Yup, that’s the title of Sarah Palin’s soon-to-be-published memoir. Given the role that lipstick has played in Ex-Governor Palin’s ascendancy, wouldn’t Going Rouge have been more apt?
I’m guessing that Bookeaters will not be reading this one – 400 pages of stoopid. As one commenter said, “Don’t you have to do something before you write a memoir?” Apparently not.
But then again, I guess she has done a few things. In comparison to me, she is a veritable whirlwind of activity and accomplishment. I have trouble keeping up with this blog, and the rouged and lipsticked one has written 400 pages since August and given a speech in Tokyo … not to mention resigning as Governor, possibly divorcing her hubby, being a hockey mom and (presumably) a hockey grandma) … AND exercising regularly.
Now Levi’s memoir? Might read that. Get the real scoop about the rouged rogue.
Inspired (or goaded) but the thought of SP getting in her exercise, I did manage 15-minutes on the treadmill this AM … seeing as how tonight I’m at Red River with some combination of the Bookeaters. Popcorn for dinner tonight!
FFootball standing after Week 3 are posted – with everything evening up. Can’t wait to see how the 2 Blitzen’ Babes do with waivers this week!
… a visitor (actually, new resident) of our outhouse up at the lake. (Apparently this industrious creature is making use of the used TP that has accumulated … yeeccchhhh!!)
Have a wonderful day, y’all!
I leave you with this poem that made me nostalgic for Philly (not that it takes much …).
Hot times, summer in the city …
You’re on your way home
when a thousand cars
pour onto Broad Street:
the ball game’s over.
No one’s going anywhere soon.
It’s mid-July: eighty and humid.
You smell like all the crappies in the Delaware,
wear the ache of dock crates in your back.
Your buddy lost two fingers tonight
to a jigsaw: boss said go home early,
stay late tomorrow night.
These people don’t appreciate
what they have: time to go to ball games.
You get out among blaring horns
and hustlers hawking T-shirts,
walk the yellow lines like a tight rope,
arms out for balance,
all the way to the corner and back.
Broad Street still as a parking lot,
wound tight as a fist.
You pop the trunk, fish a beer
from your cooler, and pound it.
Back in your car, the radio’s
recapping the game:
your team pulled one out
they would have blown last year.
You’ve blown the last year working
nights while your lady works days.
Night work means bad lighting,
and you’ve had enough close calls.
You’ve had enough overtime.
You’ve had enough.
Something has to give.
Somewhere in the distance a dog
is barking, a husband is coming home.
“Stadium Traffic” by Daniel Donaghy, from Start with the Trouble. © The University of Arkansas Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)