R.I.P. Evel Knievel

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

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

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

Penny Foolish
By Eric Schlosser

From NYTimes.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3rd generation's the charm

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

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

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

"Grandma got that right."

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

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

Arianna unglued

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

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

by Arianna Huffington

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Depends on what you mean "is" is

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

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

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

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

Mornin'

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

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

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

driven

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

Hell, it agitates me.

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

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

whoops

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

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

Race partner wanted

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

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

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

Turkeys, pigs(kin)

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

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

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

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

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

a memory in the making

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

I'm so not kidding.

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

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

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

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

that Friday

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

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

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

Thanksgiving gone bad

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

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

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

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

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

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

Incident spurred on after wife doesn't bring home beer

By Dan Wilson
Post-Crescent staff writer

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

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

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

Huber set further proceedings for Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

Mischler was arrested later that day at a local bar.

Happy Mandatory Family Togetherness Day

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

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

Dowd: She's no Morgenthau

by Maureen Dowd

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

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

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

Everybody laughed, including Obama.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 87th Birthday, Mr. Musial

Edwards and friends in Cedar Rapids

What gives?

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

See what happens when you come to school?

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

"Dear Ms. P:

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

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

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

Angela Z."

0-2

"Is Ms. P mad at me?"

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

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

Heavy sigh.

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

Right?