Don't cry

I had a couple of rants I thought I might post today. One was about Frank Rich and how I can no longer find solace in his column, because even though he articulates with such wit and style the many grievances I have with the current administration, (this week he compared Bush's mishandling of events immediately following Katrina with Bush's mishandling of events immediately following 9/11,) he seems to be getting more strident about it, (he described Bush's speeches as "sanctimonious," his actions as "reckless blundering," his m.o. as "fecklessness and deceit," - with "heartless" thrown in for good measure - and his management of the current crisis, "incompetent, diffident and hubristic") which should make his writing all the more enjoyable to me but instead makes me feel like he's complaining about the same thing over and over and getting more and more shrill because nobody is listening.

Then there was the fact that the newspapers have stopped calling the people fleeing from the death and destruction in New Orleans "refugees" and are now calling them - these people whose future is uncertain because their home has been destroyed - "evacuees," and how ridiculous I think it is that the word "refugee" might be so insulting to people, but then it occurs to me that the plane loads of black people flying into towns like Portland, where they hope to rebuild their lives, would in all likelihood be more easily accepted as "evacuees" than "refugees," and what kind of horrible things does that say about Americans and how we view our place in the world.

But no, I'm not going to rant today. Instead, I will contemplate the simple beauty of spilt milk on a cafe table, brought to you by The Boy: