Heat

We come to these times when there’s a lot of static. When you have to make those decisions that ignore any reality. Really, it’s all just the summer, boiling down those last brain cells until there’s nothing left but debris and bone. It’s the best time of year. Plenty of sulfur and confusion.

It struck Bam Obama too. He was lured into some village for a family interview on, of all shows, Access Fucking Hollywood. His aides (and I’m only assuming here) were beaten to the point of unconsciousness and hidden in the back of Nancy O’Dell’s Nissan Sentra. He came off as cool and relaxed, enjoying a peaceful day with his family.

The next day the Obama Camp went into immediate damage control. For one, Presidents don’t talk to Access Hollywood. Hell, Cher wouldn’t even talk to Access Hollywood. And two, you’re not allowed to be candid and casual after July 4th in an election season. I mean Axelrod, shit, were you just sleeping at the time? James Carville wouldn’t have let that interview happen with head full of mescaline. These are the little things you can’t let happen in this savage battle. And it makes me wonder if the Obama Camp really understands what they’ve gotten themselves into. There’s nothing more brutal and mean than a presidential race.

But these are the things that happen during the summer. It’s hot, you wander around drinking anything you can get your hands on, and then you wake up in some village being asked who your favorite Spice Girl is.

“How did I get here?”

I mean, what the hell is going on? The Ramsey’s have been proven innocent? Did I just slip into some awful parallel universe? Poison Mexican tomatoes. Bad craziness.

These are the questions and answers that climb from the muck of deep summer.