Tweet, tweet

I won't Twitter my life away
By LEONARD PITTS JR.

Today, I make you a solemn promise: I will never Twitter you. Or is it tweet? I'm never sure.

And here, let me pause to help the technologically illiterate catch up. One uses Twitter to send tweets (no, I am not making that up!) i.e., electronic notes, to one's online friends, family and other subscribers. A tweet, which is limited to 140 characters, (i.e., shorter than this very sentence) is supposed to bring interested parties up to date on what you are doing, seeing, thinking, in that exact moment.

When I first heard of this latest advance (?) in interpersonal communication, I pegged it as a fad that would be big among high school and college students -- i.e., young people, who frequently have the attention span of a squirrel on cocaine. Last week's presidential speech to a joint session of Congress shows how wrong I was. It turns out that, as the leader of the free world was addressing them on matters of urgent national importance, some of our elected representatives were hunched over their handheld devices madly tweeting, like 5th graders passing notes in the back of the class.

For instance, The Washington Post reported that Republican Rep. Robert Wittman tweeted the following urgent observation: ``I am sitting behind Sens Graham and McCain.''

''Place is on fire,'' said Rep. Denny Rehberg, a Republican from Montana.

Which is not to imply that only pols have gone Twitter mad. CNN's Roland Martin is stuck at an airport in Chicago, trying to get to snowbound New York City even as I write this: ''No flights allowed in,'' he tweets. ``I was on plane in Chicago, we pulled out, got word, now back at gate.''

NBC's Ann Curry, meantime, is in New York enjoying the snow: ``All stars are not the proper shoes for NYC today. But seeing this dark city frosted in white is worth my cold toes.''

And you and I need to know this because . . . ?

No, we are not being forced to look. But if you choose to, please reflect on the fact that life is short and you just spent some irretrievable fraction of yours learning that Roland Martin's flight is delayed and Ann Curry's feet are cold.

In the '90s, you often heard people complain of how memoir writers and afternoon talk shows had turned our public spaces into a communal confessional, intimate secrets once necessary for whispering now shouted into the ether like an order at a fast-food joint. Ten years later, we are not just sharing secrets; we are sharing lives. And not the good parts, either, but the banal, the mundane, the everyday.

I'm darned if I can see the fascination. I mean, I'm not surprised that technology allows this. But I am surprised that people -- by the thousands -- buy in to it.

Take it as one more example of the medium becoming its own message. After all, every new advance in communications from telegraphs to Twitter has been sold as a means of perfecting human relationships, allowing us to interact more easily, understand one another more readily. But it hasn't happened yet.

Indeed, you have to wonder if, as communication becomes ever easier, we have not gone in the opposite direction, crossing the point of diminishing returns as we did. More people have more ways to reach more people than at any point in history. But it turns out -- read a message board or an unsolicited email, if you don't believe me -- many of us don't have a whole lot to say. Unless, that is, you find some socially redeeming value in banality, cruelty and crudity, which have become ubiquitous.

You have to wonder what that says about us.

Now here is Twitter, which encourages you to narrate your life in real time as opposed to, well . . . living it. I'm sorry, but include me out.

I will never Twitter you.

In the first place, you have better things to do. In the second, I am not that interesting.

No one is.

change

A lunch time story of she said/she said, a complicated tale of, "she did" and "I would never," unspooled until the audience objects.

"You're different than you used to be," claims an involved listener.

A firm shaking of the head: "No. I'm the same. She's the one who's changed." It's true enough, and so's the reverse. Youth is complicated.

Across the room an interjection, a change of subject, a stake upon the spotlight: "I"--the pronoun is bolded, followed by a pause dramatic--"I have not changed," he says, interrupting the first story. Heads swivel and jaws drop. The teacher raises an eyebrow. "What?" he continues, over the murmured contradiction. "Just because I used to care and now I don't?" The assent is unanimous. "That's not changing; that's just being a teenager."

I shake my head and purse my lips and wonder if he's right.

a wish

He is the poster child come to life. Born in California, raised in Mexico, he is one of those that we are warned about: an American by paperwork, by technicality, here to take ours away. I mean to help him, but not for spite. I mean to help him the best that I can.

Right now that birth certificate means little on his long road to a better life. He is a seventeen year-old with a sixth grade education. Do the math; I'm not sure he can. But he can fix cars: he is a mechanic, by skill though not certification. He has been learning that trade since he was a boy, and though my first reaction is, "Good. You'll make money, regardless," I have another dream. I'm not sure if it's his, too--our mutual languages have not yet advanced to be certain of these finer points--but my wish for him is an accumulation of paper: certificates or transcripts or whatever it takes to show he is a real mechanic who can get a real job, and not just work underneath the shade tree. It's a vision that may be a fantasy. Maybe, maybe not.

It'll take English, then a GED, then whatever. It's a long road, as I've said. If we had a few extra months for him at the high school, we could get him into tech school--assuming the English, assuming the math, assuming the credits-- assumptions I would never make. But though he knows this is already Plan B, that there have been, already, complications, he is eager and he is undaunted. "Me gusta inglés," he says, and everyday he learns more. His hope may not last, but I choose to believe. And I cross my fingers for my fellow citizen.

Elections Have Consequences, again

Obama To Overturn Bush 'Conscience' Rules
by Julie Rovner


All Things Considered, February 27, 2009 · The Obama administration is moving to rescind another controversial Bush administration abortion policy.

The regulation, known as the "conscience clause," took effect on the former president's final day in office. It allows health care workers to decline to provide or participate in any service that violates their conscience.

Next week, according to Obama administration sources, the Department of Health and Human Services will begin the process to formally rescind the regulation. But it will also ask the public to comment on the move for 30 days.

"We believe that this is a complex issue that requires a thoughtful process where all voices can be heard," said an administration source who was not authorized to be quoted by name.

The source said that following the comment period, the administration could decide to simply overturn the Bush administration rule and take no further action. Or it could issue a new rule to further clarify existing conscience protections that have long existed in federal law.

"We feel there is an important balance to be struck, but we feel the Bush rule unnecessarily imposed new restrictions on women and providers when it comes to health care," said the source.

Bush officials said the rules were needed to protect health workers from being pressured to participate not just in abortions but in activities they might equate with abortion, such as providing the so-called morning after birth control pill. Because that pill is thought to be able to prevent implantation of a fertilized egg, some consider it a form of very early abortion.

But critics of the rule say it is written so broadly that it could allow workers to decline to participate in many other types of sensitive medical procedures, from blood transfusions to end-of-life care. And in parts of the country with few medical providers, those refusals could put patients at risk, those critics contend.

Listen up

"This man is very smart, and I think he seriously means that he wants to restore America."
--Allison's mom

Former journalists gather here

I suppose it's about time I weighed in. And today is an apt day. In a prior life, I was a newspaper reporter -- a reasonably good one even. I won some awards, at least.

I flamed out about 13 years ago, though I have to do the math each time. The fire still burns, though the pilot light goes out frequently. Every election, every homicide, and every now and then, I miss it. Not today. And not lately.

I left on my own terms, kind of, but I have no regrets. But I still feel for my Gazette colleagues, both those now jobless and those left behind. Even my first newspaper boss isn't popping champagne.

getting ready

Two girls are huddled in front of the computer, consulting each other as they click. Their tones are hushed, too serious for homework. Too intent, too eager for anything academic, they are, I wager, instead focused on school. It's a study hall, and I give them a little time.

One asks me how to spell the name of a favorite store, and my suspicions are confirmed. The coronation dance is on the horizon and these tenth graders are somewhere between plotting and dreaming. They are girls being girls.

Right before I pull them back out of their organized fantasy--a history of cooperation and diligence buys indulgence, but only some--I watch them consult the spirit week list posted on the door and carefully copy the daily themes into a planner. A study skill in action, at least.

"M-a-r-o-o-n," spells out one to the other. "What's that?" When she's reminded, she giggles. I smile to myself at the ESL tell, and then I listen to another tale of two cultures:

"I don't even know if I'm going," admits her sixteen year-old friend, "My mom says I might need to be older." I'd be surprised if she even got to play Cinderella, knowing her mother, but I keep that thought to myself. It could happen, after all. It's possible that she'll get to live out her plans. And it's a nice thought, here for a while.

Blago's Last Laugh

flashback

In tribute to the news out of Detroit that Pontiac may cease to be even sooner than the rest of GM, here again is the tale of the only Pontiac I ever owned and owned and owned.

The Sunbird
originally posted January 28, 2007

This is a story of a woman and a car. Once upon a time, the woman was young and the car was new. She was on the verge of graduating from college, and the car, though not fancy, seemed cute and comfortable and reliable enough to take her out into the world. If nothing else, it was a definite upgrade from the Chevy Nova she'd been driving for six years. As it turned out, she and the car would be together for a long, long time, though the car, had it been capable, may have wished for a different fate.

In the beginning, of course, she took special care of it, and invested wisely in ArmorAll and oil changes. It was a real disappointment, then, when Kenny, her fellow student teacher, busted one of the air vents on a ride to lunch when the car was mere days old. And it was sadder still when the woman accidentally drove down a freshly oiled street when the odometer was still in the triple digits. The paint was never was the same.

Nevertheless, the car was dependable, and the woman and her friends took it to Memphis and back, and then to Memphis and back again. The woman graduated and drove the car through all those endless Illinois cornfields looking for a job. Finally, at interview number 13, she halfway succeeded (the work was part-time), and she moved her car out into the country, racking up the miles to visit civilization, and her friends (both the close by and out of state), and the homebound students she took on for extra cash. Soon enough, she got married and moved to another town, and she and the car continued their commuting life, first across the Illinois prairie and then around the St. Louis highways.

Three years into their relationship, the woman towed the car to Green Bay behind a moving truck, paying extra for an undeground parking space so as to protect the car from the Wisconsin elements and herself from the drudgery of cleaning them off. A year later, she and a puking, shedding, nervous wreck of a cat drove the car to Iowa, where she would be happy but the cat and the car would be less so. Getting the car moving in the cold Iowa mornings developed into an elaborate ritual involving cans of starter fluid and depressing the gas pedal in a way no one but the woman could master. So maybe that's why, when she cracked the rear bumper on an on-coming car (yes, that does take skill. or tragic inattention when one backs out of the driveway) and scraped yellow paint from a concrete pylon at the bank onto the front fender fixing those cosmetic flaws was a low priority. Surely the car was on its way out. Alas, financial priorities change, especially when news of a new baby is received, and since the car was basically trustworthy (though touchy) and thorougly paid for, it stayed, both long enough to trade its Wisconsin plate for not one but two Iowa models and to deliver that baby home.

The same year the baby arrived, the woman and her family moved to Indianapolis, and the car came too. The car became well acquainted with the "boys down at Firestone," but they drove it as long as they could--right up until it started randomly losing power on the freeway as the woman delivered her work to the office each morning. Adventure is grand, just not on I-465. Now, at that point, believe it or not, that car was the only one the woman and her family had: the husband's car had been totaled back when they lived in Iowa, and, Iowa City being manageable on one car, they'd kept the cash and tried life with a single vehicle. That was less workable (read: a huge pain in the ass) in a larger city, so once a new car was acquired, the woman was tempted to keep the Sunbird to see if it could be resurrected, so she did. Their itinerant life being what it was, it was now time to move again, so they towed the car back to Illinois and dropped it at a trusted mechanic's. And hark! there was a miracle. While the Indiana mechanics had planned to gouge $450 to "maybe" fix it, the woman's new best friend in the whole world found a loose connection, charged $40 for his time, and restored the woman's faith in humanity and her place as a member of a two-car family. Hallelujah, indeed.

The woman abused the good nature of that car for two more years and thousands more miles, but even she agreed it was time to give it up at the end of mile 168,000. But what to do? It certainly had little value according to Kelly or any other expert. And she really didn't want to sell it to someone who'd know where to find her, its maintenance--except for the oil changes, her father having drilled that right into her head--being as spotty as it was. The solution? Donate it! Surely the non-profit would just sell it for whatever parts remained anyway, and she could walk away with a clean conscience. Which she did.

The non-profit had other plans, though, and so did the car: not long after she gave it away, the woman saw it on the road. There was no mistake: it was always easily recognizable, given the bumper, the fender, the Bluenote in the back window and the local tax stickers in the front. Now, however, it was even more identifiable. The new license plate? SEXY 64. The woman was chagrined, and momentarily wanted to rescue her car from whomever had that kind of vanity, but at least the car was still going. We should all hope to endure so much and last so long, she thought. The woman's entire family knew the story of SEXY 64 and would occasionally see it around town, or even further afield than they'd think safe to drive it. Heads shaking with disbelief, they'd update each other on what had rusted or faded or fallen off the car that would not die. Eventually, the car was spotted with a new license plate, and though the woman was relieved that the old car's honor was restored, she figured that this sighting might well be the last.

Which it was, until the phone rang today, seven years after the car was given away, sixteen years after it was new.

"Guess what I saw!" said the woman's husband. "The Sunbird!"

briefly

On August 1, 2012 he will be twenty-one. That age is the see-you-later drop-deadline for high school graduation: normal plus three extra years. I count the time on my fingers: 2009-10 is one, 2010-11, 2011-12. Plus this, one more-or-less semester. He won't make it, though it could be close. If this, if that, if the other.

I have had this talk before, initiated it myself. I have repeated in all sincerity, "High school is not the place for you. I think it's better if you go." I have talked of adult education, the free classes over at the college. I have walked a complication to the door and wished it all the best before I turned and sighed, relieved.

It's different this time, or not.

If his records had been read correctly, if, frankly, they had asked me, he would never have been enrolled. The sixth-grade credit the counselor granted him temporarily, accidentally, toward high school is what put him over the top, what pushed him over the line into, "okay, go ahead, take a shot."

And so for ninety minutes every day, we have been, just the two of us, by some miracle. Instead of the new kid getting, "One minute," and "I'm sorry," in the midst of some different, hectic class, he has gotten a private tutor. It'll be a short-lived luxury, and I'll miss it, when he's gone.

rewards

"HOLA SOY RAFA," was the e-mail subject line, all cut to the chase and appropriately bold, sent from a force to be reckoned with. The grindstone must be wearing away under this kid; I picture him as powering through. He tells me of working three jobs for eight months in order to save for an immigration lawyer. He tells me of gearing up to take on college calculus, "AGAIN," he asks his usual questions. Somehow I've become the fount of, "how does this work?" but I can't see that he needs me. I'm still glad he comes around. This boy will make it, circumstances be damned. I tell him, "I have to believe," and I do.

He was only my student for his senior year; I don't remember helping him much. I didn't even go to his graduation; unthinkable as that is now. But regardless and because, he has trusted me to know, so when this kid whom I so much admire says, "I hope we keep in touch," I take it as a compliment.

Day One

It's his first day of school since 2001. Seven years, no eight, since a desk and a teacher. His first day since he was ten.

We've been working for an hour, maybe more, when I realize. We have practiced introductions, spelled his name, begun at the beginning. He's shown that he knows the English alphabet, mostly, and more numbers than I expect. He now understands me when I repeat phrases like, "Open your notebook," or, "Write your name," commands that teachers give. We're working hard and we're smiling, each of us for our own reasons.

And then I try some math.

The gaps I see don't shock me or particularly surprise, but something does not, shall I say, add up, so I pause to figure it out. And in a conversation I cannot begin to transcribe, all Spanglish and cryptic notes and telepathy, I conclude, definitively, that the boy's education was not as I've been told. For once, I hadn't seen his papers.

"No secundaria?" I repeat, once more. He shakes his head; I nod. He looks at me a little warily.

"Okay," I say and again to the wordless question, "It is okay." A pause. "Tomorrow," I add, thinking of the algebra that is looming, "tomorrow, a different math."

As if it's that easy in a high school that has "raised its standards" by knocking out the steps. As if the fact that no one in the office noticed they were granting credits from a primary school report card--I confirmed it later--won't complicate day two. I know exactly what's ahead: more phone calls and paperwork, more compromise and confusion. A headache, guaranteed. And that's the best case scenario. But at the moment I only feel a good kind of tired because I taught, and my student learned.

good help

"Ms. P., you know how much I love you."

"What do you want?"

An enrollment form is brandished along with an Eddie Haskell smile. I so should have known. I never had a teacher aide until last year, and that was pure serendipitous necessity, a way to rescue a girl from a class she never should have taken. I don't have 160 students; I don't have dozens upon dozens of papers to grade. I don't really see much reason. But the wanna-be, gonna-be Seniors, oh, they have a different perspective. For months the three of them have maneuvered, begged, whined incessantly. Employed every teenage strategy guaranteed to elicit, "No."

I have attempted to explain, to point out the flaws within their plans. "How," I've asked, repeatedly, "is annoying the crap out of me"--at least I did not say hell--"supposed to persuade me to volunteer to spend extra time with you when it is not required?" The rejoinder and follow up are always the same: "So, can I?"

"NO!"

Until this time, when, way past weary, I have only one objection for this student who is not even mine.

"Why not?" he asks, up front, and I ponder. I like him; he makes me laugh. He's good natured and not mean. He does everything I say. He pays back borrowed lunch money and brought brownies he baked himself to the Christmas party. And, novelty of novelites, he's American: I'm intrigued at the potential to not explain every last thing.

And yet, one thought nags: "You know he'd kill me." I'm referring to his friend, his connection to my class. The relentless kid who has been campaigning for the post way longer than I can remember.

"You're never going to pick him anyway," he points out. This is oh, so true. Even if he asked until the day I retire, I'd never volunteer for that hardship duty. We bargain a bit, and I reach for his form. Make his day with a signature, and somehow mine, too. None of the above seems an excellent choice, despite the remaining catch.

"If you tell him, it's off, it's over, it's done," I say, straight-faced and firmly. The conversation may be inevitable, but later is better than now. My aide-in-waiting proposes revealing his new role to the nagger-in-question on the last day of school, so he can get over it during the summer. I find that kind of brilliant, in a wishful thinking way. And if it's a little weaselly, well, I started it, and I'm willing. I think we'll get along fine.

Drop-out Nostalgia

Elections Matter

Salazar Cancels Utah Oil And Gas Leases
by Deborah Tedford
from NPR.org

Interior Department Secretary Ken Salazar said Wednesday that he has canceled the leases for oil and gas drilling on dozens of parcels of land near Utah's famed canyon country.

Salazar said the Bush administration rushed to sell oil and gas leases near Arches and Canyonlands national parks, Dinosaur National Monument and Nine Mile Canyon as President Bush prepared to leave office.

The decision affects 77 parcels of public land near national parks, monuments and sensitive landscapes that were put up for bid in December. The parcels total about 130,225 acres.

Salazar said the parcels did not get the environmental reviews appropriate for sensitive landscapes. He said other last-minute Bush administration actions are under review.

"We need to responsibly develop our oil and gas supplies to help us reduce our dependence on foreign oil, but we must do so in a thoughtful and balanced way that allows us to protect our signature landscapes and cultural resources — in places like Arches National Park, Canyonlands National Parks, Dinosaur National Monument and Nine Mile Canyon — for future generations," Salazar said.

The canceled oil and gas leases are worth about $6 million. Bidders will get their money back. Salazar said some of the parcels may be offered for leasing in the future after the appropriate reviews are conducted.

Several groups had filed court papers challenging the leases last month. A federal judge granted a motion for a temporary restraining order on the 77 parcels on Jan. 17.

boomerang

"Why did you think I was lying to you?"

I look him in the eye: "Because you lied to me before." And his expression is either, "You have a point," or, "I shoulda thought of that." He doesn't argue or deny, just slips in, again a fugitive. My classroom a momentary hideout for a bad decision on the lam. Or so he thinks or so hopes as he does his delinquent homework and I check out his story, bust him once again.

I lay out the facts as I know them, again. He mounts a ritual defense. Neither one of us is angry. I'm either past it or gearing up.

"You realize," I pause, "that I am not your accomplice." There's a question in my voice.

His laugh says, "I was hoping," even as he denies the notion.

Soon enough he agrees that of the options presented going back where he belongs is the best. The taps on my keyboard to alert the authorities and clear my name accompany his exit.

Minutes pass. The door opens. The not-even-prodigal returns.

"It's lunch," he says, pre-emptively.

I look around for the magnet.

next

"He has a picture of you," says this girl I know but have never met. She's nothing like I've pictured: my image relied too much on her old-fashioned name, the stories I've heard of her struggles.

"He does?" I say, surprised but again not.

"Your hair was different then, shorter," she gestures. "But he still has it," she says brightly, as she concludes the photo is old.

I nod, wondering and realizing and thinking fondly of her brother. "I always did like George." I say it because it's true, and I say it to make a connection. No reason to worry that his reputation precedes. I smile when she tells me, "I'm nothing like him," anyway. I am an older sister.

We chat about his whereabouts, poke a little fun together as we walk down the hall to do her enrollment; she'll be my student next year, along with thirteen other freshmen. Until now they were just numbers: four non-English speakers, two beginners, four special education, three in various stages with various issues. Three described to me collectively as, "the devil," one selective mute. But now I'm here, and they're just kids, kids on good behavior because I am new, and I am High School. I am happy to take advantage.

Next school year, when they show up, I won't be a stranger regardless of cousins or brothers. I'll be the familiar face who helped them that time and will help them again. It'll make a good start, and, boy, will we need it.

First Petty and now Springsteen, it's like I'm picking

One of the stars in this video will play in Sunday's big game. The one who plays football will not. Bring on halftime already!

Finally, Progress at Ballpark Village

I suppose those footprints could be CGI too, just as I expect a computer-generated cityscape to be broadcast this summer when Busch hosts the All-Star game. I mean surely we won't show the nation a ditch full of stagnant water where we were promised shops and restaurants would be. I guess time will tell. But in the meantime, snow sure makes everything look better, doesn't it?

Dowd Unglued: Wall Street's Socialist Jet-Setters

By MAUREEN DOWD

As President Obama spreads his New Testament balm over the capital, I’m longing for a bit of Old Testament wrath.

Couldn’t he throw down his BlackBerry tablet and smash it in anger over the feckless financiers, the gods of gold and their idols — in this case not a gilt calf but an $87,000 area rug, a cache of diamond Tiffany and Cartier watches and a French-made luxury corporate jet?

Now that we’re nationalizing, couldn’t we fire any obtuse bankers and auto executives who cling to perks and bonuses even as the economy is following John Thain down his antique commode?

How could Citigroup be so dumb as to go ahead with plans to get a new $50 million corporate jet, the exclusive Dassault Falcon 7X seating 12, after losing $28.5 billion in the past 15 months and receiving $345 billion in government investments and guarantees?

(Now I get why a $400 payment I recently sent to pay off my Citibank Visa was mistakenly applied to my sister-in-law’s Citibank Mastercard account.)

The “Citiboobs” — as The New York Post, which broke the news, calls them — watched as the car chieftains got in trouble for flying their private jets to Washington to ask for bailouts, and the A.I.G. moguls got dragged before Congress for spending their bailout on California spa treatments. But the boobs still didn’t get the message.

The former masters of the universe don’t seem to fully comprehend that their universe has crumbled and, thanks to them, so has ours. Real people are losing real jobs at Caterpillar, Home Depot and Sprint Nextel; these and other companies announced on Monday that they would cut more than 75,000 jobs in the U.S. and around the world, as consumer confidence and home prices swan-dived.

Prodded by an appalled Senator Carl Levin, Tim Geithner — even as he was being confirmed as Treasury secretary — directed Treasury officials to call the Citiboobs and tell them the new jet would not fly.

“They woke up pretty quickly,” says a Treasury official, adding that they protested for a bit. “Six months ago, they would have kept the plane and flown it to Washington.”

Senator Levin said that the financiers will not be able to change their warped mentality, but will have to be reined in by Geithner’s new leashes. “I have no confidence that they intend or desire to change,” Levin told me. “These bankers got away with murder, and it’s obscene that close to nothing is being asked of financial institutions. I get incensed at the thought that a bank that’s getting billions of dollars in taxpayer money is out there buying fancy new airplanes.”

New York’s attorney general, Andrew Cuomo, always gratifying on the issue of clawing back money from the greedy creeps on Wall Street, on Tuesday subpoenaed Thain, the former Merrill Lynch chief executive, over $4 billion in bonuses he handed out as the failing firm was bought by Bank of America.

In an interview with Maria Bartiromo on CNBC, Thain used the specious, contemptible reasoning that other executives use to rationalize why they’re keeping their bonuses as profits are plunging.

“If you don’t pay your best people, you will destroy your franchise” and they’ll go elsewhere, he said.

Hello? They destroyed the franchise. Let’s call their bluff. Let’s see what a great job market it is for the geniuses of capitalism who lost $15 billion in three months and helped usher in socialism.

Bartiromo also asked Thain to explain, when jobs and salaries were being cut at his firm, how he could justify spending $1 million to renovate his office. As The Daily Beast and CNBC reported, big-ticket items included curtains for $28,000, a pair of chairs for $87,000, fabric for a “Roman Shade” for $11,000, Regency chairs for $24,000, six wall sconces for $2,700, a $13,000 chandelier in the private dining room and six dining chairs for $37,000, a “custom coffee table” for $16,000, an antique commode “on legs” for $35,000, and a $1,400 “parchment waste can.”

Does that mean you can only throw used parchment in it or is it made of parchment? It’s psychopathic to spend a million redoing your office when the folks outside it are losing jobs, homes, pensions and savings.

Thain should never rise above the level of stocking the money in A.T.M.’s again. Just think: This guy could well have been Treasury secretary if John McCain had won.

Bartiromo pressed: What was wrong with the office of his predecessor, Stanley O’Neal?

“Well — his office was very different — than — the — the general décor of — Merrill’s offices,” Thain replied. “It really would have been — very difficult — for — me to use it in the form that it was in.”

Did it have a desk and a phone?

How are these ruthless, careless ghouls who murdered the economy still walking around (not to mention that sociopathic sadist Bernie Madoff?) — and not as perps?

Bring on the shackles. Let the show trials begin.

alert

I know the girl has no school today: the cancellation for snow has been confirmed via websites and e-mail. I suppose it's on TV. Now I'm waiting for the phone to ring so I can go back to bed. The snow day robocall is one of my favorite technologies, though today I think I woke up at my usual pre-dawn time because I had not heard it. I got up to see instead of laying in anticipation, and now I'm stuck in this twilight as the machine works its way to P. Doomed to be awake, I have checked the list for neighbors and teacher-friends(good for all of you). I have fiddled with the reluctant furnace. I have scanned the headlines and learned, if that's the word, that, "Local ERs expect increase in slips, falls after storm." Good to know I'm not the only one sleepwalking through the morning.

Facebook in Reality

Passed along by one of my friends (as opposed to one of my "friends").

From the mouths of babes

This land

Whatever happens in the next 4-8 years, let's at least remember this.

intervention

"I'm not going to tell them that. Are you nuts?"

"You won't be in trouble," I say, without quite knowing if it's true. But he rouses himself from his slouch in the corner and goes willingly to Chemistry for the first time maybe ever. And when he leaves I abandon my gathering class and warn him as he walks that if he won't go to the nurse, I will. I veer first to Guidance, roust his counselor then his principal, assemble a posse that fans out between classroom and clinic. The speed of our steps tells the story.

Doors are opened and shut, chairs pulled up beside. Denials are issued and vitals are taken. All are inconclusive.

I again meet his principal out in the hall. "He says he was joking, that you just overheard." I tell him the actual story, the one about the friend and the pills and the pain he was feeling: the facts as presented to me directly a ten-minute eternity ago. The father is called.

I'm not wrong. I am not mistaken. His past habits, his struggles, his complaints this morning--it adds up to a negative sum. Officially, what's true is irrelevant. His early morning confession is like shouting "bomb!" at the airport: say the word, be exited regardless. Liability is the watchword. But it's not why I dashed down the hall.

high school crush

"Ms. P! Look!" and she gestures me over to the antique computer and nods at the screen with covetous eyes. It's displaying an iphone case imprinted with Obama's face: cool multiplied by cool, circa January 2009.

Across the aisle, her friend calls to me, "Have you seen the shoes?" and points to presidential sneakers on the folded-back page of some teenage magazine. She has shown me before, recited the price: $60 announced with a half-awed, half-calculating voice.

They are not kidding. Instead, they are smitten. And really, who could blame them? I feel a little infatuated myself with the entire First Family and its smooth elegance, confident ease, and intelligent grace. What's not to admire? I'm sure we'll know soon enough. But in the meantime? It's beautiful. Just beautiful to me.

1000 More Words

from Popular Science. Click to see all the ants, I mean people.

1000 Words

Moving Day

And so they'll walk in to the Residence after the parade, and everything will be there. Clothes hung in closets, not piled in a heap. Photos displayed, walls anything but bare. The kitchen stocked with more than take-out and pickles. Tidy and finished, not endlessly cluttered. One final touch on a momentous day: it must be a little surreal.

Since the Bushes have mostly packed up and shipped out--good riddance--and the Obamas are leaving their Chicago home intact, tomorrow's White House transition won't be as much of a logistical miracle as is traditional. But still! What an out-of-sight experience.

The magical behind-the-scenes move has been my favorite part of Inauguration Day since I first watched Backstairs at the White House in 1979. I've more than made up in the, oh lord, 30 years since, but back then I'd never even moved once. And I was 10; I'm sure I didn't quite appreciate the work, but the beat-the-clock hustle captured my fancy. That and I think the verging-on-royal respect for the office: nothing moves until the outgoing exits, and everything's complete before the incoming does. It would have been enough to make even Amy Carter seem like a princess.

This time, of course, knowing that by tomorrow afternoon no sign will remain of the previous occupant is satifying in more seriously symbolic ways. But I know amidst all the balls and the speeches I'll also think of a family arriving home for the first time with everything taken care of and squared away. Compared to picking a path through cartons that should have been ignited not relocated, it sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale to me. It won't be, of course, not even remotely. But for their sakes and ours, I hope there are moments.

random tip of the day

The LIFE Magazine photo archive has been added to Google image search.

That, btw, is the front of the New York Stock Exchange in 1929. No reason.

just do it

How can I capture that tone?

"Ms. PppppPPPPpppPpPPPPpppPPppppPpppppp," is a whine that rises and falls, a failed wheedle that tightens my shoulders. A mistake. It is a too-common greeting before 7:30 a.m., an ungodly hour for conversation, let alone begging, let alone demanding, let alone insisting that all one's problems should go elsewhere for blame.

"I need a new geometry teacher." It's the second week of the semester.

"No." Even if it were possible, it wouldn't happen. "Besides, you said you liked him."

"Not now. He's going to fail me. He wants to." And with that, the button's pushed.

"Do we really have to have this conversation?" I want to say. "Do we really have to do this?" Do I really have to say for the six hundredth time that nobody wants kids to fail and that a 41 on a test in a class that you've skipped is not the teacher's fault?

I log in, pull up the grades, point out the zeroes and listen to him cling to an alternate reality where telling the teacher that attendance is none of his business has no consequence, where paying attention is entirely optional and effort is not required. We both are frustrated, him because he wants it to be easy, me because he's making it hard.

"Your grade. Your graduation. Your responsibility." The dreaded "R" word pulls the trigger:

"I don't care!"

"If you didn't, you wouldn't be in here," I say, and he raises his eyes to the ceiling with the universal adolescent gesture for, "why won't you do what I want?" The bell rings and the round ends. He walks away muttering, and I stand silent, resetting. It is 7:40 in the morning.

Podolak shuns Hawkeyes, chooses retirement over treatment

Legendary Iowa football radio broadcaster Ed Podolak has resigned after 27 years of Hawkeye coverage. The university apparently demanded he seek treatment after photos of a drunken Eddy in Tampa for the Outback Bowl surfaced on the Internets. The following is an exceptional column by my friend and fantasy football combatant.

Eddie's choice: Iowa football loses something
By Mike Hlas
Gazette sports columnist

The University of Iowa made a hard choice. So did Ed Podolak.

As a result, Hawkeyes football is losing something significant. It didn’t have to come down this way. But Podolak apparently is unwilling to change his ways and is walking away from something he loved with all his being, being part of Iowa football.

That’s a choice to which he’s fully entitled, just as the university was entitled to ask him to change the way he represented himself and the school while out in public.

Presumably under direction in this matter by Athletic Director Gary Barta, Podolak was urged to seek alcohol treatment and then be welcomed back to the Iowa football radio booth this fall for a 28th consecutive year as an analyst.

Podolak took the other option, to retire from broadcasting at age 61. It truly is something he had already been considering, by the way.

While Hawkeye football will always remain a focal point in so many Iowans’ lives, it’s immediately less than what it was two weeks ago.

You’re talking about a broadcaster who not only was able to make a chaotic game more understandable to untrained eyes like mine and probably yours.

More importantly, it was someone who did it with charisma, humor, presence, and above all, passion.

The next person who sits in the Kinnick Stadium press box chair next to Gary Dolphin might become really good. But he won’t be an icon.

All that said, Barta and his school were backed into a corner by Podolak’s behavior. Embarrassing Internet photos of an inebriated Podolak in Tampa pushed this along, but probably weren’t the origin of the ultimatum. There are too many stories out there, with less tolerance for them today in certain circles than there in days gone by.

More than a few Iowa football players have had alcohol-related incidents the last couple of years, and the university is plagued by the drinking culture of students in Iowa City.

So when a primary spokesman for Iowa football is shown to be impaired by drinking by photos on the Internet and the photos spread to Web sites hither and yon, it doesn’t play well in the university.

Nor should it. Even if it again magnifies the hypocrisy of the school and its athletic department.

The Hawkeye Huddle in downtown Tampa that was attended by thousands of Iowa fans on Dec. 30? An eyewitness said there were at least 30 beer-dispensers there. The venue was criticized by those fans three years earlier for not having enough beer. The “mistake” wasn’t made again.

As was critically noted in this section earlier this month, a beer company is a sponsor on Hawkeye radio broadcasts.

And wouldn’t it be interesting to see what effect it would have on attendance at Iowa football games if a total ban on alcohol was strictly enforced in university-owned parking lots on Game Day?

Willingly smack-dab in the middle of it all has been Podolak, a living mascot for Iowa fans.

He is the entirely approachable former Iowa football great and NFL standout. He’s the guy who always perfectly captured Hawkeye followers’ joy or frustration, then would celebrate or commiserate with them afterward at tailgates and taverns.

Frankly, he got rip-roaring drunk in public on several occasions. I’ve seen it a few times over the years. Countless camp-followers of the Hawkeyes have seen it more. It was in the public domain, whether the university wanted to ignore it or not.

Someone else can throw the stones at Podolak and get all holier-than-thou. My media brothers and sisters and I have been in a couple of those hotel bars at the same times he was present.

I’ve never run around with Podolak, but I would have loved to have spent hours listening to his stories, things that stretch beyond his vast football experiences. He’s been a real estate developer in Aspen, Costa Rica, and now northern California. He is friends with the Eagles — the band, not the football team.

Legend has it that Jimmy Buffett’s song “We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About,” was written for his close friend Podolak.

When author Hunter S. Thompson died, I phoned Podolak for what I hoped would be on interview about his friendship with his Aspen neighbor. To my eternal disappointment, he didn’t want to do it.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve had a small role on Hawkeye football broadcasts the last three years at the end of games. I’ve talked about what just unfolded on the field after play-by-play man Gary Dolphin read an intro promoting The Gazette and Gazetteonline.com.

Some of the best validation I’ve ever felt was whenever Podolak nodded in agreement with something I said.

All that said, I’m in no way pooh-poohing Podolak’s alcohol-related actions. He is an adult who has made his own choices and continues to make them. He has also had a lot of people in black-and-gold who have given him this different kind of validation: Drink, Eddie, drink.

When he was arrested for public intoxication and interference with official acts after falling asleep on the lawn of the University of Iowa’s Pentacrest in 1997, there didn’t appear to be a blip in Podolak’s broadcasting duties.

He pleaded guilty to the charges, and was sentenced to 50 hours of community service and a $50 fine. He didn’t look back, and neither did the university.

Who has been the biggest enabler over the years since when Podolak would slur his words at a Hawkeye rally? That very university. But no more.

Not to worry, though. You’ll still be able to tote your 12-packs down Melrose Avenue on the way to your tailgates.

Go Hawks!

Pitts: History 'last refuge of the failed president'

By LEONARD PITTS JR.
in the Miami Herald

``History. We don't know. We'll all be dead.''
-- George W. Bush

Dear President Bush:

I am glad you are, at 62, still a relatively young man. I am glad you are in robust health. This means there is a good likelihood of your being with us for decades yet to come, and I dearly want that. You see, history's verdict is on the way, and I want you to see it for yourself.

We've been hearing the ''h'' word a lot from your surrogates, your supporters and you as you make your final rounds before handing over the keys to the new team. History, we are told, will render the truest verdict on your time in office. History, it is implied, will say you were a far better president than we ever gave you credit for.

You said it again Monday in your farewell press conference. History will have the final say.

It is a curious position for someone who has been, as the quote above suggests, rather dismissive of history's judgment. It occurs to me that, as patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel, so history is the last refuge of the failed president.

But you and yours keep returning to it, reminding us how Harry Truman left office not much more beloved than you are now, but history took another look and decided he was a better president than anyone thought at the time. Frankly, the very fact that you and your team repeatedly invoke the 33rd president in defending your legacy is rather telling.

That's not a defense, it's a Hail Mary pass. It's hoping against hope. Truman enjoyed an extreme makeover, yes. Most presidents do not.

Yes, history does refine our initial assessments of a given president. But those refinements usually move in increments.

You would need more than increments of movement, sir. You would need a football field. I don't see it happening.

Credit where it's due: you were the best U.S. president Africa ever had. Your work to reduce AIDS rates on the mother continent never got as much attention -- and praise -- as it deserved.

But there the list ends: I find it impossible to think of another praiseworthy achievement. The failures, though, rush readily to mind: Katrina, Abu Ghraib, Justice Department scandal, torture, Iraq War, Social Security, immigration . . . You leave a legacy of regression and division, and a nation worse off by multiple measures than before you took office.

But you know what, sir? That's not even the worst of it. No, the worst is the way you turned our government into a wholly owned subsidiary of the Republican Party, the way you disdained objective truth in favor of ideological fiction, the way you treated dissent as disloyalty, the way you repeatedly poured sewage on our heads and swore it was water from a mountain spring.

So yes, I'm happy you'll likely be around 20 years from now. Because, contrary to what you seem to think, it doesn't take centuries to get some initial sense of history's verdict. That takes about a generation. Meaning that when history weighs in on your presidency, you'll probably be here to see it. And I don't think you're going to like it.

Yes, I'm stepping out on a limb here. The future is, by definition, unknowable. But it is simply inconceivable to me that history will judge you anything but harshly. Frankly, I think it will judge us all that way, will marvel at the things we let you get away with, the principles Americans can betray, when they are scared.

As with the internment of the Japanese during World War II, and the McCarthy excesses of the 1950s, I think fear will be the defining statement of this era. Fear, and the terrible things we did, condoned and became as a result.

Godspeed, then, Mr. Bush. Good health and long life. I hope you live to hear history itself tell you what an awful president you were.

this time around

Her English seems to be improving. Either that or she's grown comfortable with me. I wish she wouldn't have so many reasons to talk, but I know better than that.

The first times we met she was collapsed on her couch, pausing between jobs in a blue uniform t-shirt. We'd spend a polite hour trying not to bother each other as I tutored her daughter in the bedroom. She'd sometimes get up, bring me a drink, sometimes bring me a chair. We would both look at the baby. In the beginning, she only said, "thank you," and I would nod, smile, and come back tomorrow.

More than a year has passed. The baby is full of bilingual chatter, and now her aunt is my student alongside the mother: a freshman and a wanna-be junior. Most of the time, they're here. But more often than I'd hope at a few minutes past my phone rings on an outside line, and a grown voice asks for Ms. P. I know who it is from the Caller ID; I know who it is from the timing. But I don't cut off her introduction. I listen to her more confident voice, and I promise to relay the message. I don't mind if she'd rather call me than the actual attendance secretary. Calling anyone is progress, a change for the better. An attempt to do it right.

Last January, the daughter called nearly every day for a while swearing she'd attend-- and then showed up in August. Better late than never, indeed. This being real life, the return hasn't been triumphant, but it hasn't been half bad. For a full-time worker/full-time student/full-time mother/ full-time teenager, she makes an honest effort. Or at least she tries more than she did when there was neither job nor baby. She's not there yet, but she might be. It's possible. It could happen.

I don't know what her mom expects, but I know what she hopes for. In the meantime we do what we can.

Iowa joins teacher-student sex craze

That's right. Even in this wholesome, family-friendly state, we've got teachers hooking up with students.

Granted, this is no Pamela Short affair. But still. When did this become fashionable?

Here's the gist from the Des Moines Register:

A Des Moines Dowling Catholic High School teacher has been arrested on a charge of sexual exploitation by a school employee.

West Des Moines police said today that Erin Marie Rohwer, 27, had a sexual relationship with an 18-year-old male student.

Rohwer was arrested at her home at 3900 Bel Aire Road in Des Moines. She was released on a $5,000 bond.

School president Jerry Deegan said at a press conference today that a member of the "Dowling community" called him to report "a possible inappropriate relationship."

He declined to say whether the tip came from a student, parent or teacher.

Sexual contact between any school employee and a student, regardless of age, is against the law in Iowa. A one-time encounter is an aggravated misdemeanor, while a pattern of sexual contact is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison.

Rohwer faces the felony-level charge.

Polk County Attorney John Sarcone said his office has prosecuted teachers, ministers, counselors and a psychiatrist in recent years. He declined to comment about specifically about Rohwer’s case.

“It’s not a daily thing,” Sarcone said. “But it’s not all that unusual."

Deegan confirmed that Rohwer is the daughter-in-law of Dowling choral director Karl Rohwer. She is the head of the English department and has taught at Dowling since 2003. Deegan called her a "very good and effective" teacher.

In a note to parents, Deegan wrote that Rohwer has been suspended.

"It is our understanding from law enforcement that this matter occurred off campus and outside of school hours," he wrote.

Krugman: The Obama Gap

from the New York Times

“I don’t believe it’s too late to change course, but it will be if we don’t take dramatic action as soon as possible. If nothing is done, this recession could linger for years.”

So declared President-elect Barack Obama on Thursday, explaining why the nation needs an extremely aggressive government response to the economic downturn. He’s right. This is the most dangerous economic crisis since the Great Depression, and it could all too easily turn into a prolonged slump.

But Mr. Obama’s prescription doesn’t live up to his diagnosis.


The economic plan he’s offering isn’t as strong as his language about the economic threat. In fact, it falls well short of what’s needed.

Bear in mind just how big the U.S. economy is. Given sufficient demand for its output, America would produce more than $30 trillion worth of goods and services over the next two years. But with both consumer spending and business investment plunging, a huge gap is opening up between what the American economy can produce and what it’s able to sell.

And the Obama plan is nowhere near big enough to fill this “output gap.”

Earlier this week, the Congressional Budget Office came out with its latest analysis of the budget and economic outlook. The budget office says that in the absence of a stimulus plan, the unemployment rate would rise above 9 percent by early 2010, and stay high for years to come.

Grim as this projection is, by the way, it’s actually optimistic compared with some independent forecasts. Mr. Obama himself has been saying that without a stimulus plan, the unemployment rate could go into double digits.

Even the C.B.O. says, however, that “economic output over the next two years will average 6.8 percent below its potential.” This translates into $2.1 trillion of lost production. “Our economy could fall $1 trillion short of its full capacity,” declared Mr. Obama on Thursday. Well, he was actually understating things.

To close a gap of more than $2 trillion — possibly a lot more, if the budget office projections turn out to be too optimistic — Mr. Obama offers a $775 billion plan. And that’s not enough.

Now, fiscal stimulus can sometimes have a “multiplier” effect: In addition to the direct effects of, say, investment in infrastructure on demand, there can be a further indirect effect as higher incomes lead to higher consumer spending. Standard estimates suggest that a dollar of public spending raises G.D.P. by around $1.50.

But only about 60 percent of the Obama plan consists of public spending. The rest consists of tax cuts — and many economists are skeptical about how much these tax cuts, especially the tax breaks for business, will actually do to boost spending. (A number of Senate Democrats apparently share these doubts.) Howard Gleckman of the nonpartisan Tax Policy Center summed it up in the title of a recent blog posting: “lots of buck, not much bang.”

The bottom line is that the Obama plan is unlikely to close more than half of the looming output gap, and could easily end up doing less than a third of the job.

Why isn’t Mr. Obama trying to do more?

Is the plan being limited by fear of debt? There are dangers associated with large-scale government borrowing — and this week’s C.B.O. report projected a $1.2 trillion deficit for this year. But it would be even more dangerous to fall short in rescuing the economy. The president-elect spoke eloquently and accurately on Thursday about the consequences of failing to act — there’s a real risk that we’ll slide into a prolonged, Japanese-style deflationary trap — but the consequences of failing to act adequately aren’t much better.

Is the plan being limited by a lack of spending opportunities? There are only a limited number of “shovel-ready” public investment projects — that is, projects that can be started quickly enough to help the economy in the near term. But there are other forms of public spending, especially on health care, that could do good while aiding the economy in its hour of need.

Or is the plan being limited by political caution? Press reports last month indicated that Obama aides were anxious to keep the final price tag on the plan below the politically sensitive trillion-dollar mark. There also have been suggestions that the plan’s inclusion of large business tax cuts, which add to its cost but will do little for the economy, is an attempt to win Republican votes in Congress.

Whatever the explanation, the Obama plan just doesn’t look adequate to the economy’s need. To be sure, a third of a loaf is better than none. But right now we seem to be facing two major economic gaps: the gap between the economy’s potential and its likely performance, and the gap between Mr. Obama’s stern economic rhetoric and his somewhat disappointing economic plan.

Be the change

That's the message of the official inauguration poster. According to Huffington Post reporter Sam Stein, "The image will be available on buttons, lapel pins, stickers and t-shirts."

No kidding? I bet I get 100 e-mail offers to get it free in exchange for a contribution of one sort or another. This pay-for-play business is not reserved for the rich and powerful.

Though I remain hopeful, I'm less optimistic with each passing day.

best laid plans

"So my mom and I had a conversation."

My heart sinks a little. She tells me, a little deliberately, how her mom doesn't want her to go to college here. How there's no reason to complete the program for free college money. She tells me about a hair salon in Mexico and her place in a chain of events. If her aunt gets married. If the new bride moves to Chicago. If this and if that, and if the other thing happens, then a business will change hands, and this girl will go back to Mexico. An aspiring nurse will cut hair.

I feel my shoulder drop. "All I'm saying," I lie, "is that you should never close a door."

"You know, " I say, "as well as I do--better--that sometimes things don't work out."

She nods.

"My mom said it would be easier. It does sound easier." She correctly interprets my look.

I can't help it: "But you have always wanted to be a nurse!" She agrees.

We sit.

"I didn't think you wanted to live there."

"I don't. But I might." I tell her I understand, that I think she probably can't know what she wants, since when she lived there she was just a girl. She continues to try to convince herself. I listen. The arguments are sound, some of them. More realistic, I finally confess. Except for the fact that they ignore everything she has always wanted and believed in order to satisfy someone else. But, family is family. I try to know my place.

I do not claim to have the answers. I do not criticize. "More education can't hurt," I tell her. I do not change her schedule, and she does not object.

Reacquainted

Two kids in a chair meant for one: I think that's what I remember. Hanging out in a room I can't quite recall. Dark paneling, maybe. What seemed like the first VCR ever. An old house, with narrow stairs. A Saturday, could be, or maybe the summer. A polo shirt with a turned-up collar-- yes, it was that many years.

His friend was my friend, so we knew each other, kinda. We knew each other well enough to electronically say, "Hey, Friend, remember?" then spend a few minutes catching up here lately. A quick glimpse is plenty, if that's all there is, but oh, those intervening years.

The center of this not-quite-trio is still in that same country town, the one where uptown is a place called Dairy Queen even though it isn't and downtown is the flag pole, turn around and cruise back. She lives down around the corner, I think, from the home that is fading from my memory, the one over next to the cemetery. I believe I still could find it. She has kids now, and Jesus, but in her notes she still sounds like the girl who hid joints in her room and took me to parties out in the fields.

And him, he's on his second or third real city, now two time zones away. He has what we'd have called a big job, a house, two dogs and a husband. None of that is a real surprise. He is so far away, in more than one sense. She is right there. I look for things in common between them, see two lives chosen. Satisfaction. I think those kids would be pleased.

Delayed gratification is no stimulus

President-elect Obama began to lay out his economic stimulus proposal today, and I'm worried. Isn't two weeks before inauguration a little early to begin laying down for Republicans? Apparently, tax cuts are a significant part of the package in an effort to sway the minority party -- and, I suppose, to be able to say you cut taxes. At least make them retroactive to 2008. Otherwise, sellers will get all the stimulus and the buyers will get an IOU. That's not the change I was convinced to believe in. That's not really change at all.

At this point, it's either laugh or cry

Contest

Obama's inaugural committee is giving away ten trips to the event. To enter, one must either donate or write an essay ("Tell what the inauguration means to you."). I chose option B:

"This is usually only a Civics word," I sometimes say, as a heads-up to my students. They are learners of English as well as government, so they need every bit of context. They've no time for the confusion of trying to connect "impeach" to a fruit; I try to anticipate, fill in the gaps. And when a word's meanings and uses are multiple, when it's for life and not just for school, I tell them that, too. "Inauguration" is one of those words.

"Inaugurate," I might explain, is not often for conversation, but sometimes people use it. Although it means to start or commence or begin, it represents something formal and official. The day the new president starts working, I could continue, is called Inauguration Day. And here I know they'd stop me: "When?" I have been asked, a dozen times already, both before and after November. Being kids, they're anxious to get on with things. So, this time, is their teacher.

A skeptic by nature, I was, this Fall, energized and excited. I made phone calls. I knocked on doors. I gave money, and then I gave more. I collected magnets and buttons and t-shirts, both for myself and for my daughter. We joined tens of thousands under the Arch to see the man in person, more or less, and I let myself believe. The thrill of election night goes without saying.

Since then my hope is alive, but tempered. There is so much to overcome, both within our government and beyond. Each week the stakes seem higher, the challenges greater, but I remind myself: we've yet to begin. And that is what the inauguration means, what January 20 will represent: hope empowered. Action commencing. A formality that will translate into something we can all understand: times are different now. "Possibility" is again in our lexicon.

For new language learners, visuals are crucial. Pictures cut to the chase. If I am in my classroom at noon on Inauguration Day, the television will go on, and not just because I want to be part of this still. No matter what class I'm teaching, we will watch, and we all will learn. We will understand something about America and the workings of its government, but more than that, we will share in the experience. We will see the change with our own eyes. And we will know what Inauguration Day means.

question of the day

Do you think it's coincidence that the day the state's pay-to-play legislation goes into effect (much to Blago's chagrin, it's now illegal for contractors to contribute to those responsible for awarding state contracts) that billy clubs have been banned from government buildings and brass knuckles are completely verboten?

This was the year that was

He's not dead yet

Courtesy of Wonkette and flickr, here's the answer to today's plaguing question, "What was Roland Burris thinking?" Well, look to the right, there under "Major Accomplishments." The man's 71, and he still had room.

#@$!!

Of course he did. Of course! He did! Blago appointed a black guy. And when he or some lingering toady thought of it, I bet they laughed and laughed and laughed. Or quoted, say, Borat when he encountered an Uzbekistan embassy.

I can't believe I live here. Is it possible to secede? It's not as if Chicago, our de facto capitol, even acknowledges that this part of the state. The "governor" never even sees Springfield, home of the legislature and a renovated yet empty mansion, so seventy miles southwest of there is surely off the edge of their world. And most every Missourian I've ever met seems to think that the universe ends somewhere over the Mississippi, or that the only thing East of St. Louis is East St. Louis, either that or the neighboring strip clubs. So, clearly living neither there nor there, we can hereby declare ourselves independent. It'll be like Texas, way back when. I believe the Lone Star Republic managed for ten years. Surely that'll be long enough for this to all blow over, to just be an unfortunate episode that the Dems somehow rose above.

Yeah, I don't believe it, either.

what became of the new kid

"You know what I think?" She doesn't pause. "I think he's one of those kids who works full-time to help support his family."

It's an accusation, not a compliment.

"Actually, he quit." I'd count it progress if she could see this kid as an individual screw-up, not a hook to hang her assumptions. I clarify that it's his job he's walked away from, not school. Not yet, anyway. She looks at me as if I have answers, as if I'll take this off her hands.

No luck there, lady. I haven't a clue. Maybe he stays because it's easier than working. Maybe he stays to meet girls. He and I have had the same talk so many times it's no longer a conversation, just a ritual exchange of shrugs, arguments, and questions.

"I want to graduate," he always says. He says it as if he's casting a spell, making a wish for the diploma instead of the effort. I lay out the facts, again. Point out the rows of zeros. Try to reconcile his words to his actions. Begin to give up, to be honest. I expect more from 19.

At the end of the semester his frustrated history teacher returned, and handed me a Christmas dish towel. I suppose it was a gift, not a symbol. Anyway, it's his mess, not mine. I insist.

San Antonio, revisited

the photographer's flickr

Sea World, perhaps Six Flags, the River Walk, some big swimming pool shaped like Texas: these are the attractions the city of San Antonio keeps trying to sell me during the breaks in the Alamo-not-really-well-technically a Bowl game. They have it all wrong. The cilantro cream enchiladas and the pancakes-- that's what I'm going back for. Maybe the Alamo at 2 a.m., make it a breakfast buffet. Plus a steak and a Shiner in Gruene. Show me where I can actually get a good margarita, and I am so there.

Over

It's finished, done, kaput.

Football, that is.

After 17 weeks if NFL tedium, 10 weeks of college football malaise, and one rainy Friday Night Lights, it's over.

Sure, the Hawks play on New Year's Day, but I've long since stopped caring. All the teams that matter to me -- Packers, Kohawks, Warriors -- are done.

I hear it's 48 days until pitchers and catchers report.

Krugman: Barack Be Good

by Paul Krugman in today's New York Times

Times have changed. In 1996, President Bill Clinton, under siege from the right, declared that “the era of big government is over.” But President-elect Barack Obama, riding a wave of revulsion over what conservatism has wrought, has said that he wants to “make government cool again.”

Before Mr. Obama can make government cool, however, he has to make it good. Indeed, he has to be a goo-goo.

Goo-goo, in case you’re wondering, is a century-old term for “good government” types, reformers opposed to corruption and patronage. Franklin Roosevelt was a goo-goo extraordinaire. He simultaneously made government much bigger and much cleaner. Mr. Obama needs to do the same thing.

Needless to say, the Bush administration offers a spectacular example of non-goo-gooism. But the Bushies didn’t have to worry about governing well and honestly. Even when they failed on the job (as they so often did), they could claim that very failure as vindication of their anti-government ideology, a demonstration that the public sector can’t do anything right.

The Obama administration, on the other hand, will find itself in a position very much like that facing the New Deal in the 1930s.

Like the New Deal, the incoming administration must greatly expand the role of government to rescue an ailing economy. But also like the New Deal, the Obama team faces political opponents who will seize on any signs of corruption or abuse — or invent them, if necessary — in an attempt to discredit the administration’s program.

F.D.R. managed to navigate these treacherous political waters safely, greatly improving government’s reputation even as he vastly expanded it. As a study recently published by the National Bureau of Economic Research puts it, “Before 1932, the administration of public relief was widely regarded as politically corrupt,” and the New Deal’s huge relief programs “offered an opportunity for corruption unique in the nation’s history.” Yet “by 1940, charges of corruption and political manipulation had diminished considerably.”

How did F.D.R. manage to make big government so clean?

A large part of the answer is that oversight was built into New Deal programs from the beginning. The Works Progress Administration, in particular, had a powerful, independent “division of progress investigation” devoted to investigating complaints of fraud. This division was so diligent that in 1940, when a Congressional subcommittee investigated the W.P.A., it couldn’t find a single serious irregularity that the division had missed.

F.D.R. also made sure that Congress didn’t stuff stimulus legislation with pork: there were no earmarks in the legislation that provided funding for the W.P.A. and other emergency measures.

Last but not least, F.D.R. built an emotional bond with working Americans, which helped carry his administration through the inevitable setbacks and failures that beset its attempts to fix the economy.

So what are the lessons for the Obama team?

First, the administration of the economic recovery plan has to be squeaky clean. Purely economic considerations might suggest cutting a few corners in the interest of getting stimulus moving quickly, but the politics of the situation dictates great care in how money is spent. And enforcement is crucial: inspectors general have to be strong and independent, and whistle-blowers have to be rewarded, not punished as they were in the Bush years.

Second, the plan has to be really, truly pork-free. Vice President-elect Joseph Biden recently promised that the plan “will not become a Christmas tree”; the new administration needs to deliver on that promise.

Finally, the Obama administration and Democrats in general need to do everything they can to build an F.D.R.-like bond with the public. Never mind Mr. Obama’s current high standing in the polls based on public hopes that he’ll succeed. He needs a solid base of support that will remain even when things aren’t going well.

And I have to say that Democrats are off to a bad start on that front. The attempted coronation of Caroline Kennedy as senator plays right into 40 years of conservative propaganda denouncing “liberal elites.” And surely I wasn’t the only person who winced at reports about the luxurious beach house the Obamas have rented, not because there’s anything wrong with the first family-elect having a nice vacation, but because symbolism matters, and these weren’t the images we should be seeing when millions of Americans are terrified about their finances.

O.K., these are early days. But that’s precisely the point. Fixing the economy is going to take time, and the Obama team needs to be thinking now, when hopes are high, about how to accumulate and preserve enough political capital to see the job through.

12/24

The family has come and gone, the dinner has been eaten. The kitchen is more-or-less clean, the living room cluttered with the first round of gifts. It's twenty-four minutes to Christmas-- and I have nothing much to do. No train track to snake around the bottom of the tree, no plastic bits to assemble and sticker, no doll house to arrange. No milk to drink or cookies to crumble-- no Santa, finally, for the very first time. (The girl is six months past eleven.) I wonder if she forgot, or if, until now, she truly did choose to believe. It's possible, as is anything. Apparently she was lately recounting a story of how she had once awoken to the sound of hooves over her head, and when her fellow sixth graders responded that "it was [her] parents," her firm rejoinder was that her parents would never get on the roof (no kidding), so therefore her memory must have been real. Oh goodness. Score another one for her campaign to be thought of as weird. Or just herself, which she so firmly is. To think I was so anxious for her to let go, for her to stop playing the extended bonus rounds of the Santa game. Don't know what I was thinking.

Merry Christmas

Here's hoping your halls are already decked and you don't wind up at a Chinese restaurant on Christmas.

Merry Merry!

In honor of my brother, the family food photographer.

checking in

This is my Christmas bonus: a beep from deep in my purse. I fish out my phone and read the text that's waiting: "Hi. Merry Christmas." I smile. He has followed through again; I expected or at least hoped for some word, but, life happens, especially in their world. One never knows. When I reply, he asks for my e-mail to tell me what's happening. I am pleased. I try to be patient. I check my address for typos, just in case. I realize he didn't promise to write immediately, and I go back to my day. I'll hear from him eventually, I'm sure.

Although we have since been through college applications and registrations and essays together, I haven't seem this boy--this young man--since he graduated in what must have been '05, a high school generation ago. I should have him come in and speak to my current crop, to tell them about life in the world. He knows better than I.

In the meanwhile, I hope he doesn't have much of an update to give me; I hope life is drama-free. I hold out little hope that it's been easy; I'm curious, but not too concerned. Someone who can work 60 hours each week and pass 12 hours of college classes at the same time can do about anything, it seems to me. I hope, somehow, that he is. I check my in box again, just to see. Of all the kids I've known, he's the one who has most stood up to circumstances, who has refused to be defeated, who has taken his life in his hands. I hope my image is still reality; I hope nothing has changed.

Here we go again?

Though winter doesn't officially start until Monday, we're already in a familiar pattern of ice and snow in Iowa. It seems eerily familiar to last winter, which merely resulted in devastating flooding in June. Maybe Mother Nature doesn't like Iowa. Or maybe this is what global warming -- which I prefer to call climate change -- looks like.

5-10 inches of snow, sleet and ice forecast

A major winter storm is forecast to bring 5 to 10 inches of snow, ice accumulation of up to four tenths of an inch and around three inches of sleet.

The National Weather Service will put a winter storm warning into effect from noon Thursday until noon Friday for a good portion of Eastern Iowa, including Linn and Johnson counties.

A mixture of freezing rain and sleet will begin between 1 p.m. and 5 p.m. Ice accumulations ranging from a trace to one tenth of an inch are expected by the evening commute.

The weather service says an additional ice accumulations of one half inch are expected Thursday night. There is a chance for thunder freezing rain which may result in locally high ice amounts.

The ice is expected to briefly change over to all rain by late Thursday night as temperatures rise to near freezing. It is predicted to change back to freezing rain and eventually snow by the Friday morning commute.

According to the weather service, the probability of extended power failures is high with this storm. Winds are expected to remain light Thursday but likely to increase to 10 to 20 miles per hour for a time on Friday.

The weather service says the storm will make travel dangerous or impossible. The ice accumulations and winds can lead to falling tree branches and snapped power lines.

In Cedar Rapids, the weather services predicts about one inch of snow accumulation during the day Thursday and an additional seven inches of snow and sleet accumulation by Thursday night.More winter storms headed for Eastern Iowa
Roads were bad Tuesday but conditions are expected to worsen as two more winter storms are set to head through Eastern Iowa this week.

"Definitely stay tuned to the weather forecasts and be prepared for snow and ice, probably both," said Andy Ervin, meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Davenport. "The next one Thursday has the potential to be an ice storm."

Between 2 and 4 inches of snow fell across the area Tuesday, creating slick roads and reduced visibility that contributed to dozens of crashes, including a nine-vehicle collision that closed Interstate 80 near West Branch for several hours.

Out of 34 wrecks reported by 4 p.m. Tuesday in Cedar Rapids, only one person was injured, police said.

The personal injury crash happened just after 2 p.m. in front of Prairie High School, when a sport utility vehicle slid into the side of a city bus, police said. The SUVs driver, Richard Kearney, 46, 243 Mayden Ave. SW, reported an injury to his head and back pains. The city bus, driven by Leroy Nye, 52, was not carrying any students. Only three passengers were on board and none were injured. Kearney was taken to Mercy Medical Center for treatment.

Snow emergencies restricting on-street parking were declared in Mount Vernon, Lisbon, North Liberty, West Branch and Independence. The snow has also delayed or canceled some flights arriving and departing from The Eastern Iowa Airport in Cedar Rapids.

Iowa is in the middle of an active weather pattern similar to the one the state saw last year, Ervin said. That one lasted three months. The next storm, expected to start Thursday afternoon and continue through Friday morning, is still developing, he said. Forecasters should know more about it by this morning, Ervin said.

Another snowstorm is predicted to begin Saturday night.

Area law enforcement agencies and weather forecasters have issued several warnings cautioning motorists to practice safe winter driving by slowing down, using their head lights, wearing their seat belts and leaving extra room between their car and the car in front of them.

"Road salt is not nearly as effective when temperatures are as cold as they are. It's going to be below freezing for a while, so the roads will be slippery," Ervin said.

Biggest Loser indeed

Tonight brought the grand finale of the third of my trio of guilty pleasures -- reality TV. First went The Amazing Race, Sunday night Survivor ended, and tonight the Biggest Loser was crowned. I'm pretty pleased with all three outcomes:

--brother-and-sister team Nick and Starr Spangler (she's now dating someone from the show who I hope is surnamed Banner, or that he'll change to it)
--high school physics teacher Bob Crowley became the oldest (and perhaps most genuine) Survivor winner
--and Michelle Aguilar gave Biggest Loser it's biggest misnomer. Michelle is no loser.

Not after patching things up with her mother, who joined her on the show. They hadn't spoken in 5-1/2 years after mom left her daughter and husband for another man, taking Michelle's siblings with her.

Not after nearly leaving the show for the guilt she felt about leaving her dad at home, not to mention many years of pent up guilt and feelings of inadequacy.

Certainly not after sharing the same household as Icky Vicky and Hippo Heba. I know it's a game, but Vicky showed her true colors through her behavior and should have been sent home by Shellay when she had the chance. Heba was her all-too-willing partner in crime.

All's well that ends well though as Michelle won despite not having the highest percentage of weight loss. That distinction falls on Heba, who lost 46.93 percent dropping from 294 pounds to 156 (contestants spend about three months at the ranch for the taped episodes and nearly that long before the live finale).

Michelle "only" lost 45.45 percent, going from 242 to 132. You could always see the beauty in her and her mom, but tonight you could tell they both finally saw it themselves. You have to love a reality show that rewards those that it brings the best out of.

In a perfect twist of the game that restored my faith in the voting public, America got to choose between Heba and her husband Ed to be the third finalist to join Michelle and Vicky. Ed pleaded with viewers to vote for Heba, and both seem to have spent the last three months assuming we'd listen.

Not so fast, my friends. A very pregnant Allison Sweeney revealed that Ed received 84 percent of the vote. Talk about profound rejection!

Heba wound up winning the $100,000 consolation prize, which is probably fair. And Vicky got shut out, finishing third among the finalists. Reality can be harsh.

To his credit, Ed lost 139 pounds (one more than Heba), but started out at 335 (41 pounds higher). Yes, losing weight is easier for men, but in his defense he's a chef. How can you know if it's good if you don't taste it?

Pounds-wise, Phil, who took the most crap from Vicky and Heba -- until he was voted out and they turned their wrath on Shellay -- led with 180 pounds. Can you imagine?

Phil's wife Amy nosed him out for second place in the consolations with 45.85 percent to his 45.62. That couple is nearly half the size it was six months ago!

the next day

"You hurt my feelings, Ms. P.," he says, eyebrow raised. Truth as bargaining chip. I exhale.

"I apologized." Case closed. This is not about that.

"You said I was worthless." No eye contact.

"I did not." I didn't.

"Yes, you did." He's not serious, but he means it. "Worthless," he repeats, starting to enjoy the sound of the word.

"I did not." I would never. But I know that's what he heard. I both take it to heart and recognize his strategy.

I feel the twitch of a smile. "I did apologize," I tease. I couldn't if I didn't care; neither could he. His expression tells me that he knows.

"So, can we bring Rock Band?" he asks, again. They're dying to try the 42" TV that now hangs too high on the wall.

"Of course not."

He shrugs, undaunted, my answer entirely expected, and we both go on.

Another one bites the dust

As the clock winds down on another title-less fantasy football season, I may as well blog about it.

Sixteen years of futility! My own son, though younger than the league itself, is now a member and mocks me with his team name. Meanwhile, two other teams who have never won play for the title next week. They've waited three and two years respectively. One of them doesn't even live in this winter wonderland.

I really thought this was going to be the year. I had a high-scoring team and don't make rash moves. I'm the third winingest team all-time. The contenders are #14 and #15.

As fantasies go, this one hasn't gone as planned.

wintry mix

I haven't peeked outside to see what weather we've had, or not, but thanks to three phone calls--two automated, one sleepy human--and a handful of websites, I know for sure that the girl and I don't have school today. I'm ambivalent about starting this business already, grateful to not have to not have to drive in the slick, and oh, so sympathetic to the students and employees of the lone school on the snow cancellation lists that called in special to report they are open!