The Truth Lies Somewhere In Between ...

Blogs leaning to the left mostly conclude that releasing the recent National Intelligence Estimate should be one of—if not the—most urgent issues Democrats have on their plate, while those on the right predominantly reiterate it's a classified manner and the liberal media is (once again) running amok.

So it was refreshing, once again, to have Jim Lehrer sit down former CIA official Paul Pillar and shoot the shit tonight about what the real story is. And while Pillar said that what, basically, amounts to the most sensational of newsworthiness is what gets reported and helps "give a distorted impression," that final bit of dialogue exchange really tells me just how deep of an impression has been left that the Iraq War's done more harm than good:

JIM LEHRER: Back to the substance, at least as far as we know it at this point, and what Iraqi President Talabani told Ray Suarez in an interview we're going to see in a moment, he said that he doesn't agree with the finding that it increases the terrorist threat on the United States because the terrorists are on all now focused on Iraq. Does that make sense to you?

PAUL PILLAR: No, it doesn't. Well, it makes sense for the president of Iraq to say it because the president of Iraq has to have Iraqi interests uppermost in mind, and evidently President Talabani have concluded, as have many other Iraqi officials, that keeping the U.S. presence there longer rather than shorter amount of time is in Iraqi interest.

But his point about all the terrorists in the world are being attracted to Iraq -- this is the flypaper theory -- and therefore they're going to stay away from the United States, the flaw in that is we don't have a fixed number of terrorists in the world. I think the more appropriate comeback to that was what Secretary Rumsfeld raised the question in another leaked memo, a year or so ago, as you may recall.

JIM LEHRER: I do.

PAUL PILLAR: And the question was, "Are we breeding more terrorists faster than killing or incarcerating the ones we already have?" That's really the issue that is at stake here with the Iraq war.

JIM LEHRER: And if what's been in the press is correct, this intelligence estimate appears to suggest that we are breeding more than we're catching, is that right?

PAUL PILLAR: It does. And that's my judgment, as well.

Unless Karl Rove's supposed routine of having Bush pull a bunny from the hat next month scores big (sniff, sniff: I smell another bin Laden capture conspiracy theory), the Dems would have their incompetence upgraded to 100 percent if they fail to make up ground in BOTH the Senate and the House.

Period.

Adventures In Housesitting

I wouldn't call myself the most responsible person in the world (many assorted cops and bartenders would attest to this), but every now and then my aunt and uncle deem me to be the person they entrust with watching over their happy home when they leave town.

It's not all that difficult a task, really. There's but a single cat who needs to be fed twice a day. Oh, and the mail needs to be brought in.

So I've been spending the week here with the singular goal being not to let the cat die. And while that sounds simple enough, I should add that poor "Cosmo" has one wee little problem: He occasionally goes through periods of constipation. This was fully relayed to me in horribly graphic detail in a two page printed letter of itinerary for the week.

Until Sunday, I never knew cats could have an "emergency enema." Or that they would spend a span of days following such a procedure by, ahem, "cleaning" themselves in the privacy of the garage.

The house isn't any type of drastic upgrade from the folks' place (no cable television, dial-up internet service, etc.), so I've mostly been trying to finish reading a book and checking the litter box for a turd or two.

I had been told that if there was no fecal matter to be found—either in the litter box or perhaps on the floor somewhere—I would need to phone the vet, because the hell if I'm performing the procedure on a cat myself. When the first two days passed without Cosmo having a number two, I began to worry. I considered picking him up, embracing him, and quite literally squeezing the shit out of him.

And then I thought back to what additional food I could feed him that shoots right through me and basically spray the bowl. That food, as I hope you might not have had the horror of experiencing yourself, is of course jalapeno cheeseburgers from White Castle. There's a reason some people call this restaurant's sanwiches "steamers."

I'll make the regrettable late-night deperation decision about once every two years to go through the White Castle drive-thru for what, at the time, seems like an innocent post-midnight snack. One particularly memorable evening after leaving a party or a bar, I placed my order for what I thought would be a "sack" of five or six. Driving up to the window, I was asked to pay something like 20 bucks. "W.T.F.?"

Turns out I must have mistakenly said "case," which is why I begrudgingly shelled out the dough (I was really that hungry) and was handed a gigantic cardboard box filled with probably about 25 of the burgers. Upon returning home, I tried to choke down as many as possible and probably got through about ten before passing out.

I slept fine, but going to work the next day, my stomach rumbled its displeasure. And drinking the second-most effective laxative, coffee, along the way didn't help matters any. Seeing as I was working at a country club that was an hour drive, the journey was unbearable. It's hard to cross your legs and steer at the same time.

Upon arriving (late, I add), I burst into the facility, clocked in, and ran directly to the member bathroom. It was what an old boss referred to as "pissing outta your ass." And the member entering the bathroom after I emerged had to turn away as though he'd just been punched in the face.

So if White Castle has a proven track record for cleaning out my system, it would certainly work for Cosmo.

But on Tuesday, as I began wondering what time I should wait until to call the vet, sure enough, there it was on one of the small area rugs in the garage: sloppy, wet brown goo. Normally, you'd run to find something to clean up the mess and kick the pet across the fucking room for something like this. But I just stood and smiled, placing the phone back on the set to charge, relieved that this might have to be the only "cleaning" I'd have to deal with.

Hey, shit happens.