I read the news today, oh boy

As if it weren't a bad enough week, given the continued machinations of evil King Cheney and the goings-on at the Court and Congress, though a failure of any Bush pet project can't be all bad, go watch the always brilliant and always correct Sy Hersh over at Think Progress share his happy, happy thoughts, and then come back and maybe I'll share the third-time's-a-charm-anti-depressants my neurologist hopes will make my daily headache that she and everyone else claims is not normal go away. I hope she's right, too, just for novelty's sake, but somebody's got to explain this one to me. How do you people keep even one eye open every day and NOT get a headache?

Of Ann Coulter

Surely, you've heard all you want/need/care to about Elizabeth Edwards' gutsy call to vampira Ann Coulter on Hardball. The matter cost me several hours sleep and far too much thought.

I'm a fan of Chris Matthews, but I don't know how he resisted the urge to get out of his director's chair and slap the sunglasses off her face. Those long, shapely legs; that hot black dress; the way she flipped her flowing blond hair back -- would be sexy if not for the venom that comes out of her mouth.

Personally, I got more out of the reaction of the woman behind her in white. That'll keep you watching. Or maybe it's just me.

Can't always get what you want

"Is this heaven?"

"No. It's Iowa."

They're worn out now, those lines, W. P. Kinsella's gift to the Iowa tourism board, as faded and soft-cornered as my old paperback of Shoeless Joe with now a major motion picture printed across the front cover, but at this point, that's okay. It kind of fits. I mean, if there is some true celestial plane, I'm sure it doesn't have dual entrances and two feuding-though-they-claim-not-to be-families at the gates. Then again, even if it does, I'm sure it would probably appeal more than the fourth circle of hell. But enough about the Mall of America.


Today, once we fled that oversized retail tribute to all that is wrong with America and meandered through rural Minnesota and Iowa long enough for "If I call 1-800-75-AMISH" (as the billboards insist) who will pick up the phone?" to seem like a sensible question, we came to Dyersville and the movie site for The Field of Dreams. And, in true Family Vacation style, it had been closed for a hour, or at least the good part had: left and center field would be open for another hour, and if that's not another sign of what's wrong with America today, I don't know what is.

A property line, you see, runs through the field, and after the movie finished filming, the left-and-center folks plowed it and planted it and let it be corn until what do you know, the people, they did come, and it became clear that there was money to be made and souvenirs to be sold and "ghost" ballplayers to dress and corn mazes to be built and zoning to change and neighbors to offend and management companies to hire and oh, if we had managed to speed down those two-lane highways just a little faster we never would have turned in to the Left and Center driveway. But there we were, with a bat and a ball and a glove, and a watch that said 7 o'clock, and a sign on the "real" field to read, that said: Please respect our privacy. Field hours 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.

So, several heavy sighs later, we let the girl trespass just long enough to run the bases because what could it hurt, and we, okay I, muttered about not being able to hit, and it didn't have anything to do with that book or that movie or recaptured moments with my dad because for Pete's sake, I'm not even a boy. But we'd been in the car forever, and it was a beautiful night, and we had a bat and a ball and a beautiful field, and I love to hit and I never do, and thanks to bad timing and that infernal mall, it seemed that I couldn't.

Well, screw that, I finally decided. So we crossed the line and took our gear out to the part of the field that I'm sure is only open that late to spite the neighbors and sell a few more t-shirts. No reason to let principle or their nonsense or the lack of a home plate ruin my night, though barely hitting the first half dozen of my husband's pitches off the end of the bat almost did, 'til he pointed out that I was leaning away from everything he threw at, I mean, to me. And then finally, sweet success. When I hit the ball into the corn, my family began walking away, assuming we were done, but my inner eight-year-old fished it out and "one more'd" my way to satisfaction. I even managed to throw something close enough to the strike zone that my pitcher smacked it far enough into the corn (we were playing in left field, remember) that the ball was gone forever, but by then it didn't matter. We got our hits, and nothing feels better.

The field is the field, and I'm glad it's there, however imperfectly. The feud is stupid. The book is my favorite, ever, untouchable in my heart, and the movie ain't bad either. Tonight was a good night, despite the fact that it wasn't quite what it could have been, and beyond the fact that my husband made a suggestion and, remarkably, I listened to it. I just love to hit the ball.

Such an idiot

Completely by accident, I saved myself a lot of embarrassment (and a small fortune) tonight.

My 50-inch projection TV had been out of commission since Thursday night's power outage. After numerous attempts to unplug and replug the surge protector, I had concluded that a lighting strike had damaged my prized TV while somehow leaving the DVR, sound system, clock and weather station fully functional.

When I finally reached a repairman this afternoon and explained my situation, he suggested I bring it in. You might surmise that 50-inch projection TVs aren't exactly portable.

Determined not to miss another episode of "Pirate Master," (the Nigerian Nightmare gone in week 2, are you kidding?!) I readied the Jeep to haul the TV and began disconnecting cables when I discovered the TV was plugged into the surround sound box. I turned on the power and my TV at least reacted when I tried to turn it on.

Another call to Darryl's and I had my TV back, without even lugging it across town or forking over hundreds of dollars. So it's like a MasterCard commercial in reverse:

Missing "National Bingo Night" again -- no biggie
Missing the inaugural Iowa Corn Indy 250 -- oh well
Narrowly avoiding the temptation to purchase the extended warranty on the next major appliance I buy -- priceless.

Thompson's greatest role: Washington outsider

Speaking of bad actors, I overheard this exchange at my daughter's softball game tonight:

"Hey, grandma and grandpa, I just learned we will have golf carts at the event and Mitt Romney's tent is the only one with air conditioning!"

I bit my lip, until my tenteen-year-old daughter took a slow roller to the back ankle and acted as if she were permanently disabled. Poor timing for her, to be sure.

Anyway, while I'm wont to pick on Repugnicans, I came across this on Fred Thompson:

Republican Fred Thompson, who likes to cast himself in the role of Washington outsider, has a long history as a political insider who earned more than $1 million lobbying the federal government.

As a lobbyist for more than 20 years, billion-dollar corporations paid Thompson for his access to members of Congress and White House staff. During that time he was close to two Senate majority leaders, both from his home state of Tennessee -- his political mentor Howard Baker and, more recently, his former colleague Bill Frist.

During Baker's tenure, Thompson lobbied for a savings-and-loan deregulation bill that helped hasten the industry's collapse and a failed nuclear energy project that cost taxpayers more than a billion dollars.

More recently, while Frist led the Senate, Thompson earned more than $750,000 lobbying for a British reinsurance company that wanted to limit its liability from asbestos lawsuits.

That history as a Washington insider is at odds with the image Thompson has sought to convey to voters. When he first ran for the Senate in 1993, Thompson cast himself in the part of the gruff, plainspoken everyman, leased a red pickup truck and drove around Tennessee in his shirt sleeves.

Now, as he considers an expected run for president in 2008, the actor-politician continues to position himself as a political outsider.

However, lobbying has been a steady side gig for Thompson ever since the end of the Watergate hearings that brought him to Washington in 1973 as minority counsel for the investigative committee co-chaired by the GOP's Baker. Lobbying clients paid him about half a million dollars between 1975 and 1993, when he started his campaign for the Senate. He released 20 years worth of tax returns during the race.

When Baker became Senate majority leader in 1981, lobbying provided Thompson with about 80 percent of his total income.

The fiasco ultimately led to about a $150 billion taxpayer bailout of the industry, said Robert Litan, a senior fellow with the Brookings Institution and co-author of a 1993 report on the causes of the disaster that describes the influence of lobbyists as "pervasive, pernicious -- and effective."

Thompson defended his S&L lobbying in a 1994 interview with The Commercial Appeal newspaper in Memphis, Tenn., saying that both parties agreed at the time that regulations limiting the industry's competitiveness needed to be relaxed.

Thompson's first and longest-running lobbying client was Westinghouse Electric Co., for whom he lobbied in favor of nuclear energy. In 1981, he received a little less than $54,000 from the company. At the time Westinghouse was receiving federal funds for Tennessee's Clinch River nuclear project.

A spokesman for Thompson, Mark Corallo, said the experimental reactor "was a local project focused on new kinds of energy at a time when the U.S. was going through an energy crisis."

The reactor was never built and the project was canceled in 1983 after the government had spent $1.7 billion on it.

The spokesman said Thompson was unavailable to comment for this article.

Even after Thompson left the Senate in 2003 with a plum job playing District Attorney Arthur Branch on the NBC drama series "Law & Order" he continued to lobby, this time for Equitas, a British reinsurance company that handles billions of dollars of asbestos claims for Lloyd's of London. That earned him more than $750,000 over the past three years, including $300,000 in 2005, according to data from the Center for Responsive Politics.

The firm had complained it was being treated differently from American companies in a bill designed to remove the about 600,000 asbestos lawsuits from the courts and create a trust fund for victims. The bill was supported by companies facing lawsuits and opposed by many victims and their attorneys.

Since leaving the Senate Thompson has continued to have close contact with powerful Republicans, including members of the Bush administration. That includes acting as the president's point man in guiding Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts through the Senate confirmation process in 2005.

Thompson also helped run the Scooter Libby Legal Defense Fund Trust, an organization that set out to raise more than $5 million to help finance the legal defense of Vice President Dick Cheney's former chief of staff, who was convicted in March of lying and obstructing Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald's investigation into the leak of a CIA operative's identity.

"This is no political outsider," said Craig Holman, a lobbyist for government ethics and campaign finance reform with Public Citizen. "He clearly gained a network of contacts in Congress though Howard Baker that he cashed in on and would represent anyone who would pay him."

Senator Grassley, You Magnificent Bastard

I know nothing of this Bob Cesca fellow, but his post on Huffington Post is good enough for me. As far as I'm concerned, Republican Senators from Iowa should be flogged daily. Particularly those inclined to earmark federal funding for the creation of a rain forest in the Hawkeye State.

Senator Chuck Grassley, you magnificent bastard, you and your cohorts make it way too easy to smack you about the bulbous forehead with the mighty hypocrite stick.

A little background first. A Pittsburgh law firm called Cohen & Grigsby was caught on YouTube detailing how they hire foreign employees through loopholes in the H-1B visa law, rather than seeking American employees. Why? To save money, of course. The Associated Press:

"The goal here of course is to meet the requirements, number one, but also do so as inexpensively as possible, keeping in mind our goal and our goal is clearly not to find a qualified and interested U.S. worker," Lawrence Lebowitz, the firm's vice president of marketing, told the audience in May.

Dastardly and inexcusable, since this firm practically admits to abusing the H-1B visa program. (Coincidentally, Senator Grassley introduced a bill in April which aims to close the loopholes in the H-1B law. If one chose to be conspiratorial about this, one might raise an eyebrow at the timing of this video leak story.)

But really, it's no different than the prevailing corporate mind-set here. A mind-set which Senator Grassley has repeatedly voted to support. More on that below.

The mind-set goes like so: hiring 'spensive, uppity American workers isn't good business sense when there exists a world of cheap, brown foreign labor to exploit; allowing wealthy CEOs to wade pantless in record profits... and Flomax. It's happening everywhere, and it's been enabled by the passage of NAFTA, GATT, and most recently CAFTA. America's borders are not unlike a gaping maw through which profitable corporations are encouraged to outsource their jobs overseas, and they're subsidized by your government to do so.

This thing called overseas outsourcing -- and not illegal immigration -- is the real crisis at our borders.

It's not so much the people coming in, it's the jobs going out.

It's one of many reasons why the middle class in America is rapidly fading away. From the much publicized exodus of GM in the 1980s to the more recent and less ballyhooed Hershey firings*, Ross Perot's prescient description of a giant sucking sound grows suckier by the damn day. At the time, we all thought it was just hilarious to hear a presidential candidate say the word "sucking" a lot. We should've paid more attention.

So on the sucking tip, enter Senator Chuck Grassley, R-Iowa. Upon hearing about the Cohen & Grigsby YouTube video, and after consulting with his colleague Senator Ted Stevens about how all those shrunken lawyers holed-up inside his computer machine survived being dumped through a series of tubes, he teamed up with several of his fellow anti-immigration Republicans and fired off a letter to the law firm:

"We would like you to please explain how this practice does not constitute outright discrimination based on nationality and why your firm so blatantly promotes this type of behavior."

Boiled down, Senator Grassley pitched a fit over this story because it involved foreign workers taking the place of American workers... on American soil. That last part is important. After all, he's one of the top gunners in the anti-immigration debate, so when he spots any sign of ferrnerrs coming in and taking American jobs, he lets-fly the frothy bud nipping. Ironically, however, he has no problem giving American jobs to ferrnerrs -- that is, when those ferrnerrs stay far, far away in their own labor lawless country.

I give you the Grassley voting record:

Voted YES on implementing CAFTA for Central America free-trade. (Jul 2005) Voted YES on establishing free trade between US & Singapore. (Jul 2003) Voted YES on establishing free trade between the US and Chile. (Jul 2003) Voted YES on extending free trade to Andean nations. (May 2002) Voted YES on granting normal trade relations status to Vietnam. (Oct 2001) Voted YES on removing common goods from national security export rules. (Sep 2001) Voted YES on permanent normal trade relations with China. (Sep 2000) Rated 83% by CATO, indicating a pro-free trade voting record. (Dec 2002)

So while politically benefiting from his posture on the current anti-immigration debate, one could say he has -- how to be delicate about this -- a hard-on for sending American jobs overseas.

And it gets worse.

Senator Grassley voted NO on repealing government subsidies for corporations who eliminate American jobs in favor of foreign outsourcing. In other words, he voted to continue giving free money to corporations as a reward for hiring overseas employees instead of American ones. To put it a third way: Senator Grassley, in a sense, is paying American corporations to discriminate against American workers based on their nationality and, by proxy, their desire to earn a decent wage. To put it a fourth way: you're paying to lose your own job. To put it a fifth way: Fucked. Up.

In his letter to Cohen & Grigsby, Senator Grassley wrote, "Your firm's video advises employers how to hire only foreign labor, while making it nearly impossible for a qualified American worker to get the job."

Nice, since the senator voted YES on allowing more foreign workers into the country for farm jobs. No problems allowing cheaper foreign labor into Iowa. After all, he's from the corn capital of North America and he needs the support of corporate agri-businesses in order to keep his own job.

And it gets worse.

When you lose your job to overseas outsourcing, Senator Grassley helped to make your life a further waking nightmare by voting YES on the Bankruptcy Law. But I suppose he figures since you're out of work already, you'll have plenty of time for your federally mandated credit counseling sessions. On the bright side, you'll be home in time to watch all those credit card commercials during another one of Hannity's live telecasts from the Mexican border.

___
* The Hershey Co. recently announced the closing of their factories in Reading and Hershey, PA in preparation for opening candy factories in Mexico, India and China, where the Oompas are cheaper and less cranky about extravagances like overtime pay.

Alexandria, Missouruh: Sal-ute!

Travel Theorem One, formulated 1991, when trying to get from one side of Memphis to the other after the Beale Street Music Festival: Sometimes you have to go to Mississippi.

Travel Corollary One, formulated right now*, somewhere in far northern Missouri:

Sometimes you have to take the fresh oil, loose gravel, no center line detour in exactly the wrong direction just to get to Iowa! But we did get to see the per capita fireworks stand capital of Clark County: population? 166. Fireworks stands? 8!



*yep, e-mail via cell phone has come to the boonies

Not only woulda been cool, was

If I'd have known we were posting seizure-inducing video, I would have flipped to the next setting on my digital camera, but as it is the still-shot will have to do. Because I must have been somewhere cool, as I have the "I was there" (and you were not) KSHE bumper sticker to prove it.

While I cannot say that Van Halen's "Dreams" on a 12-string acoustic guitar was the religious experience for me that it was for many of the 1499 other folks who crowded into the Pageant last night, I gotta say it was cool (relax, collaborator. I'm not saying it was Springsteen). Sammy & The Wabos are always fun, and you gotta give the aging but somehow ageless lead singer credit for making a bajillion dollars doing what he loves to do. It must be good to be king (of St. Louis in the summertime). Plus, there was the nice drunk girl sharing her $57 worth of Waboritas, and Hoosier Haiku in the parking lot as we waited for freaking ever to get in, and Sammy himself chasing us down the alley in a tricked out Mustang as we searched for, and then lucked into, a parking space. On the other hand, let's hope there's no way of knowing if one of us coulda won the end-of-the-night drawings we were not present to win, as the prospect of two more hours with the "you shore look purdy tonight" crowd did plum lose its charm once the band left the stage and the DVD premiered. But hey! I was there! And you! were not!

The Boss and the Big Man

Clarence Clemens' role cannot be overstated.

While I'm at it, check this one out

This Boss has the love of the Common People

I love this song, though somehow never imagined a Bruce Springsteen rendition. The new CD with the Sessions band in Dublin is superb.

Pl*n B

So today I came home from the neurologist with a replacement prescription that has the advantage of being both cheap ($15 instead of $100, though the insurance claims that $100 bottle of pills that I will have to eat, metaphorically, 90% of costs them $1147) and nearly side effect-free but also has disadvantage of being related to the sulfa drug that gave me instant fake bronchitis after my original ER visit in February.

Would it be too much to ask, universe, that I can have a headache- and seizure-free existence on the cheap drug and perhaps even wash it down with the soda and/or beer that the Topamax has denied me for months now?

Um, on second thought, that does seem a bit demanding. I can compromise.

I don't mind a headache now and then, having had at least a little bit of one every day for so long that people tell me I look at them funny when they insist that's not normal.

But could Pl*n B,like, work? Pretty please with no extra office visits on top? No difficulty breathing? No tightness in my chest?

'Cause that would be awesome. Considering I still have the rogue ovary and all.

Triumph at the Tonys

Five years gone

My brother's the one with the story, something about working in a country club pro shop and having Jack Buck come in with Stan Musial. Legends made flesh and needing a belt, but still having time to talk and laugh and play the harmonica with the golf pro who better have been at least a little awestruck. Me, I don't think I ever saw either Buck or Musial in person except from a distance at the ballpark, but I still cried when Jack Buck died five years ago today. Why? For the life of me, I'm not sure I can explain it.

While I do have a thing for voices (I'd appreciate George Clooney even if I were blind), that wasn't really the appeal. Besides, as my daughter would say, that's just creepy. Although he was easily old enough to at least be my father, Buck's voice is what I chose to listen to even when I was 13 years old A self-made baseball fan, I tuned my bedroom clock radio to KMOX and listened to the games all summer long. Jack Buck and Mike Shannon were the sound of summer that year and for the next twenty.

So, the nostalgia is easy. But still, cry for a stranger? Well, the thing about radio, especially baseball radio, especially baseball radio done by old-school types who know what they're doing, is that it gives the impression that you're not strangers after all. You hear their stories, you hear their excitement, you hear their frustration with this stupid team you're both such suckers for following, right there in your car, right there in your kitchen, right there in your bedroom. It's intimate in the best, most non-creepy sense of the word.

Today all the games are on TV, usually narrated by idiots who can't shut up and let you watch the game that you can, after all, see. I'm sure those TV producers would have had a conniption watching the seconds tick by as Buck and Shannon let a minute go by with nothing but crowd noise floating out over the airwaves. But hey, it's baseball. Sometimes, nothing happens. Hearing the nothing is part of the appeal.

It's just harder to hear it these days. I admit my radio habit was broken after Buck was gone and it took a few years for them to find someone who fit. I'll turn the game on, but it's not so automatic any more, and even if it's on, actually hearing it is a crapshoot. The Cardinals moved to a station with a signal that barely carries past the arch, and XM only carries the home broadcast team for home games. It's novel to hear other cities, but it's no way to make me care.

But I did, once upon a time, and so did the thousands of people who filed past a casket placed, altogether fittingly and not at all creepily, at home plate back at the real Busch Stadium. But why? For a man? For the end of an era? for admiration of his skill? his part in our memories, and making them what they were? for having a really cool job, and keeping it, with style, for longer than many of us had been alive? Heck if I know how to parse it all out. But I know what a loss feels like, and that was one.

Confessions of a bad dad

Thank goodness there's no Father's Day edition of "Countdown," or I just might find myself nominated for "Worst Person in the World." In retrospect, I was a complete asshole to my wife and kids today.

I might blame it on sleep deprivation after staying awake from 6:30 Friday morning until 8:30ish Saturday night for Relay For Life, or heat, or dehydration, or latent hostility from my own childhood, but those are just excuses. It's probably closer to the truth -- though perhaps no less fair -- to say I'm just an ass at heart.

My biggest problem, I think, is I give too much weight to Hallmark holidays.

So what if the eggs my daughter prepared for breakfast were cold and the toast insufficiently toasted? So what if she drew a little blood while attempting to give her crotchety old man a pedicure? So what if she was more interested in seeing the new "Nancy Drew" movie than spending time with dear old dad? In fact, who could blame her?

So what if the Bruce Springsteen CD my son got me wasn't accompanied by a card expressing some sappy feelings? So what if I had to replace the lawnmower blade because he bent it while trying to spare me a chore? So what if he missed a spot here or there? So what if he wasn't up for a long bike ride after playing nine baseball games in five days in oppressive heat? In fact, who could blame him?

So what if Father's Day wasn't everything I had hoped but failed to communicate? It is, after all, just another day. Shame on me for wasting it.

Just to show

that we haven't forgotten that YouTube video counts as a random thought:

Handle With Care

I found irony tonight in the shopping cart while wandering through the Bullseye Boutique.

Right along side my son's I-tunes card sat my prized purchase -- the remastered and repackaged Traveling Wilburys collection, complete with DVD and four bonus tracks. Though I already own Volume 1 and Volume 3, and I was drawn to new releases by my all-time favorites Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty, this was a priority purchase.

If you value the art of record-making, run (do not walk) to your favorite CD outlet/department store and fork up $25. You'll be glad you did if only for the glimpse into how a group of rock and roll stars managed to place friendship above egos to produce such wonderful music. The voice of Lefty Wilbury (Roy Orbison, may he rest in peace) is worth the purchase price all by itself. Add Charlie T. Jr. (Petty), Lucky Wilbury (Bob Dylan), Otis Wilbury (Jeff Lynne) and ringleader Nelson Wilbury (George Harrison) and you'll be doing the "Wilbury Twist."

We weren't even to the grocery section when I began to lament how I-tunes, in my view, has destroyed the art of record-making. Anyone, as American Idol has demonstrated all too well, can make a hit song. But a complete album that leaves your toes tapping from start to finish, seems to be a lost art (except for the aforementioned Springsteen and Petty).

What saddens me most is how accepting consumers are to this shift in the industry. Why buy the album (for lack of a better word) when I only want one song? Because, I demand, one song shouldn't be all there is. Green Day's "American Idiot" and Counting Crows' "August and Everything After" come to mind as examples that all hope is not lost.

But that I-tunes card really rubbed me the wrong way. I'm not so old fashioned that I still own a turntable, but I haven't felt compelled to enter the I-pod world either. Am I the only one who still reads liner notes?

I quote Terry Lawson of the Detroit Free Press:

It's hard to imagine, 20 years later, that these records sold millions. They are way too spontaneous and organic, even with the polish of producer Lynne's glossy sheen. This is the sound of the authentic rock `n' roll as practiced by Orbison and the teenage pre-folkie Dylan, revered by Harrison and Lynne, and revisited by Petty.

It may, it seems, never die, as long as there is someone to remember just how great it can make you feel.

The reliably unreliable

Don't let me down.

And we walk down the stadium concourse, two people who have known each other for years, randomly meeting and going right back to the middle of the only conversation we can really have at this point, the one everything is riding on. And we both know it. Smiling but serious. One of us nervous, one of us not. All the real questions unsaid but immediately understood: Are you going to be honest? Are you going to be a grown-up?

Don't let me down.

And I look him in the eye and say it again, my tone light, as if he's not impervious to guilt, as if there's any chance that anything I say or do will have any impact on the outcome of this inevitably sad story.

Don't let me down.

Because that's what he does. Well, not me, in particular, as I've long since given up. My expectations went in the shredder with the bad check he gave us, and how many years ago was that? Long enough ago that the bank was still mailing back paper checks with little notes attached. Can you believe this guy? said the subtext of the NSF notice. You're friends! Why didn't he just tell you? Instead, he costs you $25 more?

Because he can never just tell you. There's always one story then another, and an unnecessary lie or two that contradicts the story anyway, until you just don't care any more, and then every time you see him he looks at you like a puppy facing some mean lady with a rolled up newspaper (though you never said anything to him at all about any of his screw ups, being the friend's wife, and not directly the friend), and oh for the days when he was just embarrassed because he left his dirty underwear in the bathroom floor of an apartment you moved out of in 1994.

It's a shame, really.

Especially because you're relying on him, the most reliably unreliable guy you know, to get you into a game at Lambeau Field sometime in 2007, and already, months ahead of time, the excuses are flying.

He came through last year, in his own way. He never paid for his share of the hotel room, of course; on the other hand, he may have thought it a poor use of his money, pulling into Green Bay as they did at 5:30 a.m. on game day since he can make no distinction between "I'm about 5 miles away," and "I am about five miles away where I am inside a restaurant having wings and fully expect to be hours late" when on his way over to begin a 500 mile drive.

I didn't make that trip, my seat having been eBayed out from under me at the last second, but it's probably a good thing, even though I wanted to go so much that, for a time, anyway, driving hundreds of miles out of my way to take advantage of an unsuspecting Cedar Rapids babysitter seemed like a perfectly logical choice. Because if I'd gotten into that car, I'm sure my wifely silence would have been broken, and I doubt that anyone who has been harangued for a thousand miles would be game for a replay. And this year, I really need to go.

And Mr. Reliably Unreliable needs to learn that it's better to tell his friends one thing that is true rather than three things that he wishes were true before the actual truth comes out in the end. Because he's not a bad guy. He has good intentions and a sense of humor that I always enjoyed back before it was surrounded by eggshells of his own creating. And he has a good job that comes with connections that either will or will not come through. I get it! Don't lead me on, don't let me down: just be straight. That, dude, is what friends do. They do not concoct ever- changing stories that only postpone--and increase-- the inevitable disappointment. At least if I were buying from a scalper I'd already know exactly how it's going to hurt.

According to Adrianna and Tom

I can't remember why Lonnie has a thing for Arianna Huffington--was it the hair, the accent, the keen political mind?--but she had me at the last line of this excerpt:

With each passing day, Washington, D.C. is turning into the Land That Time Forgot.

While the rest of the country is dealing with the here and now -- exemplified by Bush's puny approval ratings and this new poll showing rural voters turning against the GOP's handling of Iraq -- the Beltway's Democratic dinosaurs are acting like it's 2002. For them, Bush still has credibility on Iraq, Democrats still need to tread lightly in opposing the war for fear of alienating red state and swing voters, and Iraq is still a right vs left issue.

The latest proof that Tyrannosaurus Democrat is not an extinct species comes in the fossilized thinking of Stuart Rothenberg, editor of The Rothenberg Political Report. Writing in Roll Call, the Cro-Magnon pundit waxed ecstatic over Congressional Democrats' handling of the war funding issue, spinning the Dems' capitulation as having "played the issue like a Stradivarius," and proclaiming: "From a purely political point of view, Democrats had their cake and ate it too."

Rothenberg's piece is so confounding, it might have been written by David Chase.

Yes, yes, yes!

How can there possibly be political advantage in so maladroitly saying one thing and doing another, especially when what the Dems end up doing is exactly the opposite of what a growing number of Americans of all politcal persuasions seems to want? Leadership. Look it up. It's most definitely in the dictionary, somewhere between character and majority, and it might even introduce victory. But, perhaps that's too complicated: must we draw them a picture? Lucky then, 'cause just last week, Tom Tomorrow did.

Less wisdom, but longer of tooth

After taking matters into my own hands -- rather tongue -- this afternoon regarding a fragment of wisdom tooth that remained in my mouth a quarter century after the rest were removed, I sure hope dental care is included in whatever solution we eventually achieve to this country's health care crisis.

Following my semi-annual cleaning and checkup, complete with x-rays, on May 23, I began to notice an intense sensitivity to cold beverages on the upper left side of my mouth. Summer and aversion to cold beverages -- particularly the adult variety -- don't mix well, so I went back to the dentist last Thursday. They took another x-ray, it had been 15 days after all, and noticed a tooth that was practically without roots.

This was no epiphany as the dentist has commented on my short roots twice a year since I began visiting him at least a decade ago. Apparently, short roots are the result of hurried orthodontia. While it would be easy to blame my orthodontist, I blame my mother. When I was contagious with chicken pox, she got the orthodontist to reschedule my monthly crank session for a Saturday when the office was normally closed.

This is the same woman who took me to the mall to have my wisdom teeth removed. Thank goodness we didn't live near the Mexico border. And why would anyone split the procedure in two when you can remove all four in one visit? Except they missed a piece.

It hasn't caused me any problems lo these many years, but has been a constant reminder of slipshod dentistry. Well, at my recent cleaning/checkup, the dentist noted how it wasn't even connected to anything and would eventually fall out "or I can take it out." On my return visit, he diagnosed a suspected abscessed tooth, prescribed antibiotics and pain medicine, and referred me to an endodontist.

Meanwhile, I've taken to drinking beer with a straw.

Today I went to the endodontist and am happy to report that the most painful part of the experience was having an old high school classmate as the assistant. I handed her the x-ray taken four days ago, but of course they needed another one. The endodontist determined the tooth couldn't be saved and had to be removed, for which I would have to return to my dentist. Argh!

He also noted my residual wisdom tooth and said the dentist could remove that too, but it'll cost extra. Too small and deep to reach with my fingers, I redoubled my efforts to dislodge the tooth with my tongue. By the time I arrived home I had succeeded, wondering if I could submit a claim for my efforts to the insurance company or if the tooth fairy would pay me a visit.

I return to the dentist Wednesday hoping to end this saga once and for all. They'll probably take another x-ray (they should replace that winding sound with a cash register ca-ching), but they won't get a dime for removing that wisdom tooth.

A father's dream

"Proud parents Mary and Steve Scroggins show off daughter Carmela on Thursday in their in Wood River home. She is 5 weeks old. The "Bada Bing" onesie is a reference to "The Sopranos"; the baby was named after a character from the show."
(J.B. Forbes/P-D)

Now there's a sequel

Although she is nothing if not her own person, my daughter and I have a fair amount in common. Some is nature: sorry about the nearsightedness, kiddo. Some is nurture: I'll take at least a little credit for her reading and cooking skill and her defense of the downtrodden. And some is a toss-up: eye-rolling--does that come naturally or is it learned?

But one thing she'll never be able to share is a young person's pain at not finding her correctly spelled name on any pens or stickers or any other personalized plastic crap at Six Flags or anywhere else. While I knew, theoretically, that there had to be other A-l-l-i-s-o-n-s out there, somewhere, I don't think I met another until college. When one's name is number three on the popularity chart? Not an issue. And neither is buying junk with one's name on it.

Which, as I recall, was kind of a big deal when I was 10. And which, perhaps, is one more reason that my friend's brother's ex-girlfriend could have thought maybe a little bit harder about what to name her baby boy this week, because this kid is never getting a ruler with his name on it. And sure, family tradition is important. And sure, there's all that Sylvester Stallone memorabilia just waiting to be scooped up. And if two generations did it, what's one more. But, but, but. . . ROCKY III?

Out of the loop

Repeat after me: That woulda been cool. Say it wistfully, even though it doesn't matter, in the scheme of things, is no big deal, is nothing that you had your heart set on or would really wish to happen. Just say it, why not, because life is like that sometimes: that woulda been cool.

'Cause that's what I was saying when I found out that not only did the Hollywood types who commandeered a block or two of town for the day drove right by the end of my street as they moved from one location to the other, not that I would've camped out to catch a glimpse, but that they, and by they I mean Tim Robbins, showed up to play with the house band at a local bar for a couple of hours, and I most definitely would've shown up for that, had I only but known before my dad showed me his town's paper two days later.

I need a wider circle of friends, or at least acquaintances with my number programmed into their cell phones who are likely to be out late on a Wednesday night, you know, just on the off chance some other interesting actor type comes slumming two thousand miles from the coast. If I find out I do know someone who was there, well, that just won't be cool at all.

Once I realized what I'd missed, I went back and read the news stories that would have kept me in the loop if not for a poorly timed and purely accidental local news blackout. The city council seems to have done a fine job anticipating problems both real (traffic, interrupted business) and imagined (confusing Edwardsville, IL with Evansville, IN in the movie credits), and hundreds of people enjoyed a day in the sun seeing what there was to see. And why not? The movies came to town, and how often does that happen? (Technically? Once every twenty-nine years.) And then later, the guy who was both Nuke LaLoosh and the director of Dead Man Walking and Mr. Susan Sarandon played his guitar a couple of miles from my house. I don't know if it woulda been good, but, c'mon, admit it: it woulda been cool.

When the living is easy

"Just think," said my dad, pointing out the weeks on our oh-so-seventies kitchen-towel kitchen calendar, "you have two whole months of vacation to go."

That's the real life moment that marks the beginning of my generic, never-really-happened-quite-that-way Summer Vacation, the one where I'm some indeterminate age, riding bikes, walking to McCrory's for a candy bar, concocting a cover story for the naked Barbies in the patio drain water, walking to McCrory's for another candy bar, and alternately playing with, looking for, or ratting on my brother and his friends.

To my elementary school mind, two months seemed like forever, though I'm sure I didn't express my appreciation enough to appease the working man who actually earned his time off. Decades later, having progressed all the way to high school, I feel like nailing the calendar pages down before they flip by without me. I still may not have earned the time off, but appreciation? That I have down.

I didn't choose to be a teacher for June, July, and August, or, these days, for June and July, and in fact I don't really believe that teaching will ever be the profession it aspires or even claims to be until teachers work as many weeks a year as everybody else, no matter how long kids are in school, but that's another post. And for now, I've got time.

Time for my family and friends. Time to sit on my deck and drink something cold if regrettably non-carbonated. Time to finally get rid of the awful striped wallpaper in the bathrooms. Time to go away for a while. Time to watch half a season's worth of The Shield at once and declare it an accomplishment because cleaning the DVR of its backlog still counts as cleaning. Time to read. Time to listen to Keith and Dan. Time, eventually, and I really mean it this time, to work on the next school year so it doesn't swallow me alive.Time, even, to ride my bike.

On the last day of school, the principal announced that school would be in session in seventy-seven days. But that was the 30th, and today's already the 6th. And teachers come in a good week before students. . . man! What am I doing? Time's a wastin'. Better get to work.

What's in the Holy Water?

First there was Kurt Warner, whose rise from Hy-Vee sacker to NFL MVP is well documented. Then there was Zach Johnson, the Master's champion for whom a stretch of road is now named in Cedar Rapids. Regis High School hit the trifecta with Joslyn Morse, the busty blonde gal pal of Yankee superstar Alex Rodriguez.

The New York Post reveals her to be "a longtime stripper and Playboy wannabe who has danced at one of A-Rod's favorite jingle joints." With a collection of adult-oriented businesses now clustered on the city's far west side -- including a "juice bar" recently cited in Sports Illustrated for its weekly mixed marshal arts night -- it seems inevitable, and altogether appropriate, that a street near the Lumberyard be named Joslyn Way or Morse Boulevard.

I'd suggest the Catholic high school, but it's been closed. Their work is done.

Texas tea party

While attempting to instruct the mother of my son's baseball teammate on the art of keeping score today, the conversation wandered. By the time my son was pitching to hers to finish off the 8-5 victory, she was asking for the address to this blog. So, in case she stops by, I thought I should write something.

I realize now that I erred in characterizing my writing as mostly political. So if she comes here looking for my justification for supporting John Edwards or Al Gore for president, she'll be disappointed. Come to think of it, she didn't indicate who she supports, though I got the distinct impression that's she leans to the right.

That's ok. I have no problem with that. Good people can be wrong, just as bad people can be correct. I'm actually quite intrigued by the ability of conservatives to stand by their principles, even as conservative poster boy Dubya has made a mockery of our democracy while trying to force the freedoms we hold so dear down the throats of an unwilling nation and simultaneously denying them to our own people. It's like showing up uninvited to a party and changing the music, only bloodier.

Don't give me that "they hate us for our freedom" crap. They hate us for our arrogance, for our we-know-what's-best-for-you actions, for bombing their country and killing innocent people.

Don't give me that "we're fighting them there so we don't have to fight them here" crap. Even the grand illusionist White House occupant can't believe this lie. Were it true, wouldn't we be fighting the people who attacked us in the first place? Intelligence, which is a moving target under the present administration, is clear that Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11. Afghanistan did. Our ally Saudi Arabia did.

Sure, Iraq is now a breeding ground for terrorists. But only because our actions made it so.

And, public opinion be damned again, the Bush administration this week began discussing a US presence in Iraq that will last for decades. Why that wouldn't have anything to do with the region's rich oil resources would it? Goodness no. It's about weapons of mass destruction... or responding to an attack on our homeland... or bringing a dictator to justice... or spreading democracy.

I don't hate America; I hate George Bush's America. Though I don't have a magnet on my car, I support our troops. I support bringing them home from an unjust war. Let Dubya and his oil-rich buddies do the fighting, if they must. Except, as we've seen too many times, they're cowards.

Come and listen to a story about a man named Bush
Inherited a surplus, and made it go woosh
Then one day he was shootin at some dudes,
And up through the ground came a bubblin' crude.

Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea.

Well the first thing you know Bush is a billionaire,
Voters said Bush move away from there
Said we've had enough of this unjust war
So he dug his heels in the sand and prepared us for more

Death, that is.
US troops, Iraqi civilians.

Well now its time to say good-bye to Bush and all his guys.
And they would like to thank you folks fer turning a blind eye.
You’re all invited back again to this locality
To have a heapin helpin of their democracy

Imperialism that is. Set a spell. Watch Faux News. Y'all come back now, y'hear?

No slumber at this party

Kid parties are a drain, on one's energy, on one's bank account, on one's patience. And yet, every year, we do it again, sometimes even twice. This year's birthday party was intended to be small and low key, but, the time-space continuum still having its way with me, we still needed to bake the cake and finish tidying up the house with only hours to go. I was glad for the house to be cleaner than it had been, survival having been the theme of the Spring, but when my daughter asked me when I was going to get around to clearing my things off the upstairs bathroom vanity since her guests were due to arrive in two hours, I can't say I was looking forward to her party, or, frankly, spending any more time with the guest of honor. Limits had been reached.

But unlike the city Parks and Rec department that canceled Thursday's games on account of some gathering dark clouds and some brief if intense showers, I resisted the urge to pick up the guest list and the cell phone and clear my weekend schedule once and for all. Not that I ever would have done that, but please, child of mine with the apparently broken arms who has lived with me for ten years but still cannot resist asking if I will pick up my hairbrush and make up bag sometime in the next 120 minutes. Who are you to doubt me so, my mother?

But the moment passed, and, in the end, I thoroughly enjoyed carting those silly girls around, talking with and teasing them, feeding them sugar, thwarting The Dreaded Alexa in her quest for party domination, and staying up late (but not nearly as late as they did) printing out pictures for their so-last-minute-but-didn't-look-it party favors and laying out a breakfast buffet worthy of at least a Days Inn. That's the beauty of ten. They're not nearly self-sufficient, but they're not self-conscious yet, either, and, by God, they can surely get up and feed themselves.

If a lot of laughter, a very few tears, an evacuation out of the Y skating rink for the first tornado warning of the season, a late-night run to the grocery store for even more sugar, and the tamest game of truth or dare ever make for a good birthday sleep over, then I think our 10-year-old came out okay. Even The Dreaded Alexa claimed to have had fun. And the bathroom, for the record, was pristine.