TOBY PETZOLD

The Statesman is reporting that Johnston High School will be closed and then “repurposed.” I don’t know what that second word means in this case, but the first one I get. And I say good. What a dreadful dump.

I hope they also close down Pearce Middle School, which is another haven for incompetence and indiscipline. In fact, they ought to tear the place down and salt the earth where it stood. When I was subbing in this school district back in the 1990s, I got so angry once at the disrespect shown to me by the subhuman dreck running Pearce that I actually wrote a letter to my employer telling them I would never again accept an assignment there. It was a pretty angry letter, too. If I ever come across my copy of it, I will post it here.

My opinion of public education boils down to this: it will continue to disserve our society because it’s no longer possible to insist on discipline. That’s it. Teachers can’t teach anymore because they are at the mercy of ill-bred and ill-mannered children and worthless administrators who routinely betray their best teachers to politics and expediency.

If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you can’t, pop a fucking liberal education bureaucrat in his stupid hippie mouth.

One of the most beautiful women I know is also a waitress at my favorite restaurant —a great Vietnamese place in South Austin— and, today, she told me that I remind her of her dearly departed horse because his name was also Toby. Because of the name. The name makes her happy, so when she sees me, it…uh…

I’ve been going into this place for years and I think that’s maybe the most she’s ever said to me at one time. Naturally, I’ve taken the time this afternoon and evening to completely zapruder the hell out of her completely unprecedented remarks and to contemplate polluting myself to their memory, but I am more bemused than anything else. If bemused still means horny.

Oh, and who cares that John Edwards endorsed BHO? Keith Olbermann, who is a miserable propagandist craphound, seems to think Edwards’ coronation today of the Southside Messiah is far more important than the 2-to-1 shellacking Mrs. Clinton gave to him in West Virginia yesterday. Get a clue, Olbamamann. People know what this race is about.

Here’s some crap I really disrespect (emphasis added):

Luis Vera, LULAC’s general counsel, said LULAC wants a judge to toss the results of the March 4 primary because it believes delegates weren’t allocated fairly, considering Latinos invariably support the party’s nominees. The party bases the delegates awarded within each state senatorial district on the percentage of voters who turned out and voted for the Democratic gubernatorial nominee in the most recent previous general election.

A key factoid: Latino-heavy districts end up fielding fewer delegates to the national convention. Why? Turnout in those districts often drops in general elections partly because Democratic candidates in those districts face fewer serious fall races.

Vera, set to be a delegate to the state convention pledged to Sen. Hillary Clinton, said it’s possible Clinton would benefit from a change in delegate allocations. Clinton, after all, bested Sen. Barack Obama across the Texas-Mexico border region.

“Of course, it’s possible,” Vera said. “That’s inconsequential. I could care less. This is not about Hillary Clinton and this is not about Barack Obama. My loyalty is to the Latino community.”

Man, is this guy gonna have a problem in Obama’s America of post-racial transcendence or what?

I don’t know much about her, but she’s sorta cute.

Oh —and she’s the one Ronnie Earle didn’t endorse. That should tell you everything you need to know. In fact, it’s the only legitimate reason I had for voting for her last week.

I’m sitting around here at a “mid-town” coffee shop a couple feet away from a pack of 20-something chicks who are just blathering at eleven about their drunken exploits from last night. Hysterical.

This is better than the TV.

Oh, and they love Beaches. That needs to be understood before all else.

The local Big Media newspaper has working for them a religion writer named Eileen Flynn. I really enjoy her stuff, when I happen to come across it, including her very interesting and ecumenical advocacy of celebrating the Advent at their site today:

Advent derives from the Latin word for “coming” and marks the beginning of the liturgical year. Some have said the four weeks represent the 4,000 years of darkness that preceded the birth of Jesus. Some say the Advent wreath is based on a pre-Christian fire wheel. The point is that Advent provides Christians the chance to start anew, to adjust their lives for the coming of the Christ child. Liturgically, the Christmas season begins Dec. 25.

I’m finding more and more Christians embracing Advent traditions. Converts to Catholicism, mainline Protestants, even nondenominational folks who long for rituals to deepen their spiritual lives are making a point to slow down and savor these weeks.

Sounds good to me, even if I don’t need to participate in those particular observances. I’m just happy that others still feel that they have some claim on those ancient rites. It strengthens the backbone against degeneracy and Islamofascism.

Check out her post. It’s got lots of interesting ideas.

Do it for Baby Jesus.

I am surprised at the big number of big names I know from George Mitchell’s report. Quite a few of the detestable Yankees, I’m pleased to note, including Roger Clemens, our local hero.

I think Mitchell’s right, though: call the culprits out on it and then move on. Because this isn’t like kicking Shoeless Joe Jackson out of the majors. Jackson was one of the men who did commit the ultimate crime in baseball: throwing the World Series. But what Clemens and the others did was long-term and systemic. Everybody’s known about steroid abuse in the MLB since McGwire and Sosa’s first passionate, get-a-room quality embrace during their record-breaking season of 1998.

As regards substance abuse in professional athletics, I remarked to a female relative earlier today that the only revelation more damaging than what these have been today would have been to learn that Lance Armstrong was, as the French have long insisted, doping during his magnificent run of championships. Such news would, quite frankly, devastate this town. That’s no joke, either. It would break a lot of hearts and I hope it is never found to be true.

I’ve actually been a little bothered today by the news that the lovely Michelle Valles of KXAN was arrested and jailed last night on suspicion of drunken driving.

She’s a native of my birthplace of El Paso and a graduate of my alma mater here at UT Austin. And she is almost preposterously beautiful. If she’s on the TV when I’m in the room, it’s an automatic 100 points off my IQ. It doesn’t matter that she’s not particularly skilled at what she does; but it does matter that there should be women who are so perfectly pretty that they make you happy just to behold them. And, anyway, she’s a sweetheart. A truly good person.

I think I’ve emailed her three times. Like some sort of goofy-assed teenaged girl pawing through Tiger Beat while writing a perfume-soaked letter to Shaun Cassidy. On the second email, I asked her for an autographed picture. There was no response until almost exactly a year later. Bizarre. I have no idea if her backlog of requests from other pathetic 35 year-old men was that huge, but she assured me that she was going to send me one right away.

It never came. [cue the 50’s-era sitcom “sad horn” leitmotif]

Anyhow, I strongly disapprove of drunken driving. When I was a young man, I was guilty of much stupidity myself and other politician-like euphemisms. No one has any right to endanger the lives of others with the impaired control of thousands of pounds of metal, glass, and fuel.

I am grateful that Michelle is okay and that she hasn’t harmed anyone. And I am hopeful that she will succeed and put things right in her life. But I needed to say tonight that I am a disappointed admirer.

Welcome, Wyatt.

The Devil was beating his wife today while I was at work. That’s always a very strange —and somehow counterintuitive— sight to behold.

“The summer of aught-seven was the damnedest one I ever saw,” they’ll say.

“I reckon so,” I’ll say.

(Last night was a farmer’s moon, my marmoset.)