Snakes shakin’

Back in November, all jazzed up from a most encouraging election, I wrote about something I thought to be a stone-cold, totally-take-it-to-the-bank lock—that the first thing Democrats in the Senate would do in 2013 would be to modify and repair the filibuster, the parliamentary technique being abused by Republican senators to make the Senate dysfunctional.

Silly me. The first thing this new Senate did was not to completely reform and overhaul the highly abused filibuster. What happened was Harry Reid and Mitch McConnell came to an agreement and announced some kind of “handshake deal” that provides for teentsy weentsy adjustments to the mangulations of the filibuster that are now s.o.p. for Republican senators. The first question: How do you make a handshake deal with a snake?

I have no idea what kind of subtleties are involved in this “handshake.” All I know is that I was seeing the world, as usual, in black and white. So instead of being satisfied on a gross, black-and-white, all-or-nothing kind of level, there are obviously shades of gray involved here that I’m not all that interested in appreciating. I just know that Reid sold me out, made a deal with a jerk, and that the Senate will very likely continue to be frustratingly dysfunctional. Ho hum.


If you’re a football fan, it’s, of course, The Week. Culminating in a slobbering climax of hype, hysteria, and hypnotic histrionics. I’ll be entrenched in front of a modern big screen, like most other oafs, dolts and louts on Sunday, all set to enjoy a game made oodles more entertaining this year by one Colin Kaepernick, who now stands on the verge of being the greatest UNR alumnus of all time.

A couple of “insider” observations. I’ve been to two Super Bowls, both when I was doing news for a Denver radio station. I was sent to San Diego to cover the disaster of the Broncos against the Redskins (Washington 65, Denver 1) and then to New Orleans, to witness the disaster of the Broncos against the 49ers (SF 84, Denver 2). And let me tell you this—watching the Super Bowl from your living room beats the total poop out of being there live. To pay four digits for a ticket to be there in person truly solidifies your credentials for Chump of the Century.

I did, however, go to New Orleans with my broadcasting partner at the time, Harry Reynolds. And we got just as wasted as the Broncos. The best part about that Sunday happened after the game, when the bar across the street from our watering hole caught fire. So there were Harry and I, nursing our hurricanes, watching the N.O.F.D. busting their asses trying to save a building that was basically a 300-year-old Kleenex. Much more entertaining than the game.