It doesn’t take a shadow-shirking gopher to convince me the seasons are changing.
The snow is melting, the little birdies are chirping – the unconscionable jerk across the street has hauled his 9-11 (Porsche) off its winter blocks and is even now vroom vrooming and revving (sans muffler, natch) his hideous, gas-guzzling, neighbourhood-annoying, pretentious tin can on wheels into a state of running readiness - and I am drifting about in a cloud of romantic fantasy.
I’m in love with Richard Clarke.
Heaven knows it was only yesterday I was extolling the myriad, marvelous qualities of the Daily Show’s Jon Stewart (as deserving an object of affection as ever strapped on a microphone) but today, nay, yesterday afternoon – I caught a glimpse of that which is sex personified, adoration-worthy and all around fantasy-inducing: Ladies and Jellybeans – the world’s last honest man, and my sweet baby - Dick ‘American Grandstand’ Clarke. Terror (not counter) of the Republicans and most particularly the Presidential team whose pants are flaming so hellishly they can read the smoke signals in Iraq.
It’s a great day for truth, not to mention love. I just hope my crush survives the crunch.
Richard Clarke. Mmmmm… he’s a donut to a Simpson, the nitrate-filled, artificially-coloured, bacon flavoured treat to the dog, the honey to my bee. And already I’m having to fight for him.
Just this a.m. I had a little bitch-slapping contretemps with a girlfriend who says she called dibs on Dick first (‘my boyfriend’ she calls him in an attempt to needle) but her claim is unquestionably date-stamped yesterday, some few minutes into the September 11th hearings and mine presages her by a few good days and the now infamous edition of last Sunday’s 60 Minutes.
Teach her to trespass on my territory.
But she’s only the first – and I fear not the last; mark my words, there’s going to be a flurry of ‘Against All Enemies’ book-buying by the fairer sex, and suggestions and requests not normally heard in the autograph line-ups when Dick ‘You Can’t Handle the Truth!’ Clarke steps up, pen in hand to receive the accolades – not to mention the record breaking receipts – on his soon to be announced ‘Enemies Tour’.
It’s a fact – there’s nothing sexier than a man willing to stand up in front of God and a congressional committee and tell a truth that no one, save everyone outside of government, wants to hear. His opening salvo – an apology (coincidentally the first) to victims and families of the twin towers tragedy – captured the hearts of America, and the following ‘I’ve made mistakes too, and I intend to take responsibility for them’ remarks captured the affections of Her women.
Trust me – you can keep your Brad Pitts and your Russell Crowes and your Jon Stewarts (but not for long – I’ve still got a few unresolved issues I’d like to… thrash out… with him) the man who is currently making the chicks giggle and preen, and wish they’d seen him first, is the man who makes me spend endless happy hours trying out my stationary. (Mrs. Secret Storm Clarke… Mrs. S.S. Clarke… Mrs. Secret Clarke... Mrs. Storm-Clarke, Mr. Richard Storm…)
I like a man who tells the truth. I love a man who does it regardless of the consequences. I adore a man who takes responsibility for his own actions.
Richard Clarke – hubba hubba.