The Andromedans Hear Your Voice Like Distant Amusement Park Music Converged on by Ambulance Sirens and They Understand Everything

I could pick Herman Cane out of a line-up but I've no idea what he sounds like or what he says. Since POTUS12 will be the first time I've played POTUS as an ever-recovering .06% less-shittierier, I can ask .06% more dispassionately, why the media shit-funnel aimed at Cane now? This sexual harassment story, primed and trip-triggered years ago, why the detonation now?

Market logic suggests the timing is nothing more than the story's maximum return on investment re: eyeballs and commercial dollars - Cain will never be bigger than he is now - but may I suggest, a daydream from my romantic pwoggle heart, that Occupy is scaring the 1%, that Corporate felt a need to whack the cracker hive, turn up the siren of the waambulance of Cracker Victimization at the hands of the Great Satan Liberal media bias, this time spiced with accusations of racist Liberal hypocritical Uncle Tomming, give the hippie-hating a jolt demonizing Occupy hasn't.

Plus the bonus that Corporate, Cracker Division, doesn't want Cain as nominee in POTUS12, can both damage Cain's chances when he's at his peak and blame the whack on Corporate, Pwoggle Division, making Corporates' stockholders happy. Maximum return on investment. It'd be brilliant if it wasn't standard operating procedure. Also, this blog's Official Theme Song Two:

• Deepest condolences to blog bud Agi and his family. 
• Oakland.
• Brad interviewed on Oakland.
• Rhetorical question.
• Towards another anarchism.
• This generation's greatest academic fraud (I say this admiringly) interviewed.
• One percent's defender.
• Sent from an iPad?
• Scaring the 1%.
• Movement campaigns in disarray. 
• Also, motherfucking crackers.
• Also, motherfucking crackers.
• Also, motherfucking christer crackers. 
• Life stinks.
• Things you might have missed.
• Fuck-me-jig: Soccer fans in the Baltimore area have begun receiving an MLS-commissioned survey to gauge interest about a team playing there through expansion or relocation. “We’ve been saying this could happen,” United President Kevin Payne told the Insider. “This isn’t a game. This is serious. This isn’t a bluff. Part of it is trying to understand what that means for our business." United has spent all 16 MLS seasons in Washington but club officials have said playing at 50-year-old RFK is not economically viable. Talks with D.C. officials have shown no signs of progress. Buzzard Point in Southwest D.C., near Nationals Park, has been the club’s primary focus. Previous negotiations, involving Poplar Point in Anacostia and then Prince George’s County in Maryland, collapsed.
• Planet could have gone to St Mary's College.
• My future hell: Four major intersections near the Bethesda hospital along Rockville Pike, Connecticut Avenue, Cedar Lane, Jones Bridge Road and Old Georgetown Road will become construction zones, and a $40 million underpass will be created beneath Maryland 355. Short-term intense hell to make permanent hell minutely less hellish. 
• RIP Tom Keith. 
• Artistic surface, artistic depth.
• Day of the Dead.
• Actually, I woke up with this in my head, added the above theme song as a result:

THE WHITE FIRES OF VENUS

Denis Johnson

We mourn this senseless planet of regret,
droughts, rust, rain, cadavers
that can't tell us, but I promise
you one day the white fires
of Venus shall rage: the dead,
feeling that power, shall be lifted, and each
of us will have his resurrected one to tell him,
"Greetings. You will recover
or die. The simple cure
for everything is to destroy
all the stethoscopes that will transmit
silence occasionally. The remedy for loneliness
is in learning to admit
solitude as one admits
the bayonet: gracefully,
now that already
it pierces the heart.
Living one: you move among many
dancers and don't know which
you are the shadow of;
you want to kiss your own face in the mirror
but do not approach,
knowing you must not touch one
like that. Living
one, while Venus flares
O set the cereal afire,
O the refrigerator harboring things
that live on into death unchanged."

They know all about us on Andromeda,
they peek at us, they see us
in this world illumined and pasteled
phonily like a bus station,
they are with us when the streets fall down fraught
with laundromats and each of us
closes himself in his small
San Francisco without recourse.
They see you with your face of fingerprints
carrying your instructions in gloved hands
trying to touch things, and know you
for one despairing, trying to touch the curtains,
trying to get your reflection mired in alarm tape
past the window of this then that dark
closed business establishment.
The Andromedans hear your voice like distant amusement park music
converged on by ambulance sirens
and they understand everything.
They're on your side. They forgive you.

I want to turn for a moment to those my heart loves,
who are as diamonds to the Andromedans,
who shimmer for them, lovely and useless, like diamonds:
namely, those who take their meals at soda fountains,
their expressions lodged among the drugs
and sunglasses, each gazing down too long
into the coffee as though from a ruined balcony.
O Andromedans they don't know what to do
with themselves and so they sit there
until they go home where they lie down
until they get up, and you beyond the light years know
that if sleeping is dying, then waking
is birth, and a life
is many lives. I love them because they know how
to manipulate change
in the pockets musically, these whose faces the seasons
never give a kiss, these
who are always courteous to the faces
of presumptions, the presuming streets,
the hotels, the presumption of rain in the streets.
I'm telling you it's cold inside the body that is not the body,
lonesome behind the face
that is certainly not the face
of the person one meant to become.