Burning. And itching.

Why, yes, that wildfire is burning a mere ten miles from my house, thank you for asking.

But truthfully, I’m not sweating it. Because if the fire burned through ten miles of dense LA suburbs to reach my house, I’d have a whole lot more to worry about than the fire reaching my house.

Poor Spooney, however, is plagued by the annual Santa Ana-fueled airborne nasties. Which reminds me, the next time I am inspired to make a mental list of things that keep me from wanting to shuffle off this mortal coil, I must remember to put “do not suffer from allergies” at the top of the list.

One thing I’ve been wondering recently is, now that Sarah Palin has let down her hair, is she going to whip off those glasses in dramatic sexy fashion next? It sure would make the whole winking thing she’s got going on a lot more effective. Also, it would make her transformation into repressed Republican sex symbol complete, don’t you think? You betcha!

I’ve noticed that Cindy McCain has let her hair down as well, no doubt to soften her image, which is a tad on the Ice-Queen-from-those-Narnia-books-ish. I have to say, however, that her down ‘do is not flattering. I mean, okay, is it wrong of me to think that women of a certain age need to not do this:

Blech. Who’s her style icon, Loni Anderson? And another thing: that cut is just too young for her. There, I said it. Revoke my feminist credentials if you can, but with women like Palin calling themselves feminists I doubt that the membership qualifications can get any lower. And who among the conservatives would dare criticize me for talking about Palin’s hair, anyway? The same people who hit the talk shows in full battle cry over the fact that Newsweek did not airbrush Palin’s cover photo?

Although, I have to ask myself, if I ever made the cover of Newsweek, would I expect to be given the benefit of the brush? Please, baby, it would be the first clause in the contract, just like Barbara Walters’s rider stipulating the thickness of the Vaseline on the camera lens for her Oscar specials. However, if women want to be taken seriously as viable leaders of the so-called “free world,” we should maybe stop thinking of Photoshop as a birthright.

Meanwhile, McClain is flailing like a, well…like a McCain. His McCampaign is now resorting to flinging all manner of poo at that electoral fan, hoping and praying that something, anything will still be sticking to the brains of voters on the morning of November 4. They’ve tried to paint Obama as a black nationalist, as terrorist-adjacent, as left of Kucinich, hell, the only thing they haven’t tried is having Palin start up a rally chant of “Obama and Ahmadinejad, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

The Republicans chose to run on “national security,” and yet no matter how many times Tom Brokaw says that we are going to vote on that issue, voters insist on their own agenda, mainly that they’re worrying less about buildings falling down and more about whether the company they work for will even exist anymore when they get up to go to work in the morning. I recently have even dared to think that the voters might be coming to the conclusion that sending American troops to die on the sands of distant oil-rich lands might not be the best possible foreign policy.

And it’s funny, because if McCain had run the same campaign he ran in 2000, he probably would be winning right now. I wouldn’t vote for the motherfucker, because for one thing, he seems to no likey the women so much, but I bet a lot of people would’ve fallen for it. But he had to go and drink the Rove-flavored Kool-Aid, adopt the scorched earth tactics, kiss up to the power-hungry Christian douchebags, throw red meat to the bigots and jarheads, and appoint a semi-functional local weathergirl to his #2 spot. In other words, he packed his campaign with bile, and he’s fucking choking on it. So it’s no wonder he shuffled and mumbled around the stage at the last debate like Tim Conway on the Carol Burnett show. He blew it, the glory is behind him, and even if he manages by some strange event or election day mischief to pull out a win, his best days are gone, daddy, gone.