A class act? I think not.

here

NEW YORK – Republican John McCain
is not going to make his election night remarks in the traditional
style — at a podium standing in front of a sea of campaign workers
jammed into a hotel ballroom. Oh, the throng of supporters will hold
the usual election night party at the Biltmore Hotel in Phoenix on the evening of Nov. 4.

But the Republican presidential nominee
plans to address another group of supporters and a small group of
reporters on the hotel lawn; his remarks will be simultaneously piped
electronically to the party inside and other reporters in a media
filing center, aides said.

Aides said
Thursday that the arrangement was the result of space limitations and
that McCain might drop by the election watch party at some other point.

Because you don't owe those dumb supporters anything, right?

I guess he's finally hit something Daddy's support, and Cindy's money actually can't  buy, and isn't man enough to stand up there and take the blow.

Maybe I sound vindictive here? But I've spent my adult life watching better men than him give their concessions speeches. McGovern, Carter, Gore.

Sometimes it is time for a wake. You suck it up, and do it, like an adult.

EDIT:

Miscommunication from the McCain camp.

Or other glitch.

Oh, nevermind…..

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It actually has been the week from hell

Let's see:
I can start with the merely seriously annoying.

My backyard rental – I think of it as a very large fishbowl, usually filled with grad students – is having massive upheavals.
The tiny Asian lady Chemistry graduate student geek replaced her previous roommate with a new improved model: the PsychoRoommatefromHell.
Who has been having screaming cursing fights with her.
And having loud drinking parties going on til 2am randomly on weekdays.
And moving stuff into the upper cabinets for revenge (seriously).
And not paying her share of utility bills.
(Oh, and although it's good that she actually is recycling the vast number of beer and whiskey bottles, I wish she'd rinsed them first, cause it smells like a distillery when I drive them in.)
So Tiny Chemist is moving out, leaving me with PsychoBaby.
Who celebrated by breaking up with her boyfriend, at the top of her lungs, with great profanity which included yelling "You fag" at him, while flinging several clay flower pots from off her railing.

Tiny Chemist only just told PsychoBaby she is moving out on the 1st, and only paying rent til the 15th, which leaves PsychoBaby responsible for all the rent after the middle of the month.
PsychoBaby wanted me to cut her a favor about the rent – and truth to tell, I have done things like that for other people in the past, but not this time.
Because I just really don't want her back there forever.
So (Praise  God) she gave me thirty days notice.

Now I have to rent the apartment out, in the middle of the term.
I am offering to try to find new tenants for the soonest day she thinks she might leave.
PsychoBaby's 30 days don't end til the 21st, but if I found someone who wanted it sooner, I would refund her the rent for any days they overlapped.
Because I do think it was a little stinky of Tiny Chemist not to give her roommate, even a twisted crazy roommate, 30 days notice.

And then there is the continuing purely horrible.

My friend Other Laura is not doing well.
She is off at the Redwood City Kaiser, because that is apparently where Northern California Kaiser keeps its neurologists.
She has an abscess on her brain, and fluid coming off in a shunt.
She is on a respirator.
There are tubes everywhere, and she wasn't responsive last night.
I am clinging to the surgeon telling her mother that it is early days yet.
They list her as critical but stable.
Her favorite sister is flying down today, and going to stay in her place and take care of her cats.
Her co-workers are tag-teaming the hospital, trying to have someone with her most of the time.
I spent five hours there yesterday, and Tom is over there now.

I'm waiting for Tom to call.
I got a robot call from Shoe Pavilion.
I got a stupid Prop 7, crazy guy writing his own energy bill, robot call.
I got two empty lines, weird no one there calls.
No Tom yet.
If there were bad news, he'd have called.
I think the people who invented the robot call should be killed in a long and painful manner, over many days.

Update: Other Laura's sister called.
She's doing better today than last night. 
She opened an eye, and managed a little independent breathing.
Not yet conscious, but definitely better.

Oh, and then there's the completely ridiculous:

The No-Good Boy Kitties have decided that Indian Summer means never coming in at night.
Which means I can't shut the cat door.
Which means the DamnPossum again thinks he is a pet.
When I catch him sneaking in and try shooing him off, he just looks at me sadly, with mild disbelief, as if I have seriously diappointed him.
Anyway, when I finally got home from Kaiser last night – the drive back being made oh-so-much-more pleasant by the closure of the 880, so that I got to drive back through San Francisco along all the  other diverted traffic – there is DamnPossum, or PossumBoy, as he prefers to be called.
Anyone know how possums mark territory?
I just cleaned out behind the chair by the cat door.
Poopy-head indeed.

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