From my pal Paul

Paul Koestner, a fine cinematographer and really neat cranky old bitch, also author of "On the Wind and a Prayer" a delightful saga about a man, woman, a boat, and a meatloaf, available through Amazon.com wrote me the following tonight:

Root, Root, Root for the Home Team

While I was in high school, we had some really good sports teams. For some reason, that was incredibly important to Catholics, as if a loving cup might vindicate the vainglorious promise of the Gospel according to Luke. Your cousin might be up on rape charges, but if he was an all-stater, your family had nothing to be ashamed of.

We had some lousy teams too. I know, because I was on one of them. There are a ton of sports programs occupied on any given day across the land, and it’s tough to field a winning team on each and every one of them. Even so, we Americans love our physical challenges, so bring it, Charlie. We got some smokin’ cheerleaders standing by to heal the wounds.

The thing is, regardless of the standing of the present team we’re supporting, the American story is always the same. We are the greatest, and everybody else is a pathetic, detritus-eating dog. Morale is the key to success, and it is no different in the political arena. In the midst of the most laughable team ever fielded by Republicans, the cheerleaders simply hike up their skirts all the higher, and scream all the louder: Your team sucks, and ours is the greatest.

Sarah Palin is so very special, because she’s somebody you’d normally expect to find on the sidelines doing splits that defy human anatomy, while all the boys who didn’t make the team are straining for a view of her Fruit of the Looms. Instead, old Johnny U has handed off the hallowed pigskin to the pompon gal, and we’re all watching to see if she takes it in for the T. She’s so damn inspirational there, with her indefatigable smile, that the refs have their twitchy hands peremptorily on their flags, while the golden gal side-steps her way past reasonable scrutiny, toward the hallowed hash marks of democracy. Sweet Jesus, she might just score! Somebody dress my consolation wiener before the whistle blows.

Recently, Sarah has been looking for a strategic block from Joe Sixpack. I’m wondering if she realizes that he’s under the bleachers trying to feel up the piccolo player before the halftime show. My suspicion is he’ll fall short of his mission, and end up finishing off that six-pack all by hisself.

After that, he’ll do what any red-blooded American boy would do. He’ll finish the job on his own, all the while swearing off any chick with a song-and-dance routine that promises him the stars, while delivering Jack Squat.

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Well ranted, Paul!!!