Whiskey Bar: Dog Day Afternoon

After a week spent relaxing in the woods near Yosemite at Camp Mather, there is no chance I can "catch up" with all my regular blogs. So I'll skim my favorites, like Billmon who comes down hot and heavy with this one, Dog Day Afternoon:

One angry mom is dangerous enough, especially when the President of the United States insists on being her unofficial publicist. But now there are 300 of them standing in the dirt and the heat down in Crawford -- and millions more watching on TV, silently asking themselves the same questions Sheehan wants to ask Bush: How did we get into this mess? How do we get out? Have our sons and daughters been sent to die in vain?

The machine can try to demonize Cindy Sheehan. But it can't demonize those questions -- not any more, not when so many others are asking them. Here in the dog days of August, it appears the rabid curs of the authoritarian right have finally met their match, in the form of a middle-aged woman in a sunhat, holding in her hand the metaphorical equivalent of a rolled-up newspaper for wacking bad little GOP doggies (and presidents) on the nose.

If that's not enough to shake off the dog day blues, I don't know what is.