"What fascinates Althouse about Obama?"

Asks ricpic. And I answer:

Wow. How can you ask? Who is more fascinating than Obama... by which I mean the entire story of everyone relating to Obama?

He is the most interesting character I've seen emerge in my lifetime, perhaps. Simultaneously, he's boring! Which is interesting.

Who do you find more interesting? Romney's not that interesting.

I don't think Presidents should be chosen based on interestingness, but blogging is based on interestingness.

What was Althouse drinking?

Here.

What was Althouse drinking?
	Vodka
	Water
	Vodka and water
pollcode.com free polls

IN THE COMMENTS: Bart Hall (Kansas, USA) said:

She was drinking a 'Sullenberger.'

Several shots of Grey Goose,
Shake hard, then
Set down gently ... with a splash.

Trooper York (who has met me in person) said:

Despite all the crap she takes from the liberal loons, Althouse is not much of a drinker. She is actually tiny and more than one or two drinks would be very noticeable. So this is all bullshit and make believe fun.

But hey, apple juice in the rocks glasses worked as a gimmick for Dean Martin, so go for it.

Chickenlittle said:

I think she should cultivate an image of a hard drinker, even though she isn't. It's a good foil to fool the left and drive them even crazier.

Meade (who has met me in person) said:

Wait. Chickenlittle, are you saying she's faking it? That she's not really a hard drinker?

But that would change everything. And how would you explain her expensive tastes in vodka and whatnot?

Chickenlittle:

I really thought she was, but she seems to be denying it here. How can I argue? Why would Althouse be messing with our minds?

Meade said:

Wow. If it was just water, I'm afraid I owe her a big apology.

Wow.

Ricpic said:

Blame It On Moskva

Tiny Annie took a sip
And tiny Eve turned red,
Mortified but hic to hip
Both tumbled into bed.

Meade said:

Then Eve said something seemly
And Ann said oh pshaw
You seem to some so dreamy
Your bash of Rush withdraw!

Your bash of Rush withdraw, Eve
Unfounded lies cause schism
Apologize for he's my guy
And learn apologism

Palladian (who has met me in person) said:

Althouse and I once got drunk by clandestinely drinking eau de cologne off the cosmetics bar at Bergdorf-Goodman.

David Axelrod, circa 1975.

(Via Ben Smith.) 

IN THE COMMENTS: Palladian said:

"He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O Cruel, needless misunderstanding. O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast..."

ricpic said:

Oscar Wilde lives! Sans wit. Sans soul. Sans everything.

Love all that literariness, but Psychedelic George hits what I was searching for:

Separated at Birth from Chuck Negron 3 Dog Night's lead singer.

(Idle Chuck Negron rumor.)

He also bears a resemblance to Mickey Rat of comix fame.

Lem said:

If you put a moustache on this man you will not be able to tell them apart. Actually, he looks more like Rasputin than the Son of Sam.... David Crosby....

It's going up to 57° here today in Madison, Wisconsin.

I must go out. I'll bring you back some pictures, I hope. And hopefully these won't be like last night's Frozen Creek Alehouse picture — the one that drove ricpic to write a poem called "Suicide Creek":

Wander down to suicide creek,
Walk its ice and snow;
Dream of finding what you seek
In the dark below.

I love to take a picture that drives you to poetry, but not one that drives you toward death. And don't walk on that ice today — suicidal or not.

Is it a day to fret about global warming? Well, if you're not supposed to look at the isolated cold day as a sign that global warming is a hoax, then it's just as wrong to look at the isolated warm day as a sign that it's true. But you know, if there is to be global warming, some of us will be winners. Yet, there's no need to wait around to win the hard way — and it's evil to want to win that way — because there is today, and today is beautiful.

Life is beautiful too, let me remind you. Don't kill yourself.

"'Cloaca,' what you see in front of you, might be a shit machine..."

"...but actually it's about a whole range of other ethical and moral issues, from the food we eat to what we do with feces."

It's Wim Delvoye's "Cloaca No. 5," a "'machine/sculpture' that recreates the phases of human digestion, from chewing to defecation," on display at the Université du Québec à Montréal gallery. You can buy the freeze-dried fake shit in the gift shop. Is it a faux pas to make a gift of faux poo? Perhaps you'll want to keep it for yourself.

Now, I'm reading about this not because I have a Google alert on "cloaca," but because the nostalgically nicknamed Fred4Pres linked to it in the comments to that post about Maureen Dowd. He quipped:

I know lots of op-eds, like Maureen Dowd's column, that have been doing this for years.

I read, mildly amused, and then I'm stunned:

Mr. Delvoye, who will be in Montreal today for the opening, has been exhibiting various versions of Cloaca -- the name is Latin for sewer -- since 2000. His other work has included biker-style tattoos on live pigs and mosaics using tiles that carry images of his own feces.

Wim Delvoye — I'd forgotten the name, but he inspired the blog post that I've often said was my best: "Tattoos remind you of death."

How I love when things come full circle, and perhaps — it seems — so does Mr. Delvoye.

Now, here in the middle of the night, I'm reading the comments on that old post about mementos, and even as I delight at the names of some commenters who are still with us, I see some that I'm sad to have lost. Like Goesh, who says:

I was blessed to have been born and raised on a farm, and we used to finger-paint the pigs. We just assumed they would like it. What pig wouldn't want to look pretty, and we enjoyed it too. Kids are kids as they say. If you scratch a pig on the stomach, it will plop down on the ground. Let's face it, it is pretty darn hard for a pig to scratch its own belly if you think about it. They can rub against things to get their sides and back and butts scratched but not their bellies. Once the pig was lying down, one sibling would keep scratching his/her stomach while the rest of us made pretty pictures. When Porky and his pals would get sent off to market, we would always check to see if any of our art went with them. Often bits of it did and we always wondered what the butchers thought when our pigs came down the slaughter line. My younger brother once remarked that maybe they wouldn't kill them if they saw our paintings. This recollection yields a bit of a sad feeling, but hard reality sets in as I recall that Keith, my younger brother, relished bacon as much as the rest of us did.

We know the finger-painted pigs are long gone, but what of Goesh? He used to write poetry here too, under the moniker Lonely Donut Man/LDM.

But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Old blog posts remind you of death. Those pseudonymous commenters who are no longer with us — how can I know if they are, as they say, no longer with us? What if Goesh has scarfed his last doughnut and pooed his last poo?

I considered spelling "doughnut" his way, as a tribute to our lost poet. I looked up the old posts — here and here — where I talked about my spelling preference. The first one has some poetry by Robert Frost (and the speculation that he ate frosted doughnuts). The second one, in the comments, has a poem by Lonely Donut Man:

Verily thou could'st reference my lovely, lonely verse
its subtle allusions to the trans-fatty acids curse
O! Sugary, longing words of lust n'er terse
Lo!The collusion of flesh and grease, which be'th the worse?

I hope Lonely Donut Man still waddles on this earth. If only he'd return I'd feel such... mirth!

IN THE COMMENTS: Pogo said:

In the blog commenters come and go
talking of loaves and donut holes.

Ricpic said:

How jejune and utterly predictable of the avant-garde it is
To make a production of pinching a loaf and spraying a whiz.

It snowed today in Madison.

And then it looked like this:



IN THE COMMENTS: Bissage writes:

That is a beautifully composed photo. And with its colors and atmosphere it speaks to the remembrance of youth long past when . . .

Woah!

Take a gander at the rack on that fire hydrant!

Nice!

(Now, what was I saying again?)

ricpic writes:

WOAH!

I was gonna write a poem all blowzy for beauty
When Bissage put out my pompous light.
Now I can't write a poem pretentious and snooty
'Cause Bissage called my bluff: that's not right!