It's been a long time without a whole lotta change, especially if you're young. Long enough to make you think that you don't care, and it doesn't matter. But after eight dark years of Bush—plus eight years of Clintonian disappointment before that, and four years of the current President's dad before that—what do we have to lose in being hopeful about a president who appears to be unlike any other we've seen in our lifetime?

Would it kill us to imagine a place where we don't have to wait six hours in the emergency room and be presented with a $3,000 bill because we don't have health insurance? Does it make sense to feel embarrassed every time you venture abroad? Is it not totally crazy to imagine that a clerk working 40 hours a week at CVS might be able to take home more than $286? Must balancing your—or America's—checkbook really involve criminal survival economics and voodoo math? Is it completely fucking insane to envision a nation that doesn't invade other countries for a fabricated wild-goose nuclear weapons chase, oil, or fun?

No. No it is not.

Are you so mad as hell that you're not going to take it anymore? It's OK. Are you bored and disillusioned and tired of politics? Understandable. But something's happening, although what isn't exactly clear. Forgive us for getting caught up in the moment, but it feels like something's moving.

Obama will be the first to tell you that he ain't no Jesus, black or otherwise. But tonight, we say without snark: we feel hopeful.

The stairs squeaked as we went up. It was a narrow staircase, winding, just wide enough for your body. A nautilus, maybe 100 feet high. Not very stable. Dark, too, but for the holes shot by the tank. I slowed my step. The shot was loud inside the staircase, and I couldn’t see much, because the second marine was falling backward, falling onto Ashley, who fell onto me. Warm liquid spattered on my face. The three of us tumbled backward out the doorway. The second marine, although bloodied, was not hit...

After a long bombardment, the Marines are eventually able to go in and fetch Miller, who had been shot:

Miller was out. Two marines had pulled him from the tower, Goggin one of them, choking and coughing. Black lung, they called it later. Miller was on his back; he had come out head first. His face was opened in a large V, split like meat, fish maybe, with the two sides jiggling.

“Please tell me he’s not dead,” Ash said. “Please tell me.”

“He’s dead, Ash,” I said.

I felt it then. Darting, out of reach. You go into these places, and you think they’re overrated, they are not nearly as dangerous as people say. Keep your head; keep the gunfire in front of you. You get close and come out unscathed every time, your face as youthful and as untroubled as before. The life of the reporter: always someone else’s pain. A woman in an Iraqi hospital cradles her son newly blinded, and a single tear rolls down her cheek. The cheek is so dry, and the tear moves so slowly that you focus on it for a while, the tear traveling across the wide desert plain. You need a corpse for the newspaper, so you take a bunch of marines to get one. Then suddenly it’s there, the warm liquid on your face, the death you have always avoided, smiling back at you as if it knew all along. Your fault.

[NYT Magazine. Pic via NYM]

It was found while some people were cleaning the beach, and they tracked him down. (No, he didn't find it on E-bay!) "Now aged 33, Mr Wylie said his mother had encouraged him to throw bottles into the sea as a child - something which he continues to do with his own children."

[BBC]

When I stepped up to admissions desk the nurse asked why I was there. “Mild chest pains,” I said. “How old?” she asked. “Fifty,” I replied.

She nonchalantly turned to the orderly and said, “Hey, Lenny, we got another one.” I guess many men, stunned by Mr. Russert’s sudden death, were doing just the same thing I was.

OK, OK, sure, there are going to be a number of these men tying up hospital emergency rooms with false alarms. And Russert didn't exactly intend to sacrifice himself as some kind of hero to coronary health awareness. But it's nice to see this greater good emerging from the media's somewhat insidery coverage of Russert's death and memorial.

[Times]

From MeterReader:
"I use to WORK with this asshole and I can say that this surprises me not in the least. I'm not blaming this girl and I hope like hell they charge PJ, but why does there need to be a continued "Is he really like this?" fascination with the guy? Yes. He is really that much of a smug, sleazy SOB, so can we please stop spelunking into his UES cave of doom?"

From allyzay:
"i am hoping that she has contacted an authority besides gawker?"

From RStewie:
"Well, I hope she's going to press charges. This world does NOT need another smug asshole getting away with this bullshit just because "she should have known she was only on that date to fuck him." Which is basically what he's saying...I guess her meeting up with him was quasi-consent in his mind?"

From SusanKeats:
"@KillBuzzington: Given the fact that she clearly had no idea that he was going to be physically aggressive at all, I don't think it's fair to blame her choice here (Nor, actually, do I think it is ever fair to blame the victim of a sexual assault). I think probably what she was thinking was less that she was going to hang out with a pile of shit, and more that she was curious as to what somebody known for being really smooth with the ladies is like on a date. Kind of a "how does he do it?" type attitude. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe she's a bit more masochistic than that, but I personally think it would be interesting to see what exactly it is that makes this guy so "successful" in dating. (Answer, as it turns out: rape.)"

From Multiphasic:
"She went to his apartment?" seems to be the mantra here, as if one should assume that once that front door clicks, the pants tumble down like the walls of Jericha, and it's praise the Lord and helloooo Mr. Happy! As opposed to the possibly more logical assumption that a guy might want to, I donno, watch a movie or make her dinner."

From HeatherNumber1:
"@clevernamehere: She's going to get a whole lot more of the 'You went upstairs to his apartment?' attitude found here if she presses charges."

From Eringowaaaah:
"As someone who's been there, my advice to Emily is to stop emailing Gawker and go to the cops. The longer she waits, the less chance justice will be served."

We are sad for Martha, but ultimately feel she's acting out her grief in an inappropriate and rather unforgiving venue.

For example, the photo captions: "One of Paw Paw's final smiles." "Paw Paw the day before - he just wanted to sleep." "I went outside for one last pee." "I'm not even dreaming anymore." Stop, Martha; we are practically crying at work!!

Oh, no: and then she photographs Paws, presumably right before he was put to sleep. Paws looks so stoic, so ready for the afterlife. Martha has her head buried in her fur.

Excuse me; I need to step outside for a moment for a cigarette and a cry. Rest in peace, Paws.

[The Martha Blog]

We bet that posting a video throwing Julia Allison off a cliff would be more warmly received than the unfortunate puppy-in-Iraq debacle.

Paris Hilton can slut it up all around town, but you can be damned sure that once word gets out that she has 17 puppies? and might be neglecting them? Hello, the authorities will be all up on that. Which we're happy to see. Leave Tinkerbell alone!

Dogfighting? Even worse. Career-ending worse. Beat your wife? OK — slap on the wrist and anger-management classes. Beat dogs, Michael Vick? It is so, so over for you.

Last summer PETA attempted to shame Britney Spears into handing over custody of her dog to ex Keven Federline: "She's tossed away so many dogs before," PETA's VP intoned.

In yesterday's news: a disturbing NYT article about a man caught trying to manufacture ricin, a substance "so deadly even in minuscule amounts that its only legal use is for cancer research." Whatever, boring — until the part about the policing finding "three cats and an emaciated dog in his hotel room; the local shelter took custody of the animals, but the dog was so starved and parched it had to be euthanized." Fuck the ricin — they had to put the dog down? Damn.

In a well-remembered scene from Michael Moore's film Roger and Me, a woman sells rabbits in her yard for either "Pets or Meat," and clubs one to death accordingly. That scene was followed by a footage of violence between humans, but who remembers that? The viewer is still reeling, turning this question over and over in their head: pets or meat?

We all need time to heal. Here's a picture of Uno, the award-winning beagle.

[Photo: G. Paul Burnett for the NYT]

Look at him. He knows he won.

[Photo: G. Paul Burnett for the NYT]

[Photo: Seth Wenig/AP]

[Photo: Seth Wenig/AP]