In the Belly of the Beast

Twitter is what I'm talking about. And Obama's limo, too. Because after seeing this tweeted photo from David Axelrod . . .


followed with, "How loving owners transport their dogs," I felt compelled to sign up and tweet right back,

"Dogs w/o limo owners -- it's a new support group. My cat rides in a 6-year old SUV. Call the SPCA."

The optics, David! The optics! Can you spell B A I N?

But damn, this Twitter stuff is complicated. It made me follow (or so it seemed) about a gazillion strangers I really didn't want to "follow." "Follow five more!" it insisted, followed by "Follow five more!" before it would let me hit the "next" button and get on with things. Grrr.

So anyway, follow me? And maybe I'll figure out how to follow you back?

GOPLawyerMom is my, uh, "handle"?

To give you an idea of my level of sophistication, remember those CB radios in the '70s? (And no, I do not remember leisure suits -- I've no memory of them at all.)

Once upon a 5th grade time, my mother took me on a road trip to New Orleans, and boy was I on the alert for "smokies." Saw one just before we went under an overpass, in fact, and I jumped on the CB quick as a flash. "Breaker, breaker! Smokie!" I said. I was so proud.

"10-4" came the reply, followed by "location?! location?!"


"Clearance 13' 9!" I shouted. "Clearance 13'9"!"

When the truckers started screaming for a mile-marker -- for anything -- and my mother started laughing at me maniacally, I knew my grown-up "seat-cover" cover was blown. And so for the rest of the trip I just hid, one humiliated kid.

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