by Barry Crimmins
It's always summer to George W. Bush, our lazy, hazy, crazy commander in chief who puts in shorter presidential work weeks than Woodrow Wilson did after he was paralyzed by a stroke. Having stolen his way into the Oval Office what now seems to be several bad lifetimes ago, GW has treated us to a scorching five years that have inflicted on the world a pandemic of son burn. We have been continually baited and switched by an administration that promises sinsemilla and delivers oregano. As we sweat out the fifth summer of this affront to everything this nation could be, we all need a break.
For those of us who have resisted television's answer to the morphine patch and live Tivo-less lives, summer is still a time to catch up on reading. Reading books is increasingly quaint because, truth told, the average American reads about as often as Donald Rumsfeld peruses the Geneva Accords. Some of us now absorb the written word by ear, from books on tape or CD, as we drive from one job to the next in the struggle to survive what Bush touts as "economic expansion" -- itself a fictional depiction of growth that's really an insidious weed creeping from beneath the gates of mansions to strangle what's left of middle-class American life.
But some of us still get time off and will be reading at vacation cottages -- though this year, the shore line will probably be several feet closer to the veranda. On the bright side, after a stormy spring that left rivers overflowing like Halliburton's vaults, many formerly landlocked properties have skyrocketed in value due to the addition of beach frontage.
more . . .
http://www.smirkingchimp.com/article.php?sid=27079&mode=flat&order=0
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