R.I.P. Evel Knievel

Long before there was ESPN, there was the Wide World of Sports. And long before guys like Brett Favre were role models for our nation's youth, there was Evel Knievel. Evel died today, but memories of his death-defying jumps (or attempts) over the fountain at Caesar's Palace or Snake River Canyon live on the minds of my generation. Of all my childhood toys -- from Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots to electric football -- the one I wish I had saved is the Evel Kneivel stunt cycle. It wouldn't compete with today's video games and electronic gizmos, but boy was it cool. It was also Ideal!

Other things that suck (besides the outcome of that game)

So once upon a time Eric Schlosser wrote a book called Fast Food Nation, and I stopped eating hamburger at McDonald's. This was no hardship, because, yuck, and I don't take a hardline stance as I do against the Wal-Mart. Once in a while I'll drive thru the arches; I just don't eat the McCows. Some time here lately I noticed I'd stopped eating at Burger King, too, but that was purely a matter of taste: the proportion of filler to beef in their burgers seem to have tilted entirely to soybeans. I suppose I'm a supporter of Illinois and its crops, but when it comes to hamburger, I want them to be meat, and now we have a Culver's! And now, thanks to Mr. Schlosser, I can again cloak my fast food selectivity in righteous indignation. Turns out the Burger King honchos not only have creepy taste in ads but are also greedy bastards. Shocking, I know.

Penny Foolish
By Eric Schlosser

From NYTimes.com

THE migrant farm workers who harvest tomatoes in South Florida have one of the nation’s most backbreaking jobs. For 10 to 12 hours a day, they pick tomatoes by hand, earning a piece-rate of about 45 cents for every 32-pound bucket. During a typical day each migrant picks, carries and unloads two tons of tomatoes. For their efforts, this holiday season many of them are about to get a 40 percent pay cut.

Florida’s tomato growers have long faced pressure to reduce operating costs; one way to do that is to keep migrant wages as low as possible. Although some of the pressure has come from increased competition with Mexican growers, most of it has been forcefully applied by the largest purchaser of Florida tomatoes: American fast food chains that want millions of pounds of cheap tomatoes as a garnish for their hamburgers, tacos and salads.

In 2005, Florida tomato pickers gained their first significant pay raise since the late 1970s when Taco Bell ended a consumer boycott by agreeing to pay an extra penny per pound for its tomatoes, with the extra cent going directly to the farm workers. Last April, McDonald’s agreed to a similar arrangement, increasing the wages of its tomato pickers to about 77 cents per bucket. But Burger King, whose headquarters are in Florida, has adamantly refused to pay the extra penny — and its refusal has encouraged tomato growers to cancel the deals already struck with Taco Bell and McDonald’s.

This month the Florida Tomato Growers Exchange, representing 90 percent of the state’s growers, announced that it will not allow any of its members to collect the extra penny for farm workers. Reggie Brown, the executive vice president of the group, described the surcharge for poor migrants as “pretty much near un-American.”

Migrant farm laborers have long been among America’s most impoverished workers. Perhaps 80 percent of the migrants in Florida are illegal immigrants and thus especially vulnerable to abuse. During the past decade, the United States Justice Department has prosecuted half a dozen cases of slavery among farm workers in Florida. Migrants have been driven into debt, forced to work for nothing and kept in chained trailers at night. The Coalition of Immokalee Workers — a farm worker alliance based in Immokalee, Fla. — has done a heroic job improving the lives of migrants in the state, investigating slavery cases and negotiating the penny-per-pound surcharge with fast food chains.

Now the Florida Tomato Growers Exchange has threatened a fine of $100,000 for any grower who accepts an extra penny per pound for migrant wages. The organization claims that such a surcharge would violate “federal and state laws related to antitrust, labor and racketeering.” It has not explained how that extra penny would break those laws; nor has it explained why other surcharges routinely imposed by the growers (for things like higher fuel costs) are perfectly legal.

The prominent role that Burger King has played in rescinding the pay raise offers a spectacle of yuletide greed worthy of Charles Dickens. Burger King has justified its behavior by claiming that it has no control over the labor practices of its suppliers. “Florida growers have a right to run their businesses how they see fit,” a Burger King spokesman told The St. Petersburg Times.

Yet the company has adopted a far more activist approach when the issue is the well-being of livestock. In March, Burger King announced strict new rules on how its meatpacking suppliers should treat chickens and hogs. As for human rights abuses, Burger King has suggested that if the poor farm workers of southern Florida need more money, they should apply for jobs at its restaurants.

Three private equity firms — Bain Capital, the Texas Pacific Group and Goldman Sachs Capital Partners — control most of Burger King’s stock. Last year, the chief executive of Goldman Sachs, Lloyd C. Blankfein, earned the largest annual bonus in Wall Street history, and this year he stands to receive an even larger one. Goldman Sachs has served its investors well lately, avoiding the subprime mortgage meltdown and, according to Business Week, doubling the value of its Burger King investment within three years.

Telling Burger King to pay an extra penny for tomatoes and provide a decent wage to migrant workers would hardly bankrupt the company. Indeed, it would cost Burger King only $250,000 a year. At Goldman Sachs, that sort of money shouldn’t be too hard to find. In 2006, the bonuses of the top 12 Goldman Sachs executives exceeded $200 million — more than twice as much money as all of the roughly 10,000 tomato pickers in southern Florida earned that year. Now Mr. Blankfein should find a way to share some of his company’s good fortune with the workers at the bottom of the food chain.

Eric Schlosser is the author of “Fast Food Nation” and “Reefer Madness.”

3rd generation's the charm

"So are we going to Buffalo Wild Wings?" she asks, eyebrows raised, all please say yes.

"No, the game's on free TV," though I should've said already paid for, since I'd give anyone else crap for calling Dish free.

"Oh, well that's good," she says, though she's totally faking it. "Grandma said you'd be excited."

"Grandma got that right."

For the record, that Grandma, who raised me to be a Dallas fan in the days of Staubach and Dorsett, was not at all pleased to realize that she won't be able to watch those 'boys play the Packers in the comfort of her own home. The NFL is playing chicken with the cable companies, so Romo and Favre will duke it out in relative private, and those of us who do have the NFL Network will endure Bryant Gumbel for the privilege. I just love being a pawn; don't you?

Now, my mother's certainly welcome to watch a little football with me, assuming she swaps any residual blue and gray for the more appropriate green and gold, but that'll never happen. Oh, that's okay, she'll say--it's late and cold, and you know, your dad. But I know she wishes she could. On the other hand, if that girl said, "Grandma, could you take me to the Wings?" Instantly! She'd be there, order anything. And, oh look at what's on the screen. . .

Arianna unglued

My affection for Arianna Huffington is no secret. I especially like it when she comes unglued over a topic. When that topic is "Bush's Brain," all the better.

Karl Rove's Shameless, Remorseless, Soulless Attempt to Rewrite History

by Arianna Huffington

I went on Countdown last night to talk about what Keith Olbermann called Karl Rove's "attack on history."

During an interview with Charlie Rose, the erstwhile Boy Genius pulled out his bucket of whitewash and audaciously claimed that "one of the untold stories" about the war in Iraq is that the Bush administration had been "opposed' to Congress holding the vote authorizing the president to use military force in Iraq just a few weeks prior to the 2002 elections because "we thought it made it too political."

Too political? For Karl Rove? That's like saying something was too bloody for Count Dracula.

He went on to paint a picture of a White House pushed into war, and laid the blame for much of what has happened since on a Congress that had "made things move too fast." If not for Congress, you see, there would have been more time for weapons inspections, and to build a broader coalition.

It was a satiric tour de force worthy of Jonathan Swift or Stephen Colbert -- but Rove wasn't joking. He actually expected us to buy his load of b.s. Watching Rove, two things were perfectly clear: his disdain for the truth and his contempt for the American people know no bounds.

Rove's appearance was the work of a shameless, remorseless, soulless political animal taking the first steps on what will no doubt be a high profile and lucrative march toward historical revisionism. He knows that he stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the fanatics responsible for the worst foreign policy disaster in American history -- not exactly the best thing to put on your post-government resume -- so he is hell-bent on replacing reality with the latest incarnation of The Big Lie.

A student of history, Rove is obviously also up on his Orwell: "Who controls the past, controls the future."

Unfortunately for Rove, this isn't 1984; we now live in the Age of Google, and YouTube, and Lexis-Nexis searches. So the refutation of his lies is just a click away.

The evidence that it was President Bush and Vice President Cheney -- and not Congress -- who were hungry for war is overwhelming. For starters, we have Bush's own words before the vote, when he explicitly told Congress that "it's in our national interest" to get the vote "done as quickly as possible." And the insistence of then-Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld that "delaying a vote in Congress would send the wrong message." And the words of then-Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle who says that when he asked Bush in September 2002 why there was such a rush for a vote on Iraq the president "looked at Cheney and he looked at me, and there was a half-smile on his face. And he said: 'We just have to do this now.'"

And there is the insider evidence provided by Richard Clarke, who wrote that within hours of the 9/11 attacks, this administration had its heart set on heading into Iraq. And from Paul O'Neill, who made it clear that invading Iraq had been Bush's goal before he had even learned where the Oval Office supply closet was.

Even now, with his approval ratings scraping the bottom of the historical barrel, Bush still dominates the Congressional agenda on the war. And Rove wants us to buy that back in the heady days of 2002, when the president was still riding a wave of support forged by 9/11, his desire for caution and reasoned action were overridden by a war hungry Congress? "We don't determine when the Congress votes on things," Rove told Rose. "The Congress does." I guess he and Bush landed on the whole "I'm the Decider" thing later (maybe after they orchestrated that triumphal landing on the Abraham Lincoln).

The truth is that the zealots in the White House were not about to allow their desires to invade Iraq -- which had been laid out years earlier by the Project for a New American Century -- be quashed by anything as piddling as the facts or the evidence or reasoned debate or Congress. Especially a Congress populated with Democratic leaders so rattled and timid that to call them spineless would be an insult to invertebrates everywhere.

Indeed, it was the perfect political environment for an administration intent on shoving a war down the throats of Congress and the American people.

Let's remember, this was the time when the administration had pulled together the White House Study Group (which included Rove himself) with the express mission of marketing the war. These people weren't in the mood to wait, they were in the mood to sell, sell, sell. The Downing Street Memo showed that by July of 2002 they were already fixing the intel to sell the war. By August 2002 the White House was already using Judy Miller and the New York Times as prime advertising space. And by September 2002, Condi Rice was already warning of smoking guns turning out to be mushroom clouds, and Cheney was using aluminum tubes to make the case that Saddam was "actively and aggressively seeking to acquire nuclear weapons."

So the record is irrefutable: the drumbeat of war coming from the White House couldn't have been louder. And no amount of 5-years-down the road spinning by Karl Rove is going to change that truth.

Depends on what you mean "is" is

demagogue (noun): 1.a person, esp. an orator or political leader, who gains power and popularity by arousing the emotions, passions, and prejudices of the people.

Sen. John McCain, for whom the immigration issue has proved particularly vexing, defended his support for an unsuccessful overhaul of immigration laws that included a temporary worker program and a path to citizenship.

"We must recognize these are God's children as well," McCain said. "They need our love and compassion, and I want to ensure that I will enforce the borders first. But we won't demagogue it."

Note to self:
Thursday sunrise: 6:57 a.m. CST

Mornin'

Out the door, running late. Already pinched, pounding, slightly disheveled. Forty-seven trips up and down the stairs. As I pull out, the dash clock glows 6:45--yes, in the morning--and I'm stressed up with some place to go. Only fifteen minutes past normal, but I'm praying for no traffic tragedies when an orange glow flickering through bare branches catches even my distracted eyes.

"Oh." I actually say aloud. "That's pretty." And when I reach the park entrance down the street, I pull in. I have neither time to stop nor time not to, and as I pull up to the pond, it feels right. I think of my friend, newly attending Quaker meeting: "Okay, ducks," I think, "here's my silent worship." And I lower the window and exhale my frantic morning into the cold.

I only pause a moment, look at the sunrise, breathe, snap that photo, but instantly I feel better. The sky is huge, and so is the universe; in the end, it doesn't matter if my child goes to school naked, as for a while there it seemed she might. Life is good. I'm happy to be here. Even if I arrive a little late.

driven

So the boy governor of Missouri, anticipating a difficult 2008 election, has taken the radical step of announcing (over and over and over, with liberal use of exclamation points and New York City as code for a big, scary place overrun with people who--get this--are not white) his support for a bill that would outlaw something that's already illegal. You know the election season has officially begun when the annual bogeyman has been designated. This time, it's not gay stem cells who (which?) wish to be married, but immigrants who drive without benefit of a license. The thing is, as the boy governor well knows, or at least I assume he does, that's already quite illegal in the state of Missouri. One has to show "proof of lawful residence" not to mention other papers that the undocumented, by definition, don't. But hey, it sure agitates the base.

Hell, it agitates me.

And it makes me think of my new Brazilian friend, and his pet phrase for whenever we reach the limits of our mutual vocabulary. "Very complicated," he says.

And this is one of those times when I'd concede and sigh, "yes." I mean, do I trust a state to get it right? Do I trust Missouri? But without question I'd rather these kids and these parents be held responsible for oh, officially learning some rules of the road before they get out and drive from one job to the next, or, as I tell the teenagers, for being identifiable if they hit me. Most already pay the insurance. They crave the ID, and while I know that's where it gets tricky, I don't begrudge anyone working the dream. I only begrudge the haters.

whoops

It was really all so long ago, but I haven't forgotten the promise of that afternoon. The sun was warm and my bag was light, empty of everything except good intentions. The highway, stretched long enough to be a cruise and not a commute, was just a gray backdrop for livin' in the future and long walks home, and if you don't catch those references, you really ought to buy a new CD. If I remember correctly, I didn't ask for much more of the day--it was, after all, a Tuesday--than the freedom it delivered; that was enough of a gift. Once I got home it's possible that I did little more than sleep. But, it's hard to say. My memory's sketchy. Don't forget it's been now, what, six days?

Just long enough to check out entirely from the work-a-day world, forget, if not what I do at least what I was doing. Where was I, exactly? Does anyone know? I have a hunch it was something about some balls in the air. That's probably even a rule for juggling-- once you get started, try not to stop. I shoulda thought of that first.

Race partner wanted

Turns out the "Amazing Race" is coming to Cedar Rapids. On open casting call will be held Dec. 6. I need a partner.

After completing RAGBRAI from start to finish, the son would be the logical choice. But the rules require applicants be at least 21. The wife and I can't get across town, much less the world, without conflict, so she's out. My BFF would surely rather continue playing the lottery than miss work for such an opportunity. So I'm left to appeal to our readers.

This may be your best shot at wealth. Certainly the adventure of a lifetime. The only catch, you must be present to apply. Applications will be taken until the position is filled.

Turkeys, pigs(kin)

"It's kinda fun when you don't care who wins," I say to the room, "when you can just watch the football." My sister-in-law's husband telegraphs his agreement as Tennessee and Kentucky continue to play through yet another overtime. We're in the minority, here, but, that's our role always: agreeable out-laws in facing chairs, avoiding whatever conversation is going on in the kitchen and dining room. We just happen to be spending this do-over Thanksgiving watching a pretty great game.

But, we're not outcasts and we weren't alone: my father-in-law and a nephew were hanging on every play, too, but they're Tennessee fans, former and current residents, so for them it was a whole other thing. The Vols lose and they would have been disappointed and frustrated, at least until the MU-KU game came on at seven. Now I wouldn't have minded if the Wildcats had managed, but, eh, no sweat: fun while it lasted. It was just a game.

This afternoon before I left for the bonus round of turkey, my mom and I were recapping our Thursday meal when she shared that my brother's new girlfriend had volunteered to do the dishes. "She said she'd rather be in the kitchen," my mother reported, "because she didn't care anything about the game."

"I can't believe there are people who don't enjoy football!" said my mother, with real exclamation in her voice. I had to laugh. Not to stereotype, but the new girl in question does wear heels with her jeans: her disinterest in the NFL wasn't exactly a shock, but my mom was indeed sincere.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am who I am, or at least why you will find me where you will find me during any of these cold weather family gatherings. Thanks mom, for that.

a memory in the making

This may be the year that I'm forced to admit that Charlie Brown had the right idea, that spindly and fresh beats substantial and metal, and that pre-lit is not the be-all and end-all of holiday decor. Then again, that may just be the gas fumes talking.

I'm so not kidding.

Our tree really is pretty; I'll be sad when it's worn out or the lights all go dark, but, this year, it also seems to have absorbed ever droplet of the fumes released from the gas can ill-advisedly stashed in the garage (never fear, the sliding door and living room windows are open). I'm not sure I'd have noticed if I hadn't spent the last hour underneath as I wrestled with the lights and the screws in the stand, but, hoo boy. And baby Jesus, I do confess. I've been a hoosier* all along.

At first I was doing well despite my reluctant participation: I'd located those useless screws without fuss or delay, though they never made it into the box, and I'd lugged the thousand pounds of tree up two flights of stairs without incident or stroke-- all to please the girl and carry on my own stupid tradition. I hadn't even cursed! Of course, I put the wrong piece in the base first, but, that's just the way we do it. Every single year.

Then things started getting memorable. I don't mean to oversell--this is more the Year the Tree Smelled Like the Lawnmower than The Year Mom Passed Out In The Floor at least, so far. If I have anything to do with it, the garage will be reorganized, but that's all that may be up to me. No matter what, I'm sure this evening's goings on will become yet another Christmas story, an extra-classy remember-when. And who knows, at some point, we'll probably even decorate the tree.

* in my world, a Hoosier is not a person from Indiana, or at least not primarily. It's even in the dictionary (definition number two).

that Friday

That was a great Christmas, the year I didn't actually pay for anything. What was it, '99? $10 off $10, free shipping, buy one get one, free gift with each heavily discounted, ebated, coupon-stacked purchase from virtual storefronts that mostly don't exist anymore. Gee, I wonder.

It's still worth it, though, the pajama'd point-and-click shopping. Yes, it is after noon, and no, I'm not yet dressed, at least not to go out in public. Why bother when I have no intention? I'm getting plenty done. Though I've given up the Wii-ld goose chase initiated by the girl's father (disregard, please, the Wiitracker.com RSS feed on my homepage), I've managed to direct a fair number of brown boxes to the traditional spot on my friend's front porch--and no, I didn't pay for any of that shipping, at least not in the line-item. If only I were this productive at work!

Sure beats the crowds and the cold and the shrill overly everything IT'S CHRISTMAS DAMMIT insistence. Who needs that? I'm no grinch; I'd already bought a couple of gifts before today because they were so right for people that I love; that seems to me more of the spirit than lining up for a crappy $200 desktop, but, whatever rings one's bell. And regardless, let me ease into the rest of it. Here in my quiet house, where I'm not even ready to put up the tree as tradition obligates me to do. Maybe later, after I take a nap in the same spot where I shopped. Can't really do that at Target, at least without drawing the cops.

Thanksgiving gone bad

Not mine, fortunately. I slept until I was ready to wake up (which would be my preference every day) and enjoyed another Favrelous Packer victory, coaxing the Mrs. and the Miss downstairs to enjoy the second half around the warmth of HD. A 10th victory in hand, we headed across town to my sister's and had a wonderful meal and peaceful conversation.

I wasn't forced to take off my sporty LA Dodger crocs and no one challenged the concept of watching football on Thanksgiving. (Thank you, baby Jesus!) Perhaps because two sisters and their families were absent, we avoided heated conversations about politics and/or religion. The only time my blood pressure rose was when host sister bragged about scoring tickets at the newest area casino to see Rick Springfield. (!!!)

All things considered, a pretty good Mandatory Family Togetherness Day. No hermaphrodite deer crossed my path and no family pets were shot. A Wisconsin family wasn't so lucky. A pet goat (that's right, that book W read to those school children on 9/11 wasn't fiction) was slain Saturday after a man returned home from hunting and got angry enough at his daughter and wife to take it out on the family pets, which were goats.

The wife's offense? She denied his request for her to bring home beer. The man was arrested later that day at a local bar.

Enough said really, but here's the report from the Appleton Post-Crescent.

Rural New London man accused of shooting pet goat after wife didn't buy beer

Incident spurred on after wife doesn't bring home beer

By Dan Wilson
Post-Crescent staff writer

WAUPACA — A rural New London man who was upset with his wife for not buying beer shot one of the family's two pet goats, prosecutors say.

Peter W. Mischler, 48, was charged Monday in Waupaca County Circuit Court with mistreatment of animals, possession of a firearm while intoxicated and disorderly conduct with a dangerous weapon.

Mischler was placed on a $1,000 cash bond by Circuit Judge Raymond Huber.

Huber set further proceedings for Tuesday.

According to the criminal complaint, Mischler came home Saturday from hunting and became angry with his 22-year-old daughter for letting the goats out and making a mess.

While she was talking on the phone to her mother, he told her to tell his wife to bring home some beer. His wife refused.

He then threatened to shoot the goats, the complaint says.

His wife soon arrived home, and while she and her daughter were inside, they heard four gunshots. They went outside and found one of the two goats, still alive, with its entrails hanging out. It had to be killed later by a sheriff's deputy.

It was unclear from the complaint if the second goat was harmed.

Mischler was arrested later that day at a local bar.

Happy Mandatory Family Togetherness Day

So twice in three hours members of my immediate family have e-mailed me photos of foods they have cooked. While that is one fine looking pie (coconut cream, made just for me, who does not enjoy the texture of pumpkin), I believe these in box arrivals do demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a such thing as too much technology. Or at least that my brother has not been on his own nearly long enough. The cooking? Just a novelty. And, for the record, lamb, fig, prosciutto and goat cheese pizza looks like something that may have been evacuated out of the nether regions of a hermaphrodite deer. Just my impression, mind you, but what is a big sister for if not to offer an unvarnished opinion? I figure I owe him the truth.

And he already owes me, given that I'll have to spend 15 or 20 minutes of the Packers-Lions game in the car to get to the dinner arranged to allow him to get to the new girlfriend's in time. Sure, they'll be eating one marathon meal, and sure, we like this one much better and are glad the fifty year-old PE teacher's gone, and sure we can go back to the DVR if we've gotta, but HEY! it's the Packers! a game I don't have to buy wings for! You think I can be bought off with pie and the sweet tea only my mother can make? Not hardly. I'm thinking we might just be late.

Dowd: She's no Morgenthau

by Maureen Dowd

Most of the time, Barack Obama seems like he’s boxing in the wrong weight class. But Monday in Fort Dodge, Iowa, he delivered an unscripted jab that was a beaut.

At a news conference, the Illinois senator was asked about Hillary Clinton’s attack on his qualifications. Making an economic speech in Knoxville, Iowa, earlier that day, the New York senator had touted her own know-how, saying that “there is one job we can’t afford on-the-job training for — that’s the job of our next president.” Her aides confirmed that she was referring to Obama.

Pressed to respond, Obama offered a zinger feathered with amused disdain: “My understanding was that she wasn’t Treasury secretary in the Clinton administration, so I don’t know exactly what experiences she’s claiming.”

Everybody laughed, including Obama.

It took him nine months, but he finally found the perfect pitch to make a trenchant point.

Her Democratic rivals had meekly gone along, accepting her self-portrait as a former co-president who gets to take credit for everything important Bill Clinton did in the ’90s. But she was not elected or appointed to a position that needed Senate confirmation. And the part of the Clinton administration that worked best — the economy, stupid — was run by Robert Rubin. Hillary did not show good judgment in her areas of influence — the legal fiefdom, health care and running oppo-campaigns against Bill’s galpals.

She went on some first lady jaunts and made a good speech at a U.N. women’s conference in Beijing. But she was certainly not, as her top Iowa supporter, former governor Tom Vilsack claimed yesterday on MSNBC, “the face of the administration in foreign affairs.”

She was a top adviser who had a Nixonian bent for secrecy and a knack for hard-core politicking. But if running a great war room qualified you for president, Carville and Stephanopoulos would be leading the pack.

Obama’s one-liner evoked something that rubs some people the wrong way about Hillary. Getting ahead through connections is common in life. But Hillary cloaks her nepotism in feminism.

“She hasn’t accomplished anything on her own since getting admitted to Yale Law,” wrote Joan Di Cola, a Boston lawyer, in a letter to The Wall Street Journal this week, adding: “She isn’t Dianne Feinstein, who spent years as mayor of San Francisco before becoming a senator, or Nancy Pelosi, who became Madam Speaker on the strength of her political abilities. All Hillary is, is Mrs. Clinton. She became a partner at the Rose Law Firm because of that, senator of New York because of that, and (heaven help us) she could become president because of that.”

The Clinton campaign in Iowa is in a panic. Obama has been closing the gap with women and her ginning up of gender has lost her male votes. Speaking around Iowa this week, Obama made the point that his exotic upbringing, family in Kenya and years as an outsider allow him to see the world with more understanding, and helped form his judgment about resisting the Iraq war.

“I spent four years living overseas when I was a child living in Southeast Asia,” he said. “If you don’t understand these cultures then it’s very hard for you to make good foreign policy decisions. Foreign policy is all about judgment.”

President Bush is not so enamored of Obama’s foreign policy judgment. He gave a plug to Hillary on ABC News last night, calling her a “formidable candidate,” even under pressure, who “understands the klieg lights.”

Asked by Charles Gibson about Obama’s offer to meet without preconditions with the leaders of Cuba, Venezuela and North Korea, W. declared it “odd foreign policy.”

Laura Bush also gave Hillary a sisterly — and dynastic — plug when she told the anchor that living in the White House and meeting people everywhere would be “very helpful” to a first lady trading up.

Though he did not mention the quick “color me experienced” trip Hillary took with some Senate colleagues to Iraq and Afghanistan just before she started running, Obama might have been thinking of it when he mocked Kabuki Congressional junkets:

“You get picked up at the airport by a state convoy and a security detail. They drive you over to the ambassador’s house and you get lunch. Then you go take a tour of some factory or some school. Children do a native dance.”

Hillary pounced, knowing that her chief rival’s foreign policy résumé is as slender as his physique, once more conjuring a childish Obama. She brazenly borrowed Republican talking points, even though she accused John Edwards of “throwing mud” that was “right out of the Republican playbook.”

“With all due respect,” she told a crowd in Iowa. “I don’t think living in a foreign country between the ages of 6 and 10 is foreign policy experience.”

But is living in the White House between the ages of 45 and 53 foreign policy experience?

Happy 87th Birthday, Mr. Musial

Edwards and friends in Cedar Rapids

What gives?

It's all over but the clearing-out of the parking lot, and yes, it's getting a little random-- even more so than usual. Forgive me. I'm a little five-day-weekend antsy. But, before I hit the road, I've just gotta know, given the hits from North Carolina and Texas, both seeking our most popular Open Thread commodity within moments of each other: hermaphrodite deer. Is this some new Thanksgiving delicacy of which I'm not aware?

See what happens when you come to school?

Why yes, this is totally self-indulgent. You really think I care? I don't even care that this letter was an assignment for another class and that this child "got confused" less than any other of my students. She did pick me, and and at this point, I'll take it!

"Dear Ms. P:

Thank you for teaching us the ESOL Civics. I really love this class, because although this class is hard for us to understand, but you do your best to help us and to learn the Civics.

Your class is interesting. We have lots of fun on class. Sometimes we play games, sometimes we do some project, it's really help me to know all the things that you teach us.

When I have question or got confused with something, you always do your best to answer me. Thank you!

Angela Z."

0-2

"Is Ms. P mad at me?"

That's how she was quoted, but, oh, I don't know. Can I really be mad at someone who lacks the sense to come in out of the rain? Sure wish she'd put up the umbrella, though. Or, you know, remember where she put it. I'm sure she meant to look for it, right after she got home from visiting her dad in prison which is where she went yesterday instead of school . Today there's no sitter, and I feel the wisps of this semester slipping through my fingers. Not that it's really about school at this point, at least for the most part.

It's about being in a place where she can be supported, learn to make decisions, learn to take care of herself and that baby, learn to please baby Jesus break that family's cycle and, yes, part of that would be a high school diploma, but there's so much more than those requirements that she doesn't know. I know that from the questions she spent six weeks asking me. I know that because I know that, just as I know she's one kid who'd be better off if she were here.

Heavy sigh.

It's not that she's quitting, at least not yet, but I'd hoped for a better start. Of all days for a jailhouse visit! It's one thing to have to juggle daycare and high school, and sometimes, I'm sure it will be out of her control. But when daddy's an inmate, he's. always. gonna. be. there. Good grief. Good choices: SOMEBODY needs to make them. Starting any time now. Like, maybe, Monday.

Right?

Something to talk about

Musicians the like of Bonnie Raitt and Jackson Browne typically don’t perform at venues like Coe College, the small, private liberal arts college where I am blessed to make a living. But there they were tonight – on stage at Sinclair Auditorium – singing and stumping on behalf of Sen. John Edwards.

Fortunately, the packed house seemed equally enthused about the candidate as his musical guests. Though nary a vote has been cast, Edwards seems to have gotten lost in the shuffle between the presumptive nominee Hillary Clinton and the populist candidate Barack Obama.

Though I admit I have been moved by Obama’s rhetoric, I remain unconvinced in his ability to bring about the kind of change this country so desperately needs. As for Clinton, I don’t believe she represents change at all. Oh, she’d be an improvement over the current occupant, but we’d really only be trading one brand of corruption for another.

Edwards combines the best of several former Democratic presidents – the inspirational leadership of John Kennedy, the give-em Hell spirit of Harry Truman, the honesty of Jimmy Carter and the charm and charisma of Bill Clinton. And he has a plan, which is clearly spelled out in an 80-page booklet.

It includes his proposals to end the war in Iraq, guarantee universal health care, revitalize rural America, support middle-class families, teach our children, and achieve energy independence and fight global warming. For details, see www.johnedwards.com.

Following tonight’s event I ran into a college administrator who was moved by Edwards to the point that his support for Clinton is now wavering. His concern, he said, is what each candidate means by universal health care. He opposes “socialized medicine,” which I prefer to describe as “Medicare for everyone,” if it means employers couldn’t offer a better plan.

This is a total disconnect for me. It’s not like any business in America wants to offer health care. They only do it because they have to. It’s not a benefit, it’s a cost of doing business. If it were the same for every man, woman and child, regardless of where you work or if you even do, employers and employees would both prosper.

Call it socialism if you will, there’s plenty of that already – see Medicare, Social Security, law enforcement, fire protection, postal service, etc. It’s a moral issue over which America needs to take a long, hard look at itself.

I’m all for the pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps mentality the Republicans used to represent. But I’m not inclined to apply it to life-and-death situations. Sick is sick, and you should be allowed to get better whether you’re Republican or Democrat, rich or poor, evil or holy.

But that’s just me. And these words rang in my head all the way home.

I was walking with my brother
And he wondered what’s on my mind
I said what I believe in my soul
Ain’t what I see with my eyes
And we can’t turn our backs this time

I am a patriot
And I love my country
Because my country is all I know
I want to be with my family
The people who understand me
I’ve got nowhere else to go

And the river opens for the righteous
And the river opens for the righteous
And the river opens for the righteous
Someday

My Ox is Broken

If that title means nothing to you, do not click play. You'll only subject yourself to two of the most obnoxious people ever mucking around in the mud. But, if you're a fan of the Amazing Race and the schadenfreude, well then, wasn't that the best ever?

I'm just sorting out the who's who this season and beginning to get my hate on ( to be Philiminated next? the blondes!), but the overabundance of mammals this time (yay, karma donkeys) did remind me of the evil Colin and the justice of his not-really-an-ox.

Dowd: Shake, Rattle, and Roll

Apparently this week's story is Hillary v. Giuliani-- and what a quease-inducing trial balloon that is. The St. Louis paper even characterized her "win" in some poll as Missourians being "ready for a change," but they are going to have to draw a picture to show me what's different besides the pantsuits and jokes about kitchens. I just can't stand the thought.

I don't know about all the psychobabble, but I'd agree with Dowd that the time to get it all out on the table is now. The deferring to Hilary must stop. I do, however, object--AGAIN--to the notion that the only Democratic man who matters is Obama.

Shake, Rattle and Roll

By MAUREEN DOWD

WASHINGTON

The debate dominatrix knows how to rattle Obambi.

Mistress Hillary started disciplining her fellow senator last winter, after he began exploring a presidential bid. When he winked at her, took her elbow and tried to say hello on the Senate floor, she did not melt, as many women do. She brushed him off, a move meant to remind him that he was an upstart who should not get in the way of her turn in the Oval Office.

He was so shook up, he called a friend to say: You would not believe what just happened with Hillary.

She has continued to flick the whip in debates. She usually ignores Obama and John Edwards backstage, preferring to chat with the so-called second-tier candidates. And she often looks so unapproachable while they’re setting up on stage that Obama seems hesitant to be the first to say hi.

With so much at stake, she had to do it again in Vegas, this time using her voice, gaze and body language to such punishing effect that Obama looked as if he had been brought to heel. It was a mesmerizing display, and at an event that drew the highest television ratings of any primary debate this year. The momentum Obama had gained from a vivid speech at the Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner in Iowa drained away by the end of the first half-hour.

Other guys, like Rudy, wouldn’t even be looking for a chance to greet Hillary, as Obama always does. Other guys, like Rudy, wouldn’t care if she iced them.

But she can tell that Obama does care, that he doesn’t want her to not like him or be mad at him, that he responds to the sort of belittling treatment that she sometimes dished out to her husband and his male aides at the White House, yelling at them and calling them wimps if they disappointed her.

Obama may be responsive to Hillary’s moods because he lives with another strong woman who knows how to keep him in line. Michelle said she let her husband run for president only when he agreed to give up smoking, and she’s a master at the art of the loving conjugal put-down.

When Hillary walked onstage Thursday, Obama stood to her left waiting to shake hands and say hi, as he and Edwards had done with Chris Dodd. She turned her body away, refused to meet his eyes and froze him out. Again. And he looked taken aback. Again.

For the rest of the night she owned him. He was so off his game that he duplicated her dithering performance from the last debate on the issue of whether illegal immigrants should get driver’s licenses. After a tortured exchange with Wolf Blitzer, he ended up saying he favored it — one more sign that the law professor is oblivious to the visceral nature of campaigns.

Hillary brazenly leapt away from that politically devastating position and said she didn’t support the licenses anymore. And Obama didn’t even call her out on her third reversal on the matter.

She was willing to absorb the flip-flop criticism to cut her losses on an issue that could have dragged her to defeat in the general election.

Obama and Edwards, who both seemed shaken by a few seconds of pro-Hillary booing, let the front-runner set a ludicrous standard: that any criticism of her shifts on issues is “mudslinging” and a character attack.

She is a control freak — that’s why her campaign tried to coach wonky Iowa voters to ask wonky questions — and her male rivals are letting her take control.

The Democrats should not be afraid to mix it up now, while they have a chance, and get all the doubts and disputes out on the table. Taking some flak clearly made Hillary stronger.

If Rudy’s the nominee, he will go with relish to all the vulnerable places in Hillary’s past. At the Federalist Society on Friday, he had barely spoken the word “she” before the audience began tittering appreciatively.

He went through a whole faux- bemused riff on Hillary’s driver’s license twists without ever uttering her name: “First, she was for the idea, and supported Governor Spitzer, who wanted to give driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants. Then she was against the idea. Then she was for and against the idea. And then finally she said it should be decided on a state-by-state basis. This is the only time in her career that she’s ever decided anything should be decided on a state-by-state basis. You know something? She picked out absolutely the wrong one. Right? I mean, this is one of the areas that is given to the federal government to deal with under our Constitution, the borders of the United States, immigration.”

Rudy laced his speech with faith references, including the assertion that America has “a divinely inspired role in the world” and a mission to “save a civilization from Islamic terrorism.”

Hillary has her work cut out for her. Rudy will not be so easy to spank.

of course

I know they mean to, fully intend to--my students who don't do what they should. Had every intention, if only, if only. Often enough, that's true. It's not as if my own life isn't sometimes built on great expectations that gradually diminish into good-enough-I-suppose as the hours and deadlines tick by.

But I really thought she'd come to school, at least today, the first non-homebound morning of motherhood. It's only a two-day week. Nothing to do but leave a message, wait and see. Hope for the best. But, it doesn't bode well. It hasn't really gotten hard yet, and the novelty has barely started to wear. I have a sneaking suspicion that her teachers were saving up work for when she was sitting here in person and the semester's in its waning weeks, and the homework's behind and the daddy's stressed and the money's tight and the jobs are starting and the sitter's a wildcard and the social worker's AWOL and honey, why aren't you here?

not exactly chicken feed

I don't even know why I started calling it the dreaded Wings, except that if they didn't have the Sunday Ticket I'd never go there, not being a 25 year old guy and all; it's kinda like Hardee's in that way. But they do, so I've spent my share of Sunday afternoons in the local Buffalo Wild Wings, and thus this item caught my attention--and for someone that moniker might finally fit:

Former manager charged in theft

$19,764 stolen from Buffalo Wild Wings

A former manager for the Buffalo Wild Wings restaurant on Troy Road was arrested Thursday in Missouri on charges that he stole $19,764 over a five-month period.

Jacob Hall, 24, of Florissant, Mo., has been charged by Madison County State's Attorney Bill Mudge with felony theft over $10,000.

Authorities issued a warrant for Hall's arrest on Tuesday. He was taken into custody without incident Thursday morning in Florissant by Edwardsville and Florissant police, according to a news release from Edwardsville Police Chief James Bedell.

Hall is being held pending extradition to the Madison County Jail.

The investigation began in April after store officials discovered irregularities in their computer records, said Stephanee Smith, a spokesman for Mudge's office.

The alleged thefts occurred between December 1, 2006 and April 30, 2007.

The investigation determined that Hall had been voiding transactions and pocketing the money, Smith said. Hall "stole various amounts of cash each day he worked from cash receipts of the restaurant," according to Edwardsville police.

The restaurant fired Hall soon after the discrepancies were discovered.

None of the money has been returned, Smith said.

Oh, dude. This was well before football season, so I have no idea who this guy is, but I wonder if his manager is still employed because I can't decide which is more stupid-- that he took what comes out to more than a hundred bucks every single day, or that it took somebody more than five months to figure it out!

not quite that time of year

"So when's it gonna snow?" These kids can never get a handle on the weather, even when they've lived here for years.

"Not for a long, long time," I answer, refusing to remember the one year anniversary of the mother of all ice storms is about three weeks out. Besides, they asked about snow.

They'll love ice if we get it, though, given the inevitable cancellations--at least until the power goes out. Remind me to explain to the new and the forgetful how to find out that there's no school; someone inevitably spends a very cold morning out at the bus stop. Too bad that district doesn't have the innovation my tax dollars have apparently sprung for; according to the letter I opened today, an automated service is going to call every single home phone whenever our district's schools are canceled. I can't decide if that's cool or blasphemy, but I know the first time the phone rings at five in the morning, I'm going to wonder who's dead.

Field Trip

2007 has become the year of the road trip, though I hesitate to say that even in this semi-public. Given that QuikTrip has gas at $2.98 per unleaded gallon, I'm afraid if I publicize this new hit-the-highway habit I might have to give up any claim I have left to smarts.

Like I care.

The going is worth it. Today the mr. is in Nashville to watch a hockey team who plays their home games twenty minutes from our house. Even since September we've done a thousand miles for football, and I've ridden hours upon hours to have someone read from a book and sign it. Can you say anywhere but here? That is a chunk of the appeal. To go be where even the laundry is someone else's problem? Take. me. there, I think. So I use my grown-up powers and do. Or did, you know, that one time. Maybe two. So far.

Today's excursion is far more modest, doesn't require a bag to be packed-- though I should probably check the gas gauge: we'll be driving about an hour. It's Saturday, and I've spent all week in the car, but some things are worth the trip, and sometimes you've just gotta go. The girl is coming with me, and we're both bringing a friend (the company's the best part of a road trip). We're all hyped up even before the fat and sugar, and I expect an excellent introductory-road-trip-for-ten-year-olds time. What's at the other end of the highway? Pancakes! And then a stop at Trader Joe's (got that, Miriam?) where we can buy snacks for the next leg of the journey, 'cause you should always be prepared to just go.

Addendum:

While Trader Joe's was there, of course, and ready to take my money (and clean up the bottles of beer that exploded all over--not my fault, though I was trying to buy them), turns out the pancakes weren't. My source was oh, so sadly mistaken, and our spirits plunged right with our blood sugar.

"We're in training 'til Tuesday," said the no-customer-service manager. "Friends and family only." Given how far we came to get there, you'd think we'd have qualified as friends, but Mr. Pancakes didn't see it that way.

"See you soon!" Um, seems doubtful. We didn't come from across the street.

"Would you like a menu?" To not order from? Time to go now! We. have. got. to. eat! And we did, at some place we'd never been to, that was good if just another chain. And bonus and thank baby Jesus, we made it before noon, before the breakfast menus were put away. So those who wanted breakfast got breakfast. And pancakes! And the rants were pocketed, put away. Good Saturday, good little road trip. And I've got a kitchen full of Trader Joe's still to eat.

Paul Potts: An Inspiration for the common man

Barry Bonds Indicted

Has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?

The charges are perjury and obstruction of justice, so I can only assume he'll be nominated for some high level post or another here in the waning (not technically true, but I choose to believe) days of the Bush misadministration. At least it would keep him off of the ballfield and with his like kind.

look at him now

Funny what kids remember, that they have, even, their own points of view.

"You know I get along with everyone," I insist to the cross-town senior come to visit who tries to elicit an opinion that may not be kind.

"Oh yeah?" he fires back. "Then why do I remember me and Yesenia and everybody else I knew outside in the hall having one of your talks?!"

"I wasn't the one not getting along," I say. "And you know it," I think, "but at least one of you grew up."

I love this kid; he's my favorite, all time. Except, you know, for all the others. He's always been exactly himself, even in middle school, which is a bit of a miracle. And now he's the same as he's always been except different, and what I love most is the metamorphosis. Yes, the bad highlights are gone, and he's about eight feet tall, and I have to bite my tongue not to turn into a hundred year old woman and cry, "look at you!" when I see him, but, beyond that, he's found a certain maturity. One that allows him to realize when he has no idea what he's doing (today's topic: college) and turn to those he knows best, at this point not to say, "Do it for me," but, "What should my first step be tomorrow?" (I swear to God he said that.) Oh, I don't know, come right back here and show these ninth graders how it's done?

Way back in the beginning, one thing that made me trepidatious about teaching was the very time-marches-on nature of it. All those people getting ready to go and do while I stayed put was just too off-putting, and I still think it's important to have one's own ambitions or else it gets a little weird. But as young as I was back then (even Brett Favre was a punk kid), I never would've anticipated the satisfaction of watching certain students come into their own, and now helping them is really why I do it. That and I enjoy their company. If there were money in helping out and offering advice and then writing random crap that people may or may not ever read, I'd have the best job ever, and I'd certainly be rich.

This Week in the Miscarriage of Justice

(Do I have to say I have a lot to do? Could you just not count the posts?)

At any rate, eighty-seven years ago yesterday, assuming I click POST by midnight, Kenesaw Mountain Landis banned Buck Weaver and Shoeless Joe Jackson from baseball, despite the fact that they'd been acquitted of throwing the 1919 World Series by a court. According to Wikipedia and the local sportsguy who seems to have plagiarized it (this does not make me happy) he thought perception was more important than the truth. Good thing times change.

At least we'll always have Field of Dreams, not to mention Eight Men Out.

Infinitely, indefinitely Tuesday

If I had but one day to live, I would want it to be Tuesday. Because then I would know, without question, that it would never, ever end. On the upside, at least I have forever to get the flapping corners of tomorrow nailed down; that just might be enough time. But I've got an awful case of disinterested fidgets; you'd think I was a kid. Two days, two days, two days two days-- that's our work week--next week, not anywhere close to now. What am I going to do between now and then? That's the current, unanswered question. The to-dos are in the double-digits, but at the moment I can only endure.

A helpful hint

Do you know which one I'm talking about, the supposed advance in voice recognition technology that sounds like an oh-so-casual woman instead of some robot on the phone? I am clearly not the demographic that responds to the practically giggling, let's just get settled in here, what problem do you have with your over-priced Charter service-here, why don't you, honey, just whisper into my automated ear and tell-me-about-it voice they've programmed in. Besides it's SLOW and I'm IMPATIENT and I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO ANYBODY. That's why I tried the chat. And was pawned off twice and disconnected. So you know I was rarin' to go. Just not with a robot.

So, in case that happens to you, my helpful hint. If when the lady robot asks you to say yes or no? I suggest, "Kiss my ass!" instead. You'll get a human, pronto, and an indefinite $20/month discount for your trouble. And, bonus, that deleted e-mail address restored, too. (I'm feeling so much better.) Just try to get that from a robot! I mean, maybe that's your thing.

Bring me a drink

"That's it! This is the year I become an alcoholic!"

My work friends are laughing and nodding as we flee from the meeting, and oh, I'm smiling too, but I think perhaps they underestimate my the gravity of my intentions. I mean, if people are going to make it this damn hard, then what the hell else is there to do? As the queen of I'll just do it my own self, thanks, I'm no fan of the endless committee, the stupid question, or the doomed-by-consensus plan. And, yet, I'm in education! Go figure.

Of course, near as I can tell, education these days is only about going to meetings and filling out forms, and people are fixated. Testy. Spent. It's like Catch-22 Animal Farm, circa 1984. It's not my old school, not what we signed up for, though we're trying, really, from the principal on down. But people feel disorganized and at loose ends and overwhelmed with what they have to do (it's like everyone's me!), so morale is on the watch list. Some people love trouble, most of us long for normal, but that kid is skipping, long gone, truant for the year. It kinda sucks, and for once, I cannot blame George W., or even my rambunctious 8th block class. (Shut up, Maxi.). It just is what it is, state-sanctioned-non-religious heaven help us 'til Spring. And today was November dark and cold and rainy and Monday. The kind of day that motivates one to start the Christmas list early: Dear Santa, Please bring me a flask.

Packer fans: This is how we roll

Another win

Oh what mothers will do for their daughters, and what daughters will do for their moms. Because my child is not quite ten-and-a-half, we're just now entering the bartering phase of our relationship in earnest, the I'll-do-this-if-you-do-that years. Less Martyr, More Fullfilling. (The martyr bit is a joke.)

On the table today was the annual craft fair over at the high school, an hour or so that consists of my daughter wandering the aisles in wide-eyed wonder while I mutter to myself, "oh God, are we done?" Okay, maybe it's not that bad. Maybe. But given that I have no need for cutesy crap anything or oddly scented candles or appliqued sweatshirts or clothes for a goose, oh, maybe it is; so a deal, it was struck.

"I'll take you , but then, when it's over, we're going to watch football at the dreaded Wild Wings."

I intended to be good (read: economical) and just follow the score online today, given that we're always stuck with the Hams broadcast (that's how Rams is pronounced, I've learned, with a Portuguese accent, and it amuses the hell out of me) instead, but, I've seen every quarter of the Pack's season, and if I was going to a craft fair I figured a reward was justified.

And I got one, beyond a 34-0 victory: my girl watched football with me! She had not absorbed too much by osmosis, despite wearing a Packer shirt of mine (that, ye gods, fits), so I explained about the scoring, the downs, the time outs, the Favre. I don't know what kind of lousy mother lets a child grow for a decade without better understanding the basics, but at least she's a quick study. And a bit of a tease: before she got used to me reacting to whatever was on the screen, she smiled and said if her lemonade spilled at least she knew it would not be her fault. The rat.

It was just a good day. And, bonus, she wants to go back. The exciting parts were exciting to her, and she was not bored. I suppose that what she enjoyed most was the food (to justify our extended stay at the table, she even got chocolate cake) and hanging out with her mom; I sure enjoyed her too-- even at the lousy craft fair. But if I can add Packer football to the list of things she likes to do? Even better, as all those fathers and sons at the surrounding tables already know. Boys aren't the only ones who could use a little bonding, and today we got some, too.

Frank Rich: The Coup at Home

from the New York Times
November 11, 2007

AS Gen. Pervez Musharraf arrested judges, lawyers and human-rights activists in Pakistan last week, our Senate was busy demonstrating its own civic mettle. Chuck Schumer and Dianne Feinstein, liberal Democrats from America’s two most highly populated blue states, gave the thumbs up to Michael B. Mukasey, ensuring his confirmation as attorney general.

So what if America’s chief law enforcement official won’t say that waterboarding is illegal? A state of emergency is a state of emergency. You’re either willing to sacrifice principles to head off the next ticking bomb, or you’re with the terrorists. Constitutional corners were cut in Washington in impressive synchronicity with General Musharraf’s crackdown in Islamabad.

In the days since, the coup in Pakistan has been almost universally condemned as the climactic death knell for Bush foreign policy, the epitome of White House hypocrisy and incompetence. But that’s not exactly news. It’s been apparent for years that America was suicidal to go to war in Iraq, a country with no tie to 9/11 and no weapons of mass destruction, while showering billions of dollars on Pakistan, where terrorists and nuclear weapons proliferate under the protection of a con man who serves as a host to Osama bin Laden.

General Musharraf has always played our president for a fool and still does, with the vague promise of an election that he tossed the White House on Thursday. As if for sport, he has repeatedly mocked both Mr. Bush’s “freedom agenda” and his post-9/11 doctrine that any country harboring terrorists will be “regarded by the United States as a hostile regime.”

A memorable highlight of our special relationship with this prized “ally” came in September 2006, when the general turned up in Washington to kick off his book tour. Asked about the book by a reporter at a White House press conference, he said he was contractually “honor bound” to remain mum until it hit the stores — thus demonstrating that Simon & Schuster had more clout with him than the president. This didn’t stop Mr. Bush from praising General Musharraf for his recently negotiated “truce” to prevent further Taliban inroads in northwestern Pakistan. When the Pakistani strongman “looks me in the eye” and says “there won’t be a Taliban and won’t be Al Qaeda,” the president said, “I believe him.”

Sooner than you could say “Putin,” The Daily Telegraph of London reported that Mullah Omar, the Taliban leader, had signed off on this “truce.” Since then, the Pakistan frontier has become a more thriving terrorist haven than ever.

Now The Los Angeles Times reports that much of America’s $10 billion-plus in aid to Pakistan has gone to buy conventional weaponry more suitable for striking India than capturing terrorists. To rub it in last week, General Musharraf released 25 pro-Taliban fighters in a prisoner exchange with a tribal commander the day after he suspended the constitution.

But there’s another moral to draw from the Musharraf story, and it has to do with domestic policy, not foreign. The Pakistan mess, as The New York Times editorial page aptly named it, is not just another blot on our image abroad and another instance of our mismanagement of the war on Al Qaeda and the Taliban. It also casts a harsh light on the mess we have at home in America, a stain that will not be so easily eradicated.

In the six years of compromising our principles since 9/11, our democracy has so steadily been defined down that it now can resemble the supposedly aspiring democracies we’ve propped up in places like Islamabad. Time has taken its toll. We’ve become inured to democracy-lite. That’s why a Mukasey can be elevated to power with bipartisan support and we barely shrug.

This is a signal difference from the Vietnam era, and not necessarily for the better. During that unpopular war, disaffected Americans took to the streets and sometimes broke laws in an angry assault on American governmental institutions. The Bush years have brought an even more effective assault on those institutions from within. While the public has not erupted in riots, the executive branch has subverted the rule of law in often secretive increments. The results amount to a quiet coup, ultimately more insidious than a blatant putsch like General Musharraf’s.

More Machiavellian still, Mr. Bush has constantly told the world he’s championing democracy even as he strangles it. Mr. Bush repeated the word “freedom” 27 times in roughly 20 minutes at his 2005 inauguration, and even presided over a “Celebration of Freedom” concert on the Ellipse hosted by Ryan Seacrest. It was an Orwellian exercise in branding, nothing more. The sole point was to give cover to our habitual practice of cozying up to despots (especially those who control the oil spigots) and to our own government’s embrace of warrantless wiretapping and torture, among other policies that invert our values.

Even if Mr. Bush had the guts to condemn General Musharraf, there is no longer any moral high ground left for him to stand on. Quite the contrary. Rather than set a democratic example, our president has instead served as a model of unconstitutional behavior, eagerly emulated by his Pakistani acolyte.

Take the Musharraf assault on human-rights lawyers. Our president would not be so unsubtle as to jail them en masse. But earlier this year a senior Pentagon official, since departed, threatened America’s major white-shoe law firms by implying that corporate clients should fire any firm whose partners volunteer to defend detainees in Guantánamo and elsewhere. For its part, Alberto Gonzales’s Justice Department did not round up independent-minded United States attorneys and toss them in prison. It merely purged them without cause to serve Karl Rove’s political agenda.

Tipping his hat in appreciation of Mr. Bush’s example, General Musharraf justified his dismantling of Pakistan’s Supreme Court with language mimicking the president’s diatribes against activist judges. The Pakistani leader further echoed Mr. Bush by expressing a kinship with Abraham Lincoln, citing Lincoln’s Civil War suspension of a prisoner’s fundamental legal right to a hearing in court, habeas corpus, as a precedent for his own excesses. (That’s like praising F.D.R. for setting up internment camps.) Actually, the Bush administration has outdone both Lincoln and Musharraf on this score: Last January, Mr. Gonzales testified before Congress that “there is no express grant of habeas in the Constitution.”

To believe that this corruption will simply evaporate when the Bush presidency is done is to underestimate the permanent erosion inflicted over the past six years. What was once shocking and unacceptable in America has now been internalized as the new normal.

This is most apparent in the Republican presidential race, where most of the candidates seem to be running for dictator and make no apologies for it. They’re falling over each other to expand Gitmo, see who can promise the most torture and abridge the largest number of constitutional rights. The front-runner, Rudy Giuliani, boasts a proven record in extralegal executive power grabs, Musharraf-style: After 9/11 he tried to mount a coup, floating the idea that he stay on as mayor in defiance of New York’s term-limits law.

What makes the Democrats’ Mukasey cave-in so depressing is that it shows how far even exemplary sticklers for the law like Senators Feinstein and Schumer have lowered democracy’s bar. When they argued that Mr. Mukasey should be confirmed because he’s not as horrifying as Mr. Gonzales or as the acting attorney general who might get the job otherwise, they sounded whipped. After all these years of Bush-Cheney torture, they’ll say things they know are false just to move on.

In a Times OpEd article justifying his reluctant vote to confirm a man Dick Cheney promised would make “an outstanding attorney general,” Mr. Schumer observed that waterboarding is already “illegal under current laws and conventions.” But then he vowed to support a new bill “explicitly” making waterboarding illegal because Mr. Mukasey pledged to enforce it. Whatever. Even if Congress were to pass such legislation, Mr. Bush would veto it, and even if the veto were by some miracle overturned, Mr. Bush would void the law with a “signing statement.” That’s what he effectively did in 2005 when he signed a bill that its authors thought outlawed the torture of detainees.

That Mr. Schumer is willing to employ blatant Catch-22 illogic to pretend that Mr. Mukasey’s pledge on waterboarding has any force shows what pathetic crumbs the Democrats will settle for after all these years of being beaten down. The judges and lawyers challenging General Musharraf have more fight left in them than this.

Last weekend a new Washington Post-ABC News poll found that the Democratic-controlled Congress and Mr. Bush are both roundly despised throughout the land, and that only 24 percent of Americans believe their country is on the right track. That’s almost as low as the United States’ rock-bottom approval ratings in the latest Pew surveys of Pakistan (15 percent) and Turkey (9 percent).

Wrong track is a euphemism. We are a people in clinical depression. Americans know that the ideals that once set our nation apart from the world have been vandalized, and no matter which party they belong to, they do not see a restoration anytime soon.

Livin' in the future

None of this has happened yet. How could it?

Bruce Springsteen’s best album since The River comes out and the prospect of seeing the boss live, one last time, perhaps, with the E Street Band, seems impossible. Tour dates announced in Chicago and St. Paul are but a tease.

I’m broke, for starters, and Christmas is coming. And, geez, doesn’t anyone know it’s football season? I’ve seen Springsteen in concert a handful of times and enjoyed every one (save, perhaps, the Tunnel of Love tour).

My last experience was at the Vote for Change concert in St. Paul – with REM, John Fogerty and, surprise guest Neil Young! – and if I never saw a concert again that would have been fine. But St. Paul lured me back for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers with Pearl Jam as the “warmup” band. WOW!

Then I get this e-mail from the Xcel Energy Center announcing Bruce’s return on March 16. A Sunday, St. Patrick’s Day eve! Tickets on sale at 10 a.m. Saturday. I’m in.

We’re livin’ in the future and none of this has happened yet. But it’ll get me through the winter.

THE Allison

"Now wait, " says my friend's boss, gesturing a pause in the happy hour conversation, "are you THE Allison?"

And I draw myself up as tall as I go, "Yes," I reply, "I am."

"Really! Well then I should give you a hug!" THE Allison is apparently welcome on a whole different level.

If you know us I don't have to tell you that later there was an awful lot of laughing about this particular exchange, but, THE Allison? I think I kind of love it. It arose because he was confused about why I appeared at the end of their extended Go Away party; I happen to know the woman who's moving to Pittsburgh, too, but I was there to retrieve my friend, the one who's apparently mentioned my name often enough that it has registered on the radar.

THE Allison, as if all the others are fakes. But, honestly, don't you think that way about anyone who shares your name? That you are the real deal and the other one is a pale imitation? I kinda think I do. Then again, Allison wasn't common in my childhood. I never got used to sharing. But that is merely a tangent; THE Allison is really about my connection to my friend, though it's hardly the first time I've been introduced through her.

A hundred years ago, when we were in college, I was introduced all over Florida, or, okay, maybe just once, as "Dena's little friend." Grandmas will be grandmas. It was kinda sweet in that annoying, oh please way, and now of course I miss her, but, finally a new phase. THE Allison. I like that so much better.

End of an era

52 weeks; 52 health care claims. That's nice and symmetrical. I think I'll call it a year. Of course, my nonsense didn't start until nearly March, and we've more than a month to go, but I've no intention of writing another co-pay check or donning another paper dress in 2007--and just for the record, universe, that is not a dare.

My brainwaves seem to be more or less regulated, my rogue ovary was just this week found to be clear if inexplicably achey. For months, you may recall, I've been insisting that I'm fine; now, finally, credibility. And perhaps, could it be, closure? This afternoon my cell rang while I was at my homebound student's home. I couldn't place the number, but I knew it was familiar, so I apologized, broke all my rules, and took the call. Turned out it was my least favorite doctor's file clerk, wondering about the records request they'd received. Oh, so THAT's the call they return on a Friday afternoon. I'd always wondered what it took.

Since I was in a bedroom that did not belong to me, I answered her query, her, "did we do something wrong?" with, "I'm more comfortable with my new doctor's advice. Goodbye!" and not, "Where do I begin?!"

When I had my student observer this week, my students all thought she was a sub and reacted accordingly. "Are you gone a lot?" she asked. "Oh, no. Not anymore. But for a while there, it was crazy." And if I hadn't called my primary care guy and gotten a second opinion, I may have been on the verge of giving up body parts to some overaggressive gynecological surgeon instead of closing out this chapter. Talk about nuts. At least I was smart enough to avoid that. Because doctors, all they are is educated, and if I know anything, its the flaws in that endeavor.

Small World

"Maybe you saw me," he says with a sly grin, "and thought, 'Look at that ugly Mexican man.' "

“Would I ever say that?!” I protest, smiling back, and he shakes his head with a quiet, “no.” But he doesn’t mind the reminder and maybe reassurance. He knows, maybe wonders, how he looks to someone like me, and really, he hasn’t known me that long. I suppose, once upon a time, I might have seen the Virgen medallions, the earrings and muscle t-shirts, the cockeyed ballcaps that cover close-cropped hair. But I see what I know, that he’s a sweet kid, and really, they all are, at least to me.

Some of that is the power of being la maestra, or even an older-than-they-are woman. The power of culture. And what a powerful culture, considering that this boy, and so many others of my acquaintance, either had no real mother or no mothering for years, but he’d still never dream, never dare, of being anything but polite to me. But it’s more than politeness at this point, there’s something shared that accelerates connections--like in the foxholes. If only foxholes sheltered babies and an impossible American dream.

He's fascinated that we were once before at the same place at the same time, though talk about how the other half lives. A year ago last summer I was hustling through a Disney family vacation; he was chopping vegetables in a centralized Disney kitchen. Both of us spent some time at Downtown Disney, a mall-ish entertainment complex. One of us blew a $400 paycheck all in one night there—do I have to say it was not me?—but maybe we did pass in the crowds.

And now we’re here, life being strange, the world being small. Who knows what will happen next. Something good, I hope (against hope, with fingers crossed). A thousand miles from Florida, we're nowhere he ever would have dreamed of when he was slaving for the Mouse. And the baby! Already a father. He still talks about Downtown Disney with a teenager's gleam in his eye, but I bet anything he’d love to have that paycheck back.

One

I think I may have literally closed my eyes and tried to shake the image out of my head when I saw the pre-fab presents on the shelf at Target--already?! was my only thought--but, rumor has it November’s here. I can't say I've never stooped to buy any of those pre-measured doses of hermetically sealed holiday cheer (not for you, I promise), but generally I give good gift, even at the last minute. All it takes is a little attention, a serendipitous memory or a lucky expedition, a willingness to stretch the budget and maybe some overseas postage.

I'm not sure, however, that I've ever purchased a gift that I've enjoyed as much as this one. And right there my analogy fails, or needs to be taken by the hand and lead in a new direction, because I'm no longer talking about anything I bought or gave, but something I received. If you notice, the line at the top says since November 8, and today it's November 8 again. One year, one lap around the Internets, and this post is my pause before here we go again--because this blog was absolutely a gift, priceless indeed.

Until 365 days ago, I never wrote anything but e-mail. Perhaps too much e-mail, just ask my list, but never anything in public, not ever. No way. (Please insert here the phrase the more things change, the more they stay the same.) I suppose the fact that I may still post a gynecological exchange that occurred while I was wearing a paper towel illustrates the fact that it’s possible to rid oneself of a few too many qualms, but to discover to my own satisfaction that I am a certain kind of writer? Worth far more than the price of admission, and yes, I know, it’s free. The value here is remarkable. Why don’t you ever tell your friends?

That is, I should say, a rhetorical question. While I like to see who visits and welcome all but the jackass anonymous, I’m not exactly recruiting. This place is a repository, an expression, a steady if largely silent gathering (it’s really okay to comment), and, for me, a huge satisfaction. I’m happy for those who enjoy it, hope you can someday say you can read some of these things here first, but regardless I’m here for the duration. Finally! A hobby I won’t abandon, and a present I won’t return. Thanks, Lonnie. It fit perfectly.

Pretend is our friend

I swear, the tooth fairy is getting entirely too old for this, or at least the tooth-donator is. But I can't cut her off, she who clings to childhood fantasy and a stuffed koala while her body races ahead. In the meantime, though, easing through the beaded doorway curtain and picking my way across a cluttered floor--who's raising this kid, anyway?--is not exactly a treasured moment in my mothering time, unless it is. It's a sigh of relief that I didn't forget, a hasty search for some singles, some sleepy strategizing at the foot of her bed. She's a sleep walker and a sleep talker, and when she stirred and muttered something incomprehensible that ended with, "what do you think of that?" I thought I was busted for sure. Such an odd ritual, the voluntary mission impossible. As if I need five minutes more stress before bed. But she settled, and I tried again, finally fished out that overpriced tooth and escaped back out the door. Night, baby. Big girl. I don't know what we're going to do with you come Christmastime, but I'll play along with you if you want. Sure I will.

Never say never

"I could never do that."

Sometimes that phrase is a perceptive statement, a sign of self-awareness with only a little Better You Than Me thrown in. More often than not the honest translation is I don't want to, I hope to never, thank God that's not me, with the sign of the cross some trapped gesture in even thoroughly non-Catholic hands. At least it seems so to me.

I get that a lot, the I could never, thanks to my chosen profession, sometimes even before the speaker realizes my students aren't white. Sometimes even from other teachers. But that's fair enough; I don't want their jobs, either. One hundred fifty entitled American teens on my roster? Oh, no thanks. Really. I insist. I could do it, have the degree and the certificate and the capability, but aspirations? Never. As baffling as that is to the brass. From time to time someone looks at my surroundings and sees the ghetto, and what exactly does that tell me? Perhaps that I am in the right place if only because someone really needs to be there.

Today and tomorrow I have observers in my classroom. One English department emissary, part of some new grand plan, one aspiring teacher from the local university. Two attitudes, two sets of eyes, one set of vague anxieties. If the former persists with "I could never," it would almost be a compliment: that's right, buddy. I do something different, something you've never attempted, and a decent job at that. But if the latter comes out of her day thinking that same thought, oh, that might be a different story, one I may cringe to hear. She knows how it's supposed to be, but I know how it is. Once upon a time I thought "I could never," but now every day, I do.

Keith Olbermann on Waterboarding

It's hard to be a Democrat

by Nora Ephron

It's hard to be a Democrat, don't you think? There's no alternative, of course, but it's hard. Someone asked me the other day to write something about why I was a Democrat, and I had no trouble making a list of 10 reasons. Of course, five of those reasons were the Supreme Court, and the other five were more or less historical -- reasons like FDR, which is not meant to mean Franklin Delano Roosevelt exactly but some fantasy blob of Democratic values that are a distant racial memory.

But it's hard. It's especially hard to remember that the real enemies are the Republicans, when the Democrats tend to break your heart and the Republicans are just the boys you'd never go out with anyway.

It's hard when you watch a debate and decide that in the end you're probably going to throw your vote away in the primary and vote for someone who doesn't have a chance, like Dennis Kucinich. I mean, look at them, look at the front runners: Hillary Clinton, who can't help being Hillary Clinton; Barack Obama, who was a disappointment from the beginning and whose new-found attack mode is as dispiriting as his low energy level used to be; John Edwards, whom I am afraid I will never be able to think of again (after this week's Peggy Noonan column in the Wall Street Journal) as anything but a desperate furry little woodland animal.

And then there are the Democrats in the Congress. What a bunch of losers, hiding behind the fact that it takes 60 votes to shut down debate and 67 to override a presidential veto. So what? So pass a law and make Bush veto it. Make him veto something every single day. Drive the guy crazy. What have you got to lose? And meanwhile what have you done? You've voted for the surge, you've voted to authorize a war against Iran, and you're about to vote in favor of an attorney general-designate who refuses to call waterboarding torture.

Which brings me, I'm afraid, to Chuck Schumer. I can't honestly say that Chuck Schumer broke my heart last week, because he's never really had my heart. He's Captain Bromide. And I can't even look at him without being reminded of an old radio-and-television show called Quiz Kids, which featured a boy genius named Joel Kupperman who was always waving his hand wildly whenever a question was asked and shouting, "I know! I know!" In addition, and because he happens to be my Senator, I have watched Schumer transform himself: he used to be a schlepper (as they say in Schumer's former congressional district) and now he's groomed to a fare-thee-well. I salute any man who takes charge of a thinning hairline with so much product, but Schumer's makeover always seemed to me a worrisome sign, and not merely a symptom of my own shallowness: it seemed to me to show that he had left Brooklyn and New York, in some fundamental way, for the Beltway -- which is not to meant to mean the Beltway exactly but instead a nonstop series of cable and network television appearances that add up to very little in the way of action and a great deal in the way of bluster.

Nonetheless, when I read on Friday that Schumer had decided to support Michael Mukasey for attorney general, thus making Mukasey's confirmation by the Senate inevitable, my heart sank. I read his justification of his vote. He said that Mukasey was the best we could hope for from this administration. He said the Justice Department needed to be rebuilt. He said that no nominee for attorney general was ever going to come out against waterboarding, and that Mukasey at least promised to follow the law if (somehow) the Senate passed an anti-waterboarding law (that survived a Bush veto). It's probably unfair to blame Schumer entirely for this; after all, Dianne Feinstein made the same decision. And more than half the Democrats in the Senate are apparently prepared to vote for Mukasey.

But here's what they should do instead:

Reject Mukasey.
Make Bush send up another nominee.
Reject that nominee if he won't take a position on waterboarding.
And just keep on doing it.

Because it's the right thing to do. Because waterboarding is torture. Because we are torturing people and it has to stop, and it will never stop unless the Democrats make it stop.

And forget about the Justice Department. No one will fix the Justice Department until there's a new president.

And he or she has got to be a Democrat.

That goes without saying.

Because after all, there's the Supreme Court.

60 Minutes

"Wasn't the time change last week?" comes the question once my reminder is on the board.

"Nooooooo. Did you move your clocks?"

"No."

"Then how would that work, then, exactly?"

And the students, two or three of them, asking at different times (natch) on different days, just shrug and go on, evidence, again, that life is just something that happens to them, that the world is not a place that they expect to make sense of or control. I think that explains so much.

Meanwhile I was just looking forward to that manufactured hour, claiming I'd sleep through it, though I never, ever do. It wasn't as bad as the Daylight Savings Fiasco of '98, when I squandered my year of Indiana residency (then a non-participating state) by being out of town and having to spring forward to catch a plane, damn the give-me-my-hour-back luck, but I was up stupid early this morning, which seems to defeat the purpose. Then again, Sundays are always so short.

Though I changed my watch and, of course, the electronics take care of themselves, most of the clocks spent most of the day an hour in the future. To leave them unchanged was mostly lazy, something to be done tonight before the hours and minutes start counting again tomorrow--but it's also a most satisfying mind game, this one day each year. Is it four o'clock already? No! It's only three (as if I can't tell time by football). Was I really at the grocery store that long? No! For once it's true. By now my time is beginning to catch up with me, or vice versa I suppose, and I really should make the rounds and rejoin reality. Nice while it lasted, though, the illusion of a little extra, the illusion of control.

Amen

Well, it is Sunday morning, but I'm responding to some remarks Obama made about Hillary yesterday. Good day for the junior senator from my state, far as I'm concerned.

"In an interview with the Tribune, Obama questioned the front-runner’s ability to convert broad public discontent with the Bush Administration into a decisive Democratic victory, suggesting the political baggage she carries from the partisan battles of the 1990s would be a burden on her general election campaign.

“I have a better chance than any of the other candidates of bringing the country together and attracting independents and Republicans into a working majority for change. That is a harder argument for Sen. Clinton to make, I think, because people’s views are set on her," Obama said.

The Illinois senator portrayed Clinton’s campaign so far as one based on obfuscation and avoidance of clear political stands.

In the primary, Clinton is trying “to make herself as small a target as possible to potential Republican attack by avoiding laying out too specific an agenda. But I think you can’t build a majority and bring about real, meaningful change if that’s the approach you take,” Obama said."

. . .

In a speech he delivered in Spartanburg, S.C., shortly after the interview, Obama accused Clinton of playing from a worn campaign "textbook" that "encourages vague, calculated answers to suit the politics of the moment, instead of clear, consistent principles about how you would lead America.

"She's also a skilled politician, and she's run what Washington would call a 'textbook' campaign. But the problem is the textbook itself.

"It's a textbook that's all about winning elections, but says nothing about how to bring the country together to solve problems," he said.