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Power Drunk


Once again, the cover-up proves worse than the problem. Chasing demons, I went one beer over the line last night and had to be publicly revived in the doorway of Wicker Park's only decent place for thin-crust pizza. As public shame goes, it was minor-league. While I fell over in front of a lot of sports bar patrons, at least I did not lie about my personal, taxpayer-funded vendetta against a whistleblower who everyone was ignoring anyway.

We all have our excesses.

In the cab home, I thought about the vicious moment when the situation controls you, when the world dissolves into so many voices and you simply cede agency, knowing the dark impulses you have stupidly indulged will bring about their own conclusion and there's nothing you can do about it. Scooter and I, the immature and well protected, may not feel the consequenses fully enough. No doubt someone is rubbing ice in I. Lewis Libby's face right now, telling him things will be fine if he just leans up against a wall and keeps his mouth shut.

Read more on Plamegate here. Revive your passed out friend by rubbing ice in his or her face.