“Fill this out and have a seat, the nurse will be with you shortly.”

No smile, no pleasantries. Not that I cared, I had more important things weighing on my mind at that moment.

The area was empty except for a tired looking old man, who paid me no mind as he listened to his headphones and bobbed his head to the music; upon further inspection, I discovered they weren’t plugged in to anything. I took a seat and filled out the forms, then waited, but not for long. A door to the back opened and a woman with mocha colored skin gestured for me to come with her; she took the clipboard, my insurance card, and the lab request by my doctor, looking them over to make sure I filled everything out properly. I couldn’t help but blush as she looked over the boxes my doctor checked and then at me. I could see her judging me. I wanted to break the silence and try to make her understand, but that would just condemn me more. So instead I averted my gaze, worrying a troublesome cuticle while she finished up.

She led me deeper into the office, which had seen better days. Outdated wall paper peeled in spots, the linoleum was scuffed and scarred, and the smell of illness and too much disinfectant made me want to be there even less. The nurse stopped at a little cubicle and waved me toward the rickety chair, where she performed routine triage: blood pressure, temperature, questions about medical history even though I clearly checked the boxes on my forms. She kept glancing at me, and it made me cringe inside. I knew what she was thinking, I knew what she saw. She mumbled something under her breath and walked away, only to return a few moments later with a needle and two vials. I held out my right arm and she swabbed it with an alcohol wipe, and then began the process of drawing my blood. It hurt. A lot. I know I’m a big fucking baby when it came to needles, but it burned like hell. My discomfort must have been obvious, because as I was about to open my mouth to say something, she broke the silence.

“So it wasn’t for drugs, then.”

Her comment struck me as odd, and I frowned at her. “I’m sorry?” She looked at me like one does when explaining something to a child who is being purposely dense. One vial filled, and she starts on the second one. Don’t look at it, I told myself, and it won’t hurt so much. It was lie, but it was a lie I had told myself since I was little, and I was sticking to it, damn it.

“Your doctor sent you here to be tested for HIV; it’s either from drugs or sleeping around. Judging by the lack of tracks and the fact you look like you’re going to throw up just looking at this here needle, I’m going to say you didn’t get it by shooting up.”

I blushed again, but this time from rage, not embarrassment. “Get your hands off me.”

“I’m almost done-” I stood up abruptly; it stung like a bitch to jostle the needle in my vein, but I didn’t care.

“I said get your hands off me.” I pulled the needle out and tossed it on the medical tray nearby, my anger keeping me from fainting as I held my arm up to slow the bleeding. The nurse stared at me as I slung my purse over my shoulder.

“Miss, I need to finish drawing your blood, otherwise-”

“You need to check yourself, you bigoted bitch, and get away from me.” She looked like I slapped her, and I wished that I had, but that’s a felony. With my good arm, I rummaged into my purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping, letting it flutter down next to the half full vial.”You wanna know why I’m here? Take a fucking look.”

BICYCLIST HIT BY DRUNK DRIVER

“I had an open cut on my hand, and her blood was everywhere. Of course, the driver who hit her didn’t have a scratch on him.” I sighed, remembering every single thing about that night; the human sized indentation in the car’s hood and windshield, the broken glass, the drops and streaks and puddle of Technicolor blood, the twisted bicycle. The flung sandal. The way she lay crumpled in the street, gurgling as her stomach struggled to do what her punctured lung could not. “Anyway, she died two days later, so I was never able to ask her if she had something that I should be worried about, you know? The guy that was with her said she was from Bosnia, which I figured was as good a reason as any to get checked.” His face had been so sad when he’d told me that, and other things, about her. Like how she was nurse at the children’s hospital, and how he’d been the one to convince her to come to America.

He had begged me, a total stranger, to tell him she was going to be okay, and I lied and said yes because I couldn’t face telling him otherwise.

I plucked the article from her hand when she finished reading it, regarded her coolly as I put it away. “It’s people like you that make folks not want to get tested, even if they’re in this position for the noblest of reasons. I wonder how many people died because they didn’t want to face the scorn, the God damned arrogance of someone like you? Some of the folks here have done something that ultimately hurt themselves, but you and people like you do something that hurts scores of people, everyday; you should be ashamed of yourself.”

I walked away, leaving her sputtering what I can only hope was an apology.

*It came back negative, in case ya’ll were wondering.

It’s rather strange, because as a song it floated about in the mediasphere since being recorded in 1998 without me really hearing it. Or hearing it properly. Maybe I passed it by as it leaked from a radio from within several mediocre coffee shops? Whatever reason, I never heard it fully until last year when a recently reformed Blur played the Glastonbury Festival.

I heard the fucker then, believe me.

Heard it hard.

I was, and still am, a fan of Blur. I was incredibly excited about their appearance at Glasto. As were roughly 140,000 other people, it turns out. So ‘lil ol’ me tunes into the festival on the BBC iPlayer, and it’s fucking mayhem from the get-go. The energy, the welcome, the anticipation, the promise and the delivery -- electric. Hairs on the back of my neck erect.

Here’s the intro to their set. Note how they almost instantly incredibly lose their timing. It’s what happens when you mix adrenalin without a click track to keep you solid. Kickin! (You don’t need to watch the whole thing, btw)

All this background aside and behind us now, let’s get to the track in question -- “Tender”.

It begins, heh -- tenderly. The lick is picked out twice, given an almost wax-cylinder-esque quality by William Orbit, and then WHOOSH, full production, the lick again, then the lyrics kick in.

Tender is the night
lying by your side.
Tender is the touch
of someone that you love too much.
Tender is the day
the demons go away.
Lord, I need to find
someone who can heal my mind.

So far, so good. Simple, deceptively beautiful. Every moment of loneliness I’ve experienced recently is somehow made concrete, sorrow is shaped, and loss is remembered. My eyes are still dry, but my heart begins to ache. Then during the build-up to chorus, this almost-mantra:

Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it
Come on, Come on, Come on
Love’s the greatest thing
Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it
Come on, Come on, Come on
Love’s the greatest thing
That we have
I’m waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come

and that’s where I begin to lose it, ladies and gentlemen. That’s when I start to well up. The London Community Gospel Choir fill out the harmonies, and I’m gone. Shuddering slightly by now, to be honest. Then, the sucker punch, written by the guitarist Graham Coxon -- again, simple, this time to his own melody:

Oh my baby
Oh my baby
Oh why?
Oh my

Another little mantra, this time repeated. Just a rather reedy but sweet voice, to be honest, but it’s the mortar to the rest of what’s been building up. And by this part I’m lost in my own, multiple sadnesses. They overlap, spin and I’m crying for all my mistakes in the past while hoping for another chance at love, for companionship, for someone in my future -- all because of this deceptively simple, rather cathartic little song that always seems to catch me unawares.

I won’t bore you with the rest of this rather over-earnest analysis, because -- frankly -- I’m beginning to annoy myself. But, needless to say, watching them play it live at Glastonbury, with a crowd of 140,000 yelling these mantras in a call-and-response, made me weep for everything. And I mean weep.

I know I’m not alone in feeling this, but I’m interested in what song does the same to you. Leave your tearmaker in the comments, if you please, thank you.

Oh. Yes. Sometimes I actually do feel that I’ll get through it.

There will be no more laughing until we deserve it. Am I making myself clear? In the spirit of this, I have made sure that all of my comments are dry and humorless. More so than usual.

Smokies:

VoxPopuli/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

” But seriously, she could have scooted over on that door to make room for Jack, no? Ugh. SPOILER!!!: The boat sinks.”

(This was in reference to the movie “Titanic.” However, the actual ship sank in 1912 on her maiden voyage, so there is no cause for alarm.)

LawyerGay/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Excellent. But I’m worried about my homo brethren. How are their 60″ plasma TVs going to be able to save them now!?!?!! I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of riots in Chelsea.”

(Wordsmoker does not condone the use of homosexual stereotypes. LawyerGay, will be required to complete 40 hours of sensitivity training before he can receive his Smokie.)

SFBirdie/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“If Avatar wins best picture it will only confirm my already-confirmed belief that Hollywood is one big bowel movement and the Oscars are just a fancy way of parading around turds like they mean something.”

(Of course, Avatar did not go on to win best picture, so the issue was never resolved.)

Uncivilly Obedient/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Why can’t the question be: whose dress are you wearing? Who are you wearing? Tom Ford. Can’t you see his arms draped across my shoulders? Look behind me he’s not wearing pants.”

(A Tom Ford joke was very appropriate since he is a clothing designer and a film director.)

LipstickLibrarian/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Holla! PricewaterhouseCoopers reprezent!”

(I’m sorry about this break from seriousness, but I got a little nostalgic thinking about the days when it used to be Price Waterhouse and Coopers & Lybrand).

Baroness/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Let’s hear it for de-regulated cable monopolies, lack of consumer choice, greedy squabbles among conglomerates to squeeze more $ out of subscribers in the worst recession ever. Your “free market” at work, except for the consumer it’s far from free, and in many places there’s not much of a market, i.e. choice. Seriously considering scrapping cable altogether, Netflixing and subscribing to iTunes season passes to shows I like. And I imagine this is just the beginning- every network’s going to start pulling these stunts, and the mass media of the US will look like a patchwork banana republic of squabbling patty dictators.”

(As usual, Baroness colorfully illustrates her point, giving us all a very different perspective on a familiar problem.)

LipstickLibrarian/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Amanda Seyfried and Miley Cyrus: Champagne and flat Coors Light with a cigarette butt floater.”

(Although this may not make sense now, Amanda Seyfried and Miley Cyrus were on stage when LsL wrote this, making it a timely comment.)

Maelstrom/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Jake is now a carpenter with three kids, like Jesus, the Dan Brown version.”

(I was hesitant to award this, since I didn’t have time to fact check it. I guess we will just have to hope for the best.)

Unfun/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Holy beejesus who is this red-headed freak. “I already have two of these.” EWWWWWW GO SUCK A DICKKKKKK.”

(I believe that this was in reference to the costume designer who had won her third Oscar. She seemed to be a lovely woman.)

Unfun/UnChienAndalou/SenorWences:Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

Unfun: “Just how I’d want to be remembered. With shitty music.”

UCA: “James Taylor will do weddings as well.”

SW: “That death parade sucked. James Taylor basically pissed on those corpses.”

(Wordsmoker would like to clarify that it is not aware of any actual public urination during the 82nd Academy Awards.)

Baroness/The Smokies: The End of the Old Boy Network Edition:

“I thought things written drunk on the Information Superhighway were evanascent, vanishing things! Not meant to be typed out and read aloud when you thought you were going to a party, and you see that look on all their faces, and they tell you how Silver Hill is a fancy spa, (it isn’t!) and you realize they’ve caulked the bathroom window shut as they’re pounding on the door telling you everything will be all right and Dr. Needle is on his way. I’m sure everyone can relate. Flashbacks! Funny things.”

(Needless to say, actual addiction recovery is not something that should be laughed at.)

PineKatz/I Love You, Jihad Jane:

“She’s ruined the easy pass through the Immigration Desk forever. I kinda hate her…I want to send her a dead rat.”

(Terrorism is certainly not a topic that any of us should be making light of. Neither is ending a sentence with a preposition.)

LipstickLibrarian/Caption This – Drug-Addled Mary Poppins Friday Special:

“If you want this choice position,
Have a surly disposition.
Sallow cheeks, duck lips,
Leggings, fake tits!

You must be vain, you must be bratty,
Very thin and fairly catty.
Take us to The Ivy, buy us treats,
Read us your Tweets.

Let us drop out of school,
Always give us vodka and Red Bull.
Ignore us like your mom and father,
And always smell of stagnant water.

If you get smashed and crash into us,
We will never give you cause to sue us.
We won’t hide your Louboutins
So you can’t dance,
Put pills in your hand
Or cocaine in your pants.

Hurry, Lindsay!

Many thanks, sincerely,

Jane and Michael Banks?

(Wordsmoker disavows any direct knowledge that Ms. Lohan or her estate have undergone breast augmentation.)

BellTolls/Caption This – Drug-Addled Mary Poppins Friday Special:

“Stuporfragileisticxlaxcallousdouches.”

(is not a real word.)

Pokies:

Unfun/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

“Look it’s my boyfriend Gerard Butler, I let him out of his handcuffs and assless chaps just for tonight.”

(Wordsmoker doe not condone the abductions of celebrities or real persons. This comment was made for novelty purposes only.)

The Flamethrower:

There haven’t been many articles that are meant to deliberately incite the masses lately. I believe that some of the best debates develop organically from pieces that aren’t necessarily meant to be inflammatory. I don’t know if LawyerGay expected a fray when he posted an article featuring battling ponies, but a fray he did get:

LawyerGay/Postcards From The Left: Markos v. Kucinich:

“The heart of this feud appears to lie in America’s epically stupid debate over health care reform, and specifically Kucinich’s opposition to the Senate’s version of the health insurance reform bill that appears to be on track to become law in the next few weeks.”

(LawyerGay is not solely responsible for the success or failure of the healthcare bill.)

The Mechanical Larynx:

There hasn’t been a Mechanical Larynx for a few weeks. Sometimes we have to really delve into the comments to find one. This was a truly disturbing piece of video footage:

NinaHagen/Live-Blogging The 82 Academy Awards Live-Blog Blog:

(This event occurred in 1989. We were supposed to have evolved by then. As truth is an absolute defense, I can confidentially state that this awards show was an abortion.)

The Iron Lung:

“This is brilliant” are three words that are seldom heard from Wordsmoker, LawyerGay’s keyboard. Or seen? Anyway, I took this as a nomination of sorts:

TheWorryWart/I Love You, Jihad Jane:

“Like Colleen, Khadija, too, shines most brightly as a comedienne. The British documentary filmmaker who tailed Khadija to Afghanistan where she was allegedly kidnapped by the Taliban, reported that Khadija annoyed her captors with her incessant chain-smoking and sorely tried their patience with her need to wake them at all hours to shoot the breeze about global jihad.”

(TheWorryWart is not actually in love with Jihad Jane or any of the new white, American, female al Qaeda members. The use of the word “love” here is hyperbole. More accurately, TheWorryWart only enjoys Jihad Jane’s company.)

It has been a pleasure doing business with you.

The views and opinions expressed in this page are strictly those of ChillbearLatrigue and not of Wordsmoker. The contents of this page have not been reviewed or approved by Wordsmoker Enterprises Limited Inc.

*Not affiliated with the 2009 film, A Serious Man.

Image via wikipedia.

Dregs crouched in the shadow of the discarded Wii remote, thanking the small human for leaving him such a perfect lookout for this attack.  A few inches away, the offending BUG was carelessly investigating a napkin, half hidden behind the curio.  Dregs silently pulled his sword from his belt and crouched, waiting for his adversary to turn its back and offer a target.  In a flash he flew from his hideout and plunged his sword through his opponent, killing the BUG before it had a chance to look up from the cookie crumb it was eating.  He wiped his blade off, carefully making sure to clean it up to the hilt.  His father had taught him the importance of caring for his weapon before he had allowed him to carry one.

“A rusty sword is the quickest way to the rubbish bin, my son.”

Dregs had seen too many of the bunnies he had grown up with make that trip, and he wasn’t eager to follow them.  Dregs knelt next to his victim and placed a paw gently on its back.

“Go in peace, my worthy foe.”

He inhaled deeply as he stood and surveyed the dining room around him.  The napkin would need to be carefully watched until the humans removed it.  Such a tempting article was sure to lure every vermin in the neighborhood here.  He made a mental note to assign shifts to guard it.

“Sir, we are seeing some action in the breakfast nook, sir.”

Slag, the solider assigned to the dining table watch-post, was hanging over the edge with his helmet askew.

“Should we see if they need our assistance, sir?”

“No, Slag,” Dregs replied as he grabbed his helmet from behind the Wii remote, “You should stay and keep watch like you’ve been assigned.  I will go and see what the problem is.  Keep a watchful eye on that napkin until a guard arrives, and for Pete’s sake, Slag, stay at your post.”

Dregs set off for the breakfast nook knowing that it wouldn’t take long for Slag to get overly excited and come rushing to help.  Slag was Dregs’ newest solider.  He would be good one some day, if Dregs could keep him out of trouble long enough for Slag to learn some sense.  He was eager to jump into battle but lacked the patience and grace that kept a solider alive.  He had good instincts, though, and if he thought whatever was happening in the nook looked like trouble, he was probably right.

As soon as Dregs rounded the corner, he could tell something had gone very wrong.  Bunnies were scattered everywhere, running in what seemed like sheer chaos.  Where was his father?  What could be so wrong that his father’s troops were running around like a bunch of lint trap bunnies fresh from the spin cycle?

“Dregs, this way.  The meeting will be starting any second.”

Lees – Dregs’ cousin and best friend – waved him down and hurried him toward the center of the chaos, where a tent of brightly colored holiday napkins had been set up as a command station.

“What is happening here, Lees?  And where is my father?”

“I thought you knew! Oh man, it’s bad.  The scouts were making their passes through the cupboards when they found it.  It’s huge and completely finished too.  I don’t know how they managed it.  I don’t even want to think about the type of opponent…”

Lees was cut short by the shouts of the other generals in the tent.

“Gentlebunnies! Quiet please”, Detritus bellowed from behind his desk.  Lees and Dregs hurried to find seats as the other generals hushed and took theirs.

“As you all well know, two of our scouts have found a very imposing mouse hole in the cupboard of color bowls.  This is not the first time we have faced the threat of mice…”

“But this hole came from nowhere, Detritus!” Dregs leaned to the right to see which bunny had interrupted, but with no success.  “These mice are something we have never seen the likes of before.  We have always had warnings of…”

“Yes, these mice seem to be working faster then those we have dealt with in the past,” Detritus continued, “but we can’t let that frighten us into inaction.  We will work tonight to board up the hole and set guards to watch it during the day.  Do not fear, gentlebunnies, we have a strong and well trained army and there is no mouse in all Rolling Meadows that can defeat us!”

The generals jumped to their feet with applause.  They crowded around Detritus shaking his paw and promising that the bravery and strength of their battalions would win this battle.  Dregs hung back against the wall of the tent and waited until all but his cousin had left.

“Thank you, Lees.  You should take your bunnies home and get a good day’s rest.  Tomorrow will prove quite trying for all of us, I am sure.”

Lees saluted and turned to leave.  He gave Dregs a punch in the arm as he walked by.  He started shouting orders to his bunnies to pack up and form ranks to head home before the flaps of the tent had closed behind him.

Detritus sank into the over-sized Lego arm chair positioned behind the large strategy stable.  ”Out with it then, son.  You haven’t been standing around just to watch your old man stare at maps.”

Dregs pulled a shampoo cap chair up to the table and sat down opposite his father.

“It’s these mice.  They frighten you, don’t they?” he asked.

“Mice are not a new enemy, Dregs, but something is different about these.  How did they manage to create such a large and finished hole in one day?  Our army is strong and brave, but they are also young.  These bunnies have never fought a full out war with the mice before.  Even you, my son, have never seen a battle of that kind.”

“Do not worry, father.  What we lack in experience we make up for three fold in eagerness.  We are ready.  I won’t let you down, father.”

“You never could.  But it is growing early and we need to get home before the humans begin to rise.  Take your bunny there and go home.  I will be along in a few moments.”

“What bunny?  I came from a solo mission.”

“The one that has been unsuccessfully hiding while spying under the tent there.” Detritus waved his hand to the far left corner where Slag was clumsily trying to smooth the carpet out he had been lying on.

Dregs sighed and rose.  “Good day, father.  Please don’t stay too long.  You know it worries mother.”

“Mmmm,” Detritus replied, already lost in the maps and plans laid out along the big NyQuil box table.

“Come on, Slag, let’s get to our beds then,” Dregs said as he turned and walked from the tent.

Compare this with similar products like the Apple iPad, which can cost over $800 and only show fish in two dimensions. The Living Aquarium Nemo Ocean Lamp does not require water or any other fluids, but can be used to smuggle gin into a ball game or concert. It is as versatile as it is beautiful.

See how the Living Aquarium Animated Nemo Ocean Lamp brightens up the aluminum siding and window unit of this mobile home:

Unlike live fish products, the Living Aquarium Animated Nemo Ocean Lamp does not leave an empty void in your soul by refusing to live for all eternity. When you die, it can become a family heirloom. For a limited time, Innovage is offering the Uncle Milton Deep Sea Jellyfish for just the price of shipping and handling:

This product receives a 92 rating for value, a 94 for versatility and a 97 for not dyingability.

The heart of this feud appears to lie in America’s epically stupid debate over health care reform, and specifically Kucinich’s opposition to the Senate’s version of the health insurance reform bill that appears to be on track to become law in the next few weeks.

Markos has vowed to conjure a primary challenger to Kucinich if he dares oppose the bill when it comes up for a vote. For his part, Kucinich has publicly declared himself a “Nay” on the health care bill as recently as Tuesday [at 3'55"].

More crazily, Markos has tweeted that: “The force of Dennis Kucinich’s convictions is Rush Limbaugh’s greatest ally.” That seems a bit extreme to me, because all Kucinich is saying is what dozens of commentators on the left (and some on the right) have been saying all along: That forcing Americans to pay up to 8 percent of their income in premiums to corrupt health insurers without a public option is not only bad policy, it’s bad politics.

Wordsmokers: What do you think?

In the AFP/Getty photos of Colleen LaRose, aka Jihad Jane, aka Fatima LaRose, aka “The Weird, Weird, Weird Lady Who Lived Across the Hall,” we find a face that looks like something roughed out by a cavalier courtroom sketch artist, something drawn hastily by a forensic illustrator less than entirely engaged by the pathos of the deceased.

Like all Americans who’ve opted for this particular road less traveled, Colleen’s past can be only barely discerned. Her fate, only dimly perceived.

At first she was from Pennsylvania. Now she’s from Texas. There was the detour through Ireland. There was the manic skulking about Sweden’s Bible Belt — Colleen’s I-Love-Lucy-style hunt for the cartoonist she hoped, for Islam’s sake, to “slaughter like a lamb.”

From the bare facts of this story, her life’s ambition seems to have been appearing as a walk-on in the dreamwork of early 21st century history.

Colleen seems a woman who knew from the outset that she’d never play the ingenue, a woman who early on embraced a strategy of acceptance, of seeking to be cast solely in broadly antic, if non-speaking, roles that had some viable potential for some legit character appearances elsewhere. Here and there. Comic relief.

Not exactly out of the frame.

Not exactly in focus, either.

For someone with a rap sheet as long as my arm, for someone allegedly heretofore given to check-kiting schemes and drunk driving arrests, Colleen seems surprisingly at home in niqaab, the veil observed by only the most orthodox Muslim women.

If the precise nature of Colleen’s transition from film-noir hard case to Al Qaeda wannabe seems opaque, singularly resistant to illumination or interpretation, it’s because Colleen, like all others in her career trajectory, is a character invented out of whole cloth.

She’s a personage designed intentionally to flicker like a Will o’ the Wisp at the fuzzy edges of the American collective unconscious.

Colleen LaRose, aka Jihad Jane, aka Fatima LaRose, aka “The Weird, Weird, Weird Lady Who Lived Across the Hall,” is a native handicraft.

Which is why I love her.

In terms of outsider art, there’s no art more outside than that produced by the national intelligence apparatus.

There are fourteen official intelligence gathering agencies. Everyone’s best guesstimate is that there are at least as many more whose names we’ll never, ever know.

So, at any given moment, there are literally thousands of Americans dreaming up or tracking or cultivating one Colleen LaRose or another, in one guise or another. Literally thousands of Americans employed in history’s largest government-subsidized art project.

For a country so traditionally skittish about state-sponsorship, our homegrown aesthetic, our style, our particularisms of taste, are made most fully manifest only in the most zealously discreet reaches of the public sector.

Consider all the painstaking craftsmanship that went into the creation of Colleen LaRose.

Like a beautifully turned Shaker workbench that can also serve as a stepping stool or pew, Colleen yields herself to various roles and uses.

Consider Khadija Abdul Qahaar, aka Bev Kennedy, aka Beverly Anne Giesbrecht, aka Paul Morris-Read, aka Zafir Jamaal, aka Ubaidah Al-Saif, aka Bruce Kennedy, the erstwhile ardent Southern Baptist who converted to Islam in the wake of 9/11 and in 2002 created Jihadunspun.com, a website dedicated to publishing firebrand Islamist rhetoric and cryptic communiques from Al Qaeda co-travelers and hangers-on.

Khadija, too, was a peroxide blonde with a troubled past, an obscure woman with a knack for posing far more questions than she answered.

Like Colleen, Khadija, too, shines most brightly as a comedienne. The British documentary filmmaker who tailed Khadija to Afghanistan where she was allegedly kidnapped by the Taliban, reported that Khadija annoyed her captors with her incessant chain-smoking and sorely tried their patience with her need to wake them at all hours to shoot the breeze about global jihad.

In Khadija, too, we perceive the artist’s touch, the gift for overdrawing a character just enough so that she blossoms into something approaching verisimilitude. Less Edward Hopper, say, than Roy Lichtenstein.

If you bother to search out online images of Khadija and Colleen, you’ll see that it’s very likely that they’re the same woman.

Personally, I think the quirky eyebrows are the give-away.

And the mischievous steeliness in the eyes themselves.

A look that says that at heart this woman doesn’t really give a damn if you put two-and-two together and read her like a clock.

She knows you’re in on the game and, for her, the shoddiness of her act, the clumsiness of her sleight of hand, are all part of the fun. Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are spinning conspiracy theories.

It’s her savvy mien that makes me love Jihad Jane, or Beverly, or Khadija, or Ubaidah Al-Saif, or whatever else you might choose to call her.

It’s her radical advancement of this uniquely American vein, this ability of our nation’s finest intelligence artists to transform terrorism into slapstick and burlesque.