Dover

up on Bickle's Knob, near Elkins, WV

Seems like the right-wing absurd balloon has, with the death of bin Laden and the unveiling of the long-form birf-surf-ticket (to quote Bob Marley--"ain't got no birfsurfticket on me, now") become overnight as deflated as the '08 housing market.  Suddenly this past week the amateurs who got elected to the House on the Tea Party Revolution Ticket are begging the Democrats not to get political about their unanimous vote to destroy Medicare, but to look ahead to the future.  Meanwhile, the latest effort to somehow Maumau Obama--oh my gawd, look, he invited a gangsta rapper to the White House--gets sent whizzing around the room by Jon Stewart's comedy show with one half of its brain tied behind it's back.  And last night I heard that Huckabee ain't runnin'.  Thank gawd, and he was probably the last hope of the Republican Devils, because he at least masquerades as a kindly preacher when you're at a safe distance with the remote near your hand. 

Thus we go to Dover for yet another weekend of NASCAR.   It was heartening to see Kyle sitting beside Mark Martin yesterday in the pre-race talk-talk.  For all of Harvick's bluster, it's Kyle who's come out ahead, because the lasting image of the to-do at Darlington remains that of Harvick's car cam--Harvick futilely running after Kyle, who's driven out of the frame and planted said car-cam's platform against the wall.  Now it's just up to Kyle to keep beating Harvick fair and square on the track.  As their machines are usually pretty even-steven, it'll come down to pure driving skill, not who has the best left hook. 

Meanwhile, I'm breaking in a new computer.  I hope you can tell.  I've decided not to copy all the detrius of ten years of computing over to this one, but to use the oldie as a living external hard drive.  Therefore, I'm now living in an airy mansion--at least 50 miles of elbow room, as A.P. used to say.  Feels like a cool spring day up near Boone, the leaves just budded out, church bells from some distant village wafting in the air, the feeling like no other of just having climbed up some Appalachian knob on a Sunday morning.