Oh, the Horror.

Gerry's Corner: Well, I wanted to go out trick-or-treating tonight, so I went to the local costume shop to find a good disguise. There was a whole section of presidential masks, but - surprise! - none of good ol' Awesome Dude. Well, I refused on principle to get any other costumes. I wanted to go as myself, but if they didn't have me in stock, I can't very well do that, can I? So I'm moping at home, hiding razors in delicious apples for the kids who'll swing by, or for Not-Betty if she crosses me again.



I saw some good costumes today during my constitutional today (I don't just take 'walks,' friends - I was freaking President). Here were a few of my faves:

• "Betty" - Not-Betty dressed up as Betty Ford today. Kind of poofy white hair, wedding band. She really made me think I was married to her. Excellent execution.

• "Kenny G" - This guy had corkscrew pasta stapled to his hair, and was honking on a soprano saxophone, stuck in the side of his mouth. He was also wearing jeans, a sports coat, and a solid-colored t-shirt, though I guess that could have made him look like Don Johnson, too.

• "Guy With Girlfriend" - It was this guy with slicked-back hair who had a girl just, like, attached to him, as though she was trying to suck snake poison from his neck. And his ear. And his elbow, somehow. I don't know - it looked pretty gymnastic. They looked kind of happy together, but then again, it was just a disguise, so I wondered if they were really together.

Front Page: Earth to John Kerry. You are not running for anything this year. Everyone is tired of hearing from you with your tortured aristocracy and your simpering condescension. Since I'm pretty tired of Bush having carte blanche to pass pretty much whatever legislation he wants without fear of legislative reprisal, I would like the Democrats to win back the House and the Senate in a week. There are many things that are helping this cause along - over 100 soldiers have catastrophically perished in Iraq this month. The Mark Foley scandal. The spiraling national debt. The hyperbolic reaction to the Michael J. Fox commercial. Cheney saying that waterboarding's fine. Bush moving away from 'Stay the course.' George Allen's racist comments and his discomfort with his Jewish past.

And yet, all this work - all these close races that tireless Democrats have tried to win - all of that could easily be for naught because John Kerry thinks he's the fucking man. His comments today here in California in support of Phil Angelides (who, by the way, looks just like the type of person that Schwarzenegger would have given a wedgie to in school), DO NOT HELP. He was supposed to say this:

"I can't overstress the importance of a great education. Do you know where you end up if you don't study, if you aren't smart, if you're intellectually lazy? You end up getting us stuck in a war in Iraq."

Instead, he said this:

"You know, education, if you make the most of it, you study hard, you do your homework and you make an effort to be smart, you can do well. If you don't, you get stuck in Iraq."

Well, guess what? Every single right-wing nutcase (way to the right of me) jumped on this and stomped on it like - oh, I don't know - an elephant. Michelle Malkin devoted at least five posts to this today. The current headline on CNN.com right now is "Bush: Kerry owes troops an apology." The third most e-mailed story from The Boston Globe's website is this one.

All John Kerry had to do was:
• immediately backtrack during the speech and correct what he meant.
• explain what he meant by way of offering an apology/retraction (a 'Me and My Big Mouth,' if you will).

Instead, he said this, which pretty much amounts to "I'm John Fucking Kerry. I can say what I want the way I want because I'm right and everyone else is wrong to accurately quote the words I myself mangled, regardless of the peril and anguish I put upon all the Democrats' potential gains." In that 'explanation' linked above, by the way, he didn't explain at all what he meant to say. He let all the jerky - yes, jerky - loudmouths frame who he is, just like he did in the 2004 election. Shame is his name this evening, and probably for a long time after if the Democrats lose any ground because of him.

Kerry made me so mad that I briefly contemplated moving to Canada this afternoon. Thank God for For Better or For Worse. Today's strip is an abomination against all of mankind. Allow me to set the stage: April, the youngest Patterson daughter, is in a band that used to be called 4evah. Their lead singer was a young tart named Becky, who decided that the band was holding her back. She went out and signed a recording contract and calls herself Rebeccah now. The fact that she could sign a recording contract seems like proof that she was good enough to assume that a bunch of middle school musicians would indeed hold her back. So Becky and April have some bad blood. Becky is famous now (as famous as one can be in Canada, anyway - I mean, I'm like a god there, but that's just me) and has fabulous hair. April's band has become resurrected with a new lead singer named Eva; their new name is 4Evah and Eva, which makes me want to projectile vomit. Both Rebeccah and 4Evah and Eva are playing a Halloween dance at their middle school. April's group was sucking in rehearsal, until they discover a secret weapon: April's creepy, moustached Uncle Phil, a professional jazz trumpeter who is in town only because his father (April's grandfather) has suffered a stroke. You'd think that Uncle Phil would offer some critique of the band's performance, or write some music for them. I'd be a little uncomfortable having a 60-year-old man showcased on trumpet in a band of middle schoolers, and mortified if he was related to me. Well, gentle readers, feast your eyes:



This is preposterous on a number of levels:

• The instrument jazzy Uncle Phil is playing is called a 'hose-o-phonium,' which the kids apparently can't even say (another reason American education kicks Canadian education's ass). Why not his trumpet? Is that illegal?
• Rebeccah thinks they're good?! But they're not! Not at all! Uncle Phil is playing a beer bong! And no good music makes a sound like "BAWAAAAAAAAAHHH" or "Bweeeappafrazzzawappazzazzzzzapakatawakatawaaaaaahhzzzzz."
• Uncle Phil decided to wear his KKK costume, which might play well in white-bread Canada. Unfortunately, For Better or For Worse is distributed all across the US, where this artistic choice is not so much funny as it is horrible and punishable by death, as far as I'm concerned.

There are more bullet points to add here, but I'm so damned angry today. Looks like I'm not gonna move north, though.

Tomorrow, I'll talk about the latest movie I went to see, Death of a President. For now, I'll leave you with this latest example of Islamofashion. I don't think L'il Kim is quite clear on the concept.



There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

One Hurdle to Sanity

Gerry's Corner: So I've been having some difficulties reconciling with my age. My paramour and I were both pretty frustrated with our conjugal visit, so she up and left me yesterday. Was it because we were worried that Not-Betty might find out about our secret love? Was it because, at 94, I'm not as virile as I used to be? No and no. It's because I have so much work to do that I feel like I'm literally drowning in it! I've got my ex-presidential duties and legacy to maintain, and I feel like I've been failing at that lately, not being able to play golf with Bob Hope since he died and faking an illness to keep away from the dedication of Ford Hall. I look at Not-Betty and her clinic and compare it to my little old library on the North Campus of the University of Michigan, and I think maybe she should have been president, even though everyone knows that's illegal. My many, many trips to the kitchen for snacks between snacks between meals take me longer now that I'm not quite as speedy as I was in my youth. Plus, I've got the visits with all the kids and the grandkids, as well as the press releases I have to prepare every time I land myself in the hospital (legitimately or not). Never mind all the shows I like to watch: Charlie's Angels, Wonder Woman, Baretta, Hawaii Five-O, and Little House on the Prarie. I've got no time for illicit affairs is all I'm saying, but I have to, because my secret lover is pretty cute and all.

So I want to give something up. I have to, in order to make myself sane - there aren't enough hours in the day! Not-Betty talks to me all the time about quitting, and about the things I should give up, and I agree with her, but she cautioned me this time to only quit one thing at a time. So what do I let go first?

Option 1) Give up ex-presidential duties. Not happening - I'm an ex-president. It's an exclusive club, and it's not like I can get unelected from it. People have certain expectations of you once you've left office, and I've been so poor at it so far that I can't afford to drop it now.

Option 2) Stop eating. Can't do that, either. Walking to the kitchen is part of my exercise these days, and I need food to live.

Option 3) Stop visiting the kids and grandkids. While this is a tempting possibility, if it got leaked to the public that I'd rather not spend time with my family, it would make it a lot harder for me to accomplish anything substantive in the rest of my days. Plus, I probably wouldn't get that Gerald R. Ford School of How to Be a Good Father and Husband built anytime soon, either. No, I better just keep my feelings about my family bottled up inside, on my blog.

Option 4) Stop writing press releases (or getting sick). No more pretending to get sick for me, so I've got a duty to comfort the public that worries so about me whenever I check into the ol' geriatric ward. Can't quit that.

Option 5) Stop watching my shows. I just can't. I mean, I know Hawaii Five-O's been on for years, and it probably jumped the shark a while back, when they started exploring Danno's sexual orientation, but I can't resist it or any of the other offerings. I mean, Michael Landon = Major Hottie, even when he's playing someone Amish or whatever. I gots to have my stories.



Option 6) Wait, there is no other option. Am I destined to be a slave to this routine for the rest of my days? Isn't there anything I can change to give me more time with my mistress? I mean, I've listed everything that takes up any time during my waking hours, except for using the bathroom and stuff, but that's gross and doesn't count. Well, I guess there's nothing to do but continue moping and take notes on what to write about for my next blog entry. Oh, and I've got to watch some DVDs so I can return to offering reviews for you all on this blog. And maybe I'll talk to some other people in the blogosphere about how to improve my blog, so I can write really long entries.

If only there was something I could do to give myself more time during the day...

If I could just eliminate one thing that's completely unnecessary in order to save some daylight...

Well, if I come up with any ideas, I'll definitely blog about them next time!

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Hyperbole

Something happened last night. No longer can write about self in complete sentences. Must construct sentences that would sound caveman-esque if spoken aloud. This is struggle because usually so satisfying to write about self, but now that words come clunkier, such vanity increasingly awkward.

Car was stolen; satellite images say it was driven to undergrad ghetto in Ann Arbor. Hit 'panic' button on key chain all night in hopes someone would respond to car alarm, but no such luck. Maybe it's out of range.

Beginning to fear that presidency was just a sham; wish could melt into floor with embarrassment because of lack of election victory and because Ford Hall not actually named Ford Hall and just can't quite bring self to come to grips with that. Not-Betty mad about faking illness so as to get back at Senator Chuck Schumer - apparently, Schumer and Weill actually different people.

Just want youth back, no responsibilities or weight of ex-presidenthood hovering like vulture. Instead, hang around house all day, blinds drawn - only age, confusion, horrible oatmeal. No hope, no love, no nothings. (Know-Nothings?)

No Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Pictures + Words = Comics = 1000 Words

To reiterate again, redundantly, the funny pages wag our dog.



There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Not-Rotten Weekend

Gerry's Corner: Sorry, folks, for not posting this weekend. I had a surprise come into town. Yup, my girlfriend on the side! Now, no one can let Not-Betty know about her, because she's waaaaay better looking than Not-Betty. In fact, Not-Betty came up to me on Friday, mostly just to tell me she was going to be working really late at the clinic all weekend (which I know is code for the fact that she'll be macking on her man-whore from the School of Social Work). Anyway, she looked just like I remembered her looking for these last few unfortunate years: hair greased back, bloodshot eyes from being around all the pot-smokers in rehab, wearing a pair of Uggs (you know, those boots that shouldn't be worn by anyone anywhere for any reason).

"God, Not-Betty," I said disparagingly. "How old are you?"

"Eighty-seven," she lied. I can see right through her.

"You're eighty-eight, my dear," I said.

"No, I'm not. I'm the same age as you."

"Are you kidding? I'm five years your elder, sweetie."

"Really?" said Not-Betty. "I could have sworn you were my age."

I didn't think much of it until after she'd left, but then it hit me: my God, do I really look that young? Is that why I wasn't re-elected, people couldn't get past my youth? I mean, is this why I have to have a mistress - Not-Betty doesn't think I live up to my billing as an 'older man'? How long has she felt this way about me?

Front Page: Freaking Jeffrey won on Project Runway?! The guy with a tattoo on his neck? I tried to abolish visible tattoos during my administration - guess I lost that guy's vote. But honestly - (a) that must absolutely kill your Adam's apple, and (b) it looks heinous. If I got a tattoo of anything, it would probably be a huge picture of a bottle of alcohol on my chest, so that then, Not-Betty might be able to resist me when I take my shirt off.

I was rooting for Uli, mostly because she was far better than everyone else, but also because she's cute and German, and I find that to be a rare combination.

Anyway, off to bed. I'll write more soon.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Open Sesame!...Street

Front Page: One of the many thrills of my ex-presidential lifestyle is getting to watch any University of Michigan event I want (and any Justin Timberlake concert) on closed-circuit television. Today, for instance, while the students were miraculously on vacation, the law school brought in Bill Keller, executive editor of the New York Times. I found his speech on freedom of the press in light of government secrecy to be thoughtful and witty. The only problem with not having students in the audience, though, is that it gives all the crazies more room. And then, when it's question-and-answer time, guess who leaps to the microphones? (Hint: It's not the people with interesting, probing questions.)



So the first crazy gets up and asks why the Times chose to "bury" a report done through Johns Hopkins that said there were 600,000 Iraqi dead. Keller calmly explained that the Times had not, in fact, buried it - they'd run a 1000-word story on it, and had discussed the merits of whether an epidemiological survey was as accurate as counting bodies in the morgues. The next person goes right back to how the Times is covering up the atrocities, and accuses the Times of sitting on their information about domestic wiretapping during the 2004 presidential election so that Bush could win. Keller is quite a bit angrier by now (and rightly so) because this guy didn't even have a question and the audience had to boo at him to make him stop. Then, while Keller is trying to respond to that man's comments, some other crazy in the back of the room starts calling out more crazy-talk. People! This is not helpful! You have a chance to ask the executive editor of the New York Times a well-crafted question and instead you seize the opportunity to advance your own agenda?! No one wants to hear your crazy theories and rigamarole!

So I've been thinking about how to reach the audience crazies. Contrary to popular perception, they're not just hobos and impoverished cranks. Many crazies were raised in middle-class homes and their names are followed by a maze of degrees, which means they think that their ideas actually have credence. Predictably, the crazies feel a certain sense of disconnect and disenfranchisement from their government and can't understand why everyone doesn't see the world through their eyes.

So how can we combat craziness? Well, let's look at how we've dealt with Arab resentment. First, there was this, which I don't think helped much (after all, there are 600,000 Iraqis dead!). The thing is, the Muslims aren't enthused by Muppets, and we know they hate Danish cartoons:



But you know what the Arabs love? Well, to find out the answer, let's look at another example of Islamofashion:



That's right - they dress like Disney characters! It's perfect! They hate the Jews, and Disney was an anti-semite! What we ought to do is air-drop copies of Aladdin all over the Middle East. Only then will they know how much we appreciate their rich culture of magic carpets and midriff-baring princesses. One cartoon movie is our ticket to peace and global understanding. Why didn't I think of this in 1976? I could have been elected!

As for the crazies, I think they're best represented by the closest thing the world of puppets has to crazies, so they can identify with him and stay home, watching Sesame Street, instead of going to college campuses and mucking up otherwise-good lectures:



There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Neither Here Nor There

Gerry's Corner: Since I've probably only got ten or twenty good years left, and then another several as I slowly slip into senility, I've been thinking a little about my demise. In my pampered life as president, I know I've been spared any real brushes with death, other than those two assassination attempts, but sometimes old age just makes your mind drift in that direction. Is there anything in particular I'd like to have done or told people? Well, most of the stuff I've wanted to say behind the back of people is up here on the blog; eventually, I assume most of those people will happen upon it since I'll put its web address in my will. I assume I won't care much by then what their reactions are.

I do know that I'd like my memorial service to be open casket, just so everyone can get one last good look at my extremely handsome face. Except that I want to throw my fans for a bit of a loop just before I'm laid to rest. You see, I wrote a book called Humor and the Presidency, and I like to think of myself as a fairly witty guy. This fact, coupled with the fact that I wasn't blessed with the ability to grow very good facial hair, means that I'd like to wear a fake moustache to the funeral. You know, nice suit, power tie, funny moustache. At least it would make Not-Betty smile, just like my memorial statue to our faithful dog Liberty did.

Here are a few moustaches I like, in case certain people want to start planning:







There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Beneath the Tent's Hem

Gerry's Corner: So I decided not to show for the dedication of Ford Hall. When I made the decision to check myself into the "hospital" to "have some tests run" on me, I thought it would be the perfect revenge against Senator Chuck Schumer, Not-Betty's illegitimate child, who had been disguising himself as big spender Sanford Weill. Think about it: if I'd been there, it would have been my first public appearance in months and there would've been plenty of news coverage; the perfect storm for Schumer to try and ridicule me in public. But since I was absent from the event, ostensibly for being ill, everyone could say only nice things about me, overshadowing a probably-steaming-mad Schumer. That Chuck - he always thinks he's defeated me, only to find out that I've outsmarted him.



But to tell you the truth, part of me wishes I could have been there. Sure, the kids went and they said a bunch of people asked about us, but that's one thing, and it's quite another to actually be around all these people who think you can walk on water (and don't even ask you to prove it) and treat you accordingly. I mean, I'll see the DVD, I've been told, and I heard it was like weathering a tornado inside the tent, given how cold and windy it was (global warming? more like global freezing!), but I miss being among my people sometimes. I know we don't always understand each other, but they're all I've got.

So I was hanging out in my hospital bed, sneaking a secret martini, and one of the doctors came in - the kind of mean one, with the frowny eyebrows - and was all short with me. Our conversation went something like this:



ME: Good afternoon, Dr. Green.



DR: President Ford. How nice of you to grace us with your presence again.

ME: Well, you know how it is getting old, doctor. Aches and pains.

DR: Yeah...you know, you don't look that sick to me, sir. People who have to be in the hospital usually don't smoke pipes in their rooms.

ME: Hey, I'm just trying to keep myself going, stay strong.

DR: Why don't you just tell me what's wrong with you.

ME: Isn't that your job?

DR: Sure, I can diagnose you, but you have to tell me where it hurts.

ME: Oh, well - um, my elbow feels a little bony.

DR: Anything else?

ME: Yeah...my heart, I guess?

DR: What about your heart? Are you having a heart attack? Because we can open you up if you've got chest pains.

ME: No! I mean, my heart's just taking its usual beating...can you take a look at my elbow? My elbow's really the issue, I think.

DR: All right. [Dr. Green then takes out a hammer and smacks my elbow with it. I recoil in pain.]

ME: Ow! What the hell, Dr. Green?!

DR: Look, if you don't like my form of treatment, President Ford, then maybe you don't belong at this hospital.

ME: I-I can't believe you would say something like that to me, never mind hit me with a hammer. That seems kind of cold.

DR: Well, you've been checking yourself into the hospital a lot lately and everything's been fine with you, frankly. I think you're just using your age and status so you can hide from other obligations.

And you know what? Dr. Green was probably right. Maybe I don't need to use the hospital as an excuse so much. It just made me feel bad that he would neglect whatever he'd been taught about bedside manner to be so blunt.

As it turns out, I might get another chance to show up and redeem myself with my friends at the University of Michigan. Apparently, my son Mike proposed building another school on campus and calling it the Gerald R. Ford School of Being a Good Father and Husband.



I'll come to the dedication of that one for sure - wouldn't want anyone to think I'm an absentee father or husband, after all.

Anyway, back to my secret martini in the hospital room where I'm hiding.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Nooooooo!

Urgent Gerry's Corner: So I finally saw a picture of this Sanford Weill character, and oh, it upset me deeply. Deeply! Check it out:



Now, does this guy remind you of anyone? Anyone...in the Senate right now?! Like, my arch-arch nemesis...Chuck Schumer?



In two days, Chuck Schumer will have found a way to, in disguise, name my school's new building after him - well, not him, but his secret persona. Either way, it will irk me.

And why does Senator Chuck Schumer have this vendetta against me? It's because I married...his mother. That's right, Not-Betty's Chuck Schumer's mother. We gave up on him and his whiny politics years ago, and he's been planning his revenge ever since. I guess this is when he gets his comeuppance. I told Mary Sue Coleman that this weekend was what had been keeping me alive these past two years...and now, Senator Chuck Schumer is making me seriously question whether it was worth it.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

The Day is Coming

Gerry's Corner: First of all, I must tell you that 'The Colbert Report' this evening is really top-notch. Right now, as I'm watching, Colbert is doing a 'Cooking with Feminists' segment, in which he cooks and chit-chats with Jane Fonda and Gloria Steinem. He and Fonda have already kissed twice. On the mouth. Not-Betty is conflicted about whether this is helpful or ruinous for women's liberation. I say those ladies should take off their bras and burn them in order for more liberation to happen. Ooo - three kisses from Fonda and now one from the steel-lipped Steinem. That was the most perfect moment of television I have ever seen.

Okay, back to business. Over the weekend, some agents from the Ford School came and took all the pictures of me we had in our possession so they could hang them in a gallery wing of the new building. I'm told that the tribute museum to my honor takes up one-third of the school, and I'm excited to see it for myself. Unfortunately, the walls of our home are now bare after the Ford School's raid.

Last night, I went out to see 'Half Nelson' with Gunner?; he needed a break from the law school, where he's constantly being sued and tried by his classmates (it's part of the social culture; some groups do karaoke or play pinochle, but the lawyers do law things all the time, 24/7). Anyway. 'Half Nelson' is a movie, not about wrestling, but about a teacher in the inner-city. First of all, that man had the most attentive seventh-grade class in the history of public education. The only discipline he had to administer in the entire movie was to send a kid to the corner for peeking at another student's test. The class wasn't overcrowded, his girls' basketball team was respectful, and he seemed to have a lot of autonomy (one teacher reprimanded him once about not teaching from the Civil Rights Binder). Yet he still had to do crack, and often. I can only imagine that the way the script was originally written, as some sort of remake of 'Stand and Deliver,' there was no crack involved. It was, instead, supposed to be a heartwarming, galvanizing story of children rising up from beyond their means to succeed, succeed, succeed. Unfortunately, with Hollywood as sick as it is these days, there was not an actor available without a severe addiction to crack. They had to work his hits and shoot-ups into several scenes so that he could make it through the day. The saddest thing is that I should be astonished, but I'm not anymore. I'm just not.

That's enough for today. I'm off to bed, dreaming of a few days from now, when I'll finally be able to sucker-punch Sanford Weill. (I hope he doesn't read my blog! Actually, I bet he's functionally illiterate, so my secret punch is still going to be a surprise to him! Unless he's got a friend who reads this blog and warns him that Gerry's right fist is coming for his face. Wait, but that guy can't have any friends. The plan is still on!)

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

PU!

Gerry's Corner: No, I'm not talking about Purdue University, or planets uniting. I'm talking about the neighborhood skunk that's once again made it so that I've had to have our servant boy (by which I mean my second-eldest son) come by and shut all the windows. And yet, the stench seems to be able to permeate glass!. Is there nothing we can do to defeat nature? Sure, President Bush can tell us all about how global warming will one day melt all the skunks in the world so that, long-term, we'll never have to smell them again, but what about an old codger like me? I haven't got the five or ten years it'll take for global warming to do that to these nuisances! Someone really out to invoke the nuclear option here.

Other things that are making me mad include Mr. Sanford Weill, as always, and, more surprisingly, my Life's Little Instruction Desk Calendar, Volume XI. Faithful readers of my blog might recall that I vowed to follow the advice that each day offered. After all, I have every confidence that each nugget of wisdom is copiously brainstormed, researched, and edited by a team of knowledgeable gurus, psychologists, and important thinkers. But then, I've been pretty surprised by what I've torn off for a few days recently. For instance...

Thursday, September 28: "Don't waste too much time playing sports. Your mind is the muscle that most needs exercising."
To which I say: That's fine for me. I'm ninety-freaking-four. But what if some young whipper-snapper has this desk calendar? It's possible - lots of people younger than me have desks. Maybe some well-intentioned parent bought it for a child. Is sloth a good thing to encourage? Is there really no value in sports? Do they think you don't use your mind in a lot of sports? For crying out loud, no wonder all the children in America are fat and lazy and worthless and wind up at useless graduate schools like the one with my name on it.

Wednesday, October 4: Remember, to win is simple: take just one more step when all the others have quit.
To which I say: Only someone with no understanding of sports would say this. And, obviously, that's who we're dealing with here. You could win quite simply in the manner recommended if you're competing in an endurance contest. Certain Real World/Road Rules Challenge events come to mind. Maybe a game of walk-until-you-drop? But let's say someone heeds this instruction and goes to his track meet at school that afternoon, to run the dash. And he and his opponent break evenly from the start, but the opponent, Speedy McFastTwitch, quickly builds a commanding lead and wins the sprint by several yards. The lad who adheres to the desk calendar's advice diligently counts his opponent's steps, counts his own, and then takes one more step than the victor of the race and raises his own hands in triumph. "I've won!" the confused lad will shout with glee. Then, there'll be challenges, fisticuffs, arrests, riots, looting, death of the first-born...you see where I'm going with this.

Saturday/Sunday, October 7/8: Never loan money to a man in a powder-blue tux.
To which I say: But he looked so down on his luck!



Speaking of well-dressed people, it's time to introduce the new Project-Runway and Donald-Rumsfeld-inspired feature of my blog. People keep saying that we need to stop Islamofashion. But really, aren't there more important things to care about? I mean, Islamofashion has its advantages. For one, liberals (and/or libertarians) are always crying about government infringements on their privacy "rights." Well, if you throw on a burka, voila! An extra layer of anonymity! Of course, you can still maintain your individuality while in the grips of Islamofashion. These lovely women are on their way to the student section of the Michigan-Wisconsin football game, during the 'Maize Out':



I'm going to convince Not-Betty to pick one of those up for herself when we're in Ann Arbor. Yup, Islamofashion sure is hot.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Dreams and Songs and Ugh

Sports: It's soooooo nice out today, but I'm forgoing the niceness to stay inside, watching a pair of my favorite teams - the Michigan football team, and the New York Yankees' opponent - trying to keep their winning momentum (momenta? Is that the plural?) going. Still scoreless in both games as I write this, but I bet that'll change during the course of my writing this entry. Updates as we go!

Gerry's Corner: I dream pretty lucidly. Not-Betty's told me that on several occasions, when I've woken her up, mostly by speaking incoherently (yeah, even in dreams!), sometimes by doing sleep-gymnastics, which I learned from Nadia Comaneci, who was The Gymnast during my administration. I wanted to nominate her to be Gymnast Laureate, but the Romanians wouldn't let us have her. Instead, we had to settle a few years later for Bela Karolyi, that walrus.



Sports Update I: Magglio Ordonez homers! The not-the-Yankees lead, 1-0! Honestly, why are the Yankees allowing Jaret Wright to pitch in an elimination game? A quick flip to ESPN reveals that Michigan has just scored a touchdown, too. Today is already awesome so far, and it's only 4:50!

Back to Gerry's Corner: So anyway, my dream last night was sure a doozy. I dreamt that I was a student at my own school. And all the professors and other students thought I should be — Sports Update II: Monroe with a two-run blast! 3-0, not-the-Yankees! I'm not sure my heart can take this. No, seriously — this freaking prodigy, but I don't have anything to prove. I was president, for crying out loud. I don't have anything to prove. So I got a test back and where it was supposed to have a grade, the professor had instead drawn a picture. Usually, teachers will opt for a sad face, perhaps some tears drawn on. Not this one - this one had obviously spent quite a bit of the afternoon getting his demonstrative illustration just so, so the message would be quite clear:



Underneath, the professor had scrawled, "I wish this country had never elected you." And then I realized that we weren't even in the country I'd presumed we were in. Instead, this Ford School was in the Northwest Territories of Canada, and suddenly, all my classmates were huskies and snowmen, and I was so lonely because none of them would sit with me in the dining hall, mostly because it was heated and didn't serve kibble. When I walked down the hall, one of my squirrelier classmates shoved me against the locker and started yelling at me, but I didn't understand him. That's not because he was a squirrel - he wasn't - but because he was speaking Canadian, a language I do not know. Then, he grabbed the test out of my hand and ate it, for sustenance. "What am I going to eat now?" I moaned aloud to myself.

The nice thing about nightmares is that you wake up, though. When I came to this morning, Not-Betty had already left for the clinic, and I was left to suffer through this day alone (until the games both started — Sports Update III: The not-the-Yankees scored again!!!! 4-0!!!! And Michigan scored again! Go Blue!!!). I'm reminded of a song I've had going through my head (I've altered the lyrics):

When you blog your best but you don't succeed
When you type what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't see
Stuck in reverse

When the tears come streaming down your blog
When you write something you can't delete
When you love someone and it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Blogs will guide you home
and ignite your blog
and I will blog to blog you.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

More Blogging!

Gerry's Corner: Hello again, dear friends. I'm so glad to be with you all in this fascinating world of cyberspace. I never got to go to space as president, but if this simulation of it is anything like the real thing, then I've got to admit to some disappointment. I'm not floating, for instance, and my tub of ice cream doesn't taste like freeze-dried cardboard. Maybe the moon landing was a hoax. But I do feel like an astronaut a bit today, because I ducked out of one of my scheduled appointments with my so-called "doctors" so I could blog to y'all. First off, I want to wish an extremely happy half-birthday to my third cousin (twice removed), Charity Nebbe! Happy half-birthday, Charity! Not-Betty talked with her last night by phone to extend the same wishes, but I think my way of doing it - on the internet - is far and away cooler. Charity, according to Not-Betty, sounded kind of tired. She'd just gotten back from...Ford Hall, my new name for the Ford School's new building. I don't care who donated what, it's my place, dammit. Sanford Weill and his wife can have my presidential library on North Campus if they want their name stuck to something. Anyway, Charity wasn't there to do reconaissance for me or anything (though she mentioned that my portrait is up in the Great Room now, which is a relief, and high enough on the wall so that no one can paint curlicue moustaches on my face, which is an even bigger relief). She was there to moderate a discussion between the two candidates for the Michigan Senate seat, Sheriff Mike Bouchard and Senator Debbie Stabenow. Now, you might think that these two would slug it out in the same room at the same time, but apparently, they hate each other so much that they can't even be within several yards of each other without pouncing upon each other and attacking like wild animals, ripping limb from limb with their teeth and cunning. Instead, they went one after the other.



Charity was exhausted, it turns out, from having to listen to the candidates dance around the questions that the panel of students asked. That's right - Charity could ask the occasional follow-up, but she mostly was required to rely on students to do the talking. I mean, can you believe that? No wonder our media is in the pits these days - they censor the real journalists and let children ask questions. "What's your favorite color, Senator Stabenow?" "Have you ever shot a man, Sheriff Bouchard?" "If you could only have one kind of food for every meal for the rest of your life, would your stance on affirmative action be?" That sort of thing. I hope no students show up to my building dedication - ugh. Thank god none of my children are in school anymore. They got smart and graduated. What is a university, after all, but a place for buildings to be named after worthy people? After that, I don't much care what goes on there.

All of my remaining friends who are alive invited me out to a bunch of places that seem extremely fun this weekend - tonight, there's extreme bridge; tomorrow, part-ay at the discothèque in town; Sunday, a snowball-like fight with apples down at the orchard. But you know me - I'm married now, and thus am Absolutely No Fun (it's been that way for quite some time, according to my records), so I'll probably just stay at home on my couch with the shades drawn and watch whatever show is being broadcast in marathon form. Maybe I'll check out the broadcast of Charity's moment in the spotlight on Friday evening to see what she was complaining about. Poor girl - no one should have to spend their half-birthday getting tortured like that (unless they're a suspicious character being held at Guantanamo).

Uh-oh! Heart's acting up - better go actually see that doctor, I suppose.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Pictures Worth More Than Words

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Ten Fingers, No Rings

Gerry's Corner: Ever since my daughter made me a tie out of milk caps, I've loved to make and have crafts-y things. I like to read ReadyMade magazine and imagine the possibilities, if I didn't have the fabulous wealth of my ex-presidency to compel me to not actually make any of the projects suggested in those pages. Last year, I spent a week gluing macaroni into the shape of the United States, and then I painted the electoral map from 1976, weeping a little inside. It was cathartic, I guess. Not-Betty said it was a good strategy, anyway. These days, I'm bottling sunshine in mason jars and storing them on the shelf above the washer/dryer, because I'm juuuuust a little crazy now.

Doing crafts-y stuff tends to be a little isolating. Let's face it: Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore are the only people ever to use a pottery wheel together, and if memory serves, they didn't even make anything good. They just got all hot and bothered about each other, and Lord knows I don't want to see that on the big screen (or even on Netflix). The point is, when I'm making fun stuff out of knick-knacks and doo-dads, no one ever seems to want to join me.



You see, I like company, but most of the people I hang around with aren't any fun. Maybe it's because they're assigned to my protection and well-being, but they never seem to enjoy themselves or express libidinous ideas to each other. Do none of them even dare court each other, I wondered, these young people in charge of my care? Are they waiting until their forties?! I mean, get a move on, kids!



Well, when I asked my employees this morning, was I in for a shock! Most of them are actually in long-term relationships or are engaged or even married! They're just not involved with each other, which I thought was a pity. The free spirit's been kicked and knocked from them like someone's teeth in a barroom fight - at least if both members of a courting couple were working for me, there might be the occasional spark, the odd look across the room at each other - something to help me live another day, something to remind me what I have with Not-Betty. Once you get married, though, you have to deposit your fun chips so that they'll turn into a college fund for the inevitable children one day. When you show up at work, you're all about business. When you spend time with friends, you're all about grousing and complaining and talking about lawn mowers. Do you hear me? You're done living when you get married! It's over! Stop it! (Oops - here comes Not-Betty. Time to sign off.)

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Been a Long Time Since We Rock & Rolled

Gerry’s World: Hello, faithful readers. I’m terribly sorry that I haven’t posted – has it really been since Tuesday? It’s not as though the posting possibilities are some sort of fallow field. (You like that? I totally ripped it off Robert Frost, I think. Either him or Billy Collins, that poser.) No, the real reason that I haven’t had any new material is because my computer’s been on the fritz. You see, last week, I came back from a Suzanne Somers party that I’d been roped into going to. Eager to try out the new products I’d purchased at said party, I mistakenly tried to eat my Thigh Master and squeezed a cup of her burning-hot cinnamon cocoa between my legs. Ouch! In fact, it ouched so much that I knocked over the mug with a mighty swing, managing to spill what was left in my Dilbert mug all over my computer. “No!” I cried, and leapt to its aide, momentarily forgetting about the horrible (but delicious) third-degree burns on my inner thighs. Too late: the keyboard would only function intermittently, with the consonants working for five seconds and then not working while the vowels kicked in for five minutes, alternating like that. I tried everything, but there was no fixing the problem, and I couldn’t really write the blog that way, could I? (You know what’s funny, by the way? My computer thinks ‘blog’ is a misspelled word. It thinks it should be ‘bog.’ Sheesh, computer – get with the times!) So that’s been frustrating, since I’ve had absolutely no way to access the internet – I finally caved today and resorted to using my other computer.

Now that I have internet access, I did a little research on this Suzanne Somers person, and discovered that she might reasonably do battle with Tom Bergeron for supremacy at the top of my irrational hatred list. I mean, she was Chrissy Snow on Three’s Company, which means (a) that I have to hate her because she’s blond and (b) she probably had a hand in the untimely demise of John Ritter. Plus, she stole the title of her published poetry collection from me!



And dammit if her poems aren’t like little, bejeweled treasures. Check out this excerpt:

Shiver with difficulty and make us fall
Why it’s you who begins the slow call
When you have those things which live towards the bottom,
In the lower parts
Of my heart.

Oh, I could just wish her ill! But I won’t, because I haven’t time for useless stuff like that anymore – my focus has to be on this important blog, after all.

Speaking of my important blog, by the way, you’ll notice that I’ve decided to bold some words here and there throughout the entries. That’s to make each post easier for me to read. I don’t want to waste precious seconds editing the whole thing, but if each bolded phrase is correct, then that’s fine. Random sample, you know how it works.

Not-Betty was out this evening, training her newest hire at the clinic. Apparently, he wants to remain pretty incognito, so all I’ll say about him is that he just got a Master’s in social work from Michigan, my alma mater. (Oops! Not-Betty informs me that he was the only guy in the School of Social Work, so I guess I just blew his cover! I really wish I hadn’t also spilled cinnamon hot chocolate on the delete button of the keyboard of my second computer, too.) Because I get insanely jealous, I decided to follow them – my surveillance motorcade took us to a jazz club, which I remember Not-Betty telling me is the sort of place where winos like to hang out. Well, I put on my askance beret and my tight grey turtleneck to disguise my presence and sauntered inside. Now, jazz tends to confuse me – I don’t know what to make of it. Not-Betty and her new friend were whooping it up, clapping before the song was even over several times, which I found annoying. I left before I was noticed – hopefully, Not-Betty won’t read the blog ever again so she won’t know that I followed her.



When I got home, I turned on the season premiere of Saturday Night Live. Is it bad that I’d rather watch Studio 60 or 30 Rock now than good ol’ SNL? I mean, I found myself laughing even less than I did when that rat fink Chevy Chase was on the show. Someone needs to tell that cast to shake things up – they’ve got to be rule-breakers. I mean, in order for rules to exist, they have to be broken, especially if they’re broken in retrospect, almost like the rule was made with the advance knowledge that it would be broken in the future, you know? Watching the cast tonight, I didn’t see anyone who seemed like they were doing any rule-breaking. They were just reading from cards, following a script, smiling in hopes that someone would find them funny. They needed more of a sense of humor! You know who probably has a better sense of humor than a comedian on that show right now? An astronaut. They’ve got to, right? What with NASA’s recent death-causing bungles and everything, and admit it: the International Space Station is kinda funny. And those big suits? They look like Michelin Men up there! Now, those guys break the rules all the time – slipping the surly bonds of Earth, as I believe Reagan said, or planting a freaking flag on the moon. They dare to defy gravity, and that’s how I want my SNL actors to be: like astronauts.

All right, gotta go rest up for tomorrow. Yom Kippur starts at sundown, and the Jews make the day go by fast. (Get it?)

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry