For Your Primary Pleasure

I've always hated the way presidential candidates are chosen in the primaries, although an explanation would be even more cruel than listening to an interview with The Undecided Voter. Nobody deserves that, so I'll make this short and sweet. Until voters are smart enough to choose their candidates by nationally televised knife fights or cage matches to-the-death, I'm not inclined to pay much attention. For me, as things currently stand, electoral politics is like The World Series, Dancing With The Stars or God. Boring as fuck and everywhere. Since I can't run off to a deserted island and eat conch while it's going on, I'm sticking with the following two sources for my democracy-o-rama treatments.

• Al Giordano's The Field. I'm not a gambler (I don't care what anybody says: mixing pills and whiskey isn't gambling if you know what you're doing), but if I was, I wouldn't place any election bets before reading this guy's take on it. I'd love to know how much money moves around based on Giordano's prognostications, which is ironic considering he could used a few of those bucks while covering the drug war and Latin American politics in underpaid obscurity via Narco News Anyone can be wrong, but Al has a good record, and reading his analyses is a very different experience from the narcotic drone of Bob Scheiffer, Jeff Greenfield and the dozens hundreds of incestuous, overpaid fuckwits eschewing actual analysis in favor of the rusty shiv or the reach-around, depending on who picked up the tab for last night's dinner and "dessert."

• Barry Crimmins is thoroughly disgusted, appropriately cynical, weirdly energized, and fucking hilarious. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll wish you were never born. Oddly enough, I'll shed a tear when Hillary packs up the wires, batteries, circuitry and silicon chips for her humiliating return to Graft Central where she can resume her usual & customary duties doing Wall Street's heavy lifting and giving aid & comfort to mass murderers the world over. She isn't even gone yet, and I'm already missing the contagious joy spreading like warm cognac through my upper torso whenever Barry grinds her up like pork sausage. Which is quite a lot.


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Back in a few short days. I've got some payin' gigs to attend to.