Challenging institutions has become an institution - perhaps the only unassailable institution left. The nation�s media are infested with baby-boomer-era waddle-assed rock critics who dare not criticize obvious crap, lest Nixon rise from the grave and confiscate their Woodstock soundtrack. There is nothing more pathetic than someone justifying a hate rally because it makes a vague distant sympathetic twinge to their college-era hatred of The Man. And it�s soooo PC. By all means, piss on the flag, on preachers, on cops: that�s brave. That�s daring. (I�ll bet that if someone broke into Mr. Manson�s house, he wouldn�t dial 911 - he�d call a critic to defend him. Right? ) I�d love to see a critic attend a concert where the singer pantomimes the assassination of an abortion doctor, or donned kente cloth and blackface & killed a representative of AFrican American leadership to protest affirmative action, and then leads the crowd in a Free McVeigh chant. Then we�d be treated to an interminable thumb-sucker about the deep strains of hate in America. and rightly so. But preachers? Cops? Country? AHHHHH, kill 'em all. Only a Pat-Boone-loving tiny-testes Promise-Keeper would protest, and you know what those people are like.

I agree. I believe we (Mr. Lileks and myself) were twins born to separate mothers (His in North Dakota and Mine in California). We both have a whacked sense of humor, but he cranks out prose a lot faster than I do. This leaves me no alternative than to claim better quality, but I know it's a sham. He gets paid for screed. I don't.

--Baloo

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Next: proving that stepping on a crack won't break your mother's back. Nothing against Mom, but sometimes we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good.

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Oops! Forgot to put a link to the site:

http://www.lileks.com/index.html .

Silly me! Must be the nicotine withdrawal.

The vines want to eat the house. When we moved into Lileks Manor they had a firm grip on the south half of the place; now they�ve drawn a green woody screen over the front as well. The south window of my studio has always been obscured by leaves, and I like that - it rustles in the breeze, provides homes for birds, filters the light. In the autumn it turns russet, copper, bronze - and then the empty branches cradle the newborn drifts of snow. How very lovely. But a few years ago I noticed the vines were appearing at the perimeter of my east window - just a few fingers, nothing much. Last year the vine crossed the entire window, like a time-lapse animation of the growth of the railroads. Spaced every six inches are little sucking hands that grip the perforations of the screen; they cannot be dislodged without a fight. This year I will probably lose all view of the street. The vines will surround the house . . . and then begin to squeeze, squeeeeeze, until the masonry cracks and the floors buckle, and then one night as the digestive juices pour into the bedroom we�ll realize that a predator has been stalking us over the years, waiting, waiting.

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We'rree Baaaccckkk