Karl Rove’s Diary

Why a mezzanine? What does that even mean? Why not just “second floor?”

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Who is the man in the mirror? Where did the little boy go? Who is the fish-belly-white man with the protruding stomach and hairless calves, naked as the day he was born? I’ll tell you who he is; he’s the most powerful man in the world. I’m chuckling. I’m chuckling and watching my belly move.

*

McCain said something against Arabs. He didn’t, of course, but I can make it seem like he did. Yes. I can see it. Something about “towel heads” or “carpet riders.” Bedouins. Bedouins. How fun. He’ll have to squirm. He’ll lose his temper. That little vein on the side of his head will throb. Why do I take such joy in this? Why am I almost instantly brought back to torturing frogs as a youth? Thank God we are not evolved from amphibians and that we simply appeared, fully formed, on the third day (or was it the fourth?)

*

What is power? Machiavelli suggested that power corrupts. To quote GWB, “Duh!” And yet, in those moments before the three glasses of chardonnay take hold and the nightmares come, I am comforted by the belief that I have helped as many people as I have hurt. OK, maybe it’s closer to 30-70.

*

The dream again. Water (sex?). A bridge. Rickety, dilapidated. I must cross it. Fear. I drop to my hands and knees, cross slowly, looking down into black, roiling water far below. Only, in my hand, the CIA NOC list of the real names of every covert agent in the field. A man appears suddenly. “Give me the list,” he says, “or don’t if you don’t want to. No big.” What can I do? I want to put up a struggle. But instead I say, “Sure thing.” Then I say, “Also, if you want, I can provide hard copies in a nice binder. Just let me know.” Awoke in a sweat, breathing heavily. Clipping my toenails was the only thing that could comfort me (as usual. Did mother clip my toenails? Ask).

*

Karl Rove. Stove, mauve, tov. A Jewish word. Interesting. Am I Jewish? Maybe. But maybe not. Tequila is my friend. I have no pants on. I stand atop the prow on a great metaphorical ship, arms spread, a breeze through the tiny colorless hairs of my armpits, and shout the words “I love you Captain Kangaroo!” It’s very late. Why do I cry suddenly? Bring me lamb chops. “Fava beans and a nice Chianti ... Hello Clarice.” Why did everyone think Lecter was so crazy?

*

I only stand behind the president if you look at the photos left to right.

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Oh, David Gray, you moody British musician! What happened to you?! Are you the Morrissey of your generation? “Please forgive me if I aaaaaaact a little strange, for I know not what I do ... “ Your music touches me.

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Sometimes I am a senior in high school and I am the quarterback, and it is Saturday night and I am in a convertible with my arm around my date, Maureen Dowd. We make out. She’s totally into me. People say, “Hey Karl, she’s a tomata.” What great fun. We wink and nod and I am tall. The crowd roars as I hurl the ball down the field, into the waiting arms of a speedy colored boy.

*

Does Canada need to be its own country? I think not.