I saw it Sunday morning in, of all places, Downey, California, the onetime home of Richard and Karen Carpenter, whose legacy still resonates down the quiet ivy boulevards (truly--I went for a walk in a residential district before the movie started and passed two apartment complexes across the street from one another, one called "Only Just Begun," the other, "Close To You," but, oddly enough, no birds suddenly appeared). I arrived extra too-early, thinking there'd be an excruciating queue; alas, I bought my ticket slick and sweet, no hassle, no waiting. So I passed the time roaming about the quaint little hamlet, with its gazillion churches and old storefronts. It's so cute and sensible that the high school, city library, city hall, chamber of commerce, police department, and community theater are all on the same block.

I stopped in at the new CVS Pharmacy, so brand new that the clerks are still chipper and helpful. "We opened our doors last Wednesday, and we had our grand opening yesterday," said the teenaged girl behind the counter. "How do you like it?" "It's pretty cool," I said, dropping some bones for a paperback edition of Stephen King's On Writing.

"What are you up to today? Just shopping?"

"No, actually, I'm going to a movie."

"Oh, really! Which one?"

"Fahrenheit 9/11."

"Oh." Her voice dropped slightly; she'd heard of it. "Have you seen White Chicks yet? That's supposed to be really funny."

I wonder what Karen Carpenter would think of Downey now.

About a half-hour before showtime I came back, bought a tepid Dr. Pepper, and joined a packed house of mostly sympathetic patrons. Only one person walked out, right before the end, but he doesn't count: he was coming out of the mens room when I was going in. He'd been crying.

It's been a long time since I've left a movie that angry. While I hesitate to call Fahrenheit 9/11 the best documentary of all time, I do think it's the most important of our generation. Yes, it's propaganda (so's Hoop Dreams, if you wanna get technical), but you know what? I was convinced. I mean, it's one thing to read the charges of commiserating with Saudis in cold, dead print, but to see actual fucking photos and moving images of the Bushes embracing this murderous prick, shaking hands with that rat bastard, breaking bread with those bloody-handed assholes, it's infuriating, proving that if we DO bring George W. Bush back for another term, the terrorists win.

It's amazing that the year 2000 seems like lifetimes ago. I'd forgotten about the protesters blocking the faux president's path to his swearing-in. I'd forgotten about Al Gore following cold protocol while representatives pleaded with him to wrong an injustice. It was weird to again see the major three networks backing off their Florida predictions while Fox galloped in on the Dubya horse. It seems like something my parents' generation experienced, not me. The talking heads of the right can bellow all they want about "living in the past," but one look at the past tells the story: we wuz robbed, and we went into the Bush years kicking and screaming.

My only complaints are Moore's occasional smarminess--sometimes it was funny, sometimes it was off-putting; the Britney Spears footage, which seemed unnecessary except to broadside an easy, naive, simpleminded target; and--this is minor--Moore's tendency to return to Flint, Michigan, and its rapid decay, which grows more alarming with each visit. Man, I don't wanna go to Flint again; next Moore doc it's gonna be a hole in the ground covered by a tattered tarp. If I lived in Flint I'd feel like, "Oh, here comes Mike and his crew to rub our faces in our neverending economic Depression some more." But I must admit a lot of info came of that trip: We learned that for poor kids, the military is often the only escape from poverty (at least for a while), and scenes of the desperate Marine recruiters blindsiding kids in mall parking lots with car-salesman zeal (didn't one say, "You go this way, I'll go that way, and we'll corner him"?) were particularly gross. We learned that a mother's steadfast belief in the American way of sacrifice for freedom can be damaged permanently when one of her own children doesn't make it home, and whose last letter was disillusionment incarnate. We learned that the last four years were just fucked up for everybody everywhere.

Gotta admit I didn't like Bush when I walked into the theater, and I don't like him now. Not only should he not be reelected, he should be impeached. And not only should he be impeached, he and his associates should spend the rest of their days trapped in courtrooms from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., every day, fighting for every fucking dime in their bank accounts, in neverending litigation. Jail's too good for them; it gives those bastards a place to rest.

We are Americans. This is our house. And it's about time we told our drunken, stumblebum, halfwitted, black-hearted guests to pack up; they've overstayed their welcome.