Bread Dough

_T he day seems to be yet another day of bread making and watching the neighbor shovel his walk in a raging wind. While it has stopped snowing it is drifting, and one would expect not yet quite the time for shoveling. Be that as it may, a nice baking bread aroma would make the afternoon more conductive to web design. It is also fortunate that the gas meter is on the outside of the house so that I don’t have to watch it spin.

I wonder what is up with the people in Clam Gulch or Pickle Hill - some real world version of Northern Exposure? For that matter, is Washington some real world version of Twin Peaks? There are things here that are not covered by the local media…

The Apollonian and Dionysian forces form a vortex over the Centennial Electric Fountain, and like a spiral galaxy; arms of those forces circle about the town in waves. In the dark of night in the dead of winter you feel them deep in your bones. Purplish surges wash over you as listen to your windows rattle in the wind – is it the wind? No doubt there will be a summer in the future, but for now the Dionysian forces hold sway. As the undulations ripple through your home you have to watch that you don’t put your feet down by the couch. You have no idea what will reach out and grab your ankle. It would be a shame to be found in the spring, face down on your Pier 1 oriental knockoff. Stare out your window if you have the courage. Watch the forms dancing there in the hellish glow of the sodium vapor lights. Don’t look. The only thing to be done is to curl into a ball and suck your thumb. If the phone rings – don’t answer, it could be your worst fear, or worse, it could be the Republican Party calling about your support in 20012. They have the perfect candidate to take down the socialist commie pinkos that have ruined your tax breaks.

Just then out in the lawn you spy a figure hobbling around the light pole next to the street. In the brimstone light it looks to have been grafted together out of many parts. It has the head of Dave Duke, the hair of Newt Gingrich, the torso of Rush Limbaugh, and the hand of Richard Nixon with its finger on a red button. It reels in the ghastly light in a tattered white sheet. It is the perfect Republican stitched together for 2012. As it deregulates across your lawn your lawn, you see the phantoms of Enron and the Exxon Valdez leading a parade of zombie banks and auto industry CEOs all shuffling toward your door. Unceremoniously, pumping steroids and screaming in unison, “Bail us out, bail us out, BAIL US OUT.”

They seem to be dragging chains fashioned from oil derricks and tons of carbon. The clatter that arises from their bonds seems to say, “Less government, compassionate aid to corporate structure, save our bonuses.” Behind them you see a teeming mass of Texans driving SUV pickups detailed with enough lights and chrome to rebuild the housing market. You rush to the door to bolt it against the abomination in your yard. Before you can get there your front door crashes open and the revolting creature stumbles into your house.

It opens its mouth and a horrendous vapor is released. It swirls about your room and forms the words, “I am the ghost of the silent moral family values majority. I am here to reclaim your soul for the RNC and all that it represents.” It reaches out and touches your shoulder the room begins to swim. As you lose your grip on reality you see a button on the beast’s ragged sheet – Newt Dukebaugh 2012 Self interest is in your interest…

WHOA, I got to quit sniffing bread dough…