So. It's conceivable that I wasn't actually at the Democratic National Convention per se. I possibly hallucinated great portions of it, or caught the dregs on Fox. Still, I refuse to be blamed for my damn lies. When one deals in the poetry of amazing and irrelevant things, one is prone to intense imaginings, and the emotional peaks and dry, dry valleys of it--the big speech given by that guy John Edwards is running with--were (and will remain) as personal and frustrating and vivid as neon herpes. I stand by my observations, born of brief and televised snatches though they be. You forgive me, don't you?

Of course you do.

Speaking briefly of televised snatches: Alleged gross exaggerations notwithstanding, it's entirely possible that I actually have lingered in several secret private boxes with or near Hillary Clinton. Who will hopefully someday rule the world. Word.

Speaking of secrets and lingering: Due to international emergency, be advised that for brief periods we may abruptly depart from celebrité to dwell instead upon things political. In these instances, we may take shocking inside peeks at secret election doings via my stealthy team of highly trained and fortunately positioned Washington, D.C. moles, who might prove to be far less imaginary than you suspect.

And before we press forward, I'd like to clarify: I'd vote for Kerry or whoever if he were a petrified cat turd in a wig. I forbear from expressing further criticisms until well after the impending Republican National Convention, how-ever, lest the worldwide right-wing conspiracy twist them to their own black and diseased advantages.

In the meantime: Courtney Love, who is more a zoological issue than a political one, was probably forced back into rehab. I bet. I don't really know. She might still be in rehab. Or freshly out and fast on the happy highway back. I'm just so sick of talking about it. And the right-wing conspiracy does too read this shit. Religiously. Trust me on this.

Lastly: If you've pondered, "Okay--If some random guy at Chop Suey claims to have spotted Kirsten Dunst--and this was within a remarkably close temporal proximity to those Orlando Bloom sightings recently--and Kirsten is shooting a Cameron Crowe film with Orlando at this very moment, was it really Kirsten and not Jake whom Adrian was rushing off to face fuck that one time?" then clearly you're hazardously perplexed. Or are you?

Vote Wigged Cat Turd.

adrian@thestranger.com