Frank Rich: Two Cheers for Rod Blagojevich

By Frank Rich in the New York Times

ROD BLAGOJEVICH is the perfect holiday treat for a country fighting off depression. He gift-wraps the ugliness of corruption in the mirthful garb of farce. From a safe distance outside Illinois, it’s hard not to laugh at the “culture of Chicago,” where even the president-elect’s Senate seat is just another commodity to be bought and sold.

But the entertainment is escapist only up to a point. What went down in the Land of Lincoln is just the reductio ad absurdum of an American era where both entitlement and corruption have been the calling cards of power. Blagojevich’s alleged crimes pale next to the larger scandals of Washington and Wall Street. Yet those who promoted and condoned the twin national catastrophes of reckless war in Iraq and reckless gambling in our markets have largely escaped the accountability that now seems to await the Chicago punk nabbed by the United States attorney, Patrick Fitzgerald.

The Republican partisans cheering Fitzgerald’s prosecution of a Democrat have forgotten his other red-letter case in this decade, his conviction of Scooter Libby, Dick Cheney’s chief of staff. Libby was far bigger prey. He was part of the White House Iraq Group, the task force of propagandists that sold an entire war to America on false pretenses. Because Libby was caught lying to a grand jury and federal prosecutors as well as to the public, he was sentenced to two and a half years in prison. But President Bush commuted the sentence before he served a day.

Fitzgerald was not pleased. “It is fundamental to the rule of law that all citizens stand before the bar of justice as equals,” he said at the time.

Not in the Bush era, man. Though the president had earlier vowed to fire anyone involved in leaking the classified identity of a C.I.A. officer, Valerie Plame Wilson — the act Libby tried to cover up by committing perjury — both Libby and his collaborator in leaking, Karl Rove, remained in place.

Accountability wasn’t remotely on Bush’s mind. If anything, he was more likely to reward malfeasance and incompetence, as exemplified by his gifting of the Presidential Medal of Freedom to George Tenet, L. Paul Bremer and Gen. Tommy Franks, three of the most culpable stooges of the Iraq fiasco.

Bush had arrived in Washington vowing to inaugurate a new, post-Clinton era of “personal responsibility” in which “people are accountable for their actions.” Eight years later he holds himself accountable for nothing. In his recent exit interview with Charles Gibson, he presented himself as a passive witness to disastrous events, the Forrest Gump of his own White House. He wishes “the intelligence had been different” about W.M.D. in Iraq — as if his administration hadn’t hyped and manipulated that intelligence. As for the economic meltdown, he had this to say: “I’m sorry it’s happening, of course.”

If you want to trace the bipartisan roots of the morally bankrupt culture that has now found its culmination in our financial apocalypse, a good place to start is late 2001 and 2002, just as the White House contemplated inflating Saddam’s W.M.D. That’s when we learned about another scandal with cooked books, Enron. This was a supreme embarrassment for Bush, whose political career had been bankrolled by the Enron titan Kenneth Lay, or, as Bush nicknamed him back in Texas, “Kenny Boy.”

The chagrined president eventually convened a one-day “economic summit” photo op in August 2002 (held in Waco, Tex., lest his vacation in Crawford be disrupted). But while some perpetrators of fraud at Enron would ultimately pay a price, any lessons from its demise, including a need for safeguards, were promptly forgotten by one and all in the power centers of both federal and corporate governance.

Enron was an energy company that had diversified to trade in derivatives — financial instruments that were bets on everything from exchange rates to the weather. It was also brilliant in devising shell companies that kept hundreds of millions of dollars of debt off the company’s bottom line and away from the prying eyes of shareholders.

Regulators had failed to see the iceberg in Enron’s path and so had Enron’s own accountants at Arthur Andersen, a corporate giant whose parallel implosion had its own casualty list of some 80,000 jobs. Despite Bush’s post-Enron call for “a new ethic of personal responsibility in the business community,” the exact opposite has happened in the six years since. Warren Buffett’s warning in 2003 that derivatives were “financial weapons of mass destruction” was politely ignored. Much larger companies than Enron figured out how to place even bigger and more impenetrable gambles on derivatives, all the while piling up unseen debt. They built castles of air on a far grander scale than Kenny Boy could have imagined, doing so with sheer stupidity and cavalier, greed-fueled carelessness rather than fraud.

The most stupendous example as measured in dollars is Citigroup, now the recipient of potentially the biggest taxpayer bailout to date. The price tag could be some $300 billion — 20 times the proposed first installment of the scuttled Detroit bailout. Citigroup’s toxic derivatives, often tied to subprime mortgages, metastasized without appearing on the balance sheet. Both the company’s former chief executive, Charles O. Prince III, and his senior adviser, Robert Rubin, the former Clinton Treasury secretary, have said they didn’t know the size of the worthless holdings until they’d spiraled into the tens of billions of dollars.

Once again, regulators slept. Once again, credit-rating agencies, typified this time by Moody’s, kept giving a thumbs-up to worthless paper until it was too late. There was just so much easy money to be made, and no one wanted to be left out. As Michael Lewis concludes in his brilliant account of “the end” of Wall Street in Portfolio magazine: “Something for nothing. It never loses its charm.”

But if all bubbles and panics are alike, this one, the worst since the Great Depression, also carried the DNA of our own time. Enron had been a Citigroup client. In a now-forgotten footnote to that scandal, Rubin was discovered to have made a phone call to a former colleague in the Treasury Department to float the idea of asking credit-rating agencies to delay downgrading Enron’s debt. This inappropriate lobbying never went anywhere, but Rubin neither apologized nor learned any lessons. “I can see why that call might be questioned,” he wrote in his 2003 memoir, “but I would make it again.” He would say the same this year about his performance at Citigroup during its collapse.

The Republican side of the same tarnished coin is Phil Gramm, the former senator from Texas. Like Rubin, he helped push through banking deregulation when in government in the 1990s, then cashed in on the relaxed rules by joining the banking industry once he left Washington. Gramm is at UBS, which also binged on credit-default swaps and is now receiving a $60 billion bailout from the Swiss government.

It’s a sad snapshot of our century’s establishment that Rubin has been an economic adviser to Barack Obama and Gramm to John McCain. And that both captains of finance remain unapologetic, unaccountable and still at their banks, which have each lost more than 70 percent of their shareholders’ value this year and have collectively announced more than 90,000 layoffs so far.

The Times calls its chilling investigative series on the financial failures “The Reckoning,” but the reckoning is largely for the rest of us — taxpayers, shareholders, the countless laid-off employees — not the corporate and political leaders who led us into the quagmire. It’s a replay of the Iraq equation: the troops, the Iraqi people and American taxpayers have borne the harshest costs while Bush and company retire to their McMansions.

As our outgoing president passes the buck for his failures — all that bad intelligence — so do leaders in the private and public sectors who enabled the economic debacle. Gramm has put the blame for the subprime fiasco on “predatory borrowers.” Rubin has blamed a “perfect storm” of economic factors, as has Sam Zell, the magnate who bought and maimed the Tribune newspapers in a highly leveraged financial stunt that led to a bankruptcy filing last week. Donald Trump has invoked a standard “act of God” clause to avoid paying a $40 million construction loan on his huge new project in Chicago.

After a while they all start to sound like O. J. Simpson, who when at last held accountable for some of his behavior told a Las Vegas judge this month, “In no way did I mean to hurt anybody.” Or perhaps they are channeling Donald Rumsfeld, whose famous excuse for his failure to secure post-invasion Iraq, “Stuff happens,” could be the epitaph of our age.

Our next president, like his predecessor, is promising “a new era of responsibility and accountability.” We must hope he means it. Meanwhile, we have the governor he leaves behind in Illinois to serve as our national whipping boy, the one betrayer of the public trust who could actually end up paying for his behavior. The surveillance tapes of Blagojevich are so fabulous it seems a tragedy we don’t have similar audio records of the bigger fish who have wrecked the country. But in these hard times we’ll take what we can get.

worse instead of better

I walk up to him, hands shoved in my back pockets, and wait for him to notice.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, off guard.

"I apologize." I do.

"Nah." He brushes it off. "I'm screwin' up."

I can't disagree. "Well, I don't think I helped," I reply, knowing that I didn't. He continues scribbling out some paper up against his locker, and I realize what he's doing.

"Now you're out here copying?" I sigh. I'll deal with this part later.

"It's extra credit. It's all I can do now." I object, and remind him of the time.

"You still have 40 minutes," I say feebly, "You could still do it," but I know there's no chance today. He's not going to retrieve his half-finished test, and he's not going to try. My earlier outburst guaranteed that. It's not on me that he was unprepared, again, but confirming his worst instincts is. Everything I said may have been true, but it wasn't the time to say it. If only frustration didn't have a short fuse.

I head back to my room, leaving my mess in the hall.

"You're better than that," I call to him. I repeat the words to myself.

A Pre-Christmas Miracle

Here's what I don't get

Springfield is the capital of Illinois, right? Why is governor big hair in Chicago?

Leaving, on a jet plane

A 72-second animation of every flight in the world over a 24 hour period.

The Land of Crooks and Greed

image by Ronald J. Cala, NY Times

All things considered, I would rather it had been hookers.

hope

It is the best thing that's ever happened to her. May that not always be true. May this be a beginning, not an ending. A first step, not a final chapter. I see her pride in the scrubs that she wears, and I cross my fingers again.

She's not a nurse, or an aide, or an anything, not yet. She's a student at the tech school, studying Health Related Occupations five mornings every week. Those teachers have their students dress the part, follow the rules for hair and jewelry and nail polish. Get into the habit. She's always wanted to be a nurse, and this feels like a real step. It is a confirmation. One that may be thwarted.

She has a father with a real green card, but his whereabouts are unknown. She has a social security number that is real but may not be valid. She has a mother who would prefer she study cosmetology over nursing; haircuts can be paid for in cash. She has no clear path.

In the afternoons, we look for scholarships that don't require citizenship. We calculate how far we can push the system. The year is half over and the rest will go quick; there's little time to figure this out. It may come to nothing, but not if we can help it. In the meantime, she learns and practices. A dream close enough to touch.

undue influence

"I was scared of what you said, so I didn't go."

I consider the implications. "Well, good. " I am amused and satisfied.

"It was just me who didn't go," he said, trying to minimize. I shrug back at the boy who's feeling stupid for staying away from someplace he should not have been, not that anything really came of it, but we didn't know that at the time.

Sometimes I forget how much they do believe me. Friday, word got around that a June grad was having a birthday party in a hotel. Obviously, no good was gonna come. So obviously, some of them were planning.

Out of the blue, in the midst of the talk, I said, "I think I'll call the cops." I'm getting better at the straight face, kept it through all the wonder and exclaiming. When they asked why, I let them fill in their own blanks. Raised an eyebrow, waited. Repeated. A second thought certainly couldn't hurt. Just because I would have done it doesn't mean they should.

In the end, I didn't. I had no concrete information, and in the end my job was done. All I really wanted, not that I really thought it out, was for someone to make a smarter decision. And against his will, one did.

And so it begins

Happy Holidays from InBev.

Visitors

"I thought I'd never see you again."

I concur. Shrug my shoulders. "Life happens." He's a good kid, and it's good to see him, never again contracted into a year and a half.

It's Friday afternoon, and we're standing there smiling on our accustomed sides of the desk. Ballcap and ripped jeans, hands shoved into pockets, he could easily fit in here. It hasn't been that long. Just long enough for my image of him to crystalize into something that isn't now and never was, exactly. A composite of all those years. I'm glad for the refresher.

"I was shy to come in when all the kids were here," he says, and I think, "How different from your sister." She's here, too, on the phone for the fifth time in four minutes, the center of attention as always, as ever, from all that eyeliner down to her spike heels. She's the diva who nonetheless brought me her brother, the one who insisted that he come.

The three of us gossip and catch up; I am blunt with my advice. I look but see none of his rumored tattoos and piercings, though I realize they could be hidden. I wonder what I'm not seeing. He says more about his drive home than about the Juarez drug war he's witnessed. He's invincible nineteen and he's talking to his teacher; there are limits, but still we're connected.

Soon enough it's time to go, and I gather up my things.

"Okay, Ms. P., we'll let you get back to your life." I laugh at that half-truth and give her my card.

"It was good to see you," he calls. I agree, wholeheartedly. And then I watch them head back out into the world.

Michael Moore makes perfect sense, if only they'd listen

Moore can also be found here.

Kid gloves

It never ceases to amaze me how two children born of the same parents can be so different. Not good and bad, although both have been each at one time or another, just different. It's taken me all of 15 1/2 years -- give or take -- to learn you can't parent them the same way either. Also, I recently discovered, my "tough love" approach worked for neither.

So I'm experimenting with a "kid glove" approach. Ignoring the fact that I communicated via e-mail, only because I worked late and they were asleep when I got home, how did I do on report card day?

First, the straight-A sixth-grader:

Way to go! I was so proud and impressed when I looked at your report card tonight. Of course, I wasn't surprised after seeing your continued stellar ITBS scores. Your mathematics total equates to a student in your brother's grade! And your problem solving and data interpretation scores are off the chart. Maybe you will be president some day -- or a detective like Nancy Drew.

Anyway, congratulations. You've done very well. Now keep it up.

Your reward? I don't believe in paying for grades and, though we set up a plan for Zach, it wasn't until he was in high school. (So far, it hasn't provided him much incentive anyway.) But we should discuss an appropriate reward for your accomplishment. What do you think? I'm sure you have ideas. Let's talk about it.

Meanwhile, remember I love you no matter what. And at the moment, you've made me
very, very proud.

Now, the underachieving 10th-grader:

Don't worry. I'm not going to yell at you. I've learned that doesn't accomplish the intended goal. I'm trying to look at the positives and I have to say, you kept your word about getting your geometry grade up. Good job! Unfortunately, it seems to have come at the expense of your Spanish grade. Not exactly what we're looking for.

I hope you will take Mrs. Stiles comment to heart and "report for extra help."

Your GPA of 2.715 isn't horrible. But 3.0 is well within your reach, and I hope
you'll strive for that this trimester.

The C+ in driver's ed kind of surprised me. I guess you should have taken it pass/fail. Regardless, it's good to have it out of the way. Now you won't have it to distract you from your other studies. You need to find out the procedures for getting a school permit and we'll get that done. I still don't know what we'll do for a vehicle, but we'll work on it.

Financially, here's how the payout works (PE and Driver's ed do not count). $10 for each A that isn't canceled by a D. $5 for each B that isn't canceled out by a C. Obviously, straight A's or A's and B's is not applicable. So your A- in Biology is canceled by the D+ in Spanish, or you'd have earned $10. The B+ in LA (though I'm really proud of you improvement in this class) is canceled by the C- in Geometry. That leaves a B- in world history, for which you've earned a grand total of $5. I think you can easily see how eliminating the D's and reducing/eliminating the C's would be much more profitable.

I would like for us to meet with your counselor to discuss your educational goals. If you'd rather meet with her alone, that is fine, as long as you do it. Please let me know how you'd like to proceed.

Keep working hard, buddy, and don't slack off between now and Christmas break. You've learned how hard it is to make up ground when you've fallen behind. And please, please, please make sure you turn in all of your assignments.

Don't be afraid to ask for help, whether from your teachers, your classmates or even your parents. We love you and only want the best for you.

secondhand suckitude

Being a public school teacher is not exactly like having a real job, or at least not like working for a business. Regardless of anything out of my control, I know I'll be paid until next August, and, given the tenure, for many Augusts after that, barring some cataclysm. I'm not immune to the coming Depression, of course, especially given the source of the rest of the household income, but my economic wariness has been a little abstract, a little theoretical. No more.

I have this friend in the steel business, see, a friend as close as a sister, and it turns out her December bonus is the news that her place of employment may not continue to exist in the way it most always has. It's news as logical as it is jarring. If fewer cars and appliances are being sold and fewer buildings are being built, naturally less steel is ordered, and consequently less steel is produced. Fewer workers are needed at every step along the way;that's the trickle-down reality. And wow, does it ever suck.

It may be that things will be fine, both for my friend and her work community, but it doesn't seem they'll ever be the same. Even I've been saying that for a while now, in a big picture kind of way. It's just that now I understand what I meant.

Pitts: Our destructive love of stuff

By LEONARD PITTS JR.

I like stuff as much as the next guy. My closet is stuffed with stuff, my shelves groan with stuff, boxes full of stuff jam my garage. I like stuff just fine.
But I would not kill for it.

Last week, a 34-year-old man was trampled to death by a mob rushing into a Wal-Mart to buy stuff. Jdimytai Damour was a seasonal worker manning the door of a store in Valley Stream, N.Y., as shoppers eager for so-called ''Black Friday'' bargains massed outside. The store was scheduled to open at 5 a.m., but that was not early enough for the 2,000 would-be shoppers. At five minutes before the hour, they were banging their fists and pressing their weight against the glass doors, which bowed and then broke in a shower of glass. The mob stormed in.

Four people, including a pregnant woman, were injured. And Damour was killed as people stomped over him, looking for good prices on DVDs, winter coats and PlayStations. Nor was the mob sobered by his death. As authorities sought to clear the store, some defiantly kept shopping; others complained that they had been on line since the night before.

And here, it seems appropriate to observe the obvious irony: Black Friday is the traditional beginning of the Christmas shopping season, Christmas being the holiday when, Christians believe, hope was born into the world in the form of a baby who became a man who preached a gospel of service to, and compassion for, our fellow human beings.

It is hard to see evidence of either in the mob's treatment of Jdimytai Damour, and if your inclination is to heap scorn upon them, I don't blame you. But I would caution against regarding them as freaks or aberrations whose callous madness would never be seen in sane and normal people like ourselves. That would be false comfort.

You may think I'm talking about mob psychology and to a degree, I am. From soccer riots to the Holocaust itself, human beings have always had a tendency to lose individual identity and accountability when gathered in groups. You will do things as part of a crowd that you never would as an individual. Theoretically, anyone who lacked a strong-enough moral center and sense of self could have been part of that mob in Valley Stream.

But it's not just our common vulnerability to mob psychology that ties the rest of us to last week's tragedy. It is also our common love of stuff. Indeed, it is hard to imagine a starker illustration of our true priorities. Oh, we pay lip service to other things. We say children are a priority, but when did people ever press against the door for Parents' Night at school? We say education is a priority, but when did people ever bang against the windows of the library? We say faith is a priority, but when did people ever surge into a temple of worship as eagerly as they do a temple of commerce?

No, sale prices on iPods, that's our true priority. Jdimytai Damour died because too many of us have bought, heart and soul, into the great lie of American consumerism: acquiring stuff will make you whole. ''You, Happier,'' is how a sign at my local Best Buy puts it. As if owning a Jonas Brothers CD, an Iron Man DVD, a Sony HDTV, will elevate you to a level of joy otherwise impossible to attain. Hey, you may be a total loser, may not have a friend, may not have an education, may not have a job, may not have a clue, but it will all be OK as soon as you get that new Canon digital camera, especially if you get it for 50 percent off.

It would be nice to think -- I will not hold my breath -- that Damour's death would lead at least some of us to finally see that for the obscene lie it is, to realize that seeking wholeness in consumer goods is an act of emptiness, not joy.

You, Happier? No.

Just you, with more stuff.

dinner

"No, it's not closed. We're inside at a table."

I walk towards the front of the near-empty restaurant, talking on the phone.

"Am I looking at you sitting in your truck?" It soon becomes clear that I am. As I gather her in, my teacher friend and I tease, but not too much. I agree that the open sign is off and that the parking lot is fairly deserted. But c'mon. "Couldn't you try the door?"

"That's enough laughing!" She protests, but she's smiling. It elicits another giggle. Soon she'll know us better; I'm glad she wanted to come.

She's more or less grown up now; she runs a store her father owns, she's raising her motherless sister. She has as much responsibility as anyone. More. But she still wants to call us "Mrs.", and she's still shy to come to the door.

And thus we have adopted her, kind of. There is no overt plan. No conversation about it at all, really. Just a notion to invite her, a quick response. A teenager in gold jewelry and a cloud of perfume, waiting in her truck.

A Garbo Moment

Here at the end of the day I would like credit for not screaming at the top of my lungs.

Teenagers are teenagers. Today was no day in particular; nothing much went wrong. I didn't get frustrated. I kept my sense of humor. I didn't bring the room to silence with called-for-or-not harsh words. Everybody was here and everybody pretty much did as they were told. But nobody left me alone. I seem to have reached my limit.

"Ms. P!"

"Ms. P!"

"Ms. P!"

"Ms. P!"

"Ms. P!"

"Yes." "Yes." "Yes?" "Yes." "Yes!"

Don't they have anywhere else to go? I mean, I KNOW they do. I have proof written and digital. But every time I turn around, they're back again. AGAIN. I'm pretty sure some of them never leave.

Even when I lock the door and pretend to be gone, they knock. When I don't answer and sneak out for lunch they must conduct surveillance, for when I return, they're waiting for me, a gauntlet by the door.

"Hello! I have a test."

"Hello! I have a pass."

"Hello! I brought my lunch."

"Hello!" and an accusation: "Where were you? We were here!"

No doubt!

the boys

"My advice to you," I call across to the back table, "is not to listen to a thing they say." Two members of the South American contingent are trying to persuade a kid who was, until just lately, a walking, talking Asian stereotype (so quiet, so studious) to ask some Korean girl out. As if they haven't corrupted him enough already.

"I have heard all their sad stories," I continue, as they blush and grin. "And I seriously would not listen to a word they say." We're waiting for the bell.

"That's right!" says the instigator, with a note of recognition. "We all tell our girl problems to Ms. P. That's what you should do, too!"

I roll my eyes for their benefit and turn to the senior girl beside me: "Like I have time for any more free therapy." We laugh in solidarity that may or may not be appropriate. I don't even know any more. "I should charge by the hour!" I push back from my desk and head to testosterone corner, where I'm greeted with a recap.

"See, he likes this girl. . ."

"No, he doesn't." I've already heard his protests, and besides, it's time to barge in. "He likes geometry, just like you." I sit down by the board and draw triangles. Geometric, not romantic. We work the problems, and somehow, they get it.

My Lucky Day

It wasn't, really. So many things went wrong by 7:30 this morning that I had my first block kids imagine their own "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad" days for a journal assignment as I fixed the jammed printer, weeded through the crap left by last week's last-minute sub (the one who called me to confirm DIDN'T SHOW) and got the stuff together that I would have done before the bell had I not been 35 minutes later than intended because of a stalled garbage truck. (I'll skip the part about the crack-of-dawn computer problems, the misplaced phone, and the coat I couldn't find because I'd left it hanging on the door to the garage so as to streamline my morning.) It did get better. I didn't get anything done, but I had fun with some kids. And now I'm really smiling.

all Hobbes, no Calvin

Has enough time passed since the apalling Wal-Mart trampling death for me to publicly appreciate, or at least marvel at, the use of the word "Hobbesian" in the first news accounts of that horror?

As in, "A Wal-Mart employee in suburban New York was trampled to death by a crush of shoppers who tore down the front doors and thronged into the store early Friday morning, turning the annual rite of post-Thanksgiving bargain hunting into a Hobbesian frenzy." It's pretty much the perfect adjective, if a little obscure for the lede. Anyway. Just checking.

I'm not sure how much they'd have to pay me to be at Wal-Mart at 5 a.m. on any morning, let alone Black Friday, but at least I have the luxury not to go. It occurs to me that that thought extrapolates into, "at least I wasn't crushed to death by mindlessly selfish idiots while working at my crappy job," but them's the facts. Nasty, brutish, and short.

my gift to you

On this, the first big shopping day of the Depression, a free gift to those of us plagued by the less than self-sufficient. Click to make it readable.

In conclusion

at not quite 17

I've never been that teacher. It should be easy enough to do. Given that I don't have 150 students, acknowledging birthdays should be a snap. This year, the computerized gradebook program even alerts me that one is coming, so it wouldn't take much effort to recognize each kid's day in some organized way. Lord knows we celebrate mine. But every year by the time I think of it, I've missed somebody, and then it wouldn't be fair. At least that is my argument, at least that is my excuse.

I always wish I'd gotten it together, though. Monday there's a big one coming up. I hadn't remembered but when the gradebook did, I said something right away.

"Monday is your birthday!"

"No it's not." For once he shies away from attention.

"So you'll be 17?"

"That's the thing, Ms. P. You never know how old an illegal immgirant is." My response somewhere between an eye-roll and a sigh. "My ID says I'm 18." I am not scandalized.

I'm heartbroken, is what I am. Or something close to that. This kid is too aware of his situation, too cognizant of his plight. It's possible to overcome, and it's possible that he might. But at the moment he's seventeen, or nearly, and he doesn't have it in him to fight. He believes in predestination as much as any Puritan he just studied, he believes in That's The Way It Is. Odds are, he's not wrong, but I refuse to concede the point. Perhaps, in there somewhere, he's listening.

"Illegal immigrants don't go to college, Ms. P." That's his self-protective mantra. No reason for regrets or disappointment if the goal is empirically unreachable.

"Yes, they do. It's hard, but it's possible." I wish I had more than two examples.

We've had the conversation that starts that way a thousand times, in a thousand variations, though we each stick to our parts. A shame that the best I can offer him is, "You just don't know how things will turn out, what the law will be, where you will live; it's why you have to try." I sound more certain than I feel. Sometimes I ask if he wants to work as hard as his dad has, as hard as he is now, for the rest of his life. Sometimes he thwarts me with, "Yes."

The truth that lurks in that smart-ass answer always gives me pause. I don't really know if it will possible for him to make a different life; I just don't want him to give up. Not now, not at not-quite-seventeen, when it all should be beginning. One way or the other, he'll be fine; at work he's ridiculously conscientious. But unrealized potential is hard to take. Just ask either one of us.

What else?

Meldrick spans two stellar cop shows

I finally saw the final episode of "The Shield" tonight, thanks to YouTube (sorry for the wiki, but the FX Web site is either bombarded with traffic or already removed the show). My DVR handled the 90 minute finale ok, except for the sound. I knew I couldn't wait until it re-airs on Sunday, and I wasn't disappointed.

"The Shield" is, quite simply, the second greatest cop show on television. By second, I don't mean runner-up. Rather, the second show to earn "greatest cop show" honors. The first? Well that would be "Homicide: Life on the Street."

The common thread? Clark Johnson.

In 1993, Johnson became part of the original cast of Homicide, playing Detective Meldrick Lewis for all seven seasons and the reunion movie, as well as directing several episodes.

Johnson's directing credits include episodes of "The Shield" and he appeared in the finale. He was the guy who delivered Corrine and the kids to their federal witness protection future.

I leave you with this sample, while awaiting the next greatest cop show. I think I'll keep my eye on Clark Johnson.

greetings

I may or may not get a message tomorrow; I'm trying not to hope. I remember a Thanksgiving text last year, just two unanswered words, and I wonder about an encore. I haven't heard from him in a while, and my kids tend to fall into patterns. there's the one who always and only e-mails on my birthday, and never, ever responds to my reply. Until the next year, when the birthday wishes and vague update arrives exactly on the right day (it's easy to remember). There's the one who calls apologetically, always with some school-related question. The one who sends second-hand greetings and baby pictures. The pair of holiday callers. The handful who stop by randomly. The dozen who have disappeared from sight. That is the traditional route, graduate or quit, move on. But so many of them fail to cut the cord: just check my inbox from today: news of a job, congratulations, unsolicited advice. Arrangements made to have dinner with a girl whose lost her mother. It seems only right.

Most of the time these continued connections seem like a testament, that I'm doing what needs to be done. Sometimes I wonder if they mean that in some way I failed, that they see me as only a friend. I shrug and check my phone. Life's hard. There are worse things that I could be.

Until the game is won

My favorite overused football joke is -- "Why doesn't Iowa have a professional football team? Because Minnesota would want one too."

My favorite Iowa football memory is the 10-7 twilight win over Michigan in 1985.

That's really beside the point when it comes to this.

According to published reports I have no reason to question...

Iowa Fans Busted Having Sex in Metrodome Bathroom
Onlookers cheer and laugh to cheating lovers in bathroom stall

MINNEAPOLIS -- Two Iowa football fans were caught having sex in a bathroom stall at the Metrodome during Saturday’s Minnesota-Iowa game.

According to a police report, a Metrodome security officer saw two people having sex in a handicapped stall after noticing two sets of feet with underwear dropped to the ground.

Wait for it.

A group of 15 onlookers were gawking at the scene by the time officers broke the couple up and wrote them misdemeanor citations.

Wait for it.

The woman, 38, was turned over to her husband. The man, 26, was turned over to his girlfriend.

Oh, and Iowa won 55-0!

As God as my witness. . .

Yes, this is the Palin turkey-slaughter video redux-- BUT with commentary by Keith Olbermann AND bonus WKRP in Cincinnati Thanksgiving episode footage. It's totally worth the queasiness.

I missed two

Which means I got a 94% on this Civics test. How about you?

According to the outfit that made up the test, the average score of self-identified elected officals (out of the 2500 people in their sample) was 44%. Explains a lot right there.

milk money

"Do they expect me to read that little bitty print all the way at the bottom of the page?"

Well, yeah, honey, they do. I try, again, to teach her. Because the consequence of not following instructions, as she's learning, maybe, is not a zero in the gradebook but a blank spot in the refrigerator where the WIC-provided milk should be. An unnecessary crisis. A real-life lesson.

I state the facts but try not to scold. Chastising accomplishes nothing, at least not with her. And the baby needs milk. These are the things that I know. So I agree with her that her teen parent meeting is a good place to inquire, and we talk about food pantries, and I e-mail the nurse to try to ensure this girl follows through and gets help. Life is more expensive than her paycheck can cover. The baby needs milk. It seems the thing to do.

And then. And then today she's all excited. Something good has happened, or is about to.

"Guess what?" I play along with the query that usually makes me smile.

"I'm finally going to get an iPod!"

"You're going to what?!" I do not say.

As I consider my reply, she notices neither my silence nor the consternation I feel spreading over my face. She rattles on about her coming conspicuous consumption as I hesitate. She's a mother, but she's also a teenager. No excuse, but a reality. I know what to tell her; I have no qualms. But how to explain the obvious so she won't reject it? It's time for class, so I take the easy way, and I feel as if I'm playing hooky even as I teach. As if welfare reform is my job.

In her story I see the arguments against government help lining up to be counted, I see the appeal of snap judgment. I resist, even in my exasperation. She needs to learn about priorities and responsibility. The baby needs milk. They both need help, one way or the other. I need to find the words.

Working on a Dream

New Bruce sure does help to pass the won't-this-day-end time.

Talkin' turkey with Sarah Palin

Oh, the har. Goodbye and good riddance.

Five words or less

Stevens loses Alaska Senate race!

Insult to injury

Having previously documented my possibly irrational feelings regarding the end of A-B as we know it, I won't revisit why the close of this merger is a sad day in these parts. It's just a St. Louis thing, same as toasted ravs and a gaping hole where a stadium once stood. But anyone with eyes can surely share my offense at what they have done to the logo!

<

1-800-@#$!%$!

I get it, dude. Seriously. While I have not had your specific crappy job, I have had one pretty much like it--just ask my friend here--and I know there's only so much you can do. You've got to answer the calls and you've got to resolve the calls and you've got to reserve at least a small fraction of your brain for pretending that you are not trapped in that particular headset-and-keyboard purgatory. I know how it is.

But, dude. I cannot express to you how helpful it would be if you would focus just enough to listen to what I am saying and read the words that I know are glowing on your screen, me having recited, again, my name and my address and my e-mail address and my phone number and my incident number if not, again, my laptop's serial number, being that said laptop is packed up in a box to send it back to you people, if only you would SEND ME THE LABEL necessary for said shipping. How many times do I have to explain?

Four, apparently.

It's not as if I launched into a rant-- at least not at you. I saved that for the bastards at Charter, lack of Internets on top of lack of laptop being more than I could stand. But try to sell me more services in the midst of blaming me for your company's problem, and I make no promises.

But speaking of which, stupid me for believing the part where you said, "we'll ship it out," and then the part where you said, "it was shipped out," depsite the fact that you could not tell me how or when. Since--this is my favorite part--it never happened. Once because you thought I didn't know what I was talking about and once perhaps just for sport. Silly me for just checking the mail day after day. Patience is not, after all, a virtue.

But persistence is.

habit

It's a football Sunday ritual, the quick switch over to CBS to see if Andy Rooney has stopped yammering yet: that's the signal that The Amazing Race is finally about to begin. If the clock is still ticking or there's anything on the screen but that annoying old man, it's back to football, straightaway. Except for tonight, when we happened upon Barack Obama sitting down with Steve Kroft; instead of flipping away, the girl and I waited to see what he had to say, and I marveled a little, again, that we're finally going to have a new president and that, of all people, it's him.

It's been a long, long time since the sight of anyone presidential inspired anything in me but a spike in my blood pressure or a dash in the opposite direction. The notion of listening on purpose? Unthinkable. The result was just too painful. Now this man talks, and I stop to listen, and mostly, I feel better: a new habit, Change number one. This new behavior is going to take some getting used to--I'm kind of a rut girl--but this time I think I can manage.

January 20th cannot arrive fast enough

by Arianna Huffington

So, $290 billion into his bailout plan, Hank Paulson is calling for a do-over. Now there is a confidence booster.

Providing "I-told-you-so" talking points to the what's-the-rush crowd, the Secretary of the Treasury announced yesterday that the government is no longer going to use any of the $700 billion Congress allocated to the Troubled Asset Relief Program (TARP) to buy, well, Troubled Assets from financial institutions -- the original centerpiece of the plan.

Instead, Paulson is looking to fortify the financial industry by continuing to buy premium stock in banks (aka the Warren Buffett approach). Unfortunately, instead of sending Paulson a thank you note in the form of increased consumer lending, the banks are depositing the government checks and taking a wait and see approach. (Among the things they've seen: another $40 billion handed over to AIG.)

This is not to say that Paulson's midstream direction change is a bad thing -- indeed, the lip service he's now paying to putting the focus on consumers is encouraging -- but it shows just how uncertain official Washington is about how to keep the economy from imploding.

In the meantime, oversight of the massive bailout plan remains a mirage -- undermined by White House inaction and Congressional turf wars.

Remember all the promises that the $700 billion in taxpayer money would be closely supervised? No blank checks here, we were told. A special inspector general was going to be picked by the White House and Congress was going to hand-select an oversight panel.

But despite over a quarter of a trillion dollars having already been doled out by Paulson, so far both the inspector general position and the five Congressional Oversight Panel slots remain unfilled.

The White House appears ready to nominate New York prosecutor Neil Barofky as inspector general, though it's up in the air how quickly Congress would confirm him (if they confirm him at all). Among the looming issues, a squabble between the Senate Banking Committee and the Senate Finance Committee over which would have control of the confirmation process.

"It's a mess," said Eric Thorson, the Treasury Department's inspector general, who has been doing fill-in oversight duty until the special inspector general is confirmed. "I don't think anyone understands right now how we're going to do proper oversight of this thing."

Bartender, another round of lack of confidence for everyone.

Unfortunately, while Paulson waffles, the White House dawdles, and Congress dithers, the economy continues to burn.

The number of Americans filing new claims for unemployment last week -- 516,000 -- was the most since September 2001, in the wake of 9/11. And the number of people continuing to collect unemployment -- 3,897,000 -- was the highest it's been in 25 years.

"The labor market is deteriorating more rapidly than previously thought," Andrew Gledhill, economist at Moody's Economy.com, told CNNMoney.

In the past week, Ford said it would cut salaried employment costs by 10 percent, global delivery company DHL said it was cutting 9,500 jobs and financial service provider Fidelity Investment announced 1,300 job cuts. The list goes on and on: Circuit City, Pizza Hut, Morgan Stanley, Condé Nast, Yahoo, US Steel, Cesna, and QVC.

According to the Department of Labor, 240,000 jobs were lost in October, bringing the total of 2008 pink slips to 1.2 million. The unemployment rate is 6.5 percent, the highest it's been in 14 years.

On the housing front, another 84,868 homes were lost to foreclosure in October; there have been 936,439 home foreclosures since August 2007. And the housing future continues to look bleak: in October, 279,561 borrowers received at least one foreclosure-related notice, including default notices, notices of auction sales and bank repossessions, according to RealtyTrac. One in every 452 housing units received one of these. Nevada, Arizona, and Florida had the country's top three foreclosure rates.

Despite the carnage in the housing market, the White House continues to offer what the New York Times labeled "pathetic responses" and inadequate "half measures." And much-discussed legislation allowing bankrupt homeowners to rework their mortgages in court remains in a holding pattern, awaiting action from the lame duck Congress. I wouldn't hold my breath.

January 20th cannot arrive fast enough for the American people.

Commutin' Music

In honor of the fact that this week is never. gonna. end.

Parenting for dummies

Oh, how I wish someone would write this book. Maybe I should. It seems I'm qualified.

I don't know quite when I got so dumb, though the transition to high school seems logical. Once best buddies, our relationship seems to have deteriorated to angry dad and brooding son.

"Why can't you just let me figure it out on my own?" he said for the second year in a row as grades that started out so promising continued their downward spiral as the trimester quickly draws to a close. If only you gave me some reason to think you could.

Much as I appreciate e-mail progress reports from teachers, they only add fuel to the fire. Less-than stellar grades I can accept. Missing assignments I can't.

"You yell too much." Guilty as charged. My intentions are pure, even if my methods are flawed.

"Sounds like a normal kid," said the youth pastor we consulted today. Also, "does he understand consequences?"

Yes and no.

Serious consequences like throwing away a free education or accomplishing a dream of playing college baseball don't seem to resonate. But trivial consequences like the threat of missing a high school football playoff game as a spectator? That's enough, apparently, to prompt the suggestion that he might just quit baseball.

He didn't mean it, I hope. He just knows how to get my goat.

Maybe I went too far with the academic contract, but it doesn't seem unreasonable to me.

--Meet with your teachers to discuss strategies for improving grades and/or submitting missing assignments.
--Meet with geometry or Spanish teachers after school for extra help, or attend study table.
--Spend 20 minutes each without distraction studying geometry and Spanish each night.
--Begin using your planner so you don't miss any more assignments.

Is that really so unreasonable?

Failure to comply results in grounding, including loss of cell phone, computer, television, IPod and video game privileges. Most of those things didn't exist when I was his age, so maybe I don't understand how dire the consequences are.

Or maybe I just don't understand teenagers.

Much as I'd love to have my buddy back, my first responsibility is to be your dad. Admittedly, I have much room for improvement. But so do you. What do you say we work on that?

stupid is as stupid does

So the magic phrase, if you want to get a rise out of me, is apparently, "But it's only a misdemeanor."

ONLY. a. misdemeanor. ONLY. As if. Somehow that newly coined phrase is filed in the same part of my brain as "a little bit pregnant. " Cross-referenced by "meaningless" and "difficult to escape," both only without consequence if they're prevented, not stopped.

I set out my ration of exclamation points and try to explain.

"A criminal conviction will follow you around forever; it doesn't matter how stupid it was."

"Do you think it will stay on my record?!?!" Genuine shock. My reaction, in turn, perhaps heard by the neighbors. Doesn't anybody learn anything, ever? I collect myself and go on.

"How old are you?" He's a legal adult. He's also claiming a mix-up with a self-checkout machine, but I don't buy it. I know his friend. And regardless, the truth matters less than the record. The criminal record. Which must be disclosed, I point out, on applications for jobs and, yes, NATURALIZATION. Irony of ironies, any theft triggers the government's morals clause. He'd tried to just plead guilty to avoid appearing. On the one hand, I wonder if that's a guilty conscience or shame and am satisfied by it; on the other, I think, "don't be an idiot!"

And to think my hopes are pinned here. Or were. I'd feel more hopeful if it weren't such a chore to make him believe that paying the fine won't instantly fix this. Some things actually do matter, and it's possible to screw up big accidentally. In life, one must pay attention. Oh, I'm all for consequence, and I want him to have one, but the first step is to recognize the trouble!

My friend asks, "do you you think they all need bracelets that say 'What would Ms. P. do?' "

How about, "'DON'T BE A CRIMINAL!' Wouldn't THAT be a start?"

I can't believe I even have to say it.

free therapy

"You know that day we stayed after school? We went over to that field and laid down and looked at the stars. I'd never done anything like that before."

I do not say, "so that's what you call it these days?" This time she's broken his heart.

And he keeps talking, now that we're alone in the hall, explaining and venting and asking questions that don't have an answer. He'd taken himself to his counselor, but finding her busy he'd wandered down to my room as he does six times a day. This time, at least he had reason. Good choice, to not assault his rival in the hall. Good choice, to try to cope with his feelings before he wrecks his quarter. If only he were capable of logic when she's within view. It's easy to see the attraction. She's beautiful. And she knows it. And she's been fifteen for a week. She's recognizing her powers. Next time this still will not end well, I promise him.

"I always went out with white girls before, but this was different, it wasn't just about making out. . . she knows how to treat a guy. " I do not say. . .anything, for a while. I just listen.

In the end I offer him some options, some guarantees that no one will know. I give up my afternoon appointment with his counselor so he can have it. This entire love triangle is one-fourth of my fifth block class; helping diffuse it is my business. The rest of it is just part of the job. It's hard to focus on learning when your head's in your hands. I'm not sure how anyone graduates.

vocabulary

So something useful came of that mess after all.

Arianna Again

I know she's Lonnie's girl, but I liked this:

Can Obama Pull Off a Historic Presidential Double Play?
by Arriana Huffington, on the HuffPo

''On or about December 1910," Virginia Woolf wrote, "human character changed.'' We can be much more specific: "On November 4, 2008, just after 11 pm Eastern, America changed" (human character remains rather intransigent).

The change was driven by two things: our country's remarkable capacity for regeneration, and Barack Obama's remarkable ability to tap into the better angels of our nature.


You know something extraordinary is happening when even Michele Bachmann, Sarah Palin, and Joe Lieberman trip over themselves -- and their hastily discarded invective -- to say nice things about Obama and the "tremendous signal" sent by his election.

Sure, it's easy to see their encomiums as purely tactical attempts not to be on the wrong side of history, but they are more than that. They also demonstrate how certain moments and certain individuals are able to bring the best out in people -- even people who have shown us some of the worst aspects of human character. Because, hard though it may be to accept, the best and the worst reside in each of us, side-by-side.

As Alexander Solzhenitsyn put it: "The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either -- but right through every human heart." And the greatest leaders are those who inspire us to reside on the good side of Solzhenitsyn's line.

Obama does more. As David Brooks wrote recently, Obama's fractured childhood "is supposed to produce a politician with gaping personal needs and hidden wounds. But over the past two years, Obama has never shown evidence of that."

Here is someone whose childhood could have easily led to a life in shambles. But Obama has somehow -- and without, as far as we know, thousands of hours of therapy --succeeded in not letting circumstances dictate his life and reactions.

During the campaign, Obama was an object lesson in equanimity. Insinuate he's Muslim or sympathizes with terrorists, and he brushes off the mud. Hammer him with trumped up charges -- "sexist," "socialist," un-American" -- and he rolls with the punches. He simply doesn't let it in. He demonstrates that we have the ability to master whether we allow setbacks and attacks to throw us off course.

A lot has been written about Obama's calm in the face of adversity over the course of the last 21 months. Less noted has been how he displays that same centeredness in the face of triumph.

On Tuesday night, he could have waxed transcendent, he could have wrung every last tear and every last cheer out of the adoring crowd at Grant Park. But he chose not to. Instead, his speech gracefully touched the clouds a few times then soberly came back to earth, focused, as always with Obama, on moving forward.

To their great credit, the American people have responded to Obama's example by remaining remarkably focused as well. Despite the seemingly endless parade of meaningless sideshows trotted out during both the primaries and the general campaign, the public refused to be distracted. These kinds of tactics had worked well in 2004 -- but not in 2008. Obama's focus, his sense of purpose cleared a path through the carnival of clownish attacks and chamber of horror scares. And voters followed.

After eight years in which it has felt like the very foundation of our country was under assault, it is a testament to our democracy's inherent capacity for regeneration -- our ability to course-correct -- that Americans responded the way they did to a campaign so premised on an appeal to our greater selves.

A country can change only to the extent that the individuals within it change (and some changes come slower than others, as evidenced by Prop 8 and the other gay marriage bans that passed on Tuesday).

So it's back to Solzhenitsyn: "If you wanted to change the world, who should you begin with: yourself or others?"

Our president-elect is obsessed with Lincoln, who changed the country both by changing government policy and by using the bully pulpit to help us change ourselves. And our president-elect is endlessly being compared to FDR, who gave us both the New Deal and one of the most famous life lessons in history: "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself."

Now it's Obama's turn to pull off this rare presidential double play.

Once more, with feeling

It Still Felt Good the Morning After

By FRANK RICH
Published: November 9, 2008

ON the morning after a black man won the White House, America’s tears of catharsis gave way to unadulterated joy.


Our nation was still in the same ditch it had been the day before, but the atmosphere was giddy. We felt good not only because we had breached a racial barrier as old as the Republic. Dawn also brought the realization that we were at last emerging from an abusive relationship with our country’s 21st-century leaders. The festive scenes of liberation that Dick Cheney had once imagined for Iraq were finally taking place — in cities all over America.

For eight years, we’ve been told by those in power that we are small, bigoted and stupid — easily divided and easily frightened. This was the toxic catechism of Bush-Rove politics. It was the soiled banner picked up by the sad McCain campaign, and it was often abetted by an amen corner in the dominant news media. We heard this slander of America so often that we all started to believe it, liberals most certainly included. If I had a dollar for every Democrat who told me there was no way that Americans would ever turn against the war in Iraq or definitively reject Bush governance or elect a black man named Barack Hussein Obama president, I could almost start to recoup my 401(k). Few wanted to take yes for an answer.

So let’s be blunt. Almost every assumption about America that was taken as a given by our political culture on Tuesday morning was proved wrong by Tuesday night.

The most conspicuous clichés to fall, of course, were the twin suppositions that a decisive number of white Americans wouldn’t vote for a black presidential candidate — and that they were lying to pollsters about their rampant racism. But the polls were accurate. There was no “Bradley effect.” A higher percentage of white men voted for Obama than any Democrat since Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton included.

Obama also won all four of those hunting-and-Hillary-loving Rust Belt states that became 2008’s obsession among slumming upper-middle-class white journalists: Pennsylvania and Michigan by double digits, as well as Ohio and even Indiana, which has gone Democratic only once (1964) since 1936. The solid Republican South, led by Virginia and North Carolina, started to turn blue as well. While there are still bigots in America, they are in unambiguous retreat.

And what about all those terrified Jews who reportedly abandoned their progressive heritage to buy into the smears libeling Obama as an Israel-hating terrorist? Obama drew a larger percentage of Jews nationally (78) than Kerry had (74) and — mazel tov, Sarah Silverman! — won Florida.

Let’s defend Hispanic-Americans, too, while we’re at it. In one of the more notorious observations of the campaign year, a Clinton pollster, Sergio Bendixen, told The New Yorker in January that “the Hispanic voter — and I want to say this very carefully — has not shown a lot of willingness or affinity to support black candidates.” Let us say very carefully that a black presidential candidate won Latinos — the fastest-growing demographic in the electorate — 67 percent to 31 (up from Kerry’s 53-to-44 edge and Gore’s 62-to-35).

Young voters also triumphed over the condescension of the experts. “Are they going to show up?” Cokie Roberts of ABC News asked in February. “Probably not. They never have before. By the time November comes, they’ll be tired.” In fact they turned up in larger numbers than in 2004, and their disproportionate Democratic margin made a serious difference, as did their hard work on the ground. They’re not the ones who need Geritol.

The same commentators who dismissed every conceivable American demographic as racist, lazy or both got Sarah Palin wrong too. When she made her debut in St. Paul, the punditocracy was nearly uniform in declaring her selection a brilliant coup. There hadn’t been so much instant over-the-top praise by the press for a cynical political stunt since President Bush “landed” a jet on the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln in that short-lived triumph “Mission Accomplished.”

The rave reviews for Palin were completely disingenuous. Anyone paying attention (with the possible exception of John McCain) could see she was woefully ill-equipped to serve half-a-heartbeat away from the presidency. The conservatives Peggy Noonan and Mike Murphy said so on MSNBC when they didn’t know their mikes were on. But, hey, she was a dazzling TV presence, the thinking went, so surely doltish Americans would rally around her anyway. “She killed!” cheered Noonan about the vice-presidential debate, revising her opinion upward and marveling at Palin’s gift for talking “over the heads of the media straight to the people.” Many talking heads thought she tied or beat Joe Biden.

The people, however, were reaching a less charitable conclusion and were well ahead of the Beltway curve in fleeing Palin. Only after polls confirmed that she was costing McCain votes did conventional wisdom in Washington finally change, demoting her from Republican savior to scapegoat overnight.

But Palin’s appeal wasn’t overestimated only because of her kitschy “American Idol” star quality. Her fierce embrace of the old Karl Rove wedge politics, the divisive pitting of the “real America” against the secular “other” America, was also regarded as a sure-fire winner. The second most persistent assumption by both pundits and the McCain campaign this year — after the likely triumph of racism — was that the culture war battlegrounds from 2000 and 2004 would remain intact.

This is true in exactly one instance: gay civil rights. Though Rove’s promised “permanent Republican majority” lies in humiliating ruins, his and Bush’s one secure legacy will be their demagogic exploitation of homophobia. The success of the four state initiatives banning either same-sex marriage or same-sex adoptions was the sole retro trend on Tuesday. And Obama, who largely soft-pedaled the issue this year, was little help. In California, where other races split more or less evenly on a same-sex marriage ban, some 70 percent of black voters contributed to its narrow victory.

That lagging indicator aside, nearly every other result on Tuesday suggests that while the right wants to keep fighting the old boomer culture wars, no one else does. Three state initiatives restricting abortion failed. Bill Ayers proved a lame villain, scaring no one. Americans do not want to revisit Vietnam (including in Iraq). For all the attention paid by the news media and McCain-Palin to rancorous remembrances of things past, I sometimes wondered whether most Americans thought the Weather Underground was a reunion band and the Hanoi Hilton a chain hotel. Socialism, the evil empire and even Ronald Reagan may be half-forgotten blurs too.

If there were any doubts the 1960s are over, they were put to rest Tuesday night when our new first family won the hearts of the world as it emerged on that vast blue stage to join the celebration in Chicago’s Grant Park. The bloody skirmishes that took place on that same spot during the Democratic convention 40 years ago — young vs. old, students vs. cops, white vs. black — seemed as remote as the moon. This is another America — hardly a perfect or prejudice-free America, but a union that can change and does, aspiring to perfection even if it can never achieve it.

Still, change may come slowly to the undying myths bequeathed to us by the Bush decade. “Don’t think for a minute that power concedes,” Obama is fond of saying. Neither does groupthink. We now keep hearing, for instance, that America is “a center-right nation” — apparently because the percentages of Americans who call themselves conservative (34), moderate (44) and liberal (22) remain virtually unchanged from four years ago. But if we’ve learned anything this year, surely it’s that labels are overrated. Those same polls find that more and more self-described conservatives no longer consider themselves Republicans. Americans now say they favor government doing more (51 percent), not less (43) — an 11-point swing since 2004 — and they still overwhelmingly reject the Iraq war. That’s a centrist country tilting center-left, and that’s the majority who voted for Obama.

The post-Bush-Rove Republican Party is in the minority because it has driven away women, the young, suburbanites, black Americans, Latino-Americans, Asian-Americans, educated Americans, gay Americans and, increasingly, working-class Americans. Who’s left? The only states where the G.O.P. increased its percentage of the presidential vote relative to the Democrats were West Virginia, Tennessee, Louisiana and Arkansas. Even the North Carolina county where Palin expressed her delight at being in the “real America” went for Obama by more than 18 percentage points.

The actual real America is everywhere. It is the America that has been in shell shock since the aftermath of 9/11, when our government wielded a brutal attack by terrorists as a club to ratchet up our fears, betray our deepest constitutional values and turn Americans against one another in the name of “patriotism.” What we started to remember the morning after Election Day was what we had forgotten over the past eight years, as our abusive relationship with the Bush administration and its press enablers dragged on: That’s not who we are.

So even as we celebrated our first black president, we looked around and rediscovered the nation that had elected him. “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for,” Obama said in February, and indeed millions of such Americans were here all along, waiting for a leader. This was the week that they reclaimed their country.

November 8, 2008

moving on

The blue plastic flaps in the stiffening breeze: Obama '08 now a souvenir, not a strong suggestion. It's time, I suppose, to pull the metal frame up out of the yard-- now, while chore's still easy, while there's still opportunity to retrieve it before it sails up the street. Instead I leave it where it's planted.

Although the calendar changed before the election was held, November didn't really arrive until the ballots were counted. Then the temperature dropped. The leaves scattered. Both warmth and color all drained away and left behind a mid-winter preview. It's temporary, of course--the Midwest is the Midwest--but I'd rather not face what's coming, not yet. I choose to loiter a little longer, savor the stunning Fall, look forward to what's left of it. For the first time in forever I harbor no dread, but my habit is to be wary.

I wonder what all those millions who celebrated in the streets--for a president, could you ever imagine?!--expect, and I think to brace for a let-down. But then I remember the flood of relief, the powerful feeling of hope, and I leave the sign up, as a reminder.

A long overdue cut-and-paste from Arianna

Tuesday's Second Biggest Winner: Democracy

by Arianna Huffington

Along with Barack Obama (and the other winners I've written about), there was another big winner on election day: democracy.

Based on initial numbers, it looks like over 133 million people turned out to vote on Tuesday -- 11 million more than voted in 2004 - producing the highest turnout rate in 44 years (62.5 percent). By way of comparison, the turnout rate in 1996 was just over 49 percent (that's right, less than half of those eligible to vote bothered to show up).

One of the most noteworthy trends was the makeup of the electorate.

In 2000, whites accounted for 81 percent of all voters. This year, that number fell to 74 percent, the result of an increase in both African American and Hispanic turnout. That is a huge demographic shift.

Those two groups, along with young voters, ended up having a tremendous impact on the outcome of the 2008 race.


Let's start with Hispanics, who accounted for the most dramatic swing. In 2004, Kerry outperformed Bush with Hispanic voters 59 percent to 40 percent. In 2008, the Hispanic vote went 67 percent for Obama, and only 31 percent for McCain -- a net improvement of 17 points.

Even more impressive was the shift in the battleground states with high Hispanic populations, particularly Florida. Four years ago, Hispanic voters in the Sunshine State went for Bush over Kerry 55 percent to 44 percent; this year Obama beat McCain among Florida Hispanics 57 to 42 -- a remarkable 26-point swing.

Hispanic voters made the difference in Colorado, Florida, and New Mexico. In Colorado, Obama's Hispanic support accounted for 12 percent of the electorate; he won the state by 7 percent. In Florida, Obama's Hispanic support accounted for nearly 8 percent of the electorate; he won the state by 2 percent. In New Mexico, Obama's Hispanic support accounted for 28 percent of the electorate; he won the state by 15 percent.

So much for the primary season conventional wisdom that Hispanics would be reluctant to vote for a black candidate.

Next up, young voters. Around 2.2 million more young people voted on Tuesday than did in 2004, accounting for 18 percent of the electorate -- a slight uptick from 17 percent in 2004. But they overwhelmingly voted for Obama: 66 percent to 32 percent - a 34-point spread. That's 25 percent more than the 9-point youth vote advantage Kerry had over Bush.

Patrick Ruffini at The Next Right drills it down further:

Had the Democratic 18-29 vote stayed the same as 2004's already impressive percentage, Obama would have won by about 2 points, and would not have won 73 electoral votes from Florida, Ohio, North Carolina, or Indiana. So, to clarify here: Obama's youth margin = 73 electoral votes.

We are witnessing a tremendous ideological shift among young voters - one that could reshape our politics for decades to come. From 1976 through 2004, young voters basically supported the same candidate as older voters in most elections. During that time, the average gap in presidential choice between young voters and the overall electorate was only 1.8 percent. In 2008, that gap was 28 percent, with Obama winning by 6 percent -- but carrying the youth vote by 34 percent.

And Obama's appeal to young voters cut across racial lines. Among voters 18-29, he got 54 percent of white voters, 76 percent of Hispanic voters, and 95 percent of African American voters.

Overall, over 2 million more African American voters turned out this time around. And they favored Obama over McCain 95 percent to 4 percent - a net 14-point increase from Kerry's 88 to 11 win over Bush.

Some other numbers:

Obama won among both women (56/43) and men (49/48). Whites favored McCain (55/43), but blacks gave Obama percent of their vote, and Hispanics went for Obama 66/31.

Obama carried voters 18-29 (66/32), 30-44 (52/46), and 45-64 (50/49). The only group McCain carried was voters 65 and older (53/45). This oldest group accounted for only 16 percent of the electorate.

Obama won among all education levels carrying 63 percent among voters without a high school degree, 52 percent among high school grads, 51 percent among those with some college, 50 percent among college grads, and 58 percent among those with postgraduate degrees.

Obama also won in almost every size city. He carried big cities 70/28 (home to 11 percent of voters), small cities 59/39 (home to 19 percent of voters), and the suburbs 50/48 (home to 49 percent of voters). McCain won in small towns and rural areas 53/45 (home to 21 percent of voters)

Lastly, Jewish voters favored Obama 78 percent to 21 percent -- so much for the Lieberman bounce or the Khalidi smears!

All in all, a great election for democracy.

Mr. Rosenthal

"And YOU are THERE!"

I'll never forget that booming phrase jarring a classroom full of wandering 8th grade minds. I'm sure we rolled our eyes. But we, or I, did not forget. I think back on those days, and him, fondly. I remember what he taught.

He was a character. The kind of teacher they don't make anymore, the one in bad ties and, occasionally, I swear, unfortunately colored saddle shoes. To a thirteen-year old he didn't look smart, but he was. He was also my friend's father. And last night, as we waited to attend history, we spoke of him and what he might have thought. We couldn't ask him, couldn't know how he'd voted. He had dropped dead on a golf course one day.

I wasn't in touch with my friend when that happened a couple of years back, but when I heard that awful news, I mourned some for myself. Through the magic of the Internets, she and I reconnected this year. We chatted, and we played games, and we smarted off, just like old times. Nothing serious. But when I told her that I remembered him, that I thought of him often, that I was sorry for her loss, that's when we again became friends. Friends enough that I could say, "Hey, wanna go?" and, "Hey, got a couch?" Friends enough to share an adventure.

So I went to Chicago. So we went to see hope and change and promise come to life. It was something no one had ever experienced before. And WE were THERE.

Livin' In The Future

Come Saturday, this blog marks its second anniversary. Born on the promise of a resounding mid-term victory by the Democrats and the appeal of a venue for personal expression, my first post was titled "Out of the dark ages, into a brave new world."

As enthused as I am about incredibly positive outcome of Tuesday's election -- which I hope Al Franken will be added to -- I'm reminded that none of this has happened yet. All hopes of progression were dashed by recession.

"The Republicans have destroyed this country over the last six years and Democrats should not be criticized if it takes a little time to clean up after them," I wrote then. "If nothing else, taking away Bush's rubber stamp and preventing the nation from deteriorating further is a step in the right direction."

Two years later, it seems we've only marched in place.

Meanwhile, the economy is in the tank, our government is an international and domestic disgrace, we're waging two wars badly and flexing for more, and so on. I'm sure glad gas prices had dipped below $2.20/gallon locally when I learned of Exxon-Mobil's record quarterly profits.

I've spent this day grasping for words to describe my feelings. I still haven't found them, but I did find this from American story teller Bruce Springsteen. God bless America!

Cheers!

And I was there!

So, meet you there?

a bad plan

"You have to swear not to tell anybody." He's standing in front of four people.

I raise an eyebrow and look, guessing what's coming. I make no promises. The story bursts out, regardless:

"So we got pulled over yesterday and I had beers under my seat."

"You understand how many things are wrong with that sentence, right?"

"I know! My whole life flashed before my eyes!"

"I guess so! Were you driving?!" Seventeen and unlicensed, he says no, and gives me the name. His partner in would-be crime is equally familiar. "Was he drinking in the car?!" I exclaim some more at the wrong, wrong answer. He doesn't object but rattles on, compelled to give me the blow-by-blow of the run stop sign, and the tickets, and the maybe-not-idle threats of the cop, until he gets to the very best part:

"And then he said, 'Let's call Ms. P!"

"What?!"

He said, "She'll get us out of this!" I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh.

Oh, to have the power these typically idiotic boys wish I had. I'd have locked them up myself.

Anybody home?

I never answer the door.

Oh, if I know you, that's different, but if you're a Mormon or Jehovah's Witness, a politician's proxy, or a creepy white-slave trying to sell magazines "for college money," I am traditionally never home. I figure it saves us both from one more awkward conversation, one more failed conversion of whatever type. I really don't want any. No matter what it is.

So of course I spent my Saturday afternoon walking through some one else's neighborhood, knocking on dozens of doors. Can't say that I minded that most the addresses I'd been provided were coded "hanger" and not "knock." That meant I was only obligated to leave an Obama/Biden door-hanger complete with polling places and times. I got to feel as if I were contributing without having to bug anybody, and the residents got their information without having to pretend not to be home. Perfect.

But, the quick conversations I did have were pleasant; I would have enjoyed being out even if it hadn't been such a beautiful day. Many people are perhaps less anti-social than I. Then again, it was a heavily prObama neighborhood, so my presence was not exactly unwelcome. Unnecessary, maybe, but who knows. A yard sign is no guarantee of an actual vote, and the names we had were new or sporadic voters, so maybe it did some good. In Missouri, a few tallies here and there will make the difference, no doubt.

My neighborhood, on the other hand, will never be canvassed. Illinois is safely blue, and even if it weren't, my precinct and city and county are. But now, after Saturday, I ponder, and I think maybe if some rogue volunteer were to make it to my street--highly unlikely; the campaign has this down to a science--I think maybe I just might be home.

Thank you, Mr. Pitts

Unity, hope must conquer division, hate
By LEONARD PITTS JR.
The Miami Herald

The killers would have worn top hats. Having already murdered 102 African Americans, 14 by beheading, they would have driven at top speed toward Barack Obama, leaning from the windows of their vehicle, dressed in top hats and white tuxedoes, firing guns.

That was the plan, according to law enforcement officials who disrupted it a few days ago. Now the alleged conspirators -- white supremacists Paul Schlesselman, 18, and Daniel Cowart, 20 -- are in federal custody, an appropriately bizarre coda for the presidential campaign of 2008.

I mean, it's fitting, isn't it, that the campaign end with yet another appeal to fear, yet another portrayal of the Illinois senator as Not One of Us? It makes sense, after two years of viral e-mails, blog postings, talk radio rants and Fox News reports depicting Obama as a Communist socialist radical Christian secret Muslim black militant-marrying atheist-raised terrorist fist-bumping America-hating Manchurian candidate trained to subvert the United States from within.

Well, if that's what some folks think he is, let me tell you what I hope he is.


I will preface with a line from Gil Scott-Heron. The singer and poet used to say that people often asked him what he thought of the 1960s. His reply: I personally think the '60s are over.

Me, I'm not so sure. Indeed, when I consider the four presidential campaigns preceeding this one, it's hard not to regard them as an extended debate over that era. Those campaigns, after all, turned largely on questions of drug use, feminism, Vietnam, draft dodging, anti-war protests and other issues Richard Nixon or Hubert Humphrey would have found instantly recognizable.

I'm reminded how a young man told me a few years ago that he loathed Bill Clinton because the former president was -- and I quote -- ''a hippie.'' I was floored. Love Clinton or loathe him, that is, putting it mildly, an unlikely description of a man who spent the hippie era as a Rhodes Scholar and Yale University student of law.

But it makes sense if you buy the premise that we have been re-litigating the '60s here, seeking a balance of values between the freedom some of us won and the ''good old days'' others of us lost, between the whispered promise of change and the shouted, strident threat.

Indeed, if you buy the premise, then John McCain's recent attempts to conflate Obama with William Ayers are hardly surprising.

Whatever you think of the '60s, though, one thing is undeniable: They tore us apart, ripped American society to pieces and threw those pieces in the air so they rained down like confetti, falling into new configurations, nothing where it used to be. It was an angry time, those who found stability -- identity -- in the old configurations fighting those intoxicated by the possibilities of the new.

Which is why some regarded the presidential candidacy of Robert F. Kennedy with such ineffable hope. His was a promise to reconcile the shredded pieces, to make them -- make us -- whole again. Then he walked through that hotel kitchen, and we lost everything that might have been.

Forty years later, we are still angry, still sifting through confetti pieces, trying to find a way to make them whole. And here comes Barack Obama wanting to be president.

He has an economic plan, sure. He has a healthcare plan, yes. He has a promise to end the war in Iraq, fine.

Those are important matters, certainly. But when I look at this guy and reflect on the hate I see in my country, the lack of purpose I see in my country, the division and fear I see in my country, those concerns feel distinctly secondary.

You know what I hope Barack Obama is? I hope he is reconciliation -- the end of the 1960s at long last. And the beginning of something new.

BARACKY

BARACKY II

What can I say? I'm on a roll.

The New Jersey Devil

And to think I once rolled my eyes when Lonnie posted pages full of video.

Wilco The Song

Debuted and retired on The Colbert Report, 10/30/08

Happy Allison's Least Favorite Holiday

Though the sugar skulls for el dia de los muertos are kinda cool.

I'm totally serious, dude.

"Seriously. "

It's my verbal tic of the moment. Along with the throw-back of "totally" and the perennially popular, "dude." Seriously. As in, "I am not kidding," as in, "Can you believe that?" as in "What the hell is he/she/it thinking?!" as in, "I am completely sincere," as in "Dude, I totally spend too much time around high school kids. "

Seriously.

It's getting quite a work-out this week as I keep wading into conversations that would otherwise leave me speechless.

"Obama scares you? Seriously?" The straightforward question.

The power of inflection: "She said no one is that perfect and it makes her uncomfortable."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."

The buffer against the literal exploding of my head:

"You seriously are telling me that you take the word of a website that refers to him as a 'damned, sneaky bastard,' as unvarnished, straightforward, truth?" SERIOUSLY?!

Those are four damn useful syllables.

I am totally not kidding.

Dude.

Land of Lincoln

Five minutes East of my house lies the fairly wide-open prairie: the edge of the cornfield that separates us from Chicago, bisected by I-55. From that angle I seem to live in the country, but that's not my reality. I never think of it until I'm bracing myself to face the tedium and begin some long-ass drive. Life faces West around here, to the neighborhoods, to the downtown, to the maze of big box stores, to the river and city beyond. Still, this bank of the Mississippi does have its advantages, even if it is, techncially,the right. Among them I count the sight of seeming octogenarians, retired farmer-types in jeans and button-shirts, proudly wearing brand new Obama caps.

Or, think about it this way

the polls

Last time, I missed the turn.

The long drive that outlines the edge of the property isn't marked, isn't lit, or barely, or except by the light of the moon. After a handful of visits spread across five years, it's familiar, but not quite enough, or not at that hour of the morning. So last time, I missed the turn.

But I doubled back and pulled in, following behind the tail lights of one pick-up truck or another down to the cramped parking lot, glad to have trouble finding a space. I'm here for the community, the random collection of probably-strangers; I'm here to join the line of laborers and commuters that need to get to work near dawn-- but only after voting.

Last time, there was a hopeful buzz. Despite the dark, despite the chill, despite the traffic growing heavier. It felt as if we were doing something. Good thing for the moment we couldn't have known. This time, I hope and pray it's different even as I look forward to it being exactly the same. Small talk with apparent neighbors. A few minutes of diligent marking. A glance at the counter. A smile and a sticker. Anticipation and satisfaction all at once. And this time, please baby Jesus, change.

This week I've been making a few calls for Obama; tonight I reminded folks--really old folks, mostly-- they could vote early. I could have, too, but I didn't, not wanting to miss it. I know that's silly. But heck, when one is 89 missing it might have a much different meaning. And as the time before last showed, in Florida, we need to use every strategery.

Creative campaigning

I wouldn't find this nearly as amusing if I hadn't already voted.

"Don't think for a minute that power concedes." -- Barack Obama

Obama's closing argument, tonight in Canton, Ohio:

In this election, we cannot afford the same political games and tactics that are being used to pit us against one another and make us afraid of one another. The stakes are too high to divide us by class and region and background; by who we are or what we believe.

Because despite what our opponents may claim, there are no real or fake parts of this country. There is no city or town that is more pro-America than anywhere else – we are one nation, all of us proud, all of us patriots. There are patriots who supported this war in Iraq and patriots who opposed it; patriots who believe in Democratic policies and those who believe in Republican policies. The men and women who serve in our battlefields may be Democrats and Republicans and Independents, but they have fought together and bled together and some died together under the same proud flag. They have not served a Red America or a Blue America – they have served the United States of America.

It won’t be easy, Ohio. It won’t be quick. But you and I know that it is time to come together and change this country. Some of you may be cynical and fed up with politics. A lot of you may be disappointed and even angry with your leaders. You have every right to be. But despite all of this, I ask of you what has been asked of Americans throughout our history.

I ask you to believe – not just in my ability to bring about change, but in yours.

I know this change is possible. Because I have seen it over the last twenty-one months. Because in this campaign, I have had the privilege to witness what is best in America.

I’ve seen it in lines of voters that stretched around schools and churches; in the young people who cast their ballot for the first time, and those not so young folks who got involved again after a very long time. I’ve seen it in the workers who would rather cut back their hours than see their friends lose their jobs; in the neighbors who take a stranger in when the floodwaters rise; in the soldiers who re-enlist after losing a limb. I’ve seen it in the faces of the men and women I’ve met at countless rallies and town halls across the country, men and women who speak of their struggles but also of their hopes and dreams.

I still remember the email that a woman named Robyn sent me after I met her in Ft. Lauderdale. Sometime after our event, her son nearly went into cardiac arrest, and was diagnosed with a heart condition that could only be treated with a procedure that cost tens of thousands of dollars. Her insurance company refused to pay, and their family just didn’t have that kind of money.

In her email, Robyn wrote, "I ask only this of you – on the days where you feel so tired you can’t think of uttering another word to the people, think of us. When those who oppose you have you down, reach deep and fight back harder."

Ohio, that’s what hope is – that thing inside us that insists, despite all evidence to the contrary, that something better is waiting around the bend; that insists there are better days ahead. If we’re willing to work for it. If we’re willing to shed our fears and our doubts. If we’re willing to reach deep down inside ourselves when we’re tired and come back fighting harder.

Hope! That’s what kept some of our parents and grandparents going when times were tough. What led them to say, "Maybe I can’t go to college, but if I save a little bit each week my child can; maybe I can’t have my own business but if I work really hard my child can open one of her own." It’s what led immigrants from distant lands to come to these shores against great odds and carve a new life for their families in America; what led those who couldn’t vote to march and organize and stand for freedom; that led them to cry out, "It may look dark tonight, but if I hold on to hope, tomorrow will be brighter."

That’s what this election is about. That is the choice we face right now.

Don’t believe for a second this election is over. Don’t think for a minute that power concedes. We have to work like our future depends on it in this last week, because it does.

In one week, we can choose an economy that rewards work and creates new jobs and fuels prosperity from the bottom-up.

In one week, we can choose to invest in health care for our families, and education for our kids, and renewable energy for our future.

In one week, we can choose hope over fear, unity over division, the promise of change over the power of the status quo.

In one week, we can come together as one nation, and one people, and once more choose our better history.

That’s what’s at stake. That’s what we’re fighting for. And if in this last week, you will knock on some doors for me, and make some calls for me, and talk to your neighbors, and convince your friends; if you will stand with me, and fight with me, and give me your vote, then I promise you this – we will not just win Ohio, we will not just win this election, but together, we will change this country and we will change the world. Thank you, God bless you, and may God bless America.

Crazy talk

I was shocked, nearly fell off my chair even, to read these words: "there is no rule barring felons from serving in Congress." Go figure.

a private talk

"You're here."

"I am."

"I'm glad."

"Me, too."

"You look all right." A nodding once-over.

"Everything's normal today."

"I'm keeping an eye, just between you and me."

"I know. It's okay. Thank you."

A chance meeting before school in the bustling commons. Our paths not quite crossing, but almost. We smile small, quiet smiles as our eyes meet and hold. We say it all without uttering a word. Nobody else is the wiser.

Sure I make fun of my brother for taking pictures of food. But sometimes you just gotta.