Every girl dreams of finding her “Special Someone.”

We make lists, giddy with excitement: he’ll be handsome, but not unbelievably so; he’ll be firm yet unconditionally loving; when he enters a room women will swoon, men will want to be him, and foreign countries will bow before his progressive social agenda that forwards global humanitarian goals, yet in no way inhibits his ability to regulate our national financial sector.

I want Mr. Right for Commander in Chief.

In this time of crisis, its easy for us, guys and gals, to look at our elected leader and lament. Right-wingers  hate the President. Left-wingers are disappointed. The middle is just confused: how can a man who is overseeing the unprecedented expansion of green jobs also stifle those looking for transparency with BP?

All I wanted from the man I elected was that he would do what said he would do. Hell, my standards were low enough just to want someone who wouldn’t torture people!

Where was my duly elected Prince Charming?

Gee whiz, what’s a girl to do?

Looking for him, my president, the one I can look up to without any reservations, I scour the past. Abraham Lincoln springs to mind, and I happily look him up, secure in the knowledge that this President is unassailable. I mean, he kept the country together and freed the slaves!

Well…except he suspended civil liberties during the war, appropriating powers no sitting President ever had before. He imprisoned suspected Southern sympathizers and held them without trial indefinitely. And he was willing to keep slavery legal…if it would keep the Union together.

Ok, I think as I close the history book, not the man for me! I like FDR (being a socialist and all) yet I stumble on the same problems: abolishing constraints on presidential power, interning Japanese citizens, etc. Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin’s cousin and creator of the National Parks, evokes a similar response–how can I love the conservationist without hating the jingoistic hawk inside?

President after President, I search for my Elected Official in Shining Armor. Taft almost makes it with his trust-busting, but loses me by installing a Nicaraguan dictator and turning National Park lands over to private interests. The founding fathers kept women out of the Bill of Rights and upheld slavery. Jackson committed genocide, as did Van Buren, Tyler, and Polk. Millard Fillmore joined the political party equivalent of the KKK.

I keep searching, determined to find the Perfect President. Who do people think of when they become nostalgic for the past? It can’t be Ike, who claimed to be fighting Communism while using U.S. forces to overthrow the democratically elected leaders in Iran. It can’t be Kennedy, Bay of Pigs Kennedy, Pentagon Papers Kennedy, CIA backing the Iraqi Ba’athist Party Kennedy. Truman dropped the Bomb, Clinton dropped his pants, Hoover dropped the ball.

And don’t get me started on Nixon.

I can’t even be happy about our secret gay President (James Buchanan) because he let the Civil War happen!

There are Presidents who died too soon to form an opinion, Presidents whose actions contradicted their ideals, Presidents who–quite frankly–did nothing. I’m at the bottom of the barrel, wondering if I can look past Woodrow Wilson’s tolerance of segregation, when I start to question if there will ever be a president I fully support.

Which makes a girl think.

We like to have things in absolutes. We are the good guys and they are the bad guys. We are right and they are wrong. A good person only does good things and is always right; a bad person only does bad things and is always wrong.

But that’s not how humans function. In our everyday lives we understand that to err is to be human. Yet remove us one step, add the abstraction of a title, and suddenly we expect people to start acting like gods.

Some very bad Presidents have had very good policies. Some very good Presidents have had very monumental fuck-ups. I’m not going to find the Prefect President because he doesn’t exist. No human fitting that title ever has, or ever will.

What we look for in a leader must be the same thing we look for in ourselves: stalwart principles, the ability to compromise, and the wisdom to know which to employ. Elector, elected, we’re all in this together: working imperfectly towards a more perfect future.

Unless you find your Perfect President in Jimmy Carter! Excuse me while I gloss over the economy and Iran Hostage Crises–I have a Presidential portrait to gaze lovingly at.

In recent years there have been many things which have fallen under the term “Act of God.” Earthquakes, tornadoes, floods, natural disasters that have no cause other than the random nature of our universe.

You know what’s not an act of god? The Gulf of Mexico oil leak.

The oil disaster taking place on our shore is entirely our fault. Clearly our fault. Brilliantly and embarrassingly and completely mindbogglingly our fault. Despite attempts to shove it under the rug of divine catastrophes by Republican Texas Governor Rick Perry, the Deepwater Horizon leak is in no way, shape or form an “event outside of human control,” as per the legal definition. It was not an Act of God when BP refused to adhere to new rules proposed by the Interior Department regulating off-shore drilling. It was not an Act of God when the rig was found lacking basic blow-out prevention tools because they weren’t mandatory, thus not included. It wasn’t an Act of God when the cement filling in the area cracked, as they were warned it would, nor was it an Act of God that oil spreads, nor was it an Act of God that we were drilling off-shore to begin with. The leak, if anything, is an Act of Stupidity. One of the most prevantable disasters in living memory, every safety precaution available was ignored not by God but by Humans; the Angels did not descend from the heavens to kill off the livelihood of Louisiana.

We, especially in America, are quick to label things an Act of God when it’s obviously an Act of Us. Global warming is not an Act of God when we’re the ones creating the carbon emissions. The hole over the Ozone layer is not an Act of God when it directly sprang from CFCs (and, since we eliminated them from aerosol and other cans, has immediately shrunk to near-obsolescence). The recession is not an Act of God just as the Wall Street crashes are not an Act of God, just as Goldman Sachs and the failure of capitalism is not an Act of God, unless the last one is a result of charging usury (specifically forbidden in the Bible) and God has been reincarnated as a Senator on the GS Fraud Hearings. In which case you’d think there would be more turning into pillars of salt and less angry highlighting of passages from emails (Senator Collins works in mysterious ways).

So where do we get off blaming things that are obviously our fault on this God guy? Like a kid pointing at her brother for spilling the milk (sorry Luke), we’ve descended into a state of national immaturity, passing responsibility faster than a ball in a game of hot-potato. It isn’t just that we label sticking our tongues to freezing poles as an Act of God; we get mad if we have to pay taxes, get vaccines, even vote (no taxation for no representation!). And while it would be easy to blame it on our ADD media, or corporate interests, or terrorism, or capitalism, or socialism, or any number of things, this would accomplish nothing. Because we’d be doing the same exact thing we did before (Rick Perry is an act of God!).

We live in a Republic which, no matter how watered down, demands that The People shoulder responsibility for The People. If we feel powerless then it’s up to us to take back that power, through protests, through votes, through demands to our Government, through boycotts against the interests that threaten our environment. I’m not talking about Tea Parties, those descendants of the Know-Nothing Party, who excel in responsibility-shirking, or about those groups that form around hot-button issues and turn them into stalemates. I’m talking about realizing that our world is messed up, and its our fault. It’s about supporting those who are making a practical difference in our world. A Government is only as good as its people, and if people can get their Acts together, we could make a pretty good Government and a half-way decent planet.

So no more crying that Deepwater Horizon is an Act of God, a disaster no one can be held accountable for. We can hold BP completely accountable for it. But we must also hold our regulation-shy Government accountable too, and hold ourselves accountable for changing it. Otherwise, millions of years from now when intelligent life finally reaches us, there will be nothing left, and our extinction will be recorded in an alien log-book under the heading “Act of God.”

For a Political Princess, lately I’ve been mum on the state of Political affairs. The reason is simple: current politics depresses me.

I’m not disillusioned because I’ve jumped on the Obama Failure Train; I’m disillusioned because that train exists. For a President who has done more in his first year of office since FDR, he’s mainly managed to unite the Right and Left  in a never-ending tirade against his Presidency. I’m tired of hearing Republicans talk about how he’s done nothing when it’s their own party who is holding up the line. I also have no tolerance for those on the Left who bought into the Conservative talking-point: “Obama Is A Socialist/Communist/Anarchist/Liberal Overmind,” and are now disappointed he’s not living up to that hype (was no one paying attention to his campaign?).

In fact, I have never seen a sitting Head of State get so much flak since the days of…FDR.

Indeed, the same arguments against the New Deal and Franklin seem to be popping out against Obama–everything from criticisms that he’s a warmonger, to the idea that he’s secretly plotting on taking over America and running it like a dictatorship. The more I read about FDR’s detractors, the more I see how those dissenters haven’t changed their tune in 70 years. Top that off with the fact that the Obama administration is drawing conscious comparisons between the two men (whether it be by TV and web broadcasts to the nation, or emphasis on New-Deal-Esque programs and reforms) and it feels as if the last seven decades never happened. In an era of financial instability, we revert back to our previous era of financial instability, like an adult reverting to her brooding acne-teen self when visiting her mother. Underneath all this angst, all this fear and hate and rage, there is one simple cause: we know jack-squat about how the economy works!

Oh, we fooled ourselves for a while. The prosperous ’90′s harkened back to the roaring ’20′s–a comparison that, in hindsight, should have been a red flag for the coming millennium. Regulation and safety nets were done away with under the idea that unfettered capitalism would bring in unimaginable wealth. And damn them, it did. Greenspan and the economists broke the rules and then declared there were no rules, and the wealth went up and up. It was living life financially day-to-day…which worked until the very reasons for the saftey nets came crashing down. Those in charge took life day-to-day because they had absolutely no ability to think further than one acquisition ahead. The markets collapsed, the bubbles burst, and we came face to face with the knowledge that no one really understood what they were doing. No one. From Goldman Sachs to Greenspan, all admitted they were pretty much making it up as they went along. As talking heads throw around terms and lingo and theories, the only thing that’s clear is that we’re all still in the dark.

For an example, I turn to horses.

You see, the economy is like a Mustang. It is it’s own creature, with hungers and wants and drives and moods that we can understand…up to a point. Then the Mustang, like any wild creature, begins behaving wildly.

And at this point we freeze. Those who would restrain the beast, who would bridle and saddle it and tame it, are told they are wrong, for they will just break its spirit, sap its vitality, and in the end it will wither and die. Those who want to leave it alone and ride freely over the prairie are told they are wrong, as the Mustang will buck  it’s rider, kick  that rider’s stomach through their spine and run off joyfully as the rider slowly bleeds to death. So we compromise, with reins made of twine, and hold on for dear life. The problem is, there is no blanket rule for dealing with the economy. Just because something worked in the past does not mean it’ll work in the present–just ask Jimmy Carter. Or the Lehman Brothers. Taking care of the economy is like trying to ride a horse, a process any equestrian will tell you takes equal parts skill, luck, and screaming at the stupid thing at the top of your lungs while banging your feet into it’s sides as hard as you can.

It is foolish to think that our prosperity in the past was because we mastered the Mustang…and it is fatal to believe future wealth will be the result of anything other than the horse forgetting we’re on it’s back.

Wow, what a somber post. To  make up for it I give you: An Adorable Kitten!

You can now go back to your regularly scheduled lives.

I woke up to see this triumphant headline on the New York times:

Democrats Clinch Vote for Health Debate!

Yes! I thought! Finally! Moving forward! Debating on the Senate floor! There are no obstacles now! Then I looked down at the next headline:

But 2 Holdouts Say Proposed Legislation Needs Improvement.

Hey American governing body: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Health care has been a roller-coaster ride of emotions for me, like an abusive relationship that slaps you, apologizes, then makes you pay out of pocket insurance costs. Up and down, back and forth, I’ve watched the debating as only someone who’s been chronically hospitalized can. I cheered for the House bill, I railed against the arguments that Public health care would be so effective it would run privatized care out of business, so we shouldn’t do it. I’m on the verge of exhaustion, which I can’t afford to have under our current system.

Health care is a lot like a Slip-N-Slide.

I’ve been thinking about this ever since I got a free Slip-N-Slide from a production at work. I know, I hear you thinking: that’s awesome. Josie, you are the epitome of every kid in the 90′s dreams.

I acknowledge your envy. Who of our generation didn’t want a Slip-N-Slide? Hose it down, slide across, have hours of fun, reach speeds of up to 10 MPH while on your tummy. Some would even whisper rumors of friends or cousins who went so fast down a Slip-N-Slide that they were able to fly across an entire backyard.

So you tell everyone that a Slip-N-slide is great, you dream about a Slip-N-Slide, and then one day…you’re invited to a Slip-N-Slide birthday party. You’ve died and gone to Slip-N-Slide heaven.

And when you get there, you discover that the Slip-N-Slide is a great way…to rip off your skin as you try to slide down a plastic tarp that is never wet enough or slippery enough to let you go more than a foot. There’s long lines, you barely get wet, the slide part crumples up and bunches and twists away from your body. You’re basically flinging yourself on cold, hard ground over and over; essentially a land belly-flop.

And ROCKS. No matter where you put your Slip-N-Slide there are always rocks.

You go home, bruised and sore and bored. Your friends who were not invited eagerly gather around you.

“What was it like?” they ask in hushed tones. “What was the Slip-N-Slide like?”

You try to think back on it, but now, away from the rocks, all you can feel is your friend’s eyes watching you. Waiting for you. Judging you, for any kid who doesn’t like a Slip-N-Slide cannot be trusted.

“It was great,” you say.

And that is the American Health System of today. We love it, we’re excited for it, we can’t wait to brag about our advances to all the other Countries. But when we need it most, it gives us rocks. So we hide our cuts and bruises and red tummies.

For if the Slip-N-Slide isn’t that great…what else have we been wrong about?

Dear America,

As President of the Society of Things That Crawled Out From Underneath a Rock, I want to present you with my deepest, deepest apologies for the recent actions of one of our members. This is a rarity for us; normally we delight in making you squirm, alternately disgusting you and angering you until you demand that we “Crawl back under the rock we came from.” But sometimes there are actions that even violate our oozy, many-tentacled code of ethics.

To cut to the quick: we apologize for Dick Cheney.

To be fair, when he first joined our society back in the Nixon years (solid Rock-Crawling years), he was a model member. He quietly lurked in the background, oozed into positions of power, icked out all the First Ladies–everything required of a Society candidate. But he has now overstepped his bounds, coming out in public, demanding his moment in the sun.

We shun the sun. It blisters us. We hide under rocks for a reason, oozing out of the shadows to make people want to avoid being in a room with us ONLY when there is an acceptable climate. Like overcast skies, the internet, or the dark gloom cast by a Republican administration. And while some members do cling and insist you listen to them and only them, they do it in a slimy low-key sort of way. By becoming increasingly vocal, dominating airtime, and all-around demanding we give him our undivided attention, he has violated our sacred precepts.

We love making you shudder when we speak, don’t misunderstand us–but we think it’s wrong to creep out a whole nation.

Also, waterboarding? Come on, even we admit that’s torture.

Mainly because when we torture someone, we want them to know. “Oh,” they might say now, “You’re using enhanced interrogation techniques on me.” To which we will reply, “No, that’s straight-up torture,” but they won’t be listening anymore because they’re convinced we’re the CIA.

See how difficult life is going to be for us now?

So in conclusion I, on behalf of The Society of Things That Crawled Out From Underneath a Rock, herby apologize, and promise you that this is the end of our association with Mr. Cheney. We also humbly nominate him for a position in the Society of Crazy Old Coots Who Somehow Still Have Way Too Much Power.

Signed and witnessed by the Board Members:

President: the Oozing Blob

VP: Sandy, Donald Trump’s Hairpiece

Acting Secretary: a bunch of snakes and ooky hairy spiders

Treasurer: Your ex-Boyfriend

Member-at-large: Donald Trump

I’ve never equated travel with sexiness. Fatigue, delays, cancellations, motion sickness, and exhaustion yes, but I’ve never thought any part of traveling is particularly lusty. Even when you’re at a vacation spot my thoughts tend towards sleep, resting, relaxing on the beach, reading a book. Unless you’re a US Marine on a Thai tour, sex never enters the picture. But driving down La Brea this afternoon here it was (or, here THEY were) bold as brass: a brassier telling me to watch the Travel Channel. Not a woman, just two Kong-sized knockers stuffed in a Fay Wray-sized bikini-top. This was total objectification in it’s grossest form–cars swerved as they gazed upon breasts utterly detached from any context or (god forbid) humanity. The Travel Channel is selling itself with sex at it’s most blatant, any threat of seeing a person in the billboard woman washed away by monolith mammaries, boobs able to take over a building in a single supergraphic! It’s a good thing Travel C. saves its ad from being really crassly stupid by giving it a witty tagline:

“Have you been EXPOSED?”

Get it? Get it? Clever, get it? Because there’s boobs!!!! On an unrelated note, it’s policy of the Travel Channel to have their copy written by  14-year-old boys.

So, bravo Travel Channel. May you continue to advertise at a level of mediocrity designed to drive off half your audience in the name of titilation for something routinely boring.

Stop snickering over the use of the word titilate, Travel Channel, and go do your homework for fourth period. Stop laughing about that word too.

Ok WORLD! I’m calling you out! Yeah, that’s right,  Cozy Jamble has a few bones to pick with you! Where to start? Oh, I’ll tell you where to start:

RADIO. Here’s the deal RADIO. You stop claiming songs you’ve been playing on loop for over a year are “New Music” and I’ll start listening to stations other than NPR. Also, stop naming all your goddamn girl DJs “Kat.” I’m sick of sassy ,yet extremely boring, female voice personalities screaming their name is “KAT!” and that they “LOVE the new Carolina Liar tack!”

It is not new, and your name is Heidi. If you must DJ it up, then it can be Kheidi.

Shut up.

Hey, speaking of shutting up: DICK CHENEY. You are no longer the shadow President of the United States. This means I shouldn’t have to hear your speak on matters of national importance ever again.

Case closed.

And while I’m at it: TAZO TEA! Your Wild Sweet Orange Tea sucks! It’s like drinking warm Tang. Shape the hell up.

At this point of my rant, I will take a moment to address the problems facing the world. They can be summed up in two words: DISEASE and CAPITALISM. Now, I will fix them.

Hey Capitalism! Knock it off!

Hey Disease! I’ve been playing Pandemic 2 online and really think I understand where you’re coming from. Knock it off!

There! Solved! Blam!

And last on my agenda: MAKERS OF THE ONLINE GAME PANDEMIC 2! Your game is really goddamn addicting! I greatly enjoy it! Good work!

There, done. You may now all go back to your regularly scheduled lives. Except those of you playingPandemic 2. I will see you after I wipe out Madagascar.

Josie’s Positive Note of the Day: After playing Pandemic 2 for several days, I have come to the conclusion that if the Swine Flu actually does turn out to be a global plague  and not just a viral exposé of Mexico’s health care system, Madagascar is the place to go. Way to go DJ Dictator! Please do not name your first lady Kat.

I got really excited when I heard there was a coup to oust the standing President of Madagascar. This is not because I am a fan of coups, or military intervention, or, really, Madagascar (until last week I had thought the island’s population comprised entirely of lemurs). No, what sparked my interest was who the military was going to install.

A 34 year-old DJ.

“DJ PRESIDENT!” I yelled as I walked around the office. “DJ PRESIDENT!” I enthusiastically screamed at friends. “DJ PRESIDENT!” I crowed at perfect strangers, the maniacal drool frothing from my mouth and dropping on the ground to  form the words “DJ President.”

DJ President tickled my fancy the way no political leader or movement has. Young, hip, and armed with mad skillz, I was certain this island nation was on to something wonderful. Our president may be the subject of hipster street art and can make fun of the disabled, but I have no doubt he would be decimated in a one-on-one scratch battle. His street cred has been tacked on by the media, paling in comparison–our Ringo to their Lennon, our Brown to their Sarkozy.

Unfortunately, I did research, AKA read more than just the headline of the BBC article on Madagascar. Apparently DJ President is a horrible man who is destroying the foundation of Madagascar’s democracy, and his rise to power is greatly feared. It was hard to hold enthusiasm after reading comments left by Madagascarians which amounted to “Help, our government is being shut down,” and ” Yes we know he’s a DJ–that doesn’t mean he gets to take away our rights.”

If only DJ President weren’t a force for evil!

Imagine the good he could do, besides make people aware that there were more than lemurs on Madagascar. I see DJ President not as a man but as a movement–a record player in every home, a stereo system in every garage. Mandatory sound experimentation classes, programs devoted to sending other nations the People’s Mix Tapes, wrapped in their homemade Zines. A haven for skinny jeans and headphones, a place where everyone would belong except those who have shitty taste in music. And maybe a man who’d finally rid Madagascar’s of it’s 70% poverty rate!

Unfortunately, such things will never be. I just hope the rest of the world supports Africa in its universal condemnation of his actions–and perhaps this will finally tear the blinders off the UN when it comes to its neglect of humanity’s homeland.

DJ Dictator…to you I dedicate this post.

[SinglePic not found]…Bristol Palin! Bristol is the daughter of ultra-conservative Governor Sarah Palin, a firm supporter of Abstinence Only and the sanctity of marriage! The Award would like to thank Mrs. Palin for raising a daughter who espoused such lofty values by becoming an unwed teenage mother. Sorry, the Award corrects itself: an unwed teenage mother who refuses to marry her baby’s teenage father.

The award can only state how glad it is to have such a wonderful candidate, and looks forward to when Ms. Palin also renounces Christianity, turns vegan, and gets heavily involved in micro-lending.

Congrats!

Wipe your feet at the door and stay awhile.

As you may be able to tell, I am still working out the kinks of this website and formatting things. But until I get everything just so, please enjoy the site, and the following video I made with friend Jonathan Ade.

Welcome to CozyJamble.