Saturday, December 24, 2005

Doing the Right Thing to An Iraqi Insurgent

The United Nations Human Rights Advocate General, the UNHRAG for short, stood next to CIA Operative #1 in a dimly-lit room. They were looking through a one-way mirror at a man sitting on a metal chair. The man was an Iraqi caught with a beige Lands End canvas satchel containing six C4 plastic explosive rectangular bars as he was driving alone in a beat-up blue Toyota pickup truck on the outskirts of Baghdad. CIA Operative #2 was circling the Iraqi, round and round, walking methodically, staring down at the Iraqi, who was looking down at the concrete floor, his hands jittery on his knees.

“The lights are too bright,” said the UNHRAG.

“The ceiling fluorescents are too bright?” asked CIA Operative #1.

“Fluorescents cause headaches. Can you dim them?” asked the UNHRAG.

“There’s just an on-off switch,” said CIA Operative #1.

“Do you have a pair of sunglasses? Or maybe a hat with a brim. Also, he may be thirsty. When was the last time he had something to drink?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. We gave him a Coke.”

The UNHRAG glanced down at a case of Coca-Cola bottles lying on the floor behind him. “You mean one of those?” asked the UNHRAG.


“Un-chilled, room-temperature Coke? Yuck,” said the UNHRAG. “No wonder he looks miserable. I think you should ask your associate to stop circling our subject. He may be causing him stress.”

“He knows where they store the explosives. And the insurgents do not know we have this guy in custody. This is an opportunity. We must move quickly.”

“The subject is docile and poses no threat. All he has is information, if that. You will have to get it without techniques that we consider unethical. Now where are those sunglasses?”

Maureen Dowd Has A Latin Dream

Maureen Dowd sat in a plush leather booth in the back of the dimly lit bar at the Trump International Hotel on Columbus Circle. She was wearing a tight low-cut black blouse and a pearl necklace with small pearl studs in her ear lobes.

“Can I get you anything?” said the young and very buff white waiter dressed in a black suit and tie, a requirement of the hotel.

“Irish coffee, but put it in a regular mug, nothing fancy, and no whipped cream,” said Maureen.

The waiter nodded and left. At this moment, Hugo appeared at the table, wearing an open white shirt, and dark blue blazer with matching pants. He sported clean work boots and a gold Rolex.

“Maureen, you are here. May I sit?”

Maureen motions to the booth opposite her. Hugo sits down. The waiter arrives with Maureen’s drink. “Anything for you, sir?” asks the waiter.

“I see my beautiful friend is having coffee. I shall remain sober as well. Please, a single espresso.”

Hugo says all of this without taking his eyes off of Maureen. Maureen takes a sip of her spiked hot black coffee.

Hugo appeared younger than all those photos Maureen had seen of him pounding his fists on podiums speaking to enormous government-organized crowds standing in the Plaza Bolivar. Hugo Chavez had survived on a continent where few survive long, and somehow he remained youthful. Maureen noticed his clean hands, manicured fingers, and his very white teeth. Amazing, thought Maureen, as she slurped another gulp of Irish coffee, and then drew her finger across her lips to keep them clean.

“May I suggest that we meet in the rest room. I shall go first. I shall slip into the Ladies Room and enter the back stall,” Hugo says without arrogance or presumption. Hugo touches Maureen’s hand, rises and leaves. Maureen sits there for a moment. She finishes her coffee. The waiter arrives with the espresso.

“We’ll be right back,” Maureen says to the waiter. Maureen rises.

The next thing Maureen felt was Hugo’s soft lips on hers. He stroked her face as they stood quietly in the back stall of the Ladies Room in the bar of the Trump International Hotel on Columbus Circle. As Hugo’s tongue entered Maureen’s mouth.

Maureen sat up with a deep quick breath. She was in her bed, alone, in her apartment. She took the back of her hand and wiped her mouth, as if clear the decks of this weirdo dream. Where the hell did her subconscious dredge up this ridiculous fantasy? Could it be that both Chavez and her hate Bush? Could it be that Chavez probably read Bush World, Maureen’s book? There was common ground. Yikes. Better off to forget this one. It means nothing. That is what Maureen kept repeating to herself. It means nothing, it means nothing, as Maureen struggled to go back to sleep and uncover a more normal dream, like possibly being in the back stall with Warren Beatty, perhaps.

Saturday, November 26, 2005

The Next President Without Clothes

He took a deep breath and stretched his back to get the juices flowing. He was lying on his side, but he twisted his back to further the task of getting up in the morning, a task increasingly made difficult by age. He maneuvered in the California king bed until he was propped up on the pillow, giving him a view of the open door to the master bathroom where his wife just emerged from the shower.

She toweled herself down, standing before the mirror that stretched from wall to wall above the two "his and her" marble sinks. He examined her nakedness. She had grown heavy. Not fat, but just wider and sloppier with age. Not much different from himself, he thought, but he remained convinced he still looked better without clothes than his wife. She had no makeup on, her hair was wet, and as she moved the towel across her body, it bunched up handfuls of lose body mass that did not happen to a younger woman.

His wife placed the pink towel down on the bathroom counter and picked up her glasses, an accessory rarely seen in public today because of her daily, if not nightly, use of contact lenses. She brushed her hair, standing before the mirror, and after she finished, she pulled hair out of the brush and fingered the strands into the flowered waste bucket on the floor. Shedding, is what he thought. This happens as you get older.

He took another deep breath and felt very, very lucky. He had this 'lucky moment' feeling often in his life, when he was elected governor, when he got to speak at the Democratic National Convention, and when he was elected each time to the Presidency. But when Presidencies end, so does the power, generally. Not with him. Because with him, he was lying on a bed watching the next President of the United States of America standing in the bathroom, pulling hair out of her head in the nude. No one else will witness this moment. Historians will write about them, as husband and wife, as the only co-president couple in American history; they will attempt to surmise their relationship, and attribute weight to it, give it gravity. There will be scholarship devoted to them. Books will be written, university courses taught, movies made, plays performed.

His wife walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, still naked.

"Good morning," she said as she walked over to her dresser to retrieve a bra, which she always put on first before anything else. She was bosomy, which he liked, but they had lost their firmness. Age. It sucks. Thank god for his wife's remarkable ability to remain in denial.

"Good morning," he said.

And that was it. No further words were spoken that morning. She was dressed, packed, and on her cell phone before he even thought about getting out of bed. Oh, the beauty of it all, to be an ex-President and to be living with the next President. Why had God so graced him with luck?

Move On To A Jewish Connection

The offices of had a commanding view of the East Bay, broken only by a few eucalyptus trees. The Transamerica Pyramid cut through a blanket of low clouds across the Bay. The window was open, and the warm breeze brought the aroma of eucalyptus with it. There were seven flat screen monitors aglow, each manned by what appeared to be college-age kids. The kids were all unpaid interns helping with the cause. The founders of, husband and wife, were sitting at a conference room table behind an interior glass window. Seated opposite them was Michael Moore, the filmmaker.

"Libby is Jewish," said Moore.

The husband looks at his wife.

"Yes?" said the husband, respectfully.

"Connect the dots. I am in the business of connecting dots. This is an obvious one," said Moore.

"I'm sorry," said wife. "How is his being Jewish relevant?"

"Libby claims to be a neo-con. But he isn't really. Neo-cons have an ideology, a fucked-up arrogant one, but an ideology just the same. Libby has no ideology. But he has an agenda, and it is Israel." Moore said this with earnestness.

"How do you know this?" asked husband.

"Connect the dots. Libby is Jewish. He has contributed to various Israeli not-for-profits, he has been a point man for Sharon, he was the one responsible for watering down Bush's objections to the Israeli wall Sharon is building. You getting the picture? Are the dots connecting?"

"Not entirely, Michael," said husband.

"You could argue that the real purpose of the Iraq war has been Israel all along. That just might be the hidden agenda of Bush and Cheney. Forget weapons of mass destruction. Forget oil. It's Israel." Moore was getting excited by his own assertions.

"Forget oil?" said wife incredulously. "You expect me to believe Bush and Cheney are perpetrating the Iraq war without any thought of oil?"

"OK. OK. So it's a stretch. But think of the angle. You have to think of how it will play. I am telling you there is a lot of sentiment out there in the heartland that Israel is the source of all this burning hate among Arabs and Muslims. That there would not have been a September 11th but for Israel. Tap into it. Tap into that sentiment. And watch the money start to flow in. We can link our websites. I am getting a shit load of hits since Bush's ratings have tanked."

"I do not want Moveon to be accused of anti-semitism," said husband.

"Fuck that. You are exposing a truth. An angle on the truth, a possible truth, a potential truth, a near truth, whatever you want to call it. Make it subtle. Leave the balls to me."

Husband and wife look at each other.

"You do whatever you want on your website. We'll keep your link up. And we will see how it develops," wife said.

"Yes, we will see how it develops," said husband.

"One thing bothers me," said Moore. "Jews wouldn't call themselves 'Scooter.' Scooter is a wasp thing. I am going to guess that possibly another truth is that Libby has been co-opted by Bush and his gang of wasps. What do you think?"

Husband and wife look at each other.

"Keep at it, Michael. It is something to pursue," said wife.

The Next President Without Clothes

He took a deep breath and stretched his back to get the juices flowing. He was lying on his side, but he twisted his back to further the task of getting up in the morning, a task increasingly made difficult by age. He maneuvered in the California king bed until he was propped up on the pillow, giving him a view of the open door to the master bathroom where his wife just emerged from the shower.

She toweled herself down, standing before the mirror that stretched from wall to wall above the two "his and her" marble sinks. He examined her nakedness. She had grown heavy. Not fat, but just wider and sloppier with age. Not much different from himself, he thought, but he remained convinced he still looked better without clothes than his wife. She had no makeup on, her hair was wet, and as she moved the towel across her body, it bunched up handfuls of lose body mass that did not happen to a younger woman.

His wife placed the pink towel down on the bathroom counter and picked up her glasses, an accessory rarely seen in public today because of her daily, if not nightly, use of contact lenses. She brushed her hair, standing before the mirror, and after she finished, she pulled hair out of the brush and fingered the strands into the flowered waste bucket on the floor. Shedding, is what he thought. This happens as you get older.

He took another deep breath and felt very, very lucky. He had this 'lucky moment' feeling often in his life, when he was elected governor, when he got to speak at the Democratic National Convention, and when he was elected each time to the Presidency. But when Presidencies end, so does the power, generally. Not with him. Because with him, he was lying on a bed watching the next President of the United States of America standing in the bathroom, pulling hair out of her head in the nude. No one else will witness this moment. Historians will write about them, as husband and wife, as the only co-president couple in American history; they will attempt to surmise their relationship, and attribute weight to it, give it gravity. There will be scholarship devoted to them. Books will be written, university courses taught, movies made, plays performed.

His wife walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, still naked.

"Good morning," she said as she walked over to her dresser to retrieve a bra, which she always put on first before anything else. She was bosomy, which he liked, but they had lost their firmness. Age. It sucks. Thank god for his wife's remarkable ability to remain in denial.

"Good morning," he said.

And that was it. No further words were spoken that morning. She was dressed, packed, and on her cell phone before he even thought about getting out of bed. Oh, the beauty of it all, to be an ex-President and to be living with the next President. Why had God so graced him with luck?

Osama Thinking of Bush's Urine

Osama sat on the long edge of a four-inch thick dusty and sheetless mattress that was supported by an aluminum cot. A hyperdermic needle was taped to his left arm, another to his right. The tubes that led from these needles ran to a dialysis machine that was powered by a small Honda gasoline generator. The generator clanked and hummed, the sound echoing off the cinderblock walls of the room. A doctor in a white headress stood beside the machine, monitoring its levels and timing the procedure. There was no one else in the room, at the insistence of Osama, who believed that dialysis was a private procedure, much like sex, and that only the doctor, a male doctor, could be present for the act. Osama rarely spoke with the doctor, but the earthquake a few weeks ago had killed one of his daughters, one of his most precious possessions, and he was feeling blue. So he spoke.

"Where is he today?"

The doctor was startled. Other than scheduling the next dialysis session, Osama had never engaged in any talk. The doctor's first thought is that this must be a medical question.

"Doctor Mummas? He is in Kabul," the doctor said.

"No. No. Bush. Where is Bush today?" Osama was looking down at the dirt floor of the room, his bare feet gently kicking the dust up.

"You mean the American Bush?" The words came out before the doctor's brain registered the obvious nature of Osama's question.

"Where is Bush today? He is on a trip, yes?"

"Trip? Well, I think I saw on the television feed that he is in South America." Lucky for the doctor that he is a television junkie. Not for the news, really, but for the American reality shows. He does not understand a word of English, but the reality shows do not require a facility with language.

"Yes. Yes. Bush has his kidneys, you know. They are two organs of his that work." Osama said this without a hint of sarcasm. He was serious.

"I have no knowledge of his medical condition." The doctor thought this was the appropriately professional response.

"His kidneys clean his blood of urine, but his blood remains yellow."

OK, thought the doctor. Maybe the dialysis machine was not working properly. It had been fussy lately, and he was expecting a new one to be delivered from Karachi. Osama must be experiencing some level of blood poisoning that was affecting his thinking.

"Bush the Son is losing, and Bush the Father must feel shame. The Hebrews say that brains skip a generation. Bush got kidneys, but the favor of no brain." Osama started to laugh. His laugh caused him to cough, which he quelled by raising his arm to his mouth, a movement which concerned the doctor because it might disrupt the flow of blood through the tubes.

"Please calm yourself," the Doctor said.

"You know why I laugh? You know why I laugh? I'll tell you why. If the Hebrews are right, then Bush's brain skipped over him to his children, but Bush has no sons. No one to receive the Bush brain. There ends the Bush legacy, with a failed son. This is why I laugh. This is why I laugh. Is the machine finished? I feel the urine is out of me. I feel revived." Osama turned to look at the Doctor.

The machine was not finished, but the doctor was not about to refute the good feelings of Osama.

"Yes. The machine is finished." The doctor powered down the dialysis machine and turned off the Honda generator. The room grew quiet, broken only by the sounds of Osama's sons playing soccer in the yard outside. Osama listened to his sons, and wondered whether the Hebrews were right.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Rove Projects Sex Onto an Aide

Karl Rove sat at the smaller-than-you-would-think oak desk in his office at the White House. Opposite him was Susan Ralston, his aide. Rove had the telephone receiver at his ear, but he was on hold, giving him a rare free moment to be with Susan without having to speak with her or do business.

Susan Ralston sat on a large-armed leather chair nursing a jumbo skim-milk cappuccino from Starbucks. Susan was wearing black slacks, white blouse and a grey blazer. Her legs were crossed, her foot tapping a black high heel. Susan’s hair was stick straight to her shoulders and jet black, which accentuated the big gold hoop earrings. A garnet ‘flower’ broach was pinned to her left lapel.

Rove was thinking this: Susan became Rove’s aide after she jumped ship from Jack Abramoff’s office. Jack was going down, then she jumped ‘up’ to Rove’s office. Then Rove almost sank in the Libby mess, and may still yet. But Susan was safe for now. But he had noticed something the other day when the two of them were with the President. Susan and the President spoke with each other. Not because Susan broke into the conversation, but because the President addressed her. Indeed, every male in a room is drawn to address Susan. She is not only smart, but has that behind the eyes sexuality that she keeps in reserve, like hidden bait. Never flirtatious, but men seem to fall into the aura of Ralston, as did the President the other day.

Karl was getting aggravated with waiting on the phone, so he slammed the receiver in its cradle.
“He is down the hall. You want me to go see what’s up?” asked Susan as she took a slurp from her jumbo Starbucks cup.

“You can’t just go down the hall, Susan. Now that you are in the White House, you have to realize that you can’t just roam around like a cat.” Karl regretted instantly the use of the word ‘cat.’ But Susan smiled.

“You mean now that you are sort of like on probation,” Susan asked.

“I am not on probation,” Karl said. “And by the way, I saw from your call records that you were speaking with Condi the other day. For what purpose was that phone conversation?”

“You peruse my call records?”

“Of course,” said Rove with false bravado as if this is standard operating procedure at the White House.

“No. No. I’m flattered,” said Susan. “Ms. Rice called me. I returned her call. She is interested in filling a position in her office.”

“What position?” Karl was genuinely surprised.

“She said she needed an aide.”

“You are in the White House, Susan. Moving to State would be a step down.”

“I hardly think so,” said Susan.

Karl noticed that when Susan said ‘hardly’ it was loaded with sex. For him it was, at least. He was projecting, he thought. But it still knocked him off his train of thought. Susan stood.

“I am out of coffee. I’ll make certain that you keep that appointment in the Oval Office by lunch,” Susan said as she opened the door and departed, leaving Karl with the distinct impression that Susan Ralston was going to be in Washington for a very long time.

Rove had every intention to keep the Oval Office appointment. But Ralston made it sound like without her, the President would not see him. Damn, Rove thought, he was getting paranoid. Second term blues.

Cheney Gobbles Bush's Fries

The President sat opposite his Vice President in the West Wing dining room. A young man in white pants and a white shirt placed a plate of freedom fries and a veggie burger in a whole wheat bun in front of the President, and a bowl of yoghurt and granola in front of the Vice President.

“Thank you, Bill,” says the President, as he reads the young man’s name off a brass name plate pinned to his white shirt.

“You’re welcome, Mr. President.” The young man backs up and stands near a side table waiting for any further requests.

Cheney reaches across the table and picks up three fries with his pudgy white thumb, index finger and middle finger. He slaps them all down on his tongue and draws them in, chewing with nervous pleasure.

With a mouthful, Cheney says “I knew it would work.”

Bush takes a sip from a straw of Sierra Mist on the rocks from a clear crystal tumbler emblazoned on the side in white with the Seal of the President. Bush nods.

“But we still have to get out before the end of 2007,” says Cheney.

“We’re going to lose Congress in 2006, Dick.”

“Stay on the offensive. Keep talking the talk. Beat them over the heads. The Democrats always find a way to lose.” Cheney reaches across again for more fries, but this time he hauls five into his mouth.
“Lieberman came out for us the other day.” The President has not touched his food.

“Lieberman is irrelevant. Politically, that is. It’s McCain that worries me. He’s fucking with us.”

“Stop, Dick. McCain is a good man. A hero. Hey Bill, can I have more of this?” The President holds up his empty tumbler, shaking it to indicate what he was referring to.

“Certainly, Mr. President.” Bill departs.

“The Iraqis gave us a gift. They are asking us to leave on a schedule. Let’s take it,” Cheney says.

“And if the whole place falls apart because they are too stupid to know what’s good for them, then what do I tell the fathers and mothers of the young men and women who died in Iraq?” The President’s attention is diverted to the arrival of Bill with a tumbler filled with Sierra Mist on the rocks.

“Jeez, Bill, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. President.” Bill returns to his spot near the side table.

“You tell them that America did all it can do, and that what we did was the right thing. We handed the Iraqis an opportunity for freedom, but if they fail to take advantage of it, it does not diminish America’s good works. That’s what you tell them.”

“America’s good works. I like the way that sounds.”

“Fuck how it sounds.” Cheney polishes off the last of Bush’s fries, without touching his yogurt and granola. Bush sips to a gurgle his Sierra Mist.

Laura Bush Has A Google Moment

The small antique Seth Thomas clock read 6:02. It looked quaint next to the sheen of the fifteen-inch Mac Powerbook laptop that sat in front of Laura Bush. Laura was checking her email. George was doing a single Windsor knot with his red and black striped tie. George finished his early morning bike ride a tad late, but he was not about to rush. He had been rushing from appearance to appearance in a whirlwind the last few days, and he was going to take this moment to slow down. So he stood at the gold-leaf oval mirror in the White House bedroom they had claimed as their own.

George never felt at home in this bedroom. It always felt like he was in a hotel, with room service. He couldn’t go down to the kitchen in his underwear and make scrambled eggs and toast. He had to dress to leave his bedroom, and there were always people in the house, strangers, government employees and civil servants.

“George, when was the last time you said you were sorry to me?” asked Laura as she was pecking the keyboard.

“I don’t know sweets. Yeah, wait, I know. Last week when I used the ‘f’ word. I said I was sorry. Remember?” George finished his Windsor knot and turned to look at Laura.

“Yes. I remember. Can you think of another time?”

George located his blue blazer and lifted it off the back of an upholstered chair.

“Laura, you must be thinking of something in particular. What is it sweets?” said George as he put his arms in the blazer.

“This morning. You awoke late, and your first words to me were ‘I’m sorry’, and you hopped out of bed and went for your bike ride. You apologized to me for waking up late.”

“Did I? Well, I guess I did. Sorry about that?” said George.

“See, there you go again. Are you apologizing for saying your sorry, or are you apologizing again for waking up late?” Laura was now looking at George over the top of her half-eye reading glasses.

“Geee, I guess I’m apologizing again for waking up late. I hardly think I would apologize for saying I was sorry. That would be dumb.” George was smiling at his wife, who he believed was the wisest person in his life, a power she rarely abused.

“You know, when you say you’re sorry, I hear ‘I love you,’” said Laura.

George walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. A long one.

“I do love you.”

George then walked to the bedroom door and left, closing it from behind. Laura went back to her Mac Powerbook and surfed to Google. She typed in another ‘f’ word: ‘failure.’ She then clicked ‘I’m Feeling Lucky,’ the link that directs the Google user to just one page. Google sent Laura to her husband’s biography on the official White House website. She stared at the screen for a moment, and then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking of her father-in-law, who had called her yesterday with this internet tip.

Cheney in Pajamas

Dick sat on a large upholstered chair wearing pajamas and a white t-shirt. He was leaning over, his forehead held by both hands. Lynne was watching him. She noticed that the time was nearly 9:00 AM, much too late for Dick to still be in the house. She also noticed something else. Dick was gaining weight and he looked very pale, but with pink blotches here and there on his white arms and his puffy cheeks. Dick usually held up well under pressure, but this time things were different. This time, there was a strange confluence of loud noise everywhere, and yet no one was talking to Dick. No one except Lynne, that is.

“You OK?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Dick, his forehead remaining in his hands, his back hunched over.

“Three more years, Dick. We can make it, can’t we?” Lynne asked, and it was not a rhetorical question.

Dick raised his head and stared out in front of him, staring at nothing in particular, but to Lynne it appeared Dick was looking down a long road.

“Yes. Of course. Just a bad spot right now.” Said without any apparent emotion.

“Maybe you should see Dr. Malakoff.”

“Malakoff can’t do anything for me right now. It’s not a health thing.”

“Richard, you might be thinking this is some larger issue, but it is impacting on your health. It is not worth it.”

“It is not worth it? It is not worth it?” Dick was now looking directly at his wife. “The wheels are coming off. We miscalculated. And now I can’t stop it. There is nothing I can do.”

Lynne walks up to Dick and places her hand on his back. “Things will work out, Dick.”

“You know your history. Things do not always work out.”

Lynne kneels down and hugs her husband.

“You should get dressed. It is not good to stay in the house. Go out and start the day.”

Dick rises and stretches his back.

“Yeah. Go out and start the day. Yeah. That’s what I will do.” Dick walks into the bathroom, leaving Lynne kneeling by the upholstered chair.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Cheney in Search of a Lift

David Addington was in the bar off the main lobby of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC. He was sneaking a shot of Pinch Whiskey. As the thick dark golden liquid hit his stomach, the warmth made Addington relax. Ever since Dick appointed him the Chief of Staff, the mood around the Vice President's office was downbeat, to say the least. There was little talk of worldly missions and grand plans. There was, instead, a bunker mentality eating away at the spirit. And so that was Addington's first task, to raise the spirits and do something rather than close the hatches.

Addington heard a loud thunder clap of hands peppered with cheers. He glanced at his watch Sure enough, the Vice President's speech ended on schedule, to the minute. It appears the speech Addington wrote for his boss received a good reception.

"Another," Addington addressed the bartender. The bartender poured from the unique round Pinch Whiskey bottle that was "pinched" in its center.

"A double, please."

"Flying or drowning?" asked the bartender.

"Why? What? Do I look like I'm drowning?" asked Addington.

"From where I work, it's hard to tell whether someone is about to take off or put a bullet in his head.

The bartender was not joking.

"You know it's possible to be drowning one day, and then suddenly an eagle comes down and swoops you into the sky. You know that's possible, right?" Addington said.

"That's what whiskey does. It swoops you up and then drops you like dead meat."  The bartender placed the bottle of Pinch whiskey on the glass shelf that was lit with a green light and backed by a mirror. Addington could see himself in the mirror, and was now hyper-aware that he was feeling a bit too chatty with the bartender. He tossed two twenties on the bartop.

"Thanks," said the bartender.

Addington walked outside. A female Secret Service officer opened the back door of a black Chevy Suburban. Addington was surprised to see the Vice President already seated. The door closed. The car took off.

"This morning I felt like shit. But you were right. One good speech, a standing ovation, and I am now feeling back to normal." The Vice President was beaming.

"They gave you a standing ovation?"

"They didn't actually stand. You've been drinking?"

"Me. No. Well, yes, I stopped in the bar." Addington admitted the slip.

"I'm not sure I want to go home right now. Lynne brings me back to earth, and I am finding that depressing. Driver, take us to 17th and Pennsylvania. The Executive Office Building, front entrance."

"More work to do?" asks Addington.

"I have a stash in the credenza. I need a lift."

Addington had already had too much to drink. So this was the last thing he wanted.

"Same here," said Addington as it the first drops of rain started to hit the tinted glass of the Chevy's door window.

Thursday, October 6, 2005

An Iraqi Gains The Right To Vote And Enjoys His New Freedom And His Wasted Hope

The year is 2000: I am Shia. I have a wife, three sons and a daughter. I work at a factory that makes plumbing fittings. My boss is Sunni. He makes more money than me. Most Sunnis make more money than me. It is not fair. But my boss is good to me. I make enough wages to feed my family and pay the rent on the small apartment we have on the outskirts of Baghdad. My sons are 16, 12 and 10. My daughter is 9. Each of my sons goes to a school where they get technical training and conduct religious studies. My daughter also goes to school, separate from my sons, but she is receiving instruction in languages and math. My daughter is learning English, and she speaks it better than anyone in my family. My wife keeps a very clean home. We have one car, which I drive to the factory, but my wife uses the car on the weekends and the evenings. Some of my Shia friends think I should not let my wife drive, but they see that she is a better driver than me, and is careful and uses it to go marketing and do other shopping. We are sometimes visited by Saddam's police, to check on us, to make certain that we are not doing anything that would be considered against the government. We did not mind these visits so much because we were not doing anything we shouldn't be. But some of my Shia friends were killed by Saddam. But then, they were doing things that Saddam did not like. My wife and I agreed to just raise our family and not get involved with politics so that we would be left alone. All of my Shia friends hungered for the day when we could get rid of Saddam and his police. But it was to be far in the future, and we did not think about it everyday.
The year is 2008: I am Shia. I have a wife, one son and one daughter. My two oldest sons were killed in a bomb. I do not work at the factory anymore because no one is buying plumbing fittings from the company where I worked, not to mention the fact that my boss was killed by his fellow Sunnis for assisting the Americans. Most plumping supplies are now imported. I do not have a job, and live from day to day relying mostly on certain charities from the Shia mosques. My sons were killed in separate bomb attacks. First it was my middle son. Then my eldest. This all occurred after the Americans came and liberated us from Saddam. My wife refuses to leave the house. She is afraid. I go out to get food and other essentials. My daughter stays home with her mother. And my son accompanies me on my trips to the mosque and the market. We try to travel in such a way so that if a bomb goes off, only one of us would die rather than both of us. My wife and I are very confused by everything. My wife and I enjoyed going to the polling booth and having our finger dipped in ink. But that was months ago. I am glad I have my new freedom of speech and freedom to vote. Democracy has brought hope for the future. But I no longer remember what that feeling of hunger to free ourselves of Saddam was like. In fact, I can not even think about yesterday or tomorrow because I am so worried about the next minute or the next hour. And if I cannot think about tomorrow, then hope is wasted.

Thursday, August 4, 2005

Pamela Anderson Meets Nicole Ritchie In The Health Club Shower Room

Pamela Anderson stepped out of the shower at the health club in Santa Monica, California. It was almost midnight, and Pamela started to make it a habit to come to the health club in the evening rather than do the party thing. Pamela's new marriage to Kid Rock re-inspired her to get the body in shape. She was turning forty next year, and this milestone was sitting on the horizon like a looming set of double doors with a butler welcoming her to old age. The thought of "old age," of being elderly, was a thought she had only when she focused on her liver. Pamela had struggled for many years with the hepatitis C virus she got from sharing a tattoo needle with her former husband Tommy Lee who apparently never told her that he had the dreaded liver virus. The virus had ravaged Pamela's liver for over a year and a half, but her many medical treatments had seemed to get the virus under control, though Pamela knew it could reveal itself again at anytime. It was the hepatitis C virus that first gave Pamela a glimpse of "old age," of death, and she worked hard to distract herself from these thoughts. Her many breast enlargement surgeries and re-arrangements had been her primary distraction.
As she stood by herself late at night at the Santa Monica health club with a white towel in her right hand, she faced the floor-to-ceiling mirror and examined her naked body. It was very tan, a tan more pronounced from the stark tan lines formed by the very skimpy bikinis she routinely wore. Her breasts heaved forward, unnaturally to anyone's eye, but to Pamela they were a thing of youth and beauty. Pamela's very round honey-dew-melon-sized glands were supported entirely by the latest technological implants medicine could muster. They were bulbous and bursting as if someone had blown them up like balloons, one more blow would make them explode. To many, Pamela's breasts were more disgusting and an oddity than a thing of female beauty, but to Pamela they translated into adoration and money. Pamela couldn't act. Pamela did not have any employable skills. All she had was her body. Pamela had been told she was beautiful and her body was nearly perfect, but the early-in-her-life breast surgeries had forced Pamela to return to the plastic surgeon time and time again to re-jigger the aging and sagging bags of flesh, and with each time, the breasts were stuffed with larger and larger implants. But hell, so what, she still looked great for being just shy of forty years old.
As Pamela held her white towel in her right hand, dangling to her side, she examined her five foot seven inch frame, the muscles, the shapely hips, the long blond hair, the biceps and strong legs. She was a thing of beauty. Yeah, OK, so the breasts were more a matter of medical science than hard work at the health club, but Pamela's mission was to beef up her muscles to balance out the weighty mammary glands that sometimes looked like they dragged Pamela down. It bothered Pamela that she no longer could sleep on her stomach because of her breasts. In fact, she had trouble sleeping on her side. She had to sleep on her back, which, according to Kid Rock, caused her to snore at night with her mouth open. Tommy Lee never told her that, which is probably because Tommy Lee was out cold from all the drinking and drugs. But Kid Rock apparently loved her enough to watch her sleep, even though it horrified Pamela that the beautiful Pamela Anderson snored.
At that moment, Nicole Ritchie walked in, stark naked, holding a towel, ready to take a shower. Nicole was barely more than a skeleton, weighing in at a mere 83 pounds, a number Nicole just read off the scale in the health club. It was a goal of Nicole Ritchie to get down to 80 pounds, and she had a big smile on her face as she walked up to Pamela Anderson, facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror, holding her towel in her left hand. Nicole looked at herself in the mirror as she stood to Pamela's left. Pamela looked at Nicole's naked body in the mirror. Both of them standing in the nude, examining each other in the mirror, alone in the Santa Monica health club shower room.
"I didn't know you belonged to this club," said Pamela.
"I don't. I have a guest pass. I am trying out a few weights," said Nicole.

Pamela Anderson glanced at Nicole Ritchie's naked body. Nicole was holding the health club white towel in her left hand. It almost appeared as if the towel had more weight and substance than Nicole. To Pamela, Nicole appeared like a skeleton dangling from a medical school classroom. The only difference between the skeleton and Nicole was that the skeleton is not inherently disgusting. Nicole Ritchie's body, if that is what you could call it, was so wasted, it was as if someone had spray painted her muscles on, and then spray painted again Nicole’s skin. There was virtually no meat on Nicole Ritchie. The only thing preventing Nicole from getting thinner were the actually bones themselves. Pamela wondered how Nicole could even stand, or her heart pump. There was no room for any internal organs. At that moment Pamela noticed that the veins in Nicole's neck were filling with blood and then disappearing, and then filling again and then disappearing. Nicole's inner circulatory system was clearly visible through silk-thin skin. There was no muscle, Pamela concluded, but for the working heart muscle, which Pamela was certain would not survive Nicole Ritchie's sick starvation diet. She gave Nicole maybe a few months unles she got some kind of intervention. Does anyone love this poor thing?
"Did you say you were doing weights?" asked Pamela.
"Yeah," said Nicole, whose left leg buckled briefly, causing Nicole to almost stumble. But Nicole was able to recover using the few hidden inner muscles or bones to right herself.
Nicole Ritchie lifting weights, thought Pamela, was not possible. Nicole could hardly hold the bath towel.
"Weights, huh. Like what are you lifting?" asked Pamela.
"Oh god, I'm not lifting them. I just look at them," said Nicole as she kept examining herself in the mirror, with this haunting smile, almost dreamlike, the kind of smile you might see on a person who had accepted death and was about to shut their eyes and say goodbye.
Nicole just looks at the weights. Did Pamela Anderson hear that correctly? Wasn't there anyone at the health club to help this poor sick thing? Nicole was no longer a human female. In fact, Nicole Ritchie had no breasts, no distinguishing characteristics or body parts that would indicate sex or even species at this point. Nicole Ritchie was a specimen for an anthropologist dusting off bones in the desert. Pamela had remembered the cute little Nicole standing next to the Paris Hilton on that TV show back when Nicole was the pudgy one. She was adorable then. Now Nicole Ritchie was harder to look at than the Elephant Man or Michael Jackson. Pamela decided to suggest a late-night snack, but she would tread gingerly.
"You want to go to a Starbucks, Nicole? There's one right around the corner," said Pamela.
"Oh, no. No. I 'm going to take a shower. I need to take a shower and clean off the sweat I have built up. I smell. I have this odor. Sweat odor," said Nicole in her dream-like state.
Yeah, she had an odor alright, a sickly odor of death, as if the bacteria in what was left of Nicole's intestines had already started feeding on her innards as death meat. At some point soon Nicole would blow up into a death gas ball caused by the chewing bacteria inside her.
"I have to go. Take care of yourself, Nicole. Take care of yourself," said Pamela Anderson as she turned and walked out of the shower.
Nicole Anderson did not say goodbye; she did not say anything. But Nicole did drag herself to the shower and struggled to turn the shower knob on. But the force to turn the shower on was too great for her. So Nicole Ritchie just stood in the open shower stall standing under the drip of water that occurred every few seconds from the shower head. But given Nicole Ritchie's bony existence, that was all that was necessary. At least that is what Nicole thought as she smiled and licked the shower water off her lips, one drip at a time.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Jessica Simpson Chooses Islam Over Kate Moss

Jessica Simpson stood at the window of the one of the largest public relations firms in the world that specialized in celebrities. It was the forty-fourth floor facing north, and Jessica could see Central Park in Manhattan over the tops of the residential buildings lining Central Park South. Jessica was wearing a conservative dress, cut just above the knees with pumps. The dress was modest. And everything was black except for the white pearl necklace and pearl studs in her ear lobes. He hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and her face was glistening clean, her skin as smooth as a baby. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was favoring her left leg, her right knee very slightly bent.
Behind Jessica sat Harvey. Harvey was fat, maybe about 270 pounds, and it was mostly soft flabby fat, not football or muscle fat. Even though the air conditioning was blaring on this hot summer day, Harvey was sweating. In fact, Harvey was always sweating, as if his body was trying to cool off in the heavy coat of adipose that covered it from his neck to his toes.
"I just don't understand it," said Jessica.
"She is interesting, Jessica, because she is bad," said Harvey.
"She's a drug addict, a sloppy slut that hangs out with drug addicts. She is unhealthy. She's constantly smoking. Frankly, I think she is disgusting," said Jessica.
"And yet she has multi-million dollar modeling contracts," said Harvey.
"I'm doing OK," said Jessica.
"People think you are stupid. People do not respect you like they respect Kate Moss," said Harvey.
"They don't respect Kate Moss," said Jessica.
"She has weight because she is bad. You have no weight because you are good. With weight comes respect," said Harvey.
"So how do I get weight?" asked Jessica.
"Well, you are not going to Harvard to get a degree. You do not compose music. You are not a published author. So the only thing left is for you to be bad. In some way. To be bad in some way," said Harvey.
"Forget it," said Jessica.
"You came to me for a consultation. This is my business. I now how the public thinks. They want celebrities that are both strong and weak, but somehow survive and still look good. The public thinks this is character, that it gives character. They want the scars to be there, and yet they want you to survive," said Harvey.
"Can I get scars without being bad. I mean not real scars. The symbolic ones you are referring to," said Jessica.
"How about a photo shoot that shows a possible bad side without you really being bad," said Harvey.
"I am not doing pornography," said Jessica.
"No porn. But something else. Something with weight,' said Harvey.
"Something with style," said Jessica.
"Maybe a photo shoot with American Marines. You dressed with class, not slutty. And the Marines dressed in full uniform,' aid Harvey.
"That sounds good," said Jessica as she turned to face the fat Harvey.
"I'll make some calls," said Harvey.
"But it would have to be real Marines. Not actors," said Jessica.
"Of course. Otherwise it wouldn't have weight," said Harvey.
“I’ll wear an American flag,” said Jessica.
“Madonna already did that,” said Harvey.
“I’ll wear red, white and blue colors,” said Jessica.
“Christina Aguilera just did that, along with like forty other people. Why don’t you wear the Iraqi flag, and then also dress like a Muslim woman,” said Harvey.
“What? In one of those sheets?” asked Christina.
“It would be controversial, which adds weight. Plus, you would show how a woman can be sexy in one of those headscarves, a hijab,” said Harvey.
“I wear scarves,” said Jessica.
“It’s more than a scraf. It wraps around your neck and can go down your shoulders. Maybe we can bang off a few shots with you just wearing a hijab,” said Harvey.
“If it’s not pornographic,” said Jessica.
“We would not show anything. That’s the point,” said Harvey.
“People might hate me,” said Jessica.
“The more hate you get from one sector, the more love you will get from another. And you will not apologize to anyone. That is weight,” said Harvey.
“Okie dokie,” said Jessica.
As the word weight came out of fat Harvey's fat lips, Jessica could only think that she was taking advise from someone nearly as disgusting as Kate Moss. But then, this was not her business. The advice sounded good. And that is what she wanted to remain: good.

Jessica Simpson Accepts Being Worthless

Jessica Simpson sat on a couch. The lights were set low, and there were several fat candles flickering yellow light in the room that was painted and dressed in earth tones. Some kind of new age music was playing softly. Jessica could not make out any discernible melody, but it did feel comforting, sort of. Jessica's left leg was draped over her right knee and she was air tapping her left foot that was holding a black high heel. Her black skirt was cut short, and her blue tank top was a tad too tight. Her palms were placed on the couch on either side of her thighs, and her blond hair was pulled back in a pony tail.
"You have come to talk about the same issue again?" asked Dr. Brimo.
"Yes," said Jessica.
"Go on," said Dr. Brimo.
"Well, it's the same thing. You know," said Jessica.
"Jessica, you must articulate your feelings," said Dr. Brimo.
"You're going to make me say it. OK. OK. I feel…I feel like I am worthless," said Jessica.
"Worthless. This is a word you have not used before," said Dr. Brimo.
"I mean, think about it. What do I do? Am I creative? Am I an artist? What am I?" asked Jessica.
'I cannot answer that. But clearly society has deemed you worthy of something. Your income would suggest that," said Dr. Brimo.
"Yes. Yes," said Jessica.
"What was your income in calendar year 2005?" asked Dr. Brimo.
"Oh, god. I don't know. Maybe -- I don't really know," said Jessica.
"You must have some idea. Did you buy any real estate in 2005?" asked Dr. Brimo.
"Yeah. How did you know? I bought a house in Pacific Palisades, and one in Hawaii. The one in Hawaii is really nice. Right on the ocean with a beach. There are like a bunch of palm trees on the beach. Very private," said Jessica.
"OK. This suggests to me that you earned a good income last year," said Dr. Brimo.
"This year, in 2006, I bought an apartment in London and a small condo in Manhattan," said Jessica.
"So we can infer from this that you are doing well," said Dr. Brimo.
"Yeah. I think I made like a little over thirty million in 2005," said Jessica.
"That much. Jeeez. I mean, well, that is a large amount of money," said Dr. Brimo. The doctor was surprised by the size of the income.
"How did you earn this money?" asked Dr. Brimo as he cleared his throat.
"That's the thing. I don't really know. I mean I do music, I do concerts, I act a little. I am in all the magazines like on a daily basis. God knows why. And I make a lot of money. So this should make me happy, right? But I feel worthless," said Jessica.
Dr. Brimo re-adjusted himself in the large upholstered chair as he continued to absorb the fact that this young woman with little or no talent was raking in thirty mil a year.
"You must be very talented, Jessica, if you are making that kind of money. Your feeling of worthlessness must be coming from some childhood experience, perhaps. Not from any lack of talent today," said Dr. Brimo.
Brimo was still grapling with the talent-free high-income connection. Thirty mill because she has a nice body, can sing at a high school prom, and has a pleasing face? Is that all it takes?
“So again, you must be talented. The money represents that,” said Dr. Brimo.
"You think?" asked Jessica.
"But I think that you need to see me more often. Maybe twice a week. Your feelings of worthlessness can grow worse to the point of, well, I don't want to use the word, but worthless notions can lead to suicide," said Dr. Brimo.
"Oh no. I would never do that. But I travel around too much to see you twice a week," said Jessica.
"You will need to put me on the payroll, and I shall come to wherever you might be. I would be willing to be picked up by a car service and fly like on one of those Net Jets, and visit you wherever that might be. These are the sacrifices I will make for you," said Dr. Brimo.
"Geeee, thanks. OK. So are we done today," said Jessica.
"Yes," said Dr. Brimo.
Jessica stands and pulls down her short skirt which had ridden up her legs as she was sitting.
"So thanks again. I feel better already," said Jessica.
"And you should know that you feel better not because of your income, but because of what we talked about," said Dr. Brimo.
"Of course. I got to run. I am doing a talk show today,” said Jessica.
“Really. Talk about what?” asked Dr. Brimo.
“I don't know, talk. Just talk stuff. You know what I mean," said Jessica.
"Yes. I know what you mean," said Dr. Brimo.
"Toodles," said Jessica as she turned and left through the large polished oak door. Dr. Brimo closed his note pad which contained absolutely no notes.

Monday, July 4, 2005

A Letter From Osama Bin Laden

My name is Osama bin Laden.  You have heard of much of me in recent months, and your President and your news media has successfully demonized me in your eyes.  I am hear to tell you that I am no demon, and that I am not the “evildoer” that you so wish to believe.  First, let me clear up a few simple facts.  I am most definitely responsible for financing, planning and approving the airplane attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.  September 11th, 2001 changed the United States and the World, and this is something in which I feel great pride.  Yes, I know many people died.  You call them innocents.  I make no such distinctions.  Humans are humans, whether they spread the cultural hegemony of the West with a rifle on their shoulder or a can of Coca Cola in their hand, they are all game in my quest to rid the world of them.  Indeed, I believe the can of Coca Cola is more dangerous than the gun.  You call me evil.  I do not recognize myself as evil.  And if evil has no such self-recognition, can such a person truly be evil?  I believe to the fleshy core of my soul that I am doing good, that I spread the works of God and will contribute to making this great earth of ours a planet where Islam can flourish and give people the peace, strength, self-joy and contentment that it has me and many other millions.  Islam is a great and grand religion, but there are many who claim that Islam can be and should “modernized.”  I do not believe in this thing called modernization.  Modernization and pluralism is a corruption of the Koran and the Islamic life.  I have no goal to rid the earth of non-Islamics.  I can live on this planet with people who do not follow the Islamic life.  But these people must remain on their own land.  The earth is split between holy Islamic land and non-Islamic land.  Islam is pure and for a man and his women to achieve the purity of Islam in their lives, they must not be poisoned by the false notion of pluralism and materialism and all the Western ideas that have become a cancer on much of the earth.  I am currently under siege.  I am on the move.  My body will probably die soon, but my soul will go immediately to heaven where I will be rewarded for the deeds I have done.  You can kill me….you can kill my infra-structure and my organization, but this means nothing.  There are thousands upon thousands of Islamics schools around the globe that teach pure Isalm, teaching that to rid all lands of impure-Islamics and Westerners is a duty that they must all oblige themselves.  It is their life work.  You cannot fight this.  America is proud of its freedom of religion.  Well, it are those freedoms that permit us to raise a generation of pure-Islamics.  You cannot stop this.  You will fail, in the end.  Killing me will gratify you, and you will again grow lazy and again you will bend to the will of those who insist upon civil rights and constitutional freedoms.  A little quiet gives us more time for more teaching.  And you will even dismiss this missive that I write as some kind of last desperate plea by a man who mad or evil or desperate.  Little do you know that I am very content, very happy.  I have started something.  I have changed the world.  I am the first domino that has fallen.  Pure Islam will survive, it will prosper, it will spread, and there is nothing you can do about it.  God is great, and he is with us.  The Koran says so.  That is all I need.  Enjoy your televisions and sports utility vehicles and cheap gasoline and large homes and backyards and children’s toys while you can…it is a false joy, an empty joy.  I have little or nothing.  Sure you say I am aq multi-millionaire.  In truth, I have access to much wealth…but I use that wealth to do the work of Islam, not to fatten my closet with stuff.  You are into stuff.  I am into God’s work.  I think that sums it up.  I think that indicates who will win in the end.  I pity you as you laugh at my death.  But do I feel sorry for you?  No.  We kill a cancer.  We do not show it sympathy.  Good bye, and from on high, I shall look down on all of you in hell.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Sienna Miller Studies Kate Moss To Play Edie Sedgwick

It was 2:07 AM Sunday morning in June on one of the club-heavy blocks of 21st Street in Manhattan. The interior design was done in a cheap middle-eastern theme, the cut corners in money spent was hidden by the dim light. There were about sixty people dancing and drinking, lying on couches, passed out on cushy chairs, smoking tobacco and lots of other agricultural products, and eating the constant service of Ritz crackers with cream cheese and red caviar. The four bartenders were women, young, maybe not even of drinking age yet, and all dressed casually but smartly. Two blonds, one brunette and one red head.
"Did Kate Moss just walk in?" said the red head.
"Yeah. She's friends with Sienna Miller," said the blond.
The riot of noise, the bustle of bodies and the chemicals in the arteries were enough to keep Kate Moss from being noticed by all except the two alert bartenders.
Kate Moss was wearing her usual large sunglasses and was dressed as if she just spent a night under the Brooklyn Bridge with some winos. But then, this was one of the Kate Moss looks and so the bartenders did not take notice of the fact that Kate was strung out. She was on her ninety-second cigarette of the day and she walked briskly through the crowd and touched the shoulder of Sienna Miller as she passed. Sienna turned and saw Kate glance back at her as Kate walked into one of the bathrooms in the back of the club.
"I need to go to the bathroom," said Sienna Miller to Jude Law who was holding a bottle of champagne and had been talking to a friend that no one seemed to know the name of.
"Sure," said Jude Law.
Sienna Miller was wearing a black short skirt and white blouse with socks and hiking boots, which made Sienna's legs seem even longer than they were. It was a combined upscale-downscale look, as if she were getting out of a limo to walk a mountain trail.
Sienna walked straight into the bathroom after she asked one of the body guards to keep others out.
She found Kate Moss with her butt leaning on the black marble sink counter, her legs crossed, smoking and very fidgety.
"So glad you came," said Sienna.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't really have the stuff," said Kate.
Sienna noticed that Kate's hair was matted, greasy and disheveled. There was a small spot of blood on Kate's left arm. It was just the look Sienna had gone for when she played Edie Sedgwick in the feature film Factory Girl which was currently in post production.
"Do you have a cigarette. I need a cigarette," said Kate Moss.
"Kate, you're smoking a cigarette already," said Sienna.
"Oh. Yeah," said Kate. Kate then throws the cigarette down on the floor.
"I want another one. OK. Is that OK with you," said Kate.
Wow. This was exciting. Kate Moss’s nervous and brain-drowned behavior was always an inspiration for playing a drugged out, fucked up girl, which is what Edie Sedgwick was, bottom line. Yeah, Edie was rich, but money did not really make a difference when smack was flowing in the veins.
"Sure, you can have a cigarette," said Sienna. Sienna pulled out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes and was about to pull out one when Kate Moss grabbed the whole pack, pulled two out, lit both of them with a Bic lighter and handed one back to Sienna.
"Thanks," said Sienna as she took the cigarette and took a puff.
"I said I was sorry. OK?" said Kate.
"OK. OK. So you didn't bring the stuff," said Sienna.
"No. No. I did. I did bring it. I just--I just did it myself, OK. You got that. I did it myself," said Kate.
"All of it?" asked Sienna.
At that moment Kate Moss seemed to turn to rubber, her legs buckled and she fell to the floor, slowly, but she fell just the same, somewhat breaking her fall with the bony arms and splinter hands and wrists.
Sienna watched this as if a spectator. It was almost a beautiful thing to watch as Kate Moss collapsed like the Wicked Witch of the West. But then it struck Sienna Miller that Kate Moss was unconscious.

Sienna Miller kneeled down with an American Spirit cigarette in her mouth and pulled the lit cigarette out of Kate Moss's open mouth. Kate Moss was lying on the tiled floor of the club's bathroom, her legs out straight, on her back with her head turned to the side. Moss's eyelids were partially open. Sienna thought that Kate must sleep with her eyes like that. Sienna touched the dried bloody spot on Kate Moss's left arm. It was over a major vein in an area with suspicious scars. The small shoulder bag that Kate Moss had brought in with her was lying to Kate Moss's right side. It was brown leather, with a fat zipper that ran along the top. The zipper was open. Sienna cupped her right thumb under the zipper and peaked into the bag. There were lose cigarettes in the bag as well as a plastic bag of white powder.
So, Kate Moss did not do it all. She had some left. Kate just did not know how to control her drug use. Sienna learned about uncontrollable drug use when she played Edie Sedgwick in the film role of a lifetime. The film, Factory Girl, was in post production, and it was a wild shoot. To play Edie Sedgwick, Sienna Miller decided to do a little research. But it was difficult to dig into Edie Sedgwick's character because everything there was to know about her was all covered, under the flowing liquid of drugs and booze and the dark haze of tobacco smoke. So, Sienna thought, the best way to be Edie Sedgwick was to do as Edie Sedgwick did. And it was Kate Moss that obliged. Good old Kate Moss. She helped Sienna get into acting mode with a good supply of all the drugs that Edie had done. And Sienna Miller took a cue from Nicholas Cage when he played that drunk character in Leaving Las Vegas. Nicholas actually got drunk while playing the part, and won an Academy Award for it (getting an Oscar for drinking heavily !). So Sienna would do drugs when she played Edie Sedgwick. No one knew. Or at least Sienna believed she successfully hid her drug use during filming; running to her trailer, or actually at times stumbling to her trailer, was an indication to everyone that she was 'in character,' not that she was hiding anything. And Sienna thought that she would try it once more tonight for old times sake by inviting Kate Moss to Jude Law's little Manhattan party. Kate was in town and the girls spoke on their cell phones about shooting up in the bathroom. Guess they weren't going to shoot up together with Kate Moss lying on the tiled bathroom floor unconscious.
Suddenly it occurred to Sienna that she should check Kate's pulse. Sienna never did this before, checking a pulse, that is. Sienna's pulse though was racing as she grabbed Kate's limp wrist and searched for activity. Damn. This is not good. This would not be good for the career, to be caught with a dead Kate Moss in a Manhattan club bathroom with a bag of heroin. Sienna smacked Kate in the face. Bingo. Kate Moss stirred. She opened her eyes and saw Sienna with the plastic bag of heroin in her hand. She popped up. And grabbed the plastic bag out of Sienna's hand. Kate stood, supporting herself by holding the black marble sink counter. Sienna stood.
"You were going to steal this," said Kate Moss as she held up the bag of heroin.
"No. No," said Sienna.
"Yes. Yes," said Kate.
"You OK?" asked Sienna.
"I need a cigarette," said Kate.
"Sure. Sure," said Sienna. The pack of American Spirit cigarettes was on the floor next to Kate's leather bag and the Bic lighter. Sienna picked up the pack, the lighter and the bag and handed all to Kate. Kate Moss took out a cigarette, lit it, sucked a third of the cigarette down and let out a large plume of smoke.
"I feel better," said Kate Moss.
Sienna imagined that Kate Moss at this moment in the bathroom is how Edie Sedgwick must have appeared during her final days before dying in her sleep. Edie and Kate, both of their bodies exhausted from abuse, but their beauty and appeal kept them disconnected from how they were racing for the grave. Sienna Miller, though, was going to be smarter than that. She might use drugs and smoke like a chimney, but she would not let herself drift into oblivion like Edie Sedgwick had done and like Kate Moss appeared to be doing.
"You look better," said Sienna.
"Thanks," said Kate Moss. "Thanks."
Kate took another deep drag on her cigarette. Sienna took the pack of American Spirits out of Kate's hand and placed a cigarette in her mouth. Kate flicked the Bic and lit Sienna's cigarette. Sienna also took a deep drag. Sienna and Kate each let out plumes of smoke into the bathroom. Sienna looked into the mirror and was relieved to see that she looked great. Poor Kate Moss. “Kate Moss” would never happen to Sienna Miller.