As I said during the last election cycle, Leopold Bloom's campaign platform is still attractive -- even a century after it first appeared:

I stand for the reform of municipal morals and the plain ten commandments. New worlds for old. Union of all, jew, moslem and gentile. Three acres and a cow for all children of nature. Saloon motor hearses. Compulsory manual labour for all. All parks open to the public day and night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy must now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival, with masked licence, bonuses for all, esperanto the universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. Free money, free love and a free lay church in a free lay state.

Sounds better than anything that's being spouted tonight. About as realistic. Oobama should deliver his speech in Esperanto. Isn't he appearing in the Birds Nest tonight? Or am I thinking of some other ancient Greek spectacle? (Toga! Toga! Toga!) Are the Olympics still under way? I didn't get a chance to watch much of that either. Not that I wanted to. All I want is to catch a Mets game on TV -- they're in the penant race, you know. You'd think a network would want to pick up one of their games. Hell, even when I'm staying in NYC I can't tune in -- it seems none of the mid-town hotels has SNY on their TV offerings. The asshats. I don't think I've seen the Mets play since early July. If they don't make the playoffs I won't catch a game until next season.

And this is a way to keep people as fans? And don't try to sell me the mostly-blacked-out cable or internet packages: they suck.

So no Mets on TV tonight. Watched a new show on Food Network instead. They blew up grapes and eggs in a microwave. Cookie and Mojo found it funny.

Also, I'm waiting for more information about Hurricane Gustav. It is such an excellent name. Not quite like the names Bazzukajoe proposed, but really good nonetheless. Really good.

Ah, the first day of school... Not that it feels very much like autumn yet, but it is a cool and sunny morning. And Da Chimpz are all scrubbed and shorn and attired in their new school uniforms. And even a break for me, as Alane hung around a while later this morning to deliver them to the schoolhouse door herself.

Which means I have peace and quiet to get to work. Or to blog, as the case may be.

I understand there is a storm named Gustav that may ultimately make its way to Spumoni South. Bazzukajoe must be delighted: a hurricane named Gustav. Wasn't he offering a few years ago to create the name list for the weather service? He wanted to name some of them after cheeses. Grate idea.

Nyuck nyuck nyuck.

I can't seem to keep it straight... are the Olympic ski-jumpers competing in Denver? Are the Democrat delegates assembling in Beijing? Perhaps I should watch more television. Then again, no thanks. I have enough fund with each day's newspaper. In fact, this weekend I shared with Cookie an article on how some food companies are cutting back on ingredients as a way to not have to pass along their increased supply costs. One such cut-back victim: the McDonald's double cheeseburger.

This month, McDonald's Corp. said it's testing less expensive ways to make its $1 double cheeseburger; already, some restaurants are selling the burger with one slice of cheese instead of two.

This hit a little too close to home for Cookie, a kid who always has to have a slice of cheese on his burger -- and, like his cousin Frylock, cannot tolerate the addition of any other condiments. He thought it through:

"Why don't they take out one of the meat-patties instead," he suggested. "After all, it's called a double-cheese burger."

Alane and I were impressed by the rookie-logic of our junior marketing director, though I told Cookie that if he were to implement such a plan that he would have to be the person assigned to handle customer complaints. Once he heard that, he backed off from his ingenious plan.

Mojo got a new Lego set on Saturday and it's amazing how focused he can be in following the assembly directions. If only we could get him to concentrate on schoolwork with that intensity. Which, of course, is a highly relevant notion now that school starts tomorrow for Da Chimpz. Yes, that's right, endless summer has come to an end. We went to the school yesterday, dropped supples into their desks, met the teachers and wished them luck (the teachers). We didn't stay long because I wanted to get back and eat our macaroni. Yesterday's brilliant macaroni-related brainstorm was to make the meatballs on the grill.

Hey, why not -- it was a warm day, so why put on the oven? Why clean up so many pans? And I heard NASCAR Joe pulled it off on his grill, so I felt the tinge of a challenge.

So there I was, just back from 7:30 Mass, out in my backyard trying to manipulate crumbling balls of meat as they stuck to the hot grate. It didn't go very well. They tasted fine, but I didn't the control I get from my broiler -- wasn't able to get the nice crispy brown shell I like to have before plopping them into the sauce.

Eh, as the cooler weather sets in I'll be glad to have the broiler on each Sunday morning.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, the Geneva area should not be known for wine alone -- at the beverage mart across the road from the lodge we stayed in I was able to procure Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. In a 40 oz. bottle! I got one to have with our lunch on Monday, the carry out order of okay wings, dismal ribs and really bad pizza. Wow, I hadn't even seen PBR in years.

We took a little bit of vacation in the last few days, getting ourselves a room in Geneva, not Switzerland, so we could look at the lake and enjoy the local style. We especially liked the ramshackle roadside bar with the following words painted in red on the side of the building:

Liquor, Dancing

The carnival strip was definitely the hooverville of seaside resorts, but fun to see for exactly that reason. We did hit a local winery, where I tasted the homegrown while Da Chimpz drank the grape juice. Notice the carefully dosed samples on my tray. The stuff wasn't bad, and I even bought myself a few bottle on my way out (suppressing my inner urge to boycott the pricks who successfully lobbied the Ohio legislature to restrict my ability to order wines through the mail -- so now I gotta load up on Big Ass Cab on my next road-trip to NYC, yes by car since the abominable TSA won't let you carry bottles onto a flight anymore).

Despite the spotty cellphone service in Geneva, not-Switzerland, I did hear that Don Vito was hunkering down with the Fatones as Tropical Storm Fay poured buckets of water over the region. I understand storm preparation included the ancient rite of sausage-grilling, done outdoors, natch. Hearing this made me put on the Weather Channel to track the storm's course, but I couldn't stand watching Jim Cantore pining for the storm upgrade. But the only other thing on television was the insufferable Chi-Com propaganda airing on NBC. The Little League World Series was far more enthralling. Too bad for Italy -- those kids have great names.

Anyway, now we're back at Berea-Rose. I patched up the soap dish in the shower this afternoon, meaning it's off-limits until the compound can set. So I took a shower in the basement. In the two and a half years we've lived here no one has yet used the downstairs shower. Until today.

Every day an adventure.

American Airlines is pathetic. Last night's inhuman treatment of passengers started, as usual, when I arrived. The monitors told us our 4:10 flight would be seven minutes late. That was ominous -- normally they don't post a flight's lateness until the departure time has already passed (making it useless to check a flight's status before leaving for the airport).

Anyway, as we sat there waiting, the lateness kept getting updated, pushing the flight's expected departure time further and further toward evening. Then they started switching the gate on us: I think it changed four times in a matter of 10 minutes -- finally settling on a gate that was boarding a Toronto flight (another sign that we'd be even more late than the insufferable American Airlines was letting on).

When we finally did board the plane sometime around 5:30 I hoped to not have to sit too long in the tiny seat (kills my back and neck). But we certainly would sit there for a long time, buckled in and fuming. Would it have helped if the pilot had come on and told us we were 20th or 30th for takeoff? I don't know, because it was only about an hour later that he finally got on to tell us the runway had just been closed, probably due to the thunderstorm that was now arriving -- how thoughtful of American Airlines to time their delays in order to catch further delays!

Hey American Airlines: kiss my garlic ass.

I've decided that my next trip to the city will be by car: I'm not going to spend six hours enduring the indignities of strip-searches and airline delays when for an extra two hours and I can experience the boring autonomy of getting to my destination under my own steam, listening to my own music, and stopping to stretch when I see fit.

Other than travel, the trip was not bad: a glimpse of the extremely loud Dominican parade on Sixth Avenue, a reception at Tavern on the Green, a take-out dish of scungilli (which I've long been jonesing for -- but alas, the mid-town I-talian places don't serve it so I decided to go Chinese), and an aerial view of yesterday's evacuation of the Seventh Avenue subway station (I never trusted those escalators).

It's good to be home, though. I sleep better at Berea-Rose.

Saturday is the one day of the week when I might actually sit around and watch some sports -- just lie on the couch and let the innings crawl by, maybe fall asleep, wake up as the game is ending.

That's summer living.

Except Saturday is also the day of the lamest selection of games. Yeah, there's the Indians, but that's not particularly. I'm looking for the Mets or one of their competitors in the National League East. Every once in a while ESPN will carry a Mets game, but on Saturday's the MLB makes sure no one gets to see anything good. Such crap.

So instead I watched a show about a couple of guys trying to capture a chupacabra. It was a lot like watching a Mets game, in that in the end there was no chupacabra. A couple of channels away some other biologists were hunting the South Pacific for the deadly iricongi jellyfish. That one damn-near put me to sleep.

But I'm up now, off the couch, ready to fire up the grill and make some burgers. Because it's August. And in August one must eat grilled burgers. A lot.

Well, Barack has come and gone -- sweeping into the throughly-corrupt environs of Berea, getting himself a complimentary tire gauge, then high-tailing it out before anyone could ask him if he knew the mayor's real address.

I didn't catch any of the coverage, though I heard he did link arms with the peculiar man who is governor of this peculiar state. Yes, they know what this region needs: a lot more of the same. That'll pull us out of our death throes!

I called Steve yesterday to ask him if he wished he were in Berea for the festivities. He told me he looks forward to the new administration: not only will the economy improve and the ocean levels stabilize, he's pretty sure his bowling score will go up as well.

And right now Steve is reading this, saying to himself, "You bastard, you used my line." Well yes, people who don't regularly post their material to the blog have their material expropriated.

This morning I explained to Cookie how someday he'd have to get a job and make himself useful to the economy. Then I told him about payroll tax withholding. We went out onto the front steps -- to sit on the stoop like a couple of mooks. It's August and the cicadas are singing quite loudly.

Still feels strange knowing that school will start in a few short weeks. Eh, it's turning out to be a fun summer. The other night we caught a glimpse of the fireworks they launched over the nearby Cuyahoga County Fair -- quite fitting in this period of watching the county government implode. Even the normally-execrable Plain Deal has discovered that maybe, just maybe, it can actually devote some resources to covering real news.

Still not quite as entertaining as the news headlines that emanate from the Sunshine State. Man Calls 911 After Casino's Slot Machine 'Steals Money'. Did I mention that Ohio's poor can now play Keno whenever they want?

So yes, I was listening to the O'Jays. While shopping in BJs. Thinking about TooJays (since I could always go for a nice chicken salad sammich).

Tomorrow is apparently when Berea gets to smell what Barack is cooking. We hear The One will be in town tomorrow and he will doubtlessly attract throngs of prObama Ohioans.

This particular nObama voter will be happy enough to just stay off the local roads and sit in front of the computer. Maybe do some tax planning. And read more news gossip about the local party-hacks who've been swindling the locals for years -- great stuff, and comical too because we all know that even if they were indicted the locals would still re-elect them.

Such is modern life in the Valley of Kuzinich. I just hope Secret Service doesn't come around tomorrow wanting to check my tire pressure.

BazzukaJoe called earlier and told me some terrible photos were taken over the weekend. Truly ghastly photos. Of badwater. I do not wish to see them.

He also told me I have an upcoming date. At Times Square. Atop a heap of portable toilets. This I can do.

Sometime after he hung up Ellexa must've gotten hold of his cellphone and found the redial function. She and I shared a somewhat extended telephone conversation that was simultaneously unintelligible and strangely amusing.

Yes, a lot like talking to her father.

Impulsive thought of the following week: I need a new food processor. I much bigger one. For making meatballs. And slicing bell peppers.

So yesterday morning I ventured out to purchase, inter alia, a spanking new pulverizing machine. A Cuisinart (or, as we used to say in XU's dining hall as we sculpted the nasty Saga fare: queasy-art).

First I went to Sears. I spotted the dust bags we needed for a vacuum and as I took them down from the hooks an over-motivated Sears worker came over to assure that I had selected the correct dust-bag type. This annoyed me.

"I wouldn't have taken it down if it was the wrong type," is approximately what I said, though probably not as nasty.

"Can I ring that up for you?" he asked, and I was so eager to not have to talk anymore that I said yes, ring it up.

So I left Sears after only quickly browsing their food processors.

After that I went into BJ's Wholesale. As I walked the aisles the store's sound system played the O'Jays' "I Love Music (Any Kind of Music)." Wow, I haven't heard that in about 30 years, I thought! (And the friggin' song has been in my head since.)

Anyway, BJ's had a nice looking food processor with quite an array of attachments and parts -- I took it. Got it home, unboxed it, ran the parts through the dishwasher, and popped in the instruction DVD that accompanied the documentation.

And lemme tell ya: the DVD was very entertaining. After a section warning me not to pick up the slicing disc by its blade (!) there was a section on how to use the unit to prepare certain dishes. This section was delightfully hosted by a chef -- a celebrity chef! One who I, alas, had never heard of. But he did have a French accent. And a California accent. At the same time. And that lent the video much of its entertainment value.

So I watched as he did some straightforward choppage: guacamole, salsa, stuff like that. Okay, I thought, I can see myself doing that.

Then he said he was going to make meatloaf using the food processor. I was still on board with this, knowing that most meatloaf is infused with various concoctions of minced goodies. And sure enough he minced the usual suspects. But then he upped the ante -- by throwing his meat right into the whirring blades. And he didn't just pulse the meat to grind it and mix it with the aromatics -- no, he went and liquefied this meat, then patted it like liverwurst into a breadpan.

I was not down with this.

Needless to say, this morning's meatballs (floating in the gravy that is still simmering atop the stove) were not mixed using the mechanical violence prescribed in the Cuisinart user manual. The manual has been set aside. In fact, I think I shall promptly return to my normal practice of not reading user manuals, even for new gadgets that turn sharpened steel at high RPMs.