In the Dwindling Days of February
Happy Feckin Leap Year!

That's right, folks. February has had it. Kaput. Fourteen more hours and the little tart of February 2004 has turned its last trick. Desultory Turgescence has some last minute observations:

1. If the collective owned a pub, it would have to be called The Pig Foot and a Bottle of Beer. Of course, this might not go off as well, or mean anything here in Warwickshire but imagine the countryside shack serving bottles of beer head and samples of Meltdown Mowbray Pork Pies:

PORK JELLY 1 pair of pig's feet, carefully washed (don't forget between the toes!); any pork bones, scraps, or trimmings from the meat; 1 onion, peeled and stuck with 4 cloves; a teaball with a pinch each of sage, marjoram, parsley, and a bay leaf (or add loose and strain out later); 1 envelope unflavored gelatin dissolved in 1/2 cup warm water; apple cores (up to 8) -- optional but traditional; 1 teaspoon anchovy paste (I personally add this to the filling, not the jelly, but most all recipes call for it added here -- don't worry, it adds no fishy flavor but preserves the pinkness of the meat); and salt and pepper to taste. Put all the ingredients but the anchovy paste and salt and pepper into a large pan and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil, skim off any scum that forms on top of the water, and cover. Simmer for 2 hours. Strain through a cloth into a clean pan and reduce to about 2-1/2 cups. Season with the anchovy paste and pepper and add salt if necessary. Chill overnight in the refrigerator. Before melting to pour into pie, remove any congealed fat.

2. The Ghosts of War have taken over Haitian Mardi Gras. Isn't it funny how the White House Calls on Aristide to Leave Power yet in all my internet searches, I can't for the life of me find one instance of hipster oneupmanship where Aristide Calls on White House to Leave Power...right. Fight the Power. Anyone up for a game of Fuck the Power. Or, perhaps just a game of FUCK played by the child molesters and pro-war pig board members of Clear Channel for all of us to censor.

3. The sanctitty of Jesus Bush's right wing whining about what constitutes codified man and woman "marriage" in their shady little myopic pig eyes whilst simultaneously, we are rewarded for such belief in faith with neo-Rockwellian stories about madcap molesting priests. The national reports released Friday on molesters among Roman Catholic clergy revealed that nearly 4,400 priests were accused of abuse from 1950 to 2002. Is this what Bush means when he says No Child Left Behind? Or no child's behind will be left? What Would Jesus Marry? A man or a woman? A human or a clone? A Bush or a Kerry? Whose side is he on, anyway?

4. Osama bin Laden has not been captured. Even that is news these days. "He is left-handed and walks with a cane." That narrows it down mightily. How long has he been the FBI's Most Wanted Fugitive now? June of '99? Hey kids, if you come across Osama bin Laden, don't try this at home! Taliban practical jokers are real crazy joes.

5. Oh yeah, in case I forgot to say it before, now we can all: Fuck Bush thanks to Simon Shaw.

6. You can forget about learning English for a living. Everyone who's anybody knows English is Practically a Dead Language.

7. If you happen to be some fat eurocrat in Brussels conducting important EU Business in the next several months, make sure to take in Une Saison en enfer, the Rimbaud festival and expo for a little levity.

8. So, we're wandering around Moreton in Marsh, having a quiet pint in what we think is your average, every day Black Bear Inn when all of the sudden, we meet Jim Steele, former footballer cum pub landlord, not only Southampton hero, but former NASL all-star with the Washington Diplomats. Small world.

9. In case you didn't get enough of him in the French and American Revolutions, you can now read about Immanuel Kant and the Iraq War. Something along the lines of a modern protoversion of Horton Hears a Who. If you ask me, we're all better off sticking to just Talk about the weather.

10. Bid adieu to February with a little Dorothy Parker:

Fair Weather
Dorothy Parker

This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
A marked and measured line, one after one.
This is no sea of mine. that humbly laves
Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.

So let a love beat over me again,
Loosing its million desperate breakers wide;
Sudden and terrible to rise and wane;
Roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide
That casts upon the heart, as it recedes,
Splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.