A Shame

I wanted to mark today's untimely passing of Molly Ivins, but I wouldn't dare put too many of my words in any proximity to hers. Oh to be so smart, so funny, so bold.

How to decide what to quote? Somehow this part of her December 15, 2006 column seemed best suited for our open thread. I figure both our readers will understand why:

A great, big thank you to the top American movement conservatives and all the fun we’ve had since Election Day. I know I promised not to gloat after this election was over, but I’m not talking unseemly gloating—I’m talking about moments so brilliantly hilarious the only option is to put your head down on the desk and howl.

First in line is the wit of The National Review’s Kate O’Beirne, who clearly teamed up with Borat to explain the great conservative win. Her explanation is that this is a win for conservatism because a great many of the D’s elected are so conservative themselves. She says half of them are conservatives.

She is indeed right. If only twice as many Democrats had been elected, it would have proved that there are twice as many conservatives in the country, and this is clear to any thinking person. We might challenge Ms. O’Beirne to explain how the next Republican win is a victory for liberalism.

The reason that O’Beirne and others are able to accept such an absurdity is because they’ve been listening to George W. Bush for six years and are thus able to believe six impossible things before breakfast.

Don't trust the crosseyeds -- the Republican base

Tavin returns to the catfish feed.

Mama Hugs Iowa

By Maureen Dowd

DAVENPORT, Iowa

When she was little, Hillary Rodham would sit on a basement bench and pretend she was flying a spaceship to Mars. Her younger brother Hugh, perched behind, would sometimes beg for a chance to be captain.

No dice. “She would always drive, and I would always have to sit in the back,” he once told me.

Through all the years of sitting behind Bill Clinton on his trip to the stars, Hillary fidgeted and elbowed, trying to be co-captain rather than just wingman, or worse, winglady.

Finally, in Iowa, she was once more behind the wheel of her spaceship to Mars. She didn’t have to prop up Bill after one of his roguish pratfalls. She didn’t have to feign interest in East Wing piffle — table settings and pastry chefs and designer gowns. She didn’t have to defer to her male colleagues in the Senate, stepping back to give them the limelight.

She positively glistened as she talked about how “I” — rather than the “we” of ’92 — would run the world.

Humbly, graciously, deftly, she offered Iowa the answer to that eternal question, What Is Hillary Owed?

Everything.

John Wood, a self-described “plainsman,” Republican and machinery-and-tool salesman from Davenport, asked Hillary how she would handle the world’s evil and bad men, provoking the slyly ambiguous retort: “What in my background equips me to deal with evil and bad men?”

He said afterward that he was more worried about her ability to face down villains, “being a lady,” but conceded, “The woman did good today.”

(His question was reminiscent of Ali G’s interview of Newt Gingrich, when the faux rapper asked whether a woman president would be turned on and manipulated by evil dictators, given that, with women, “the worse you treat ’em, the more they want you.”)

As YouTube attests, Hillary didn’t care about style as first lady; she was too busy trying to get in on Bill’s substance. She showed off a long parade of unflattering outfits and unnervingly changing hairdos.

In Iowa, her national anthem may have been off-key, but her look wasn’t. It was an attractive mirror of her political message: man-tailored with a dash of pink femininity.

“I think you look very nice,” a veteran of the first gulf war told her in Des Moines.

“Thank you!” she answered, beaming and laughing.

When Geraldine Ferraro made her historic run in ’84, she tried to blend a mother’s concerns into her foreign policy answers, but it did not work so well once she started getting her nuclear terminology mixed up.

Hillary dealt with the issue head on — “I’m a woman; I’m a mom” — hoping to stir that sisterly vote that Ms. Ferraro failed to draw after it turned out that many women were skeptical about one of their own facing down the Soviets.

Unlike Barack Obama, who once said he was bored by the suburbs, she introduced herself in the land of bingo and bacon as a product of the suburbs, wallowing in the minutiae of kitchen-table issues.

W. and Cheney have lavished attention and money on Iraq, leaving Americans feeling neglected. Hillary offered Iowans a warm bath of “you,” homey rumination rather than harsh domination.

(Though Jon Stewart warned on “The Daily Show” that her slogan — “Let the conversation begin!” — will not help her with men. “I think the typical response would be, ‘Now?’ ” he said, adding that her new Iraq policy is, “America, let’s pull over and just ask for directions.”)

Thomasine Johnson, a 66-year-old African-American from outside Des Moines, complained that Hillary talked too much about “traditional women’s issues,” but many in the audiences seemed enthralled.

The Achilles’ heel of “The Warrior,” as she is known, is the war. She expressed outrage about Iraq, but ended up sounding like a mother whose teenage son has not cleaned up his room: “The president has said this is going to be left to his successor ... and I think it’s the height of irresponsibility, and I really resent it.”

She uttered the most irritating and disingenuous nine words in politics: “If we had known then what we know now. ...”

Jim Webb. Barack Obama knew. Even I knew, for Pete’s sake. The administration’s trickery was clear in real time.

Hillary didn’t have the nerve to oppose a popular president on a national security issue after 9/11, and she feared being cast as an antiwar hippie when she ran. Now she feels she can’t simply say she made a bad decision (as John Edwards has). And that makes her seem conniving — not a good mix with nurturing.

The Sunbird

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 identifiable, 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!"

Choices

If you were to happen in on my daughter and I having lunch, odds are we'd each have a book or a magazine or a cereal box to read. Being raised by wolves, she is, but at least they're well-read wolves. I'm not sure if the honest answer is that I don't see anything wrong with reading at the table or if I'm just unwilling to break my own habit, but I have declared our literate lunches okay. Besides, if one of the readers is sharing each and every fact she gleans from her Neopets magazine or Brainpop almanac, it's not exactly a quiet or anti-social meal. Did you know that New Zealand has the highest annual per capita ice cream consumption in the world?

At any rate, my kitchen table habit usually ensures that I'll eventually peruse every bit of the Newsweek, including items I don't really care about. Since, for example, I'm unlikely to either feel edified or infuriated by anything George Will writes, even his AL-centric baseball commentary, his Last Word is often my last page. This last week, however, I was glad to have read it. I still don't agree with him, and my thoughts are still muddled, but he did make me think.


The column in question, which describes a proposal by the American College of Obstrericians and Gynecologists to recommend Down Syndrome screening for every expectant mother, not just those over 35, was called "Golly, What did Jon Do?" in print and "The Attack on Kids with Down Syndrome" online. As the hyped-up internet title suggests, Will's premise is that the guidelines are intended to reduce the number of children with Down Syndrome who are born. The official, logical rationale behind the ACOG's proposal is that 80 percent of Down Syndrome births occur to women under 35, so, therefore, they, too, should have access to everything medical science has to offer. Will's sticking point, however, is that 85 perfect of fetuses in which Down Syndrome is detected are aborted. And really, that's my sticking point, too, though I don't see anything malicious in what those OB/GYNs suggest.

Given that my personal statistics are 1 pregnancy, 1 healthy live birth, and 1 brilliant, beautiful daughter, I can't claim to relate to making a difficult pregnancy decision, though I have the empathy that any mother would. I confidently claim, though, that I'd never be in that 85 percent. I don't diminish the effects of Down Syndrome or deny that the news would be something to grieve. And yes, I'd get the tests: living my life in a Knowledge is Power kind of way, I'd want that time to mourn, to adjust, to prepare, as a well-known essay says, to go to Holland. Unlike Mr. Will, I don't think there's anything inherently evil in the testing; I just can't get my head around what people do with the results.

George Will, by the way, is no disinterested party; the Jon in his title is his son, born with Down Syndrome in 1972. To say that his experience as Jon's father informs his opinion would be to wildly understate the case. Who could separate such personal experiences from the so-called facts? I know I can't.

People with Down Syndrome have always been a part of my life. Though he was born in the 40s, when most of his peers languished in institutions, my dad's cousin thrived, thanks to his mother. Bud was funny, and a hard worker, and when he died the early death that does often go along with Down Syndrome, it was a real loss for his family, not a relief. Amanda, our oldest niece, a bubbly, empathetic, young woman who'll turn 26 this year, has a huge store of country music knowledge and Down Syndrome. Our hopes for her are different than the ones we harbor for our other nieces and nephews, but they're no less real. These family members have experienced life much as we all do, and I just can't consider life with that extra chromosome to be one not worth living.

My position, in the words of Bill Clinton, is that abortion should be safe, legal, and rare-- and, in the words of me, that the anti-abortion folks will help create the world they claim to want once they get off the picket line and into the business of caring for people who are already here. Life is too complicated, the consequences of a pregnancy too permanent, the circumstances of individuals too unknowable, to deny that choice, and yet here I sit, in uncomfortable judgment, wondering why, in one situation in particular, people make it. I know that many people are more severely affected by Down Syndrome than the ones I've been closest to, but that severity cannot be determined in uetero. I have a feeling it's that attendant oddsmaking that offends me despite its rationality. Maybe something is overwhelmingly, unbearably wrong? Well, considering what a life with Down Syndrome most often looks like, maybe it's not. Those odds seems to be part of the bargain parents must make with nature, and the potential loss of a Bud or an Amanda is not a choice I'm equipped to make. Frankly, it just seems wrong.

Mr. Will is afraid we're all on the way to Designer Baby Hell, that as we are able to prenatally detect more and more conditions, some not defects at all, more and more babies will meet the common fate of those with Down Syndrome. I don't want to agree with him, but as I mull it all over, I find qualms that put me in some unaccustomed company. Would people really engage in a quest for a perfect child? Surely not. But are they now? That 85 percent nags at me. I've always been unnerved that Down Syndrome seems to be such an automatic trigger to terminate--of all birth defects, it always struck me, it's not the one that's most devastating, it's just one that we can detect. A fluke of medical advancement and a category of people seem virtually eliminated from the world. Perhaps sometimes knowledge brings too much power.

It seems inevitable that complexion of the world will continue to change as science advances and more options become available, and yet even not even I, full of doubts and concerns, would argue that all those choices would be bad. I am a damnable relativist: even now it's quite possible to list combinations of anomalies or limitations that, I'd agree, would seem to reduce life to no life at all. Though I'd love to, I cannot even say that I wish everyone would do the Right Thing According to Me: that Right Thing is so much of a moving target. And by that I am frustrated. How much more simple and more satisfying to look at life in black and white. No wonder so many people prefer their monochromatic views: thoughts become orderly instead of a scattered mess. Doctors who wish to test must intend to eliminate an entire class of children: the evil is obvious, the correct opinion clear. Alas, things look different in the world I live in, the world I wish were open to more of that 85 percent. I see black: unnecessary, maybe even tragic choices. I see white: people trying to do the right thing, agonizing decisions that are for the best. I see it all come together in shades of gray. And I struggle.

Flattest ride ever

That's how organizers are promoting the 35th edition of the Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa (RAGBRAI) 2007.

"It's the flattest RAGBRAI ever," said ride host Brian Duffy of this year's 478-mile trek across the northern third of the state, scheduled for July 22-28.

That's a welcome assessment for those of us who struggled with portions of the 2006 ride. Now if they could only control the heat, humidity and headwinds.

The ride will roll from west to east through these overnight towns: Rock Rapids (July 21, on the eve of the ride), Spencer (July 22), Humboldt (July 23), Hampton (July 24), Cedar Falls (July 25), Independence (July 26), Dyersville (July 27) and Bellevue (July 28).

As musician/poet Bruce Springsteen crooned in "For You," "they're waiting for you at Bellevue, with their oxygen masks."

The first glimpse of the route shows riders staying in overnight towns with landmarks including Dyersville's Field of Dreams and the University of Northern Iowa Dome in Cedar Falls. Other towns the ride will pass through and the complete route will be announced on March 5.

This year's ride has additional allure due to cycling star and cancer research activist Lance Armstrong's pledge to ride the entire route.

Meanwhile, plans are coming together for Team CoeBRAI, with fees for participation set at $300. Of this, $150 is due March 1 along with a completed entry form and signed waiver. The remaining $150 will be due July 1.

The fee includes the official $125 RAGBRAI entry fee, a Team CoeBRAI jersey and license plate, bus transportation from Cedar Rapids to Rock Rapids on July 21 and Bellevue to Cedar Rapids on July 28, gear transport to each overnight stop, and snacks and non-alcoholic beverages at each overnight stop. This does not include meals, unfortunately, except for dinner at a Coe alumni gathering somewhere along the route.

And they're waiting for you at Bellevue, with their oxygen masks.

Amen!

"A little less conversation, a little more action please."
--Elvis

I'd say that there's nothing further from what Mr. Presley was talking about than what a bunch of politicians do in Washington, but I think the record would prove me wrong. Regardless of those proclivities, wishing for fewer words and more results from our elected officials is standard.

Results have to start somewhere, however, and words--straightforward, true, well-written words-- have a power all their own.

Really?

SNL on Michael Vick. Really?

Another effect of climate change

For the record, I didn't go buy milk and bread today because snow is forecast for tonight. I went to buy milk and bread because we were out, and being out nixes half the things that the resident Food Rut Girl will eat this week. The grocery store lacked the traditional pre-storm frenzy, though, and that makes me wonder. Either we now know better than to buy food that requires electricity to keep or cook in advance of any kind of weather, or we've forgotten how to overreact, I mean, prepare for winter precipitation. Everyone knows no snowstorm can be survived without milk and bread, but, according to today's paper, we haven't accumulated 4 inches at once since 2003. We have had, of course, two ice storms in the last month, and the TV reporter girls have switched to interviewing power company linemen rather than grocery shoppers when the winter skies cloud up. It's as if we've moved to Tennessee without packing a box.

Our bread, by the way, was smashed in the trunk on the way home. Good thing I found $100 worth of who knows what on my way to the bakery department. Otherwise, how would we ever endure the storm?

A milestone for our open thread

Not being the types to ignore a trumped-up milestone when it could be milked for a post instead, we bring you the 100th our open thread post since Election Night 2006. Though our statistics are padded by Lonnie's penchant for cut-and-paste (which he defends as a step above cut-and-run), you have to admire his persistence.

In a little over two months, we've spanned the globe, or at least the central time zone, to bring you the constant variety of sports, the thrill of politics, the agony of the news, and the rare but ever-popular hermaphrodite deer. Having inadvertently yet thoroughly ignored the community-building aspect of the blogosphere, we've been linked to but one blog (though we neither endorse nor oppose blogsforhillary.com) and have fielded a mere 80 publishable comments (though we're not very selective, as demonstrated by the number of "anonymous" comments).

Nonetheless, we've never failed to amuse ourselves, many of our friends, and at least a smattering of the hundreds (?) who wander by in search of the latest Mediacom/SinclairBroadcasting news or Maureen Dowd.

Up next: a nostalgic look at today's teenagers' lack of appreciation for a Rocky-inspired Tavin video shot during an ice storm at a Wisconsin baseball game. Would you expect anything else?

You never know

You never know about some people. In truth, you probably never REALLY know about ALL people. But sometimes I’m so far off the mark it defies explanation.

Case in point, I now know a murderer. No, not O.J. Simpson or other celebrity killers. Someone whose number was in my cell phone until I dropped it in the toilet. Someone whose e-mail address is still in my address book. Someone whose company I enjoyed over beers. Someone I valued as a coach of my son’s little league baseball team even more than the head coach.

It was last July at the state tournament where I got to know Troy. I’d seen him around occasionally at practice and such, and knew he was a good player in his day. I applauded as he rode in on his white horse near the end of the season to help coach.

He was charming, and handsome, and funny and made a real effort to garner my support, telling me what a good kid I had and such. I know I’m blessed with two great kids, but sometimes the affirmation is good.

There’s nothing like an out-of-town baseball tournament – I suppose it’s also true in other sports (except friggin’ soccer) – to bring a team together. Spending two or three days together at the ballpark and at the hotel intensifies team spirit. Parents get caught up in this too, probably more than the kids.

The sports bar adjacent to the hotel was an ideal venue for parents to let their hair down. Troy and his girlfriend cajoled us into the early morning, despite the fact that we had an 8 a.m. game. I’m pretty sure he and I did shots of Stoly.

I thought nothing of it when he heckled the opposing pitcher (a 13-year-old, mind you) into submission that afternoon. In fact, I laughed out loud at the spectacle.

I hoped, during the off season, that he would return on a more regular basis to coach the team this year, though I knew he wasn’t responsible enough to be the head coach. I worried what kind of relationship he had with his three teenage sons since divorcing their mother nearly three years ago.

That all went out the window – or came into focus – last night as I was perusing the online edition of my local newspaper.

The headline screamed “Woman slain; son charged.”

Turns out my “friend” Troy murdered his mom, a respected labor leader and community volunteer. Today we learned Linda was strangled to death in the townhouse she shared with her only child, back in October! Her body was found Tuesday, in the trunk of her car at a local storage garage.

Troy told police he lost his $90,000-a-year job in 2003. Court records show he fell behind on child support payments in 2005 and was twice convicted of drunken driving in 2006. Now he’s an accused murderer being held on $1 million bail.

Not exactly the kind of guy I want anywhere near my son. With some people, and perhaps all people, you never know.

It's only money

Borrowing that tried and true copy & paste technique because sometimes, there's just nothing else to say.

From the New York Times:

What would $1.2 trillion buy?"

• *doubled cancer research funding
  
• *treatment for every American with diabetes or heart disease
  
• *immunizations for the world's children
  
• *universal preschool for every 3- and 4-year-old in the U.S.
  
• *increased reconstruction funding for New Orleans
  
• *never-enacted 9/11 Commission recommendations including better baggage and cargo screening and stronger measures against nuclear proliferation
  
• *increased financing for the war in Afghanistan
  
• *a peacekeeping force to stop to the genocide in Darfur

or, the war in Iraq.

Tavin: I had a dream

Not exactly MLK, or even close, but funny nonetheless.

This just in: Bush reads!

Aux Barricades!
By Maureen Dowd

Being president can be really, really hard.

“Sometimes you’re the commander in chief,” W. explained to Scott Pelley on “60 Minutes.” “Sometimes you’re the educator in chief, and a lot of times you’re both when it comes to war.”

President Bush has been dutifully making the rounds of TV news shows, trying to make the case that victory in Iraq is “doable.” He thinks the public will support the Surge if he can simply illuminate a few things that we may have been too thick to understand. For instance, he says he needs to “explain to people that what happens in the Middle East will affect the future of this country.”

He also told Jim Lehrer last night that in 20 years, radical Shiites could be warring with radical Sunnis and Middle Eastern oil could fall into the hands of radicals, who might also get control of weapons of mass destruction.

So after scaring Americans into backing the Sack of Iraq by warning that radicals could get W.M.D., now he’s trying to scare Americans into supporting the Surge in Iraq by warning that radicals could get W.M.D.

So many deaths, so little progress.

It’s unnerving to be tutored by an educator in chief who is himself being tutored. The president elucidating the Iraqi insurgency for us is learning about the Algerian insurgency from the man who failed to quell the Vietcong insurgency.

During his “60 Minutes” interview, Mr. Bush mentioned that he was reading Alistair Horne’s classic history, “A Savage War of Peace,” about why the French suffered a colonial disaster in a guerrilla war against Muslims in Algiers from 1954 to 1962.

The book was recommended to W. by Henry Kissinger, who is working on an official biography of himself with Mr. Horne.

Mr. Horne recalled that Dr. Kissinger told him: “The president’s one of my best students. He reads all the books I send him.” The author asked the president’s foreign affairs adviser if W. ever wrote any essays on the books. “Henry just laughed,” Mr. Horne said.

It seems far too late for Mr. Bush to begin studying about counterinsurgency now that Iraq has cratered into civil war. Can’t someone get the president a copy of “Gone With the Wind”?

Maybe it was inevitable, once W. started reading Camus’ “L’Etranger,” set in Algeria, that he would move on to Mr. Horne. As The Washington Post military correspondent Tom Ricks wrote in November, the Horne book has been an underground best-seller among U.S. military officers for three years, and “Algeria” has become almost a code word among U.S. counterinsurgency specialists — “a shorthand for the depth and complexity of the mess we face in Iraq.”

I asked Mr. Horne, who was at his home in a small village outside Oxford, England, what the president could learn from his book.

“The depressing problem of getting entangled in the Muslim world,” he replied. “Algeria was a thoroughly bloodthirsty war that ended horribly and cost the lives of about 20,000 Frenchmen and a million Algerians. There was a terrible civil war afterwards, leading up to almost the present day, in which 100,000 Algerians died. De Gaulle ended up giving literally everything away and left without his pants.”

President De Gaulle had all the same misconceptions as W., that his prestige could persuade the Muslims to accept his terms; that the guerillas would recognize military defeat and accept sensible compromise; and that, as Mr. Horne writes, “time would wait while he found the correct formula and then imposed peace with it.”

Mr. Horne also sees sad parallels in the torture issue: “The French had experience under the Nazis in the occupation and practiced methods the Germans used in Algeria and extracted information that helped them win the Battle of Algiers. But in the long run it lost the war, because it caused such revulsion in France when the news came out.”

In May 2005, Mr. Horne gave a copy of his book to Rummy, with passages about torture underlined. “I got a savage letter back from him,” the author said.

The best thing now, he said, is to try to “get around the mullahs” and “get non-Christian forces in there as quickly as possible, mercenaries. As Henry said the other day, if only we had two brigades of Gurkhas to send to Baghdad.”

Meanwhile, maybe W. should move on to reading Sartre. “No Exit,” perhaps.

Oh, the suspense!

From my personal e-mail friend Barack Obama

"And that's why I wanted to tell you first that I'll be filing papers today to create a presidential exploratory committee. For the next several weeks, I am going to talk with people from around the country, listening and learning more about the challenges we face as a nation, the opportunities that lie before us, and the role that a presidential campaign might play in bringing our country together. And on February 10th, at the end of these decisions and in my home state of Illinois, I'll share my plans with my friends, neighbors and fellow Americans."

I wonder if the same focus group that determined Dubya needed to pretend to make a decision about Iraq for a month suggested this "okay, NOW I'm thinking about it" approach. Not the same thing, I know, but I have low tolerance for the disingenuous. And yes, that does mean it's a wonder I ever hear a politician finish a sentence without my blood pressure rising.

Realizing the Dream

"It is time, brothers and sisters, for America to be patriotic about something other than war. In fact, patriotism is about refusing to support something that you know is wrong--and having the courage to speak out with strength, compassion and backbone for something you know is right."

--John Edwards

more icy thoughts

I'm not sure how it's come to this, that a smattering of freezing rain = "only" 150,000 homes without electricity = normal. You'd have to ask the folks at Ameren, the best Third World power provider around, to see how they explain why interruptions that were once rare and measured in minutes are now frequent and measured in days. Would they say this shift in service is just a coincidence? Perhaps they'd claim my dissatisfaction is but further evidence of my weak character. Never knowing if our homes will remain illuminated when faced with little more than a good stiff breeze? That's not a flaw in the system but a feature: a bonus character building experience, an opportunity to remember to Not Take Things for Granted. Watch there be a line item for it on their next inflated bill.

Taking things for granted, of course, is supposed to be the bad habit that we universally resolve to break every time something dramatic or inspiring or panic-inducing happens either to us or to someone on the 6 o'clock news. Do I deny that a mindful life is the one that's worth living? Hardly. To overlook the wonder of it all because one is distracted by minutia that won't matter even days from now is indeed a common shame.

But why not also remember that a person who truly takes nothing for granted is a person paralyzed. There is a such thing as too much information, and not just when it comes to the underwear habits of Britney Spears. Life, it seems to me, requires a certain amount of obliviousness, the tiniest touch of denial, the occasional instance of making an ass out of U and ME, just to move from day to day. To think about everything all the time? Overwhelming. Counterproductive. Instead, I'm learning to tuck some thoughts into my heart where they'll be safe from my own scrutiny. I know they're there. I know they're important. And I know there's no need to constantly reconsider, analyze, or judge. Could it look as if I just don't care? Perhaps. But appearances are deceiving.

As for my electricity, yes! I'd really like to be able to take it for granted again. So far, this is still a First World country, and I'd like to enjoy the perks. But the fact that I keep harping on my incandescent aggravation, that I can't just let it go, just shows that, in the scheme of things, it really doesn't rate. If the status of the electrical grid topped my list of values, I'd never bring it up.

A Risky Game of Risk

By Maureen Dowd

I feel good about the new war with Iran.

How can you not have confidence in the crackerjack team that brought you Operation Iraqi Freedom, which foundered and led to Operation Together Forward, which stumbled and led to Operation Together Forward II, which collapsed and was replaced by The New Way Forward, the Surge now being launched even though nobody’s together and everything’s going backward?

I say, bring it on. If a pre-emptive war in Iraq doesn’t work, why not try a pre-emptive war on Iran in Iraq?

Although Tony Snow dismissed the idea of war with Iran as an “urban legend” yesterday, Condi Rice revealed to New York Times reporters that President Bush acted months ago to parry Iran’s ambitions, issuing orders for a military campaign against the Iranian Revolutionary Guard forces sneaking into Iraq. Using diplomatic passports, the agents have been smuggling in sophisticated bomb-making components and infrared trigger devices, which could be used to blow up American soldiers.

The move against Iran allows the president and Dick Cheney — who was, natch, militating for the Surge — to blow off, once more, the Iraq Study Group and Congress, to push back rather than make up.

James Baker and Lee Hamilton had recommended playing nice with the mad mullahs, which even they acknowledged was a long shot, given that the Bush administration can offer them little except acquiescence in their nuclear weapons program, which is not going to happen.

Joe Biden, the new chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, warned Condi on Thursday that Mr. Bush did not have the authority to pursue the networks over the border into Iran or Syria. On Friday, Bob Gates assured the Senate Armed Services Committee that the Iranians they target won’t be in Iran.

We’re trying to stanch a self-inflicted wound: our failed occupation gave Iran the opening in Iraq we’re now trying to shut down.

The White House had to admit this week what has been obvious to everybody else for eons, including a list of lame assumptions they embraced during the first few years of the occupation: “Majority of Iraqis will support the coalition and Iraqi efforts to build a democratic state” has now been supplanted by “Iraqis increasingly disillusioned with coalition efforts.”

It’s a remarkable moment, W. standing nearly alone, deserted by more and more Republicans, generals and Americans, risking it all on a weak reed like Prime Minister Maliki.

It’s impossible to know what W. was really thinking as he stiffly delivered his fantasy scheme in the White House library. The whole capital was fraught, but the president may simply have been musing to himself: “I’m hungry ... I wonder what time the game starts on ESPN? ...Has anybody read all these books?”

W. always acts like he’s upping the ante in a board game where you roll the dice and bet your plastic army divisions on the outcome. This doesn’t surprise some of his old classmates at Yale, who remember Junior as the riskiest Risk player of them all, known for dropping by the rooms of friends, especially when they were trying to study for exams, for extended bouts of “The Game of Global Domination.”

Junior was known as an extremely aggressive player in the venerable Parker Brothers board game, a brutal contest that requires bluster and bluffing as you invade countries, all the while betraying alliances. Notably, it’s almost impossible to win Risk and conquer the world if you start the game in the Middle East, because you’re surrounded by enemies.

His gamesmanship extended to sports — he loved going into overtime and demanding that points be played over because he wasn’t quite ready.

As Graydon Carter recollects in the new Vanity Fair, Gail Sheehy wrote an article for the magazine about W. that made this point: “Even if he loses, his friends say, he doesn’t lose. He’ll just change the score, or change the rules, or make his opponent play until he can beat him.”

W.’s best friend when he was a teenager in Houston, Doug Hannah, told Ms. Sheehy: “If you were playing basketball and you were playing to 11 and he was down, you went to 15.”

Even if it was clear who was winning, W. wanted to go further to see what would happen. It was a technique that worked well in Tallahassee in 2000, but not so well in Tikrit.

Word is that even as they Surge, the Bush team is already working on Plan C, or as they will no doubt call it, The New, New Way Forward II.

Dear Mr. President: Send Even MORE Troops (and you go, too!)

After viewing The Decider’s speech tonight, I knew I had to post something. But I couldn’t put it in writing. Thank God for the patriot Michael Moore!

Dear Mr. President,

Thanks for your address to the nation. It's good to know you still want to talk to us after how we behaved in November.

Listen, can I be frank? Sending in 20,000 more troops just ain't gonna do the job. That will only bring the troop level back up to what it was last year. And we were losing the war last year! We've already had over a million troops serve some time in Iraq since 2003. Another few thousand is simply not enough to find those weapons of mass destruction! Er, I mean... bringing those responsible for 9/11 to justice! Um, scratch that. Try this -- BRING DEMOCRACY TO THE MIDDLE EAST! YES!!!

You've got to show some courage, dude! You've got to win this one! C'mon, you got Saddam! You hung 'im high! I loved watching the video of that -- just like the old wild west! The bad guy wore black! The hangmen were as crazy as the hangee! Lynch mobs rule!!!

Look, I have to admit I feel very sorry for the predicament you're in. As Ricky Bobby said, "If you're not first, you're last." And you being humiliated in front of the whole world does NONE of us Americans any good.

Sir, listen to me. You have to send in MILLIONS of troops to Iraq, not thousands! The only way to lick this thing now is to flood Iraq with millions of us! I know that you're out of combat-ready soldiers -- so you have to look elsewhere! The only way you are going to beat a nation of 27 million -- Iraq -- is to send in at least 28 million! Here's how it would work:

The first 27 million Americans go in and kill one Iraqi each. That will quickly take care of any insurgency. The other one million of us will stay and rebuild the country. Simple.

Now, I know you're saying, where will I find 28 million Americans to go to Iraq? Here are some suggestions:

1. More than 62,000,000 Americans voted for you in the last election (the one that took place a year and half into a war we already knew we were losing). I am confident that at least a third of them would want to put their body where there vote was and sign up to volunteer. I know many of these people and, while we may disagree politically, I know that they don't believe someone else should have to go and fight their fight for them -- while they hide here in America.

2. Start a "Kill an Iraqi" Meet-Up group in cities across the country. I know this idea is so early-21st century, but I once went to a Lou Dobbs Meet-Up and, I swear, some of the best ideas happen after the third mojito. I'm sure you'll get another five million or so enlistees from this effort.

3. Send over all members of the mainstream media. After all, they were your collaborators in bringing us this war -- and many of them are already trained from having been "embedded!" If that doesn't bring the total to 28 million, then draft all viewers of the FOX News channel.

Mr. Bush, do not give up! Now is not the time to pull your punch! Don't be a weenie by sending in a few over-tired troops. Get your people behind you and YOU lead them in like a true commander in chief! Leave no conservative behind! Full speed ahead!

We promise to write. Go get 'em W!

Yours,
Michael Moore

Class of 2007

Although it will never be a bastion of style, my home is comfortable, and, I like to think, presentable enough. I mean, I didn't intend for my living room to reflect the typical Panera palette, but you have to admit those are good colors. One doesn't have to look too hard, however, to find items a decorator would never approve-- like the Mark McGwire "collector" glass stashed in a kitchen cabinet. I can't believe I own such a thing, and I'm positive I didn't buy it. Surely it came from my dad, a sometime sucker for stuff that "might be worth something some day." If that eBay listing ends in a sale, I'll have to admit that the thing actually has increased in value, but the fact that I'm using it at all shows how little that means to me.


Given that the BBWAA uses neither butterfly ballots or Diebold machines, we can all rest assured if unsurprised that Mark McGwire won't be crashing Tony Gwynn and Cal Ripken's Hall of Fame party. Even if he had been willing to "talk about the past", surely Mr. Steroids is Bad would have remained uninvited; he just doesn't measure up to those unquestioned greats.

Nevertheless, McGwire got enough votes to remain on the ballot, guaranteeing columnists at least one more opportunity to meet a deadline by justifying voting for or against his increasingly irrelevant self. In the meantime, I'll keep using that tacky old glass, and when it inevitably breaks, I just won't care.

Second verse, same as the first?

Perhaps it explains something about me that I can only count three years of my life--my post-kindergarten life, anyway--in which I have not been some kind of teacher or student. That's enough education to permanently ruin a person from operating in the real world. For one thing, I expect to forever run on a school year calendar, regardless of my position in life. In my mind, January's not truly the beginning of anything; it's halftime, though generally with fewer scantily clad women than the football version.

New calendars will never say New Year to me as much as piles of new school supplies do. I'll haul a fresh set of notebooks and pencils to school tomorrow to share with the deprived and the disorganized, but it won't feel the same. The path for the year has already been set; we're merely starting the downhill slide to spring and then the soft landing of summer. Oh, I hope there will be some changes, both for certain students and for me, but the weeks pass so quickly that it's hard to believe that some things will happen if they haven't yet. How will there be time?

I understand that's not a very January attitude, to admit that Dubya's not the only one who has a hard time charting a new course. But at least it's inertia and not dangerous bullheadedness! Who am I to flout the laws of physics? Well, um, nobody, since that's just a tired analogy and not a scientific fact. And I admit that I have heard change is possible; eight million Weight Watchers commercials have announced it in just the last week alone. Of course, if that were true, or at least easy, they'd have been out of business long ago. But good grief-- lump myself in with that president? I think I feel a new year coming on.

Havel on Favre

Award-winning Green Bay sports columnist Chris Havel has a long history with Brett Favre. He has insight into the mind of the best.quarterback.ever. that bleeds into his writing. Which is why I took great satisfaction with the following.

It's OK if Favre has records on mind
By Chris Havel

Brett Favre's future is now.

The Green Bay Packers' quarterback isn't as good as he once was, but to paraphrase the country tune, he is as good once as he ever was. It showed in his play during the Packers' 26-7 victory at Chicago in the regular-season finale.

Favre was the best quarterback at Soldier Field on New Year's Eve. That isn't saying much since the alternative was the Bears' ill-prepared Rex Grossman, whose quarterback rating — 0.0 — was identical to the chance he gives Chicago in the playoffs.

While the Bears' dilemma is deciding how long to stick with a fraud, Favre's dilemma is deciding when enough is enough. The answer seems as obvious as Grossman's lack of talent: One more season.

Favre, 37, could walk away today as one of the NFL's all-time greats.

He is a first-ballot Pro Football Hall of Fame quarterback, and he is one of the few players that truly became a legend in his own time. He has nothing to prove, and he doesn't owe anybody anything. He gave back to the game more than he took from it.

The question is, why stop now?

As a staunch Favre supporter since he uncorked his first 100 mph fastball inside the Packers' original indoor practice facility, I thought greatness would be his sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner and later.

Favre has silenced his critics, and he has outplayed and outlasted his opponents. His contemporaries are relegated to acknowledging the cheers at Lambeau Field with a smile and a wave as they stroll toward midfield on Alumni Day. From Fuzzy Thurston to Frank Winters, there isn't one who wouldn't give everything to play one more game.

Favre has that option, and without the risk of embarrassment. The man still can play at an exceedingly respectable level, which is the first and best in a litany of reasons he should return for one more go-round.

He is the rare athlete that has the privilege and luxury of announcing his retirement before the final season, rather than after it. He also is the rare leader whose actions, rather than words, seem to make the most impact. Imagine the rush of adrenaline and sense of urgency an entire team would feel knowing 2007 truly is Ted Williams' final at-bat, Muhammad Ali's last round and Michael Jordan's parting shot.

Teammates young and old would rally as much for themselves as their leader. Win or lose, they could be part of history in the making. They may not do for Favre what Terrell Davis and Co. did for John Elway a decade ago, but they would like to try.

It is insane to think any NFL quarterback could start 250-plus straight games. So, why is it foolish to tack on another 16? Favre said he wouldn't return for the records, especially Dan Marino's career mark of 420 touchdown passes. Surely, he must know his fans want him to own pro football's version of Hank Aaron's home run record.

Pro athletes rightly are and routinely criticized for being selfish. If ever there was a time for Favre to be guilty as charged, the 2007 NFL season is it.

Favre's place in Packers history is forever. So is retirement.

It's a beautiful life

Looking back over my brief blogging history, there are many conclusions to be drawn. I’m a Packer fan, first and foremost, and a sports nut in general. I’m a Democrat, a liberal, a progressive – call me what you will – just not Republican, conservative, or stupid (not to be redundant).

It goes without saying, but I’m not rich either. Or am I?

Read on if you care – or dare – to learn more.

I’m sitting in “Lonnie’s Lounge,” a glorified workshop equipped with carpeting, cable television (though no more CBS), a refrigerator, a pizza oven (direct from a bar), a stereo (that plays when it wants) and wireless internet. Packer memorabilia adorns the room, though I keep the valuables inside.

It's 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses. But I digress.

Looking up from my laptop (which seldom rests on my lap) we see a poster, a bumper sticker and various barbeque tools. The poster features Lambeau Field, Brett Favre and Reggie White and reads, “Sure there’s more to life than football (but not much).” It’s the only poster I ever bought for myself AND a friend.

The bumper sticker is tacked to the bottom of the poster. I didn’t want to ruin the adhesive, so it’d be available for potential future uses. I also feared The Decider might rule it appropriate to vandalize the vehicles of infidels. Its message is simple – “Bush/Cheney For Prison.” A fella can dream, can’t he?

Within my field of vision is my bike, a black and blue Giant (literally) that has accompanied me on two trans-Iowa journeys of RAGBRAI. It’s attached to a trainer now, testament to my intentions to be better prepared this year.

Over my right shoulder, my adoring dog (my son’s technically) is asleep in the recliner – on his back. He seems to prefer that position. And no, he’s not smiling, that’s just the worst underbite you’ve ever seen. But he loves me unconditionally. The feeling is mutual.

Overhead, walnut season has passed, thankfully. Gone, for now, are the days when my neighbor’s tree releases those bombs with regular but unpredictable frequency. I’ll recognize that tree, if ever I move. Until then, I’ll wish I’d been more observant – and, perhaps, less enamored with the workshop.

Haphazardly placed to my upper right – above the window in a place that looks suspiciously like there was already a nail so, why not? – is perhaps the closest glimpse of my soul. For lack of a better word, I’ll call it a plaque – though it’d be much more at home in a double-wide than an office.

But its message is more important than its medium. From someone named Frederick S. Perls:

I do my thing and you do your thing
I am not in this world to live up to your expectations
And you are not in this world to live up to mine
You are you and I am I
And if by chance we find each other
It’s beautiful

Freedom: Not just for Christians

While it will only fuel my blog cohort's claim that I'm nothing more than a "cut and paste" blogger, I'm outraged by the outrage over Minnesota Congressman Keith Ellison swearing his oath of office on the Quran. From my perspective, the Muslim holy book was merely a prop. It could just as easily, though less controversially, have been the latest issue of Maxim.

(By the way, Mr. Worst.President.Ever, sir, stay the hell out of my mailbox.)

Don't believe me? Check out what the U.S. State Department says of the matter.

Minnesota Congressman Keith Ellison’s declaration that he would swear his oath of office on the Quran, the Muslim holy book, led to new interest in the protocol for swearing in members of Congress.

Ellison is the first Muslim to be elected to the U.S. Congress, and it is the first time that the use of the Quran in oath-taking has gained national attention.

Although historically oaths often have been taken with one hand on the Bible, the Constitution of the United States prohibits linking an individual’s ability to serve with religion: “The senators and representatives … shall be bound by oath or affirmation to support this Constitution; but no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States.”

America’s founders acutely were aware of the importance of religious freedom. The first colonists, the Pilgrims, members of a Christian sect, migrated to North America to escape religious persecution in England, many sacrificing their lives. Waves of others seeking religious freedom followed, people from many different countries and creeds. Making religion a requirement of public service was unthinkable and illegal from the first days of the republic.

The first bill passed by Congress in 1789 was the Oath Act, which defined a simple oath of office: “I do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States.” The oath was expanded after the Civil War to include a loyalty clause. Today, members of Congress, as a group, raise their right hands to affirm the oath of office while the speaker of the House administers it. No book of scripture is necessary. Those who wish may have a separate oath-taking ceremony on their book of choice, and some commemorate the moment in a photo.

Because America has been predominantly Christian, it became customary, but not mandatory, for U.S. presidents and other public officers to carry or place their hand on the Bible while taking the oath of office. Fiercely secular, John Quincy Adams took his oath on a book of laws containing the U.S. Constitution. Theodore Roosevelt used no book at all. Franklin Pierce and Herbert Hoover, a Quaker, did not swear but affirmed the oath of office. Jewish office-holders have brought Hebrew texts, while others acknowledge the Bible’s Old Testament as part of Jewish scripture and settle for that. President John F. Kennedy, a Catholic, placed his hand on the Catholic Douay Version of the Bible.

The introduction of the Quran into congressional oath-taking is evidence of the growing religious diversity of the United States. The Quran used by Ellison during his January 4 ceremonial swearing-in is unique. It once belonged to Thomas Jefferson, drafter of the Declaration of Independence and third U.S. president. The Library of Congress, which obtained the book from Jefferson in 1815, loaned it to Ellison for the occasion. It is an English translation from the Arabic first published in London in 1734.

Jefferson, who gave much thought to religion, in 1802 wrote to the Danbury Baptist Association: “Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should ‘make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,’ thus building a wall of separation between church and State.”

Muslims first arrived in the United States in slave ships from Africa. One of these, Abdur Rahman Ibrahima ibn Sori, was brought from Guinea to Mississippi in the early 19th century. He won his freedom through the intercession of Mississippi Senator Thomas Reed and the sultan of Morocco, who successfully petitioned Secretary of State Henry Clay and President John Quincy Adams to free Sori.

Today, Muslim Americans number several million. Ellison’s election and his inclusion of the Quran in his swearing-in ceremony highlight the legacy of religious freedom enshrined in the Constitution and the contributions to American society made by people of diverse faiths.

(USINFO is produced by the Bureau of International Information Programs, U.S. Department of State. Web site: http://usinfo.state.gov)

Question of the Day

"Is St. Louis the best sports city in America?"

Not only is that a stupid question--yes, Virginia, stupid questions do exist-- it's stupid question with an obvious answer: no! So by all means, put it on the front page of our semi-major metropolitan daily. Ignore the many unanswered questions about war and genocide and unspeakable corruption. After all, who'd buy that paper?

Much better to look at the sporting books and conclude that, currently, baseball sells, hockey doesn't, and that the out-of-town fans who bought so many of the tickets to The Ed Jones dome this year agree with the rest of us that it's a boring place to watch a football game. And it all costs far too much money.

I think the future history book chapter I'd most like to read--save the one about the trials for the Bush Administration's crimes against humanity--would be the one that explains the role of professional sports in 21st century America. I'm as much of part of it as anyone--hell, my family room is decorated in Early St. Louis Blues, and it wasn't against my will--but you know we're all going to look bad. All that money, all that effort. All that money. And for what?

Well, not for nothing, though the cost-benefit ratio has gotten way out of whack. Once the historians get past the obvious answer about escape from the aforementioned war and genocide and corruption, I hope they explain what happens as the last real ties between teams and fans are severed. Not all that long ago, a professional franchise here had a booster club who set up card tables full of mimeographed information at each game to recruit new members. Sure, it was hockey, but most minor of major sports, but can you imagine such a thing in the hermetically sealed corporate arenas of today? When the average fan either can’t get a ticket or can’t afford one, when the games become all but impossible to get on free radio and TV, when the roster of players changes so often that we really are reduced to cheering for uniforms that we've heard about but never actually seen--will anything change? Maybe not. We seem hardwired to live vicariously through sports, and if the connection between the team and its town is tenuous at best, maybe that's somehow irrelevant. That must be what the big business of sports is counting on as they make their product less accessible to those who make it all possible. Part of me would love to see them fail, for their money making maneuvers to finally come crashing down. But the other part of me, well, I just want to see a game.

Brett Favre: RETIRE or NO RETIRE

We here at "our open thread" and our affiliates (both the invited and the predatory) do not support the conclusions of the following video. For the record, we love Brett Favre and damn sure hope he continues to play. We just think it's funny.

11th hour nears in battle of media whores

Unless an agreement is reached between Mediacom and Sinclair Broadcast Gestapo by midnight Friday, cable customers in the Cedar Rapids area will lose access to the local CBS affiliate, KGAN.

It was recently announced that Sinclair had reached an agreement with the local cable company, McLeodUSA, to continue to carry KGAN. So, rather than switch to DirecTV, as Sinclair has suggested (without mentioning that it gets a kickback for every customer it converts) cable viewers can simply switch to McLeodUSA if they want to continue receiving KGAN.

Only it's not that simple.

McLeodUSA isn't an option for many Cedar Rapids households as its efforts to wire the city have been stalled since it entered bankruptcy. McLeodUSA is also in the process of selling its cable operation to a startup company led by a former McLeodUSA executive. Am I the only one who smells something fishy?

Of course, viewers can always take the route I did awhile back and purchase a set-top antenna. In my case, this worked better than imagined as I can now pick up CBS' digital channel, which wasn't the case through Mediacom.

In its never-ending effort to serve the public good, the locally-owned Cedar Rapids Gazette newspaper has published a primer on this low-tech gadgetry. They even quoted the cost of all equipment necessary -- $21.62, not including tax. All prices were quoted at Wal-Mart. Need I say more?

My Process

Inertia: most powerful force in the universe. I imagine if I had an urgent need to feel accomplished and powerful I could drop in on random blogs and leave anonymous comments--seems a popular pastime, and it can't take much energy--but instead I've done little more today than fill the gaps in my record collection 99 cents at at time. Yes, record collection. I'm old enough that to call it anything else takes effort, and, apparently, I'm not making any effort today.

It'd be nice, I suppose, to be able to start a project before that feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that's somewhere between antsy and infuriated, tells me that the last possible minute has arrived. It might be nice, satisfying, even, but I don't expect to know. This habit formed a long time ago, during all those semesters when I could let my subconscious hash out my papers while I did whatever I did before God gave the gift of the Internets to procrastinators like me. Type out the pages between midnight and three a.m.? No problem. Most of the hard work was already done.

Today, on the other hand, the hard work is not done, and my subconscious is as idle as the rest of me. My gut knows the clock is ticking, but I'm not yet moved to act. After all, I have days (days!) before I teach again and more than a week before I make that presentation. Technically, I am still on break. Who am I kidding? Pass that iTunes gift card. No time to waste: I need to buy a song.

Stained Glass and Strained Egos

As usual, Maureen Dowd doesn't disappoint.

It was a scene that Mary McCarthy could have written the devil out of: a funeral for a fine, bland fellow that filled everybody with unfine, unbland thoughts. The formal serenity of the service, disguised, but only barely, the virulent rivalries and envies and grudges and grievances that have roiled this group for many decades.

None of the eulogists noted the irony that the man who ushered out one long national nightmare had ushered in another, the one we’re living in now. It was Gerald Ford, after all, who gave America the gift of Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld — the gift that keeps on taking.

The two former Ford officials, who doomed Iraq to civil war and despoiled American values, were honorary pallbearers yesterday, as was that other slippery and solipsistic courtier, Henry Kissinger.

The Group was even more on edge because of a remarkable trellis of peppery opinions that had tumbled out of the man in the coffin, posthumously. The late president, hailed as the most understated and decent guy in the world, had given a series of interviews on the condition they be held until his death — a belated but bracing smackdown of many of his distinguished mourners.

It was impossible not to wonder what the luminaries were truly thinking, as they sat listening to fugues of Bach and Brahms and encomiums to the ordinary-guy leader.

Nancy Reagan’s imperturbable expression behind her big square sunglasses did not disguise the gloating words visible in the bubble over her head: “And they call this a funeral?”

It could not compare, of course, to the incredible Princess of Wales treatment that her husband had for his state funeral. And Nancy, hypersensitive to any slights to her Ronnie, would not have been pleased with Mr. Ford’s interview with Michael Beschloss published in Newsweek, in which he blamed Ronald Reagan for costing him the 1976 election by challenging his nomination and then failing to hit the trail for him.

It was good of Mr. Ford to bring 41 and 43 together in a solemn respite from their uneasy competition over Iraq.

“Told you so, you sons of guns — we were right to stop at Safwan and stay out of Baghdad,” the father’s bubble read, as he watched Rummy and Henry the K, both of whom had treated Poppy with such veiled contempt, as though he were a feather duster. “Those vicious Moktada-loving Shiites dancing around Saddam’s dead body prove that Brent and I were right.”

Lynne Cheney glared at Poppy as he gave his eulogy, knowing that he privately thinks that the vice president has destroyed not only Iraq and American foreign policy, but the Bush family name. Her storm cloud of a bubble is expurgated.

Hillary’s bubble was full of mockery for another New Yorker in the National Cathedral: “You think you’re so smart, Rudy, but you leave your entire presidential battle plan in a hotel room for your rivals to find? The victim role doesn’t suit you.” Condi’s bubble was as opaquely dark as Hillary’s was risibly light — drooping with the inchoate fear that her nearby erstwhile mentor, Brent Scowcroft, had been right about Iraq after all.

As Poppy spoke from the altar, praising Mr. Ford’s generosity, he must have been mulling that his predecessor was ungenerous in spitting on him from the grave. Mr. Ford told Mr. Beschloss that Bush Sr. had sold out the party to the hard right and had taken a phony, pandering position on abortion.

Poppy had to have enjoyed watching Dr. K get up and lavish praise on his old boss, after Mr. Ford had sniggered to Bob Woodward that the “coy” Bavarian diva had “the thinnest skin of any public figure I ever knew.”

W. graciously walked Betty Ford down the aisle, even as he must have curdled inside about her husband’s telling Mr. Woodward that it had been “a big mistake” on the part of W., Dick Cheney and Rummy to justify the Iraq war with nonexistent W.M.D. “I just don’t think we should go hellfire damnation around the globe freeing people, unless it is directly related to our own national security,” he said.

Ex-presidents weren’t supposed to criticize sitting presidents. Adding insult to injury, Woodward himself was in the cathedral. How did he manage to get all these deathbed confessions, W. had to wonder. “Jeez,” his bubble read, “does he have an interview with my old man in the can?”

Rummy’s pop-up was as cocky as ever: “Golly, I’ve been gone three weeks and things are really looking up in Iraq.”

James Baker’s secret thoughts were as bright as his tie: “I tried to help you out, son, but you’re too dang stubborn. Or ‘resolute.’ Stubolute. A clear case of TMC — too much Cheney.”

Dick Cheney’s bubble was trouble: “I’m surging, I’m surging, I’m surging.”

Favre's swan song?

Elation from the Packers' New Year's Eve win over the Bears quickly turned to sadness as Brett Favre gave this post game interview to Andrea Kramer: click here. A year ago, I was more prepared for his retirement. Now, after an 8-8 season that could easily have been 9-7 (as I optimistically predicted), I see hope for the future.

Favre remains the Packers' best option and a significant NFL draw, as shown by the decision to move the game to prime time. I remain hopeful he'll cancel half of his $11 million salary for 2007 in exchange for a pledge by GM Ted Thompson to get some playmakers while the youngsters continue to develop and additional talent is brought in through the draft.

But I'm struck by the raw honesty of Favre's response immediately after the game. The tears were telling enough. What strikes me as the best evidence of his mindset was how he was able to turn on a dime when asked for his thoughts if this were, in fact, his last game. Brett's a clever SOB, but that transition was too quick, too natural, for someone who hadn't, in fact, played his last game.

Talk about sorry! Here's a Top 10

Slate's Dahlia Lithwick dishes up this New Year's list in the Dec. 31 issue of Washington Post:

I must confess that I love all those year-end lists of greatest movies and albums and lip glosses and tractors of the past 12 months -- it's reassuring that all human information can be wrestled into bundles of 10. In that spirit, herewith are my top 10 civil liberties nightmares of 2006.

10) Attempt to Get Death Penalty for Zacarias Moussaoui: Long after it was clear that the hapless Frenchman was neither the "20th hijacker" nor a key plotter in the attacks of 9/11, the government pressed to execute him as a "conspirator" in those attacks. Moussaoui's alleged participation? By failing to confess to what he may have known about the plot, which could have led the government to disrupt it, Moussaoui directly caused the deaths of thousands of people. This massive over-reading of the federal conspiracy laws would be laughable were the stakes not so high. Fortunately, a jury rejected the notion that Moussaoui could be executed for the crime of merely wishing there had been a real connection between himself and 9/11.

9) Guantanamo Bay: After the Supreme Court struck down the military tribunals planned to try hundreds of detainees on the U.S. base in Cuba, and after President Bush agreed that it may be a good idea to close down the prison, the worst public relations fiasco since the Japanese internment camps lives on. Prisoners once deemed "among the most dangerous, best-trained, vicious killers on the face of the Earth" are either quietly released or still awaiting trial. The lucky 75 to be tried there will be cheered to hear that the Pentagon has just announced plans to build a $125 million legal complex for the hearings. The government has now officially put more thought into the design of Guantanamo's court bathrooms than the charges against its prisoners.

8) Bashing the Media: Whether the Bush administration is reclassifying previously declassified documents, sidestepping the Freedom of Information Act, threatening journalists for leaks on dubious legal grounds or, most recently, using its subpoena power to try to wring secret documents from the American Civil Liberties Union, the administration has continued its "secrets at any price" campaign. Is this a constitutional crisis? Probably not. Infuriating? Definitely.

7) Slagging the Courts: It starts with the president's complaints about "activist judges" and evolves to congressional threats to appoint an inspector general to oversee federal judges. As public distrust of the bench is fueled, the stripping of courts' authority to hear whole classes of cases -- most recently any habeas corpus claims from Guantanamo detainees -- almost seems reasonable. Each tiny incursion into the independence of the judiciary seems justified. Until you realize that the courts are often the only places that will defend our shrinking civil liberties. This leads to . . .

6) The State Secrets Doctrine: The Bush administration's argument in court is that judges should dismiss entire lawsuits over many of the outrages detailed on this very list. Why? Because the outrageously illegal things are themselves matters of top-secret national security. The administration has raised this claim in relation to secret wiretapping and extraordinary renditions. A government privilege once used to sidestep civil claims has mushroomed into broad immunity for the administration's sometimes criminal behavior.

5) Government Snooping: Take your pick. There's the continued defense of the National Security Agency's warrantless eavesdropping program wherein the president breezily authorized spying on the phone calls of innocent citizens, in violation of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. The FBI's Talon database shows that the government has been spying on non-terrorist groups including Quakers, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, and Veterans for Peace. And that's just the stuff we know about.

4) Extraordinary Rendition: So when does it start to become "ordinary" rendition? This government program has us shipping unindicted terrorism suspects abroad for interrogation/torture. Khalid El-Masri, a German citizen, was sent off to Afghanistan for such treatment and then released without charges, based on some government confusion about the small matter of his name. Canadian citizen Maher Arar claims he was tortured in Syria for a year, then released without charges. Although Arar was cleared by a Canadian commission, the government denies wrongdoing.

3) Abuse of Jose Padilla: First, he was "exploring a plan to build and explode a radiological dispersion device, or 'dirty bomb,' in the United States," according to then-Attorney General John D. Ashcroft. Then, he was planning to blow up apartments and, later, was part of a vague terrorism conspiracy to commit jihad in Bosnia and Chechnya. Always, he was a U.S. citizen. After 3 1/2 years in which he was denied the most basic legal rights, it has emerged that Padilla was either outright tortured or near-tortured and, according to experts, is too mentally damaged now to stand trial. The Bush administration supported his motion for a mental competency assessment, in hopes that such a motion would help prevent his torture claims from going to trial. As Yale Law School's Jack Balkin put it: "You can't believe Padilla when he says we tortured him because he's crazy from all the things we did to him."

2) The Military Commissions Act of 2006: This was the "compromise" legislation that gave Bush even more power than he initially had to detain and try so-called enemy combatants. He was effectively handed the authority to define for himself the parameters of interrogation and torture.

1) Hubris: Whenever the courts push back against the administration's unsupportable constitutional ideas -- ideas about "inherent powers" and a "unitary executive" or the "quaint" Geneva Conventions or the limitless presidential powers during wartime -- the Bush response is to repeat the same chorus louder: Every detainee is the worst of the worst, every action taken is legal, necessary and secret. No mistakes, no nuance, no regrets.

01/01/07

Don't know about you, but I've screwed it up already. 2007 isn't even out of the package yet, but it's smudged and little crumpled, already a little worse for wear. Oh, nearly all of its potential is still there, but it's going to take a more forgiving eye to find it, and a more tolerant attitude, too. Meanwhile, 2006 looks a little dirty at the hem, a little diminished by the recent company it keeps. Life, Chapter 37.5.

I'm not here to dish the dirt but to begin to sweep it away before we track it all over the place. I've never been that good with a broom and dustpan; traces of what came before always seem to lurk in the corners. At times like these, though, that failing seems appropriate. Wish as I might, the past won't disappear. January 1, 2007 will always mean more than New Year's Day. And I will always be sorry.