Caption Contest

So it's not every day that one's classroom is visited by envoys from the planet Pig Latin. Or whatever the heck that was. I suppose the fact that I couldn't help but smile as I directed the erstwhile bookcover to the trash might mean that I'm in the right job. Or more likely, as the photographic evidence suggests, it's solidly 4th quarter--May tomorrow!--and we're all beginning to lose it.

her current dilemma

Slipped in, glossed over, presumed by both parties. One of those off-hand remarks that comes back to haunt, working its way to the surface, to consciousness, as I retrace and go over the words I've already heard.

"Of course, they don't have any insurance."

Of course.

I must admit I was hoping. Against hope, constant long-suffering companion. They're small businesses owners, so it was a toss-up, maybe at best, and Mom quite pre-existing. Maybe she's the only one without. What a poster family for the politicians; every wedge issue under the same roof. I make a mental note to ask my student aide--a citizen, for those scoring at home--if she's registered, make rude gestures towards Washington and passing campaign buses in my head. Go back to grasping at straws.

Because this child needs to be both home health care for her mother in the early afternoons and finish the final few weeks of high school. She doesn't know the rule about asking for forgiveness instead of permission, so she came to us for help out of her untenable situation instead of just skipping. And the only official word the counselor and I have squeezed out of The Office (the locus of authority, too maddening to be a sitcom), so far is, "we'll look into it." For 28 more days, I'll bet, until the calendar resolves their end of the dilemma.

Dear girl. You'll graduate. Have mom write--oh, lord: which arm did they take?--a note. Do what you need to do.

Favre watch: this little piggy ran all the way home

Courtesy Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel columnist Bob Wolfley

Among the interviews Brett Favre did in the last few days was one with Steve Mariucci of the NFL Network.

That interview aired before the start of the NFL draft on Saturday.

Mariucci was Favre's position coach in Green Bay from 1992 to '95.

The interview touched on Favre's decision to retire, what he does at his Hattiesburg home and his relationship with his dad.

Mariucci asked what Favre plans to do in the immediate future as well as five years from now.

"No plans, really," Favre said. "I've had people say, 'You have to have a plan.' I have kind of gone through life without a plan, really."

According to an Associated Press report, when Favre and his wife Deanna were in New York last week they saw a Broadway play, "Jersey Boys," and, according to Matt Hasselbeck, Favre had his first facial and a pedicure.

Hasselbeck also was in New York and spent time with his former teammate.

"He'll probably kill me for this," said the Seattle quarterback, referring to sharing that information with the press. "It was something he and his wife Deanna did together," Hasselbeck said. "I feel sorry for the woman who did the pedicure."

Krugman: Bush Made Permanent

Bush Made Permanent
By Paul Krugman
The New York Times

As the designated political heir of a deeply unpopular president - according to Gallup, President Bush has the highest disapproval rating recorded in 70 years of polling - John McCain should have little hope of winning in November. In fact, however, current polls show him roughly tied with either Democrat.

In part this may reflect the Democrats' problems. For the most part, however, it probably reflects the perception, eagerly propagated by Mr. McCain's many admirers in the news media, that he's very different from Mr. Bush - a responsible guy, a straight talker.

But is this perception at all true? During the 2000 campaign people said much the same thing about Mr. Bush; those of us who looked hard at his policy proposals, especially on taxes, saw the shape of things to come.

And a look at what Mr. McCain says about taxes shows the same combination of irresponsibility and double-talk that, back in 2000, foreshadowed the character of the Bush administration.

The McCain tax plan contains three main elements.

First, Mr. McCain proposes making almost all of the Bush tax cuts, which are currently scheduled to expire at the end of 2010, permanent. (He proposes reinstating the inheritance tax, albeit at a very low rate.)

Second, he wants to eliminate the alternative minimum tax, which was originally created to prevent the wealthy from exploiting tax loopholes, but has begun to hit the upper middle class.

Third, he wants to sharply reduce tax rates on corporate profits.

According to the nonpartisan Tax Policy Center, the overall effect of the McCain tax plan would be to reduce federal revenue by more than $5 trillion over 10 years. That's a lot of revenue loss - enough to pose big problems for the government's solvency.

But before I get to that, let's look at what I found truly revealing: the McCain campaign's response to the Tax Policy Center's assessment. The response, written by Douglas Holtz-Eakin, the former head of the Congressional Budget Office, criticizes the center for adopting "unrealistic Congressional budgeting conventions." What's that about?

Well, Congress "scores" tax legislation by comparing estimates of the revenue that would be collected if the legislation passed with estimates of the revenue that would be collected under current law. In this case that means comparing the McCain plan with what would happen if the Bush tax cuts expired on schedule.

Mr. Holtz-Eakin wants the McCain plan compared, instead, with "current policy" - which he says means maintaining tax rates at today's levels.

But here's the thing: the reason the Bush tax cuts are set to expire is that the Bush administration engaged in a game of deception. It put an expiration date on the tax cuts, which it never intended to honor, as a way to hide those tax cuts' true cost.

The McCain campaign wants us to accept the success of that deception as a fact of life. Mr. Holtz-Eakin is saying, in effect, "We're not engaged in any new irresponsibility - we're just perpetuating the Bush administration's irresponsibility. That doesn't count."

It's the sort of fiscal double-talk that has been a Bush administration hallmark. In any case, it offers no answer to the principal point raised by the Tax Policy Center analysis, which has nothing to do with scoring: the McCain tax plan would leave the federal government with far too little revenue to cover its expenses, leading to huge budget deficits unless there were deep cuts in spending.

And Mr. McCain has said nothing realistic about how he would close the giant budget gap his tax cuts would produce - a gap so large that eliminating it would require cutting Social Security benefits by three-quarters, eliminating Medicare, or something equivalently drastic. Talking, as Mr. Holtz-Eakin does, about fighting waste and reforming procurement doesn't cut it.

Now, Mr. McCain isn't unique in making promises he has no way to pay for - the same can be said, to some extent, of the Democratic candidates. But Mr. McCain's plan is far more irresponsible than anything the Democrats are proposing, and the difference in degree is so large as to be a difference in kind. Mr. McCain's budget talk simply doesn't make sense.

So what are Mr. McCain's real intentions?

If truth be told, the McCain tax plan doesn't seem to embody any coherent policy agenda. Instead, it looks like a giant exercise in pandering - an attempt to mollify the GOP's right wing, and never mind if it makes any sense.

The impression that Mr. McCain's tax talk is all about pandering is reinforced by his proposal for a summer gas tax holiday - a measure that would, in fact, do little to help consumers, although it would boost oil industry profits.

More and more, Mr. McCain sounds like a man who will say anything to become president.

$10,000

"Ms. P, do you think I'm asking for too much?" This from a soon-to-graduate Senior.

I know the answer without even hearing the situation: yes.

"What's that?"

"I told my parents when they go back to Mexico this summer they should sign the apartment over to me, leave me a car, and give me $10,000."

I feel the look come over my face that I have given her once for every dollar: "How much do you make in a week?"

"I don't get paid every week." She's guileless, just literal.

I don't snap but close by eyes: "When you get paid, how much do you make?" She's clearing about a thousand a month, seems unambitious for more.

"And how much is the rent? (And the electric and the gas and the groceries and such. Not to mention the four-dollars-per-gallon-by-then.) Have you done the math?" Though the answer is obvious. "You could never make it on that kind of money alone." Too bad the personal finance requirement doesn't kick in until next year, I think. Not that it would matter.

"That's why they need to leave me ten thousand."

"No, they really don't." And her eleventh grade friend and I are matching metronomes of negative head-shaking with the emphasizing eye-roll. "No, dear. Just, no."

Unlike, perhaps, the grown-ups down the hall I don't leap to, "Do they even have it?" They could, though easily is not the word. Nobody saves like these families, at least not in my experience. The discipline is a wonder to me with my typical American habits. Teenagers--unlike this one--with a second job procured just for cash to be stashed for a concrete and then achieved goal. Cars paid in full. Homes. Real estate investments (I'm serious). Four-wheelers. Mothers with bank accounts and extra thousands at home in a box, much to my vaguely worried consternation. "She knows it'd be insured in the bank, right?" I pass surreptitious messages home.

So this girl, good grief. Is she missing a gene? Has she been here too long? Entitlement must be contagious. The new American dream: to be supported by one's parents in the circumstances to which one has become accustomed, no matter the cost. Oblivious all along.

Frank Rich: How McCain Lost in PA

This election should be cake! But it's not gonna be.

It shouldn't be close! But it will be.

These are the refrains I'm constantly ranting, here, six long months out. Stupid people. I'm likely to mutter. I mean, the old man is nuts! And people are likely to vote for him based on some misbegotten reputation without even knowing or caring what he's saying he'd do. Iran! 100 years! The court! Taxes! And I spill out a whole slew of exclamation points, throw up my arms, shake my head. Six more months, oh God. And then there's Her. So distasteful, worse all the time. Talk about clinging and bitter. And I am too skeptical to be an Obamabot, but he's the best that's left. I cross my fingers. He worries me despite the remarkably good parts. Get fired up already, dude.

So reading this was a little calming, is what I'm saying.

How McCain Lost in Pennsylvania
By FRANK RICH

IT’S a nightmare. It’s the Bataan Death March. It’s mutually assured Armageddon. “Both of them are already losing the general to John McCain,” declared a Newsweek columnist last month, predicting that the election “may already be over” by the time the Democrats anoint a nominee.

Not so fast. If we’ve learned any new rule in the 2008 campaign, it’s this: Once our news culture sets a story in stone, chances are it will crumble. But first it must be recycled louder and louder 24/7, as if sheer repetition will transmute conventional wisdom into reality.

When the Pennsylvania returns rained down Tuesday night, the narrative became clear fast. The Democrats’ exit polls spelled disaster: Some 25 percent of the primary voters said they would defect to Mr. McCain or not vote at all if Barack Obama were the nominee. How could the party possibly survive this bitter, perhaps race-based civil war?

But as the doomsday alarm grew shrill, few noticed that on this same day in Pennsylvania, 27 percent of Republican primary voters didn’t just tell pollsters they would defect from their party’s standard-bearer; they went to the polls, gas prices be damned, to vote against Mr. McCain. Though ignored by every channel I surfed, there actually was a G.O.P. primary on Tuesday, open only to registered Republicans. And while it was superfluous in determining that party’s nominee, 220,000 Pennsylvania Republicans (out of their total turnout of 807,000) were moved to cast ballots for Mike Huckabee or, more numerously, Ron Paul. That’s more voters than the margin (215,000) that separated Hillary Clinton and Mr. Obama.

Those antiwar Paul voters are all potential defectors to the Democrats in November. Mr. Huckabee’s religious conservatives, who rejected Mr. McCain throughout the primary season, might also bolt or stay home. Given that the Democratic ticket beat Bush-Cheney in Pennsylvania by 205,000 votes in 2000 and 144,000 votes in 2004, these are 220,000 voters the G.O.P. can ill-afford to lose. Especially since there are now a million more registered Democrats than Republicans in Pennsylvania. (These figures don’t even include independents, who couldn’t vote in either primary on Tuesday and have been migrating toward the Democrats since 2006.)

For such a bitterly divided party, the Democrats hardly show signs of clinical depression. The last debate, however dumb, had the most viewers of any so far. The rise in turnout and new voters is all on the Democratic side. Even before its deathbed transfusion of new donations, the Clinton campaign trounced the McCain campaign in fund-raising by 2.5 to 1. (The Obama-McCain ratio is 3 to 1.)

On Tuesday, a Democrat won the first round of a special Congressional election in Mississippi, even though the national G.O.P. outspent the Democrats by more than double and President Bush carried this previously safe Republican district by 25 percentage points in 2004. A Gallup poll last week found Mr. Bush’s national disapproval rating the worst (69 percent) for any president in Gallup’s entire 70-year history. For all his (and Mr. McCain’s) persistent sightings of “victory” in Iraq, the percentage of Americans calling the war a mistake (63) also set a new record.

“I’m thrilled to be anywhere with high ratings,” Mr. Bush joked on Monday night, when he popped up like Waldo on the NBC game show “Deal or No Deal” to root for an Army captain who was a contestant. But it turns out that not even cash giveaways to veterans can induce Americans to set eyes on this president. “Deal or No Deal” drew an audience 19 percent below its season average. The best deal for Mr. McCain would be for Mr. Bush to disappear into the witness protection program.

But surely, it could be argued, the mud in the Democratic race will be as much a drag on that party’s eventual nominee as the incumbent president is on the G.O.P. ticket. The counterargument, advanced by Mrs. Clinton in justifying her “kitchen sink” attacks on Mr. Obama, is that the Democrats are better off being tested now by raising all the issues the Republicans will. It’s a fair point. The Wright, Rezko, Ayers, “bittergate” and flag-pin firestorms will all be revived by the opposition come fall. Voters should indeed see how Mr. Obama deals with them, just as Democrats also need to gauge how the flash points of race and gender will play out in the crunch.

The flaw in Mrs. Clinton’s refrain is her claim that she, unlike her challenger, has already been so fully vetted that her candidacy can offer no more unpleasant surprises. “I have a lot of baggage, and everybody has rummaged through it for years,” she says. Perhaps the delusion that she has a get-out-of-scandal-free card comes from her unexpected endorsement from Richard Mellon Scaife, the nutty Pittsburgh newspaper publisher who once spent a fortune trying to implicate the Clintons in the “murder” of Vince Foster. Or perhaps she thinks Fox News will call off the dogs now that her campaign chairman, Terry McAuliffe, is appearing in network promos endorsing its “fair and balanced” shtick.

But the incessant praise for Mrs. Clinton’s resilience as a candidate by Karl Rove, Pat Buchanan and William Bennett reveals just how eager they are to take her on. The dealings of the Bill Clinton post-presidency, barely alluded to by Mr. Obama in his own halting bouts of negative campaigning, have simply been put on hold while the Democrats slug it out. Close observers of The Wall Street Journal, The New York Post and Fox News can already read Rupert Murdoch’s tea leaves, and not just those from China. “Clinton Foundation Secrets” was the title of The Journal’s lead editorial on Friday profiling a rogues’ gallery of shady donors.

Mrs. Clinton’s supporters would argue that she’s so battle-tested she could fend it all off. She’s unlikely to get the chance. For all the nail-biting suspense being ginned up, the probable denouement remains unchanged. When the primary juggernaut finally ends — following picturesque day trips to Puerto Rico and Guam — the superdelegates will likely succumb to the math of Mr. Obama’s virtually insurmountable pledged-delegate total.

There’s also a way that two super-superdelegates, the duo on the Democrats’ last winning ticket, could trigger a faster finale. Bill Clinton could do so by undermining his wife once more with another ill-timed, red-faced eruption. Al Gore could possibly do so with a well-timed endorsement before his party gets mired in yet another Florida recount.

There’s only one way this can end badly, no matter how long it lasts. That would be if the loser, whoever it is, turns sore and fails to rally his or her troops around the winner. It’s all about “the way the loser loses,” as the Illinois Congressman Rahm Emanuel, who is neutral in the race, likes to say. While the Clintons are capable of such kamikaze narcissism, their selfish desire to preserve their own political future, if not the party’s, may be a powerful check on those impulses.

On the way to the finish line, the prolonged primary race, far from destroying the Democratic candidates, may do more insidious damage to the Republican nominee, lulling his campaign into an unjustified complacency. The Democrats should “take their time — don’t rush,” the McCain aide Mark Salter joked last week. Yet his candidate, as the conservative blogger Ross Douthat pointed out, keeps bumping up against a 45 percent ceiling in the polls even now, when the Democrats are ostensibly in ruins.

Mr. McCain is not only burdened with the most despised president in his own 71-year lifetime, but he’s getting none of the seasoning that he, no less than the Democrats, needs to compete in the fall. Age is as much an issue as race and gender in this campaign. Mr. McCain will have to prove not merely that he can keep to the physical rigors of his schedule and fend off investigations of his ties to lobbyists and developers. He also must show he can think and speak fluently about the domestic issues that are gripping the country. Picture him debating either Democrat about health care, the mortgage crisis, stagnant middle-class wages, rice rationing at Costco. It’s not pretty.

Last week found Mr. McCain visiting economically stricken and “forgotten” communities (forgotten by Republicans, that is) in what his campaign bills as the “It’s Time for Action Tour.” It kicked off in Selma, Ala., a predominantly black town where he confirmed his maverick image by drawing an almost exclusively white audience.

The “action” the candidate outlined in the text of his speeches may strike many voters as running the gamut from inaction to inertia. Mr. McCain vowed that he would not “roll out a long list of policy initiatives.” (He can’t, given his long list of tax cuts.) He said he would not bring back lost jobs, lost wages or lost houses. But, as The Birmingham News reported, this stand against government bailouts for struggling Americans didn’t prevent his campaign from helping itself to free labor underwritten by taxpayers: inmates from a local jail were recruited to set up tables and chairs for a private fund-raiser.

The Democrats’ unending brawl may be supplying prime time with a goodly share of melodrama right now, but there will be laughter aplenty once the Republican campaign that’s not ready for prime time emerges from the wings.

Teenage wasteland

It's a shame, really.

Loving parents. All the comforts of home. Anything you need on a silver platter. A free college education there for the taking... if only you would put a tenth of the effort that you give to baseball.

I knew the teenage years would be a parenting challenge. After all, I was once one myself. I think I was prepared to deal with the threats posed by sex, drugs and, well, maybe not rock and roll so much (I'm a rocker myself). Besides, my own upbringing gives me a unique perspective on the father-son relationship.

And for 14 years we've enjoyed the bond I've always dreamed of. Constant companions. Shared passion for all things Packers, Dodgers and Lakers. A common appreciation for a good cheeseburger. Playing catch.

Sadly, it has changed. Maybe I shouldn't have let/made you ride RAGBRAI last year. I was so proud of you. I still am, but, buddy, where have I gone wrong?

If there's a benefit of standardized tests, it's that it reveals potential. You've got it. But you've got to want it. You've got to want it for yourself more than I want it for you.

You go to school at 6:30 in the morning to lift weights... every day. Your baseball starting streak rivals Brett Favre's. You've never missed a meal. Your work ethic is impressive. How it doesn't carry over into the classroom is mind boggling.

It's your life, and the choices you make will determine your future. I'll love you regardless. Meanwhile, your choices are making life miserable for all of us while throwing away your future.

You've got to want it.

Brett on Dave, Favre on Madden

How can you not love this man?

modern technology, old-fashioned talk

The conversation is minimal, a gesture. Thirty messages, according to Gmail, that would up add up to a few minutes of in-person talk. It's something to do, more than anything. A way to pass the endless hospital day. And probably I'm just the person in her address book who doesn't risk detention for replying between the hours of 7:30 and 3. I don't make more of it than that, but I'm glad to be in touch, and I talk to her of teacherly things.

Does the school know where you are? Have you asked for your homework? I tie up official loose ends, try to pave her way back. She doesn't know how long she'll be sitting and translating, sitting and waiting, sitting alone while her mother is sleeping. Time doesn't go by in a hospital room, not in my experience. So she gets out that phone, types with her thumbs.

Back in the school, we've become the cellphone gestapo, a Spring-time crackdown recently put into place. I've collected two in four days, addicted kids inadvertently fidgeting with their half-grown-up toys, neither one disrupting, one not even in class, but the new policy is clear, and that's the stupid breaks. If they knew I am occasionally replying to one of their own who is out-of-school texting I've a hunch they might stage a mild, irrational protest, but she's asked me not to tell and besides, as so many things, it's none of their business. So the hush-hush how-are-you continues.

It's not all serious. At lunch I share the rare miracle of my non-cafeteria meal and she replies with, "Yay, me! hospital food!" but declines my offered delivery. We joke a little, touch base, maintain a semblance of normal. But on Thursday, hours and hours pass after my morning, "How's it going today?"

"sorry it took me this long to write back," No sorry, I mentally reply.

"but was busy with my mom. last nite she had a meltdown!!" And she goes on to explain. I do what I can in twenty-five words or less, for this girl I so feel for. Offer my hopes for a better tomorrow, await the next dispatch.

"my fingers r crossed," she says.

Mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore

Alright. I've had enough. I didn't want to appear sexist, which I'm not, so I've been easy on Hillary Clinton. But her latest ad in Pennsylvania, which includes Osama bin Laden and quotes Harry Truman, is quite enough.

If Deanna Favre had her attitude, she'd be prepared to step into the starting quarterback job for the Green Bay Packers. Give me a friggin break!

Her health care plan is better -- though still not up to the John Edwards standard -- but Barack Obama has what it takes. Am I comfortable with him answering the phone at 3 a.m.? Sure, but I don't expect him to take my call.

This country needs inspiration like never before. John McCain and Hillary Clinton are about as inspiring as melba toast. I'm hitching my saddle to the Obama movement.

P.S. Not that I have any say in the matter, but Bill Richardson as VP, Joe Biden as Sec of State and John Edwards as Attorney General would please me greatly.

Cut and Paste: Michael Moore

Friends,

I don't get to vote for President this primary season. I live in Michigan. The party leaders (both here and in D.C.) couldn't get their act together, and thus our votes will not be counted.

So, if you live in Pennsylvania, can you do me a favor? Will you please cast my vote -- and yours -- on Tuesday for Senator Barack Obama?

I haven't spoken publicly 'til now as to who I would vote for, primarily for two reasons: 1) Who cares?; and 2) I (and most people I know) don't give a rat's ass whose name is on the ballot in November, as long as there's a picture of JFK and FDR riding a donkey at the top of the ballot, and the word "Democratic" next to the candidate's name.

Seriously, I know so many people who don't care if the name under the Big "D" is Dancer, Prancer, Clinton or Blitzen. It can be Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Barry Obama or the Dalai Lama.

Well, that sounded good last year, but over the past two months, the actions and words of Hillary Clinton have gone from being merely disappointing to downright disgusting. I guess the debate last week was the final straw. I've watched Senator Clinton and her husband play this game of appealing to the worst side of white people, but last Wednesday, when she hurled the name "Farrakhan" out of nowhere, well that's when the silly season came to an early end for me. She said the "F" word to scare white people, pure and simple. Of course, Obama has no connection to Farrakhan. But, according to Senator Clinton, Obama's pastor does -- AND the "church bulletin" once included a Los Angeles Times op-ed from some guy with Hamas! No, not the church bulletin!

This sleazy attempt to smear Obama was brilliantly explained the following night by Stephen Colbert. He pointed out that if Obama is supported by Ted Kennedy, who is Catholic, and the Catholic Church is led by a Pope who was in the Hitler Youth, that can mean only one thing: OBAMA LOVES HITLER!

Yes, Senator Clinton, that's how you sounded. Like you were nuts. Like you were a bigot stoking the fires of stupidity. How sad that I would ever have to write those words about you. You have devoted your life to good causes and good deeds. And now to throw it all away for an office you can't win unless you smear the black man so much that the superdelegates cry "Uncle (Tom)" and give it all to you.

But that can't happen. You cast your die when you voted to start this bloody war. When you did that you were like Moses who lost it for a moment and, because of that, was prohibited from entering the Promised Land.

How sad for a country that wanted to see the first woman elected to the White House. That day will come -- but it won't be you. We'll have to wait for the current Democratic governor of Kansas to run in 2016 (you read it here first!).

There are those who say Obama isn't ready, or he's voted wrong on this or that. But that's looking at the trees and not the forest. What we are witnessing is not just a candidate but a profound, massive public movement for change. My endorsement is more for Obama The Movement than it is for Obama the candidate.

That is not to take anything away from this exceptional man. But what's going on is bigger than him at this point, and that's a good thing for the country. Because, when he wins in November, that Obama Movement is going to have to stay alert and active. Corporate America is not going to give up their hold on our government just because we say so. President Obama is going to need a nation of millions to stand behind him.

I know some of you will say, 'Mike, what have the Democrats done to deserve our vote?' That's a damn good question. In November of '06, the country loudly sent a message that we wanted the war to end. Yet the Democrats have done nothing. So why should we be so eager to line up happily behind them?

I'll tell you why. Because I can't stand one more friggin' minute of this administration and the permanent, irreversible damage it has done to our people and to this world. I'm almost at the point where I don't care if the Democrats don't have a backbone or a kneebone or a thought in their dizzy little heads. Just as long as their name ain't "Bush" and the word "Republican" is not beside theirs on the ballot, then that's good enough for me.

I, like the majority of Americans, have been pummeled senseless for 8 long years. That's why I will join millions of citizens and stagger into the voting booth come November, like a boxer in the 12th round, all bloodied and bruised with one eye swollen shut, looking for the only thing that matters -- that big "D" on the ballot.

Don't get me wrong. I lost my rose-colored glasses a long time ago.

It's foolish to see the Democrats as anything but a nicer version of a party that exists to do the bidding of the corporate elite in this country. Any endorsement of a Democrat must be done with this acknowledgement and a hope that one day we will have a party that'll represent the people first, and laws that allow that party an equal voice.

Finally, I want to say a word about the basic decency I have seen in Mr. Obama. Mrs. Clinton continues to throw the Rev. Wright up in his face as part of her mission to keep stoking the fears of White America. Every time she does this I shout at the TV, "Say it, Obama! Say that when she and her husband were having marital difficulties regarding Monica Lewinsky, who did she and Bill bring to the White House for 'spiritual counseling?' THE REVEREND JEREMIAH WRIGHT!"

But no, Obama won't throw that at her. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be decent. She's been through enough hurt. And so he remains silent and takes the mud she throws in his face.

That's why the crowds who come to see him are so large. That's why he'll take us down a more decent path. That's why I would vote for him if Michigan were allowed to have an election.

But the question I keep hearing is... 'can he win? Can he win in November?' In the distance we hear the siren of the death train called the Straight Talk Express. We know it's possible to hear the words "President McCain" on January 20th. We know there are still many Americans who will never vote for a black man. Hillary knows it, too. She's counting on it.

Pennsylvania, the state that gave birth to this great country, has a chance to set things right. It has not had a moment to shine like this since 1787 when our Constitution was written there. In that Constitution, they wrote that a black man or woman was only "three fifths" human. On Tuesday, the good people of Pennsylvania have a chance for redemption.

Yours,
Michael Moore
MichaelMoore.com
MMFlint@aol.com

I knew I felt something

Having just made it to bed, I was awake for the follow-up shaking. Checked the clock for later confirmation and then returned to focusing on getting my whole four-and-one-quarter hours in. Do I qualify as a Californian now?

Another quake rumbled early this morning
ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH STAFF
04/21/2008
At least five small aftershocks to Friday's earthquake rumbled through Southern Illinois this weekend, including a moderate quake measuring a 4.5 magnitude at 12:38 a.m. this morning.

a snapshot

"So you realize," I say, as I take tickets and check their names off the list of prom-goers, "that part of the price of your admission is a picture with me before you leave tonight."

"It's a must," comes the reply. And we smile and laugh, but I mean it, dead serious. That, beyond the terms of my contract, is exactly why I'm here. Souvenirs and remembrance. Tokens from the end of the line.

I am not the only teacher, of course, with a camera wedged into an evening bag. I am not the only teacher who will be asked to stop and smile. Maybe no one is more sentimental than a high school senior. Except for, maybe, me.

This year's graduates do not, perhaps, represent my greatest accomplishments as an educator, if such things, as the bureaucrats tell us, are measured in test scores and GPA. But considering that they have witnessed nearly ever minute I have spent as an ESL teacher--all the other years,working in junior high and community college and at the university were other lives--it seems fair to say that what they believe me to be is what I am.

To have spent so much time together may or may not have been the educational ideal, but it has been what we've had. They were everything from my proving ground, to my 8-3 homeschool, to my experiment in whether familiarity does actually breed contempt (not always, or at least not every day). I believe that they think that I know things, and that they've learned from me--both about life and about school. I believe that they think that I try. That I'm trustworthy. That I am too nice except when I am in a mood and too disorganized always (though I've never actually lost anything). That I will do anything I can. For better or worse our six years of experiences have made me the teacher I am, so far, so of course I wanted that picture. Not to remember--I'll never forget--but to see myself through their eyes.

Missing Out

"Well, did you feel that earthquake?" I asked hopefully to the boy so disappointed to have slept through the big topic of discussion.

"What earthquake?"

"The aftershock, the one at 10:15."

"Are you serious?" he whines with the tone of a carnival-goer short of money for his tickets.

I nod half-apologetically. Smile because I can't help it. Oh, high school, all about being either with the in-crowd or the out, even when it comes to potential natural disasters.

Earthquake!

For once I was the last one up. But hey, the shaking felt as if someone were trying to rouse me out of bed, and I had ten more minutes: it was only 4:37 a.m. That's mostly what I'll remember, beyond the alarm clock shaking on top of the TV after everything else quieted. Yeah, yeah. I'm up! The other members of my household have more specific recall about a doorway bead curtain shaking and the sound of the whole house vibrating. At least it wasn't a tornado: their first thought.

Anyway, magnitude 5.4, centered in Evansville, Indiana, hundreds of miles from here. How midwesternly wide. And of course I looked online for detail about our morning experience. No way I'm turning the television on for EARTHQUAKE! redux. It's too early for that kind of nonsense. The stories are now propagating, but my favorite is the first one that seemed to be out there, quickly posted by some guy in the surely empty Evansville newspaper offices, apparently calling his friends:

Earthquake rattles Tri-State
By Ryan Reynolds
Originally published 04:42 a.m., April 18, 2008
Updated 04:47 a.m., April 18, 2008

An earthquake rattled the Tri-State in the early morning hours Friday.

The shaking, which started at about 4:35 a.m. CDT, lasted about 10 seconds.

A reporter at the Associated Press building in downtown Indianapolis reported feeling the earthquake as well. Scott Rosenburgh, a former Courier & Press advertising manager now working in a suburb northwest of Chicago, said the quake woke him there. The quake also awoke people in St. Louis, Mo.

The National Weather Service Office in Paducah had had reports of items being knocked off walls in the Poseyville area.

Police dispatch in Evansville reported the investigation of a possible gas leak on Bayard Bark Drive near Kerth. More information will be posted as it becomes available.

Darkness on the edge of town

"Danny and I worked together for 40 years - he was the most wonderfully fluid keyboard player and a pure natural musician. I loved him very much...we grew up together."
—Bruce Springsteen

Danny Federici, for 40 years the E Street Band's organist and keyboard player, died this afternoon, April 17, 2008 at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City after a three year battle with melanoma.

The Federici family and the E Street family request that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Danny Federici Melanoma Fund. A web site for the Fund is being established and we'll post its link when it is on line.

Bruce Springsteen's concerts scheduled for Friday in Ft. Lauderdale and Saturday in Orlando performance are being postponed. Replacement dates will be announced shortly.

First of the Season

Frankly, it's the most horrifying thing I've ever seen, and yes, I'm aware it's only a circle of construction paper. But it's taped over the clock. "Time to Learn" the markered slogan taunts the students--not my students, clearly--and when I visit that classroom I find myself checking my wrist almost without thinking for the comfort of my watch. I just need to know; I don't operate in a timeless vacuum, don't understand that strategy. I can identify the one mechanism man has perfected for making time come to a full and complete stop, however: in my experience it's called a graduation ceremony.

When my seniors ask me to describe what awaits them, I say,"Oh, it lasts forever. You won't believe the talking." I'm not even playing. I'd confirm that we hold the world record for length of ceremony in the category two hundred students and fewer, but even the thought of it bores me. A minute and a half of pride and pleasure; two hours of near coma. I'd say that I'm a terrible role model, but given that I have an advanced degree, I must be expert at feigning interest.

Tonight parental duty required attending the first graduation of the season, though DARE strikes me as an odd thing to graduate from. But perhaps I'm just a malcontent. Next thing you know I'll be pointing out that the officer who taught what's billed as a decision-making model used a logical fallacy as his big keynote example, but hey, the kids seem to like it, and I suppose it won't hurt, even if the statistics say otherwise. Besides, you've gotta love fifth graders. I don't know if this is what the officer had in mind when he hauled them through the detention home, but here's to one girl's version of being scared straight: 1. the clothes are ugly. 2. the food is bad. 3. it's boring. They will make of it what they will.

So, yes, I was paying attention, in a look who's grown, look who hasn't, wow, he's changed kind of way since I rarely see many of those kids. Two hundred or so fifth graders walked across the high school stage tonight, probably a little less than half of their future graduating class. Seven years hence their commencement ceremony will be over at the university, since even the gym won't accommodate all the graduates and family and friends. I can't even fathom what we'll witness in the intervening years, middle school and high school, though we all know most of those boys and girls will make at least some of the choices they've just sworn they never will. As if life is decided with a classroom workbook. As if a police officer is a parent. As if any of it is as black and white as those t-shirts that they all wore. In the end, I think we'll do the right thing. The girl strikes me as that kind of person. But still when we look back in the near imaginary year 2015 I'm sure this will seem like a much simpler time.

Media whores

I've been out of the news business a dozen years now, but I still have friends at the locally owned daily newspaper. I have a great appreciation for their plight, though I'm not often kind about their product.

One of these friends blogged about last night's gotcha debate on ABC. This is admirable when you consider that the newspaper company also owns a television station, in fact they occupy the same downtown block. KCRG is an ABC affiliate.

It does my liberal media bias good to see journalists still willing to fight the good fight.

whatever the odds

I've consulted with a surgeon, been marked up with a Sharpie. Drifted off in a frigid OR, woken up minus the lump. But I haven't really been there. My doctor was confident, so I went along with her benign assumptions, trusted in my genes. So I've had the concern but not the panic, not the worry that everything had changed. I've never looked at packages and lapels dolled up with pink ribbons and wondered if the funds raised might someday be for me.

If only that were true for the old acquaintance whose aggressive diagnosis I received word of today. If only that were true for my student's mother whose arm will be amputated Monday in a last-ditch effort to stop the progress of her disease.

But, life happens, and this is a part. Fair or unfair is not even the question. Challenge for these women and their families not even the word. Though my biology says I'm more likely to finally have a stroke that's not metaphorical, someday, of course, the patient waiting for the cancer doctor could again be me. But that's not why, in the meantime, I'll contribute, participate in the Relays, send out the best possible thoughts for the best possible outcomes, help out with the kids. My motives are simple. I just want them to live.

Boss' endorsement

Dear Friends and Fans:

Like most of you, I've been following the campaign and I have now seen and heard enough to know where I stand. Senator Obama, in my view, is head and shoulders above the rest.

He has the depth, the reflectiveness, and the resilience to be our next President. He speaks to the America I've envisioned in my music for the past 35 years, a generous nation with a citizenry willing to tackle nuanced and complex problems, a country that's interested in its collective destiny and in the potential of its gathered spirit. A place where "...nobody crowds you, and nobody goes it alone."

At the moment, critics have tried to diminish Senator Obama through the exaggeration of certain of his comments and relationships. While these matters are worthy of some discussion, they have been ripped out of the context and fabric of the man's life and vision, so well described in his excellent book, Dreams of My Father, often in order to distract us from discussing the real issues: war and peace, the fight for economic and racial justice, reaffirming our Constitution, and the protection and enhancement of our environment.

After the terrible damage done over the past eight years, a great American reclamation project needs to be undertaken. I believe that Senator Obama is the best candidate to lead that project and to lead us into the 21st Century with a renewed sense of moral purpose and of ourselves as Americans.

Over here on E Street, we're proud to support Obama for President.

Bruce Springsteen

Biggest Loser

For the first time in "Biggest Loser" history, a woman won. I didn't used to pay the show much attention, even when a former Iowa wrestler was a contestant. This year, however, it has been my constant companion as I've waged my own battle of the bulge.

When I next weigh in on Monday, I'll be something more than 35 pounds lighter than I was Jan. 14. That pales in comparison to the totals posted by contestants on the "reality" show, as does my prize, but I take just as much satisfaction in the accomplishment. And I didn't have to make a fool of myself on national TV.

The faculty/staff competition put together by a student fitness organization couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. A slowing metabolism coupled with an increasingly sedentary lifestyle and the daily caloric intake of a teenager is not a healthy combination. By December, I was sufficiently dissatisfied with my appearance and concerned for my health that I decided to do something about it.

Exactly what wasn't clear until the "New Year, New You" faculty and staff competition was announced. I teamed up with two co-workers and we recruited a volleyball player/athletic trainer to be our coach.

My 30-pound goal became an obsession. It was as if my life depended on it. The day the body fat scale said I was no longer classified as "obese", I knew that it did.

I'm the last one to spew health advice, but there's no magic to weight loss. Burn more calories than you consume and you'll lose weight. Consume more calories than you burn and you'll gain. It's really that simple.

I did learn some things about helping my body work for me -- breakfast, for instance, isn't just a good idea, it's the law -- and I've learned to make smart choices about what I put in my mouth. I've learned I really can fit exercise in to my daily routine.

I'll be proud next week to be crowned "biggest loser" in our little competition, but -- just like the reality show -- the real prize is the ego boost that comes with feeling good and looking good. Even as grilling season nears, I know I didn't go on a diet -- I changed my life.

an update

Probably there's no other way to live, circumstances being what they are. Take a breath and do it. Don't think about it. Day to day, hour to hour.

Three months ago to the day--I haven't been counting, only an old e-mail alerted--my students' small world was all upheaval and panic when what could never happen to one of them did. It seems a long time ago now. My student who fled in an immigration bust fall-out has become a second-hand name, a "How's he doing?" when he calls from Chicago. I'm glad he's fine.

And then, randomly, the story, the trigger. They always start in the middle.

"He's not sure if he'll go back to Mexico."

"What?"

"His brother has tried to pass three times, but he's got caught, and they told him next time he'd go to jail for three years. So he thinks he'll stay down there."

"I guess so." The wife and three kids, by the way, are in Chicago, waiting. Family reunification may still be policy, but it is not easy. It's also not the point, not this time.

What is instead striking is not even how casually this news is relayed, but how completely the girl who's telling the story has slipped back into what for a crisis-filled moment seemed like an untenable life. She's driving because she's old enough, not because she's licensed. She'll work in the summer because her mother says it's time to pitch in. She'll follow the gray rules, stay outside the lines. She'll focus on the iPod she bought with her share of the tax refund and her tech school acceptance--all the trappings of the American high school life she lives--and deal with the rest when it comes. As we now know that it will.

Just ask the grad who has left a vague message on my voicemail. He says only that he wants to talk, discuss a few things. The news says that his former employer has been fined tens of thousands of dollars for hiring certain workers. I hope for no connection, know better. Wait for another call.

Everyone's life is complicated in one way or the other. These are just the stories that I know.

A very quiet Monday

A discussion of a weekend car wreck and a ticket for driving without a license.
A resulting conversation about whether proof of insurance can save one from being hauled off to the local jail.

The bell.

Laggard instruction in essay writing that should have been finished a week ago at least.

A surprise entrance by a chronic truant, forty-five minutes late, natch.

Civics, Chapter Six. The Executive Branch as the framers intended. No current events today.

Advice on procuring summer writing tutoring and an explanation of why I cannot do it myself. For once, relief in the distance. Help with selecting a topic for a persuasive paper, completion of an outline.An update on the surgery and why she will not get it.

Algebra and fractions.

The chastised exit of the same truant for his sister's "dentist appointment."

A broken promise about asking guidance to get Oscar's stuff out of his locker now that he's not coming to school.

Delinquent paperwork.
A cookie from the boy who adores me.
Papers graded and entered, motivated by the news that midterm is suddenly Wednesday. WHAT?

A twenty-minute lunch with a departing friend. News of a summer baseball tour. Lighthearted envy. Talk of a coming birthday. Unnecessary assurance that I do not seem that old from someone who is that young.

Copies.

"My mom's leaving tomorrow," announced via sudden, unscheduled appearance.
"Are you okay?"

E-mail. Arrangements and requests and staff-centric gossip.

A map of Europe, the location of Luxembourg, and an explanation of the key.

An apology for eating pretzels in front of the girl whose mother has put her on a starvation diet, thanks to American food.

The Reign of Terror (in France, not my classroom) and World War II.

Child Development as a school subject, not the process I daily witness.

A delicate explanation (given the Chinese) of this "Tibet" thing that keeps turning up on Sports Center, complete with clarification that the Dalai Lama is not an animal.

Geometry. Word problems sketched. An English teacher alternately confident and stymied by tenth grade calculations.

A phone call from the teen mother about a long-delayed drop letter and the pretense of summer school.

"Ms. P., why are you being so nice today?"
"I'm not any different today than I ever am."
"Yes, you are."
"What are you doing that you don't always?"
"My work."

A meeting made bearable by like-minded colleagues. All the other everythings I've already forgotten. All things considered, a very quiet Monday.

Blather and Understatement

Not just the name of a band formed by two former colleagues in a past life, but an appropriate title for what you will read in this post, if you so choose.

Over the span of the last nine days, I've done something I never imagined and something I said I'd never do again. Both were gratifying in their own way, and both were emotionally exhausting.

A week ago Friday, I married my step-brother. It's legal, apparently, not that we be married -- but that I could officiate his marriage to his wife -- a perfectly heterosexual female, in case anyone cares. By virtue of my online ordination with the Universal Life Church, I may legally officiate weddings, funerals, and all sorts of "religious" observances.

Though my previous experience was limited to "funerals" for a pet dog and cat, I confidently officiated the wedding on a sun-splashed beach in Jacksonville, Fla. I didn't realize going in how meaningful it would be to me.

I was armed with a "sermon" found on the Internets -- modified slightly by a reading of John Lennon's "Love" by Scott's real brother, Michael, and taped inside the pages of a Brett Favre book that appropriately served as the bible for this holy ceremony. I said -- or rather, read -- some things about marriage that seemed to strike a cord with many in attendance. Afterward, several people asked me if I had written it. One woman even asked where my church is.

There are no plans to open Lonnie's Mega Church anytime soon, and I'm not sure my ordination will serve me again. This wedding was special, and I think that's what made it so gratifying. However, ordination lasts a lifetime and I'm always open to new experiences.

Today, I was director -- again -- of the second annual rain-shortened play-like-it's-spring-damnit! baseball tournament (not its official name). You don't have to be crazy to run a baseball tournament, but it sure helps.

For the second year in as many tries, Mother Nature was not our friend. Last year, a mid-week snowfall forced us move parts of the tournament and confine others to Sunday only. This year, persistent rain and cold and Murphy's Law mucked things up again. After reshuffling the deck for a Sunday-only tournament again, it was apparent on Saturday that we had to cancel altogether.

Except we had a team in from Chicago that was already in the area. After a less-than-satisfying tournament experience in Kansas City last summer, I was determined not to let this team return home without playing any baseball. So we moved the 14-year-olds to the only field close to playable, and made it happen for four teams.

It was still too cold for baseball -- maybe 43 in the sun and behind a wind block -- but four teams were able to play six games over the course of nine hours. Perhaps appropriately, the Chicago team took home the hardware. My son's team gave reason for optimism and I was proud as ever to see Zach step up to the plate, take his position at shortstop and, for the first time in probably five years, start a game at pitcher. On the day, he pitched 2-1/3 innings of no-hit baseball.

Me? I'm spent. The mundane and routine sounds pretty appealing right now.

flying

"You can't get there from here," was literally true last week, at least if one were relying on silver jets stamped with red and blues As. Given that is nearly the only choice from our nearly monopolized airport, I sighed with retroactive relief that my need to fly came a little sooner, that I wasn't stranded or abandoned and actually enjoyed my time in the air. A first class surprise in the back of the plane.

On the way East I scored an aisle to myself and an old fashioned pilot who told us which earthen crisscrosses were which cities as viewed from thirty thousand feet. Two hours of nothing; a beautiful break. I smiled as the Indian couple across the aisle lit up with excitement upon our descent, but you know I only saw them because I was comparing that window to mine. A skyline, a statue, even the sporting highlights of Queens--Flushing Meadows, the old and new homes of the baseball pond scum--and the globe from the 1964 World's Fair. A tourist before I even stepped off of the plane.

The journey west offered neither view nor solitude, but in the end it was my favorite, maybe of any trip on any aircraft. My neighbor was going to sleep or write some music, and I was going to watch some trashy Showtime on the pretty iPod, but since we never stopped talking, none of that happened. I don't recall how we started.

I do admit that somewhere in there the classic St. Louis question, “Where did you go to high school?” did get asked. That verbal tic, that habit, that regional compulsion is supposed to be an easy way to peg who someone is, what they’re about. And to me it does seem natural, though obviously it’s imperfect and backwards, meaningless except when it’s not. I am not, after all, a Wood River girl, except that, somewhere in there, I am. It informs how I think of things, what I appreciate, what I know is out there. Despite the fact that I do not now, have not ever, and will not in the future perm my hair, drink Busch beer, or go to the tractor pull. I know the flaws in the system.

But what other possible follow-up is there to a mention of graduating both from an exclusive college and in the bottom half of his high school class? When he sheepishly answered with an expensive acronym, he expected me to know it, and I did. "That explains it," I said, both a conclusion and a tease. When he insisted I give up my high school alma mater in exchange, I was slow to answer because I knew he wouldn't know it, and he didn't, specifically, though he congratulated me for having all my teeth. The other side of the river, after all, remains just a set of assumptions for the privileged and otherwise well-traveled in my part of the world. And yet somehow we had ended up on the same wavelength and the disparity in where we came from and are didn't seem to matter much at all. Interesting.

Or maybe not so interesting, in the scheme of things, that a 24 year-old kid and someone nearly old enough to have been his teen mother had a conversation both compelling and fun from take-off to landing. The Venn diagram of politics and social attitudes we created would have nothing larger to say than a hot shot software architect and a suburban teacher had more in common than the demographers would presume. Smart people become liberal and interested in the world. Some boys are ahead of the curve. Underestimating my age by eight years is charming. Save all the details I'll randomly remember, that's probably the sum of it, though by any calculation a far a better answer than a silent flip through the Sky Mall and a half-hearted gaze at some TV on a tiny little screen.

a wish

It seems early for the hubbub; it must be a trick of the weather. Blustery and gray says March to my brain, but next week is halfway through April. The Seniors are already taking their leave of school, wading deep into the Spring rivers of celebration, so quickly a flood. Class breakfast. Prom. Six Flags. Commencement. The lock-in.

"I'm so excited," says my teacher's aide as she spills out the modest bag of souvenirs and supplies that were delivered today: picture frame, tassel, announcements, even cap and gown--already. Childhood goal made concrete. Joy in her grin.

For weeks she hesitated, held back by duty, reluctant to dive in to this particular pool, this youthful finale. Suddenly, though, she has tickets to everything, a prom dress, anticipation to spare. Her mom's resurgent cancer will wait, or else it won't, but at least they'll have this. Life being lived. A chapter they've waited for.

All this Senior stuff is often a study in let-down, so manufactured, so temporary, but just this once, may it be exactly what she needs and has dreamed of.

Hallefreakinlujah

The planets have aligned, and by that I am referring to Planets Flu and Slacker. Thanks to the most brilliantly timed bout of illness with which I've ever honestly been afflicted, I shall not be slogging through the damp woods with The Dreaded Alexa and my mortal enemy, Mullet Woman. I will not be sullying a perfectly good Brett Favre cap in an effort to keep the ticks out of my hair. I will not be flirting with double pneumonia given the forecast for constant rain and/or snow--and the best part is that, perhaps just by benefit of being mine, my daughter doesn't care.

"If you ask me, a night-time girl scout scavenger hunt is just a recipe for disaster anyway," she justifies, unnecessarily, either because she knows I didn't want to go or because she really didn't either. I am never going to get credit for my willingness, could procure a doctor's excuse from each of my specialists and still be thought a faker: my reputation as the non-participatory scouting mom is just that solid. But, small price to pay for staying warm and dry and avoiding the siren song of motherly martyrdom.

"Maybe on Saturday we could to the movies and to our favorite Chinese restaurant instead," she suggests.

That's my girl; how I love her. And despite fever and cough or possible contagion, we will most definitely be there. Some sacrifices are worth it.

Are you kidding me?

That has become my typical response when the corner "convenience" store attendant informs me they're out of my brand of smokes. The only convenient part is they're the cheapest in town -- of the cut-rate brand I selected after the state raised the tax.

I'm smoking less these days, but I've always been a pack-at-a-time consumer (vacations excluded). But when I go to buy a pack, there ought to be one to buy.

Have you ever stopped for gas and the tanks were empty? Me neither.

I'm sure I could get a Red Bull -- or a HoHo -- whenever I wanted. Isn't that convenient?

Out

"Do you want to know a secret?" she asks as I walk in the door, on the brink of tardy for my own first block class.

I raise an eyebrow, gesture to the small gathering of ninth graders, try to keep up the pretense of school. But I am intrigued; six years later, a senior, finally, she's still not one for discretion. To have reigned in her impulse is something. So I let her tell me, later, in the bastion of illusory privacy that is the hallway. How many times for how many reasons I've closed a door, leaned against a wall. This time I'm told of a mutual friend in another school who has come out with some news about who he is, or how he will live, and while his announcement was not intended for public consumption it was intended for me. "Only the people I trust the most," he'll e-mail me later. This excitable girl is my courier.

"Can you believe it?!" she exclaims. "I mean, we always teased him, but. . I mean, I don't care." she grasps, amazed. "But he did say it might be a phase." I'd have said, "not that there's anything wrong with that," but she wouldn't have gotten the reference. She wanted a, "No way!" at least, for me to share her not-quite-shock, but she should have known she wouldn't get it.

"That says a lot about your friendship; I'm glad he can trust you like that," is what she got instead. I didn't remind her of the time we all crowded a middle school hallway after his hastily withdrawn admission of the same kind of preference led to an uglier scene. Surely she remembers. I can still see them, such kids, looking up to me to fix it as my mind raced for words that might not make it better but wouldn't make it worse. Silent panic in the school corridor; luckily, I don't think they noticed.

Or maybe they did; they're well aware of my failings and faults, and yet they keep returning with their dilemmas and successes. Some of it is necessity: we've been stuck with each other for a literal third of their lives. But beyond that, there's something. If only I'd taught this young man English he could express it more fully, but I'm thrilled with his gist when he writes me tonight, "thank you, mrs p, i'm glad that from everyone i know you are one of the most understandable people i've met in my life."

Another Brett Favre tribute

coincidence

Today a teacher dragged into school, barely remembering her role or function. Appearing at the appointed hour seemed accomplishment enough, given the jet lag and the time change. But, she'd been gone for more than a week and a new semester was starting; no time for easing in or for sleeping. And there was a fact that she'd persuaded her director to send her across the ocean to be rejuvenated and recharged. Slacking upon return would be untoward, especially now that she's a supervisor. Or so Tatiana from Latvia explained to me, during the one evening of our lives that we'd share.

We met in the Canal St. subway station, trying to determine why the street-level sign promised R and W trains while the platform only indicated a 6. Ah! there's the passageway! Ah! there are friendly but erroneous New Yorkers who promised that we couldn't get there from here! So from there we shared a mission, a walk back through Little Italy to another station with a W train which stopped right back where we were (sometimes tourists with maps know more than the locals), a circle on the Staten Island Ferry. And then more walking, her introduction to the Village, dinner, and her first margarita in six years.

Turns out that one of things that Tatiana and I have in common is that we both spent a year living in Wisconsin. Tatiana, the EFL teacher from Riga, Latvia, whom I met on the Chinatown/Canal Street subway platform in New York City, once lived for a year in Wausau, Wisconsin. Sometimes I love the world. And good conversation and serendipitous meetings and knowing that thousands of miles from here the thoughts and memories of an educator in a former Soviet republic have been the tiniest bit informed by running into Allison, the teacher from near St. Louis, not San Antonio, who just happened to be standing there.

escape clause

And I quote:

"Absolutely no alcoholic beverages are allowed on Girl Scout property. The rule for smoking is that the girls should never see anyone smoking. If you cannot go 24 hours without smoking, please do so in the privacy of your car using your car's ashtray. Violation of these two rules will get you sent home immediately."

Hot damn and hallelujah: the Mother/Daughter Olympiad Campout has an escape clause! Not that I smoke, but I'm sure I can bum one, and my brother has already promised use of his special camping flask. I'm set, and I don't have to be ready 'til Friday: talk about "Be Prepared!" But I suppose that slogan belongs to the Boys. If only my child came equipped with a Y chromosome, I could easily avoid all the Scouting for that group's hateful politics. In the meantime perhaps I'll make a Free Tibet t-shirt and see if that's enough to get bounced from this Spring scouting Olympics. It would be selfless, really: 47 women are waiting for my place.

I really can't imagine. I'm doing it because the girl wants to, because I've been gone, because I'm the mom. It will definitely be a story, maybe it will be fun. Maybe Mullet Woman, the leader, won't get on my very last nerve. Maybe Iceland, our assigned spring olympiad nation (I think the whole thing's rigged) will kick some Girl Scout butt. Or, you know, maybe I'll go back to New York. This just isn't my crowd, at least not for 20 hours. I just can't get my head around any activity for 150 mothers and daughters that advises labeling one's clothes because "you'd be amazed how many pairs of underwear get left behind." I'm sorry, I don't know about anyone else, but if I somehow become separated from my panties in such circumstances, I don't really want them back.

Live from New York

Technically, I had been to New York before. I had crossed the George Washington Bridge, driven through the Lincoln Tunnel, skirted the edges of Harlem with three other midwesterners in a Vega. No, it was not some transportation-themed wild goose chase, though that would have made just as much sense: we were on our way to Connecticut. It's not a very good story, and, well, now it just doesn't matter. Because now I am here. And just as the t-shirt says, I love it.

Picture perfect

A perfect day, I've come to know, starts with a healthy breakfast... so long as one wakes before 11. So, pretty much any weekday.

Perfect days are more infrequent. Take today for instance.

A nine-mile bike ride to the beach, followed by four hours of basking in the glorious sunshine, followed by a nine-mile bike ride home. Somewhere along the way, I snapped a photo I'm pretty fond of. Perhaps you'll like it too.