteurs must have a better ambassador somewhere. In other news from Maple Country, I’m thrilled to see Cito Gaston has returned as Blue Jays manager. He reminds me of the mid-90s, a more insular, wealthier time for the middle class under Bubba. Go, baby. Go forward. Look back every few steps in anger.

Beloved readers, I apologize. Rather than post yesterday, I partied. I know adults who use party as a verb aren’t worthy of the name (the name “adult,” that is). You must forgive me my unworthiness. Remember that line from Dylan’s “Sara”? Anybody ever listen to his satellite program? What does he play? Where does he play? And with whom? And for what?

We need to see more late Tennessee Williams in New York. Something Cloudy, Something Clear needs an audience. It needs a bloated budget for the dunes in the background. It needs waves. It needs Democratic operatives flooding the house on opening night. Rudy too.