Blog crushes of the day

DISCLAIMER: We’re talking my day here, as in I read it today, not when the crushed-on post was created. Also, as always, no backwards skating.

Crush #1: Yet another beautiful Bag News Notes post: In Reality, Condi Gives Herself The Finger

If other blogs give a far deeper summary and analysis of the politics, the focus of The BAG is the scene of comeuppance, as well as the visual milestone. That frame of Rice facing the video, and her own words, marks a new turn in the disintegration of this Administration. Of course, the Congress and the press need play a key role in bringing these people to judgement (and reality).

The pathetic, if unique opportunity here is that, after years of lying to our faces, we get to witness them observing it as well.

Crush #2: Chris Clarke, again. The River of Gold.

It cannot possibly exist. How could it? But I have felt that river, waking on frozen nights out on the ground at three in the morning. I have felt it flow a mile beneath my shoulder blades. I have walked and whistled along the tule banks of the San Buenaventura, cast lines into the Timpanogos, and I have sighed a little to awake to this landlocked West, in a time after Fremont killed the rivers of legend and the engineers took care of the remainder. I drove one winter toward Los Angeles and a ghost appeared, Tulare Lake come from the dead, a winter of flood spread silver across acres of dead cotton fields and the teal and mallards on its brow swimming where fifty generations of their ancestors could not. I walk each morning past rainforest and tree fern, built on an arid waste of sand by drowning a Yosemite.

Dorr’s River does not exist, it cannot possibly exist, and it is a mile down a lost and legendary hole besides, and so there will be no dams to block its flow and collect gold silt, there will be no aqueducts to siphon it off to water alfalfa in the desert, there will be no resorts, no jet skis to tear up the banks with wakes. It has never been and thus we cannot tame it. We cannot kill it: it flows still, a mile beneath my back as I consider the night’s Mojave stars.

Crush #3: Silliness from Willie B and Scout

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