This song is hell of funny. “Valerie Plame, if that really is your name.”
I remember reading the Joe Wilson op-ed in the NYT the day it was published, like, in the newspaper—and I rarely read the newspaper, so that was a bit of good fortune. I remember being absolutely gobsmacked. The piece was gobsmacking. Remember, now, that was the infamous “sixteen words” piece that tried to pick apart Bush’s claim that Nigeria was enriching uranium. I thought that Joseph Wilson III was, like, the man.
Then, when I moved to New Mexico (where Joe Wilson and his wife, Valerie Plame live), I heard several stories of excessively unprepossessing acts by the Wilson-Plames—often from very reliable friends and lovers. So?
Are Joe Wilson and Valerie Plame new patriots? Or are they attention-grubbing assholes capitalists?
One thing is for sure. Not her name. Not the probity and purity of her or her husband’s acts. But “Valerie Plame” is <b><a href=”http://x96.com/images/uploads/valerie_plame_pep.jpg”>definitely a fox</a></b>.
All this fucking around on the Internet is the opportunity cost of doing some truly epic shit.
I was holding this really exemplary radish in my hand. /
I was admiring its shape and size and color. I was imagining /
its zesty, biting taste. And when I listened, I even thought /
I could hear it singing. It was unlike anything I had ever /
heard, perhaps an oriental woman from a remote mountain village /
singing to her rabbit. She's hiding in a cave, and night has /
fallen. Her parents had decided to sell her to the evil prince. /
And he and his thousand soldiers were searching for her everywhere. /
She trembled in the cold and held the rabbit to her cheek. She /
whispered the song in a high, thin voice, like a reed swaying /
by itself on a bank above a river. The rabbit's large, brown ears /
stood straight up, not wanting to miss a word. Then I dropped /
the radish into my basket and moved down the aisle. The store /
was exceptionally crowded, due to the upcoming holiday. My cart /
jostled with the others. Sometimes it pretended we were in a cock- /
fight, a little cut here, some bleeding. Now the advantage is mine. /
I jump up and spur the old lady, who's weak and ready to fall. /
I spot a mushroom I really want. It's within reach. You could /
search all day and never find a mushroom like that. I could smell /
it sizzling in butter and garlic. I could taste it garnishing my /
steak. Suddenly, my cart is rammed and I'm reeling for my balance. /
I can't even see who the enemy is. Then I'm hit again and I'm /
sprawling up against the potatoes. I've been separated from my /
cart. I look around desperately. "Have you seen my cart?" I ask /
a man dressed in lederhosen and an alpine hat. "I myself have /
misplaced my mother's ashes. How could I know anything about your /
cart?" he said. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother," I said. /
"Was it sudden, or was it a long, slow, agonizing death, where /
you considered killing her yourself just to put her out of her pain?" /
"Is that your cart with the radish in it?" he said. "Oh, yes, /
thank you, thank you a thousand times over, I can't thank you /
enough," I said. "Schmuck," he said. The mushroom of my dreams, /
of course, was long gone, and the others looked sickly, like they /
were meant to kill you, so I forged on past the kohlrabi and /
parsnips. I hesitated at the okra. A flood of fond memories /
overcame me. I remembered Tanya and her tiny okra, so firm and /
tasty, one Christmas long ago. There was a fire in the fireplace /
and candlelight, music, and the crunch, crunch, crunch of the okra. /
I have never been able to touch okra since that sacred day. /
We were in the Klondike, or so it seemed to me then. Tanya had /
a big dog, and it ate the roast, and we had a big laugh, but now /
I don't think it's funny. I remember the smell of that roast, /
as if it were cooking this very minute, and I can see Tanya /
bending over to check on it. How did we ever get out of there /
alive? and what happened to Tanya? I look around, peaches and /
plums. I'm buffeted from behind. "Watch it," I say to no one in /
particular. Eight eyes are glaring at me. "I'm moving," I say. /
But I can't move. The rabbit says, "Tonight we will meet our /
death, but it will be beautiful and we will be brave and not /
afraid. You will sing to me and I will close my eyes and dream /
of a garden where we will play under the starlight, and that's /
where the story ends. with me munching a radish and you laughing." /
I can't move," I said.
