One of the folks whom I have the honor to pretend work for me is named Cathy. She's an exceptional performer and as a result, I actually care about her a little bit. Hey, I got the avuncular Father O'AXE
thing down; the warrior arises, scares people, and then I tamp that down for a bit. (Barstow is in many ways not unlike Craigy Island). Cathy is married and she and her husband were having problems. They were buying a house here in Barstow and they had been jerked around by the builder which brought on tensions which blah blah blah. She came to me for advice. Now, when a woman asks for advice, whether you're into that Mars-Venus crap or not, there are a couple of possibilities. She either wants help or she wants to talk and get reassured that she's not crazy. I follow a rule I learned from a wiseman in Indian country...nothing is real unless it's said three times. The third time she asked what she should do, I asked her to describe herself compared to her husband. She said, "I'm all about communication and consensus; he seems to just want to do what I say..." Cathy is still young and slim enough that the coma defense to "does this dress make me look fat?" is probably in the future, but I suspect the guy learned this well. We went back and forth a bit and I told her, "He's never going to be about communication. Get over it. He loves you and he'll generally go along with what you say. If he doesn't, just tell him it's your vision or something like that..."
So, yesterday she told me that she was amazed that I called it so well. They were "arguing" because She wanted everyone -- husband, self, children, dog, fish to get bathrobes for Christmas. Fluffy,
warm bathrobes. In Barstow where there's a good chance it'll be 90 on Christmas. He couldn't get it so she told him that was her vision, eveyone sitting around the tree opening presents and drinking coffee in their bathrobes. It's her vision, damnit...he did the coma thing. Cool... The boss was right again. Since her kids are four and seven, drinking coffee seems an odd thing for her to wish for her children but hey, I'm not really into all that stuff anyway. Stunt their goddamn growth, who cares?
I'm not really into advice for young marrieds. I want to channel Arlo and talk briefly about something else, in this case, our friend at 1600 Pennslyvania AVE. I keep waiting for something sensible to come out Bush and Co on the downfall/festing, bleeding wound that is Iraq. Ain't going to happen; he keeps reverting to "his vision..." So, maybe that's the issue. Laura is not Mom; I suspect Barbara Bush definitely told George and the boys what to do and how to do it, regardless of whether they were in Midland, Langley or wherever. "George, don't eat the sushi, it's raw fish...goddamnit, there you go, throwing up on the Japanese guy, what's his name, the little Jap creep..." Racism being a beloved part of that Yankee crap they have going on so well. GWB was emasculated by Mom, and he's definitely not about communication. But, it's his vision, goddamnit, of all the Iraqis sitting around in robes on Christmas and singing his praises...ERR, His Praises...What a friend we have in Milton...Friedman, not Bradley or John.
So, the problem is not testosterone fueled. Bush suffers from a testosterone deficiency which results in his inability to demand results or to establish meaningful expectations or develop a coherent policy on anything. It's Up against the wall, BarBar mother, blame on her. Or not...
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