[Slaps forehead]

For the better part of a week, I have been puzzled as to why Sarah Palin was so offended by the Photoshop job of her baby Trigg, in which a right-wing radio host's head was pasted over Trigg's in a picture. I mean, even for Palin, it was a bit out there.

I just realized that there are two, equally legitimate interpretations of the Photoshop job. One is the one offered by the blogger: that she did it in an effort to portray the radio host snuggled in Palin's loving embrace and dependent on her. From that perspective, it's an insult to the host and not to Trigg in any way.

The other interpretation: the blogger was calling the host a "retard." That's what Palin thought the picture was intended to convey -- which, given that the post was pointing out how stupid the host was, is a legit interpretation of the picture, and a reasonable thing to be insulted about.

Anyway, off to write something high-minded about insecure women that treat their significant others like crap.

Pretty much everything I read today has me doing this

And I'm looking at: McCain staffers; man that circumcized himself with nail clippers, R. Kelly, Joe the Motherfucking Plumber and

I'm not gonna lie

I wrote this post about carnivorous furniture for io9 because made me think of a Zombie Cherry the Chair chasing down terrified humans.

The below "Thiller" video is a poor substitute for the original which, naturally, I can't embed because music companies are fucking stupid about this shit.



Anyway, my "Thriller" story. From my mouth and my attitude, you'd probably never know it, but I led a pretty sheltered childhood. My parents still don't have cable; they don't listen to Top 40 stations. We watched a lot of "Murder She Wrote" and the family-friendly shit ABC aired on Fridays and I used to sneak downstairs at an ungodly hour to watch "Dukes of Hazard" and "Jem" on the teeny TV in my dad's workshop because I didn't think they would approve.

I saw the Thriller video when I was 5, at a winter camp thing that involved a bunch of father-daughter bonding with other fathers and daughters (a YMCA Indian Princesses sleep-away, though I'm sure they call it something else now). The girls ranged in age from 5-12 (or so), and I was the youngest. They gave me a Pepsi -- and my parents didn't let me drink caffeine, so I ended up high as a kite and up all night.

I also ended up scared shitless. It was at least 15 years before I could hear the Vincent Price interlude without shuddering and having nightmares. I may have cried. I'm pretty sure this is why I still can't really stand zombie movies, despite an overwhelming love of gore and action pictures.

That summer, our babysitter's kids had the vinyl record. I couldn't listen to that song, but we danced around their basement like crazy to the rest of it.

Health care in this country sucks

I was on CNN.com Live yesterday, talking health care, single payer plans, the public option and why it all sucks.



Yes, when it's hot and humid, I wear my hair curly because it's too hot to blow it dry and it won't stay straight anyway.

Moral dilemmas

Now, I promised I would visit my grandfather this weekend. Promised! But Werner Herzog! Speaking! I want to say my grandfather would understand, but he wouldn't. Sigh.

The (Re-) Start of Crap

Crappy Hour is back! Today with Spencer Ackerman; tomorrow... well, you'll have to read!