1.  Among the fallout/benefits of M.'s new car is a working radio.  Full range of channels, good signal, dials and buttons that work a fare-the-well.

The downside for me, conversations that begin "So, Michael Savage was saying…"  I can't decide whether Savage is completely fucked in the head, a natural-born asshole who probably eats kittens for breakfast or a completely calculating provocateur who's just stirring shit and getting book sales.  

In a perfect world, he and Dr. Laura would be locked in a radio sanctimony competition in a soundproof booth (so the no-doubt noxious vapors of so-called thought couldn't escape).  Two go in, one comes out.

2.  I am like whatever is less than a degree of separation from the Secretary of State.  I was trying to convince someone I know to slip her a note for me.  Something maybe about war being, I dunno, not good, and um, like, international policy based on clouded, obscured truth and um, bad secrets is like really not good.  But written with clever, smart words like "malfeasance" and "power grab" and "arrogance" and "misguided," not stuff like "lying scum."

Maybe just a quick, "Could you cut it the fuck out, please?"

Or maybe, try out a whole masterminded, John Le Carre scenario where there's a lot of confusion and fake identities and elaborate layers of spycraft.  (Besides being a bitch to actually plan and do, and let's face it, I'm lazy and completely unequipped, my attempts to recruit an accomplice met with rejection.  How did they get Dianne Keaton to train in the desert, and I can't get a buddy to carry a note?)

By the way, apparently if you were to go a-visiting to the folks in power in the free world, you got to show ID, and the Secret Service are all careful and shit.