Rising above Bush's flatulence.

Hitting a rough spot in the road here. That's just metaphor, hinting at the sinkhole the whole damn nation's fallen into.

I guess news of our president loving flatulence jokes and farting on new White House aides has me a bit down. Seeing our leader of the "free world" stuck in the developmental stage of his pre-adolescent love of frat jokes, er, "fart" jokes, has me in a new low. (Never forget, our kids are dying while he's asking aides to pull his finger.)

Other emerging stories that have me in a funk are the phony terrorist threats being used for political gain, the continued prepping of us for war with Iran based on the same bogus bullshit as our current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Or the latest "Survivor" brainstorm based on race so amusing to right-wing radio and repulsing to left-wing radio, both giving it way too much air time.

Then there's NPR story revealing how billions of investor's dollars are being poured into oil futures by speculative fund managers in a kind of amnesiac Enron late-90's "irrational exuberance" that's inflating oil prices at our pumps--all in the name of our retirement security. Or the sale of public toll roads in Indiana and Illinois to a Spanish/Australian consortium, supported by our "fart boy" president's enthusiastic endorsement of privitization for cash strapped local governments. It's all been eating on me just a bit more than normal.

One of my favorite blogs has fallen inexplicably silent the past month or so. When I wrote to see if everything was okay, I learned my blogger friend was just too depressed to write. (I was so relieved--to learn she's only as sick as the rest of us of this tiresome ongoing farce of a charade being conducted in our names as legimate government.)

So that is where I've been the past day or two. And, hence, this morning, I took the initiative. I finally picked up the phone and made the call to save my mental health. I made reservations for a few days in Taos, NM. It won't be until October but already the anticipation of our escape has lightened my load. And truthfully, October's not that far away.

So in a few weeks, I'm gonna celebrate making it through another year of insanity with some really good beers, maybe a big bowl of Wanda's Wicked Stew in one of my favorite places.

You know what I love about Taos' only brewpub besides great ales? The crowd! There's something about people who appreciate good microbrews. Maybe it's the spirit of freedom from the Big Three auto-brew makers of industrial beers. Maybe it's just testament left wingers still have taste buds, i.e., are more sensitive to tasteless, thoughtless things, hence, the enhanced appreciation for good ale and their diminishing civil rights.

And then there's the little independent bookstore with the great name I so dearly love, "Moby Dickens." The shop is laid out in the shape of the letter "L". You enter at the top leg of the L. The cashier is at the bottom of the L, enabling her to see both ends of the store, It was there one year with family from out of town that I played one of my favorite tricks.

Arriving a few steps ahead of everybody, I opened the Moby Dickens door and asked loudly down to the salesperson at the end of the room, "Excuse me, do you allow illiterates in here?"

The saleswoman, not to be taken aback by some tourist's question, responded without hesitancy, "Why, of course! We have many books filled with just pictures! They're more than welcome!"

Noticing our interchange had gotten the attention of everyone in the store, I turned to my wife and family approaching outside and said, "It's okay, you can come in!"

As they entered, each did so with a curiosity as to what the patrons found so amusing. (I later explained to them why over some 10,000 Foot Stout ales at our little brewpub.)

By the way, before making reservations for our stay in Taos I wrote Eske's, the microbrewery, to make sure they would be open when we plan to be there. In Taos when it snows, establishments are known to close down unexpectedly and go skiing. I try to anticipate this and reserve before the first snows fall. Taos without Eske's or Moby Dickens wouldn't be quite the same.