RumourNation

9/11: The Man in the Red Bandana

2011-09-11T08:26:36-07:00

It opens today, the 9/11 Memorial. I'm watching the opening service, where family members read the names of those who died, a liturgy made of missing lives and a mournful fugue by Yo-Yo Ma. It's heartbreaking to see the kids, most of whom who are now young teenagers, who've been denied the love of their mothers and fathers for a decade now.

The Memorial itself is breathtaking, an endless waterfall into a deep pool, surrounded by the nearly 3,000 names of those who died that day, who died for simply being American. We see the families as they walk into the plaza for the first time, hunting for their loved ones. They react, simply and quietly, when they find a beloved name: they reach out and touch it.

I'm struck, as the names are read, by how many family members are themselves New York City firefighters and police officers, by the depth of the bonds of honor, service and duty that exist in a city that many think of as being huge and faceless. Then I hear one father say " ... and my son, Welles Remy Crowther, the man in the red bandana."

If you haven't heard Welles' story, watch this lovely short video by ESPN. Why ESPN? Because Welles was a lacrosse star at Boston College. He was a securities trader who really wanted to be a New York City firefighter. He always carried a red bandana. And he was responsible for saving at least 12 people in the South Tower of the World Trade Center on 9/11, despite the fact that he could have left the building at any time, and survived.

When I hear Welles' story, and the story of Flight 93, the tales of the first responders who entered the buildings with no fear, who died while rescuing their fellow countrymen, I'm saddened.

What did they die for? For fights over the debt ceiling? For a banking system that profiteers while denying working capital to small businesses? So politicans could stand up and say that hurricanes and earthquakes are the result of sinful living?

I don't think the men and women who helped each other that day gave a rat's ass about who had health insurance, who was married to whom, whether or not the person they hauled out of the building was a "real" American. All they cared about was the fact that their fellow travelers, human beings who were attacked for simply being alive, needed help.

I want to live in the country that those folks come from. The one where we care about each other, where our differences are valued, not maligned, where (to paraphrase), a man is not judged by the contents of his wallet, but by the content of his character.

We've blown it, my friends. We squandered the chance to make ourselves stronger, instead opted for a catfight about meritocracy and special interests. We can fix it, if we try. But it involves calling our elected representatives -- and those who desire to be our elected representatives -- on their shit. It involves not devolving to personal attacks on those who hold differing opinions, who worship different gods, who have more melanin in their skins. It involves remembering the very words that our founding fathers (and mothers) adopted in an act of Congress in 1782: E pluribus unum. Out of many, one.

Not one out of those who think like me. Not one out of those who "deserve" it. Not one out those who worship my god. Out of many, one.

I leave you with the words of the formidable Archibald MacLeish:

"There are those who will say that the liberation of humanity, the freedom of man and mind is nothing but a dream. They are right. It is the American Dream."

Don't give up on the dream.

Enough.

2011-01-09T12:26:47-08:00

I've been crying all morning. In anger and in sadness. Because, as the grown-ups --a minority!--who populate our country have been predicting for some time, it's come true: a non-Tea Party member of Congress got shot for doing her job. It's impossible to glorify violence, and guns, and to talk about your political opponents as traitors deserving of death, without seeing your words come to life.

And the objects of all this vitriol? People who have voted for things like extending healthcare to more Americans, keeping unemployment benefits in place, allowing all citizens to serve in the military regardless of sexual orientation.

"But," Palin apologists protest, "Our graphics with crosshairs on them have nothing to do with violence! And Sarah doesn't mean it when she uses words like 'bulls-eye'! And she doesn't shoot those moose just for fun!"

"But," adds Michelle Malkin, "The Daily Kos called for Gabby Giffords' death just last week!"

"But," adds Tea Party Nation founder Judson Phillips, "Giffords is a liberal!"

Let's take a moment to look at some of those affected, and the losses, from yesterday's shooting. Giffords is the first Jewish woman elected to Congress from Arizona, a Democrat representing a staunchly Republican district, and a supporter of such decidedly non-liberal stances as strong immigration laws and, ironically, gun owership. She just defeated a Tea Party candidate to keep her seat. She's also a Fulbright scholar. And her husband, Mark Kelly, is a freakin' astronaut. An ASTRONAUT.

Among those murdered: Giffords' head of community outreach, who was a respected young social worker; John Roll, a highly-regarded Federal judge with nearly 40 years of government service; and a nine-year-old girl whose birthday was 9/11/2001.

Giffords and her Arizona colleague, Raul Grijalva, have been targets of violence for months, as had Judge Roll. Vandalism, death threats, and guns at town halls had become a fact of life. The reason: because they held humanistic views on immigration reform.

Tea Party leaders, and those Republicans who have enabled them, are decrying any notion of a relationship between the deranged perpetrator of yesterday's shootings and right-wing political rhetoric. Perhaps they are correct. But I would bet my recession-plundered savings to say that the vandals, gun carriers and death-threat-issuers who have attacked Giffords, Grijalva and Roll over the past year HAVE been Tea Party members.

Because here's the truth: Tea Party rhetoric implies that it is right to employ violence against fellow Americans who hold different political ideologies. Having a different opinion means that you deserve to be shot, just like moose, for simply existing.

And "different" can be most anything: if you're not white, and don't believe in a Christian god, you're different. If you voted for Obama, you're different. If you think religion has no place in government, you're different. If you think I'm overstating the problem, just ask my white, Southern mother, who is now afraid to speak her mind in the city where she has lived her entire life. Her compassion and capability for rational thought now make her "different."

The fact is, as the grown-ups have known for quite some time, Tea Party rhetoric is not about fiscal responsibility or patriotism or unemployment. It's about fear, and hatred, and an unwillingness to accept the reality of living in a nation that, despite looking very different from the nation of 1776, has managed to survive intact, and make the rule of law and general civility the standard operating procedure, for all its diverse citizens. It's rather a miracle. And the supposedly spiritual Tea Party seems intent on destroying it.

Perhaps Palin and her cronies do not advocate physical violence, but ya betcha, they're pretty good at invoking its imagery. Makes it easy for some deranged 23-year-old to connect the dots between the crosshairs on a Facebook page and the crosshairs on a real gun, doesn't it? And to think that he'll be a hero for shooting someone?

Like most of the people I know, I've had enough. I'm not even particularly liberal, or a Democrat. But I am an American. I feel that we've worked hard for our particular miracle of a nation, and I'm not going to stand by and watch us lose it to those who seem to think that Fulbright scholars, astronauts, judges, social workers and schoolchildren are unnecessary frills in our society. Or that political discourse free from fear is a luxury, not a right.

I'm going to stand up and block their every move. My weapons: compassion, inclusion, love. My invitation: To come back from exile in the land of TeaPartania, fellow travelers. Join us in America, at the grown-ups table. We've had enough.

The GOP (Grand Old Perjoratives)

2009-09-10T10:24:14-07:00

I have to 'fess up to being on the fence about national healthcare. I spent a fair amount of time working for a Canadian company, hearing on the sly about the underbelly of a nationalized system: it was a little worrisome. On the other hand, as a single parent who has had to scramble for coverage during a few periods when I've been doing consulting work -- funny how the lack of an outside employer does not relieve you of responsibility for a child! -- having some help with this would indeed be a relief.

But regardless where I stand on healthcare, Rep. Joe Wilson's outburst last night during President Obama's address to Congress put a fine point on all the issues that have driven moderates like me far away from the Republican party over the past two decades. Frankly, it's all about respect.

Some time during the late eighties and the early nineties -- actually, right around the time I became old enough to vote -- rhetoric from the GOP started moving from the positive to the personal. Folks like me who didn't hew to the party platform, became "unpatriotic." And with the party's adoption of the evangelical community and the move to start legislating private behavior, the labels got worse -- what was merely "unpatriotic" before was now "destructive" and "evil." Somehow, the party's agenda became the country's agenda, and the belief system of a few became standard issue for everyone.

And the folks putting out this POV? Well, they seemed to take it very, very personally. To the point where a pasty white lawmaker with his hands deep in the healthcare industry's till would feel that it's appropriate to call the Constitutionally-elected President a liar before both houses of Congress, on national television. Dude was wrong, BTW, but he did it anyway.

Now, I'm aware of the fact that there are many legislative houses in other countries where that sort of behavior would seem, well, rather banal. Check out this punching match in India's Parliament, for instance. But hey, they owe their democratic structure to the UK, and we worked really hard to get away from their shenanigans.

Look, I'll accept the fact that my choices may seem ill-considered, and maybe even idiotic, at times. But I resent the fact that someone thinks I'm "evil" because I support gay marriage. Or that I'm "unpatriotic" because I think it was idiotic to start a war in Iraq.

Here's the thing: I try to do the right thing, by myself, my friends and family, my countrymen and women. I'm also pretty smart, well-educated, and extremely skilled at researching information. If you're going to call me a liar, you better have your facts straight, or I'll catch you. And if you're going to keep calling me names, please make sure you're living a squeaky-clean life, because I'll find out when you're not. There are approximately 250 million more people like me in these old United States, and we're sick of the disrespect. You've made it personal, Messrs. Wilson, Cantor, Boehner and Rove. (And let's not forget you, Ms. Palin!) You've made it personal, y'all, when for us, it was strictly business. Don't be surprised when we take you out, and go home with the cannoli.

On Vox: (Wo)Man in the Mirror: A Meditation on Self-Immolation

2009-07-03T15:38:53-07:00

A moment of self-reflection.

Perhaps it’s appropriate that I’ve had a Michael Jackson song stuck in my head for the past week. It’s not “Thriller,” despite the fact that I’m a card-carrying member of the original MTV generation. It’s not “Beat It,” or “Bad,” or even some of my favorite earlier stuff, like “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” or “Blame it on the Boogie.”

The song? “Who is It?”

Who Is It?

It’s the one MJ song where I felt like he expressed real emotion. We all knew that he wasn’t actually singing about a woman (is there anyone among us who really thought Michael was straight? Did we really care, as long as he danced for us?). But in the end, it didn’t matter: the anguish was there, the melody was great – it’s definitely a tune that makes you feel a bit anguished yourself, turns you a little inside out, makes you want to howl at the moon.

But here’s the thing – read the lyrics from the second verse, and think about MJ’s metamorphosis from adorable kid, to handsome, charismatic young black man, to his final incarnation as a sexually ambiguous person hiding behind a surgically-structured mask:

I am the damned.
I am the dead.
I am the agony inside
The dying head.
This is injustice.
Woe unto there
I pray this punishment
Would have mercy on me.

I had dinner with some friends the other night, and found myself in the midst of the biggest collection of genetic lottery winners that I’d seen in a while. All women, all tall and gorgeous, some with exotic accents and stepchildren visiting from far-away locations like Sweden.

I sat there in my little linen shift and just felt … dumpy. Felt kind of worthless, despite the fact that I have a master’s degree and a pretty serious job, have been successfully raising a child on my own for a number of years, and have been told more than once that I am beautiful.

I will absolutely cop to suffering from body dysmorphic disorder. I’m constitutionally incapable of looking at pictures of myself. I hide from the camera, despite the fact that I’m a normal-sized person (actually, a slimmer-than-normal-sized-person, if you read the latest national health survey). The funny thing is that, when I do find a picture of myself, usually years later, my general response is: You look just fine. What were you thinking?

It makes me wonder what I would be, if I had been turned loose into a sea of unending work, overwhelming adulation, and seemingly limitless resources … like Michael Jackson. Would I keep hacking away at myself, trying to achieve an image that someone, somewhere at some point definitively convinced me was the right way to look? Drown my pain in an eternal string of surgeries and procedures? Dull it with drugs and alcohol? Or would I find the strength somewhere, deep down, to accept myself as I am?

I remember what a friend said when Heath Ledger died: “The business just uses them up. Sucks the life out of them.” We could see that something was draining the life out of Michael, as surely as we could see the changes in his appearance. Why did we keep right on worshiping him? Why did we continue to reward his very public self-immolation? Why would we take someone so singularly gifted and allow him to burn himself to a crisp? And why do we repeat the pattern over and over, infecting our children – particularly our daughters?

A few years ago, when I was going through a hideous divorce (is there any other kind?), I was under the care of a particularly amazing therapist with a Jungian bent. I had this recurring dream where a thin, blonde woman would follow me around and yell at me, telling me what a failure I was. Finally, in desperation, I would kill her, and bury her in the woods somewhere. Then I’d wake up in a cold sweat, convinced that I was guilty of murder. Instead of telling me I was a monster, my therapist pointed out that I was simply getting rid of my internal critic: my soul was struggling mightily to set itself free. Once I grasped her point, the blonde woman disappeared. Although she still occasionally shows up, at dinner, with an exotic stepdaughter from Sweden. And then, instead of killing her, I generally want to kill myself.

Who was MJ’s thin blonde woman? And did he see her in the mirror every day, telling him what a failure he was?

I accept the fact that we live in a visually-centric media world, and that the camera is kindest to the thinnest among us. But I also say this: we created the camera. That puts us in charge. We should not, in turn, let it create us. We are so much more than the two-dimensional images we leave behind. Embracing that should be our life’s work.

Now, please excuse me, I’ve got some moonwalking to do.

Originally posted on rumournation.vox.com

Lost with Lost

2009-01-26T13:50:22-08:00

Now that the Inauguration of the Century has finally happened, and I can put all the distractions of the election away, I've been able to return to my first love: entertainment media. (Well, it may be my third love -- after the wine and the LOLcats.) In terms of television, I managed to keep up with some of my favorites even while the election was happening - the Daily Show comes to mind, as does Entourage - and even adopt a couple of new ones, like the supremely awesome True Blood and its bevy of not-quite-human guy hotties. I also ended up Blockbuster's perma-shitlist by repeatedly forgetting to return a season's worth of Battlestar Galactica episodes. (Needed to do some research to tell all those Cylons apart. Wait, which one is Athena, again? And why are there 3500 copies of her?)

But sadly, there was one that got away from me: Lost. Yeah, I'm lost when it comes to that show. And don't tell me that you're not, because I don't believe it.

I can't say that I didn't try. The Tivo was stuffed with episodes going back to late 2007. My daughter and I would watch them with a pad of paper to keep notes. "Wait, wait!" she'd holler, "What was that about? What's going on in that cabin? Who's that guy with the eyeliner?" And we'd zip backwards on the DVR, watch the scene again, write a few notes. Finally, we'd give up and decide to watch House instead, finding complicated medical mysteries a little easier to decode.

A cottage industry has arisen around keeping track of Lost. There are Wikipedia entries, detailed fan websites, even a guide in Fast Company. I'm sure that if TV Guide still had a robust print business, they'd tuck a Lost primer into every issue, and make gazillions of dollars off selling ads around it. (Are you listening, OpenGate? ) It was fascinating at first, but now it feels a little like that organic chemistry final I took sophomore year in college: immensely complex, exhausting, and kind of pointless. (I dumped my pre-med major after that wretched test in favor of Shakespeare, which I find complex, energizing, and continually relevant. If you need convincing, watch this.)

I started lurking at the local farmer's market, hoping to spy JJ Abrams, whom I've seen shopping there once or twice. I know he's not intimately involved in the inner workings of the writer's room, but maybe he could give me some clarity? Tell me what happened to the smoke monster? Whether Walt is now attending Harvard-Westlake? After a while, I decided I was more interested in what Chris Pine's hair looks like in the new Star Trek move. JJ, if you're reading this, give me a call, will you?

So, I have to cop to losing interest in Lost. I'm lacking the time or the brain cells, or both. Instead, I'm filling the Tivo with back episodes of Big Love, the better to keep up with the convoluted familial relationships of a bunch of double-dealing polygamists. They're easier to keep track of, frankly.

If, unlike me, you still have some hope, New York Magazine has published an excellent list of the twenty questions Lost needs to answer before it sails off into the Island-inflected sunset. Me, now that spring is in the air, I'm trading Locke for a couple of bottles of Loire Valley white, Mario Batali's asparagus risotto recipe, and an extra three minutes of American Idol. Frankly, I find Paula Abdul easier to understand.

Catharsis

2008-11-12T10:46:22-08:00

There's a great column in the LA Times today about the crying epidemic that accompanied Obama's victory in the election last week. Even pillars of masculinity like Magic Johnson, Will Smith and some guy on YouTube named Sam succumbed, sobbing as if their lives depended on it.

Most folks attribute the reaction to the fact that we've finally shattered the black-and-red stained glass ceiling that's been the country's biggest divider for the past 250 years. These people have ignored the evidence that the entertainment business has been predicting this moment for a long time: 24, anyone? They've had two black presidents (but no women!) on that series. And don't forget that Morgan Freeman has made an entire career out of playing God.

Frankly, I think it's a combination of grief and relief: grief over the general state of affairs; relief that we might be able to finally get back to the business of being the planet's biggest, messiest, loudest and most-watched celebrity--the Chris Rock of the world's political stage, so to speak--a little crazy, but spittin' the truth.

I myself was standing with a self-described "bunch of Jews" the night of the election, and sure enough, we all cried like babies. And the resulting round of Obama-parties the following week was exhilarating, as well as exhausting. ("Hey neighbor, what are you doing?" "Going to another Obama party." "Hey, me, too!") Slowly, but surely, the street-dancing is winding down, and people are starting to take stock of what lies ahead. It ain't pretty, but hey, it's ours, to overcome together. And I, for one, am hopeful that if we quit dubbing those who don't agree with us "Unamerican," we might actually get there.

I'm going to try hard, myself. Too many rounds of Obama-partying created my own personal political fallout: an overdose on wine, harsh words, the loss of one of the people I've come to care most deeply about over the course of a hard-fought political campaign. Another kind of catharsis, altogether. Maybe there's a big hug at the end of this one, too.

Hope and change, y'all.

This Day

2008-11-05T08:14:16-08:00

I may have written about this before, but on this day, more than any other day, it bears repeating:

I visited the Reagan Library with my daughter and her best friend a couple of years ago. Despite my misgivings, my sad memories of the Bush 41-induced recession, and my love for a certain Genesis music video, I went. And I was very moved, because I saw a man who truly loved his country, who wasn't cynical about the work of governing, who believed with his very soul that our nation should be a shining beacon of hope in a turbulent world. (And don't underestimate the allure of having your picture taken on Air Force One, even if it's a decommissioned, grounded, old one. Kinda like an ex-President itself.)

But something happened there that stunned me into silence. We walked into an entryway decorated with portraits of all the U.S. Presidents. "Look at this," I said to my daughter and her friend, "Here's our history."

"Where are the girls?" asked my daughter, immediately. "And why are they all white?" added her friend, who is Asian.

I had no answer. Where ARE the girls? I thought, And WHY are they all white? What can I say that won't put paid to the idea that anyone can work hard enough and be President?

Instead, we all made faces at the portrait of Bush 43 and walked out of the room.

I love looking at Barack Obama's family -- his beautiful wife and kids; photos of him with his mother; his grandparents; his Indonesian stepfather; his sister and her husband, who is Asian, and their tiny daughter. This polyglot family looks like the country I live in, the country I love and cherish because some way, somehow, despite our varying backgrounds, despite the strains in our affection, despite the differences in our temperaments, we've made it work for more than 200 years.

And while I would never vote for a man because of the color of his skin, or vote for a woman simply because she is a woman (no way, no how, no Palin), I am delighted that we have chosen a leader who seems to represent all the very best parts of the American dream. Unfortunately, he is taking the helm of a nation that has been rocked, weakened and stressed, but perhaps this is the golden opportunity we all need, the chance to take a look at our country and ask "How can we make things better?" And to remind ourselves that that the job of leading our nation used to be considered the greatest honor in the land.

On this day, I can breathe a sigh of relief. This day, I can look my daughter in the eye and say "Anyone can be President," and mean it.

A Shout Out for Keith O.

2008-10-21T09:09:03-07:00

I touched on this subject before, when I wrote about the homogenous (and homophobic) composition of the Republican National Convention, and warned all those folks who attended that they needed to get out of MY country, because my peeps were here first.

Of course, I was satirizing the philosophy that's been the dirty underbelly of the GOP for some time, and the very thing that has helped drive conservative-leaning moderates like me into the arms of the Dems: if you're not with us, you're against us -- and that means you're Unamerican, with a capital "you."

I'm tired of being labeled this way, especially when I consider the fact that my ancestors were among the very first people who died to create this country in the 18th century, that we've been-- literally-- slaving away here ever since, voting and paying taxes and trying to better the lives of the next generation. And if the person living next door to me prays facing Mecca on a mat, what do I care? He seems to be working and voting and paying taxes as well, and he also makes a damn fine falafel.

So, I'm delighted to give a great big shout-out to Keith Olbermann, who took down the politics of hatred in a ginormous way last night. I only wish I had Tivo'd it so I could watch it over and over again on my big, Unamerican flat-screen teevee:

I also have some news for Nancy Ppppppfotennhoouuuor: My family's from the "real" Virginia, and quite a few of them are votin' for Obama.

Daddy, Paul and the Krispy Kremes.

2008-09-30T13:28:02-07:00

Well, we're in the middle of what is proving to be a tumultuous week for everyone -- a week that actually started some time last week, or maybe even 20 years ago. My personal starting point for the tumult was last Friday, on the eve of the Presidential candidates' debate, and it all goes back to the Krispy Kremes.

You see, I'm lucky enough to work in an office that celebrates each Friday by bringing in a stash of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Several boxes, enough for everyone, in sufficient variety so no one has to fight over the chocolate-glazeds. Heaven with a hole in the middle.

Now, I'm delighted that Californians have adopted Krispy Kremes, but even after years of consuming them, I've not met a single Left-Coaster who truly gets the tao of KK, who understands what it means to run to the store when the red light is on, to devour the soft, doughy goodness sitting at the white linoleum counter with a little glass of milk, souvenir paper cap clutched firmly in hand.

You see, that's where I spent Sunday mornings with my dad, and every time I eat a Krispy Kreme, I'm thrust right back into those childhood days.

I lost my dad to cancer when he was 58. So those trips down memory lane are both precious, and painful: little pinpricks of conscience bugging me about whether I properly said goodbye, whether I've really explained my father to the granddaughter he never knew, whether I'll ever have the chance, or the courage, to sort through my conflicted feelings about our relationship. All the stuff you feel when you lose a parent, at any age.

The funny thing about my father: when he was younger, people would meet him and say "You know, your dad kinda looks like Paul Newman." So, after those damned Krispy Kremes stirred the pot on Friday morning -- and with McCain really winding things up later in the day -- we then lost Mr. Newman on Saturday, and I've been confronted with my dad's doppelganger all week, staring out at me with the same steely blue eyes from every form of media I touch.

"Look, Mom," said my daughter, "The guy on the cookie box died." (Yes, we eat Fig Newmans at our house.) I spent Saturday in a funk, not only over the loss of an amazing, supremely gifted and preternaturally gracious man, but also over the state of our country; sad that at a time when I feel alone and unmoored, there's no father for me to call, to hear him rail about no-nothing and meddlesome Yankees in government, to ask me why I continue living with those California crazies, and to talk about nuclear power as a solution for our energy woes.

In many ways, Mr. Newman was a powerful father figure for many of us: who doesn't want a devastatingly handsome movie-star dad, who's also an adventurer, a philanthropist, and wise, to boot? For all his faults, my dad was a pretty good father figure himself. He pulled himself up from a hardscrabble existence, earned an education (including an MS in engineering, for pete's sake), and gave me both the courage of my convictions, as well as the will to get things done -- even if he sometimes got there by declining to do things for me. He never really understood me: despite having three sisters, and being married, women remained a mystery to him, to be tolerated from afar. And, given that I inherited my mother's facility with words and music--unlike my brothers, who got the math gene--I was often a truly alien presence to my dad, someone who spoke a language he didn't really understand. Nonetheless, he taught me as best as he could, in the language he did know: How to rewire lamps, how to figure out rocket trajectories, how to diagnose what was wrong with my car (which I can still do, to the amazement of my Swedish mechanics).

I'm sorry, but neither McCain nor Obama cut the mustard when it comes to father figures. McCain is too jumpy, and whiny (and yes, too short -- my dad was tall!), while Obama is too young, although there may be hope for him (pun intended). It would be nice if we had a national father figure, if Paul Newman could have hung around for a while and chatted with us about how to solve our problems, how to live with graciousness and hope.

We'll muddle through, somehow. And I'll learn to look forward to the next batch of Krispy Kremes, hoping that someday I'll be able to cherish those childhood memories, remembering a time when the world felt safe, and warm, and my dad was there to put his arms around me, and drive me home with a big box of doughnuts.

The Knee-Jerk Express

2008-09-24T18:12:43-07:00

So, it's been nearly a month since John McCain's surprise announcement regarding his running mate. Like a bolt out of the blue, Sarah Palin arrived on the scene: underqualified, under-informed, and under-vetted. The last item became pretty clear when the McCain campaign refused to admit that they knew nothing about Palin's pregnant daughter, or to release any information regarding the VP-vetting process in general. ("Are you secretly gay? Do you have an affinity for airport bathrooms? No? Great, you're in.") And, now that Palin's dead-cat bounce is fading, and the Walmart moms are getting to the bottom of things with her -- and finding her a little lacking -- McCain brings out another whopper: He's going to suspend his campaign, step into a phone booth, and re-emerge in Washington as the Superman of credit crises. Yes, Mr. McCain is going to Washington to solve all our problems. And Obama, he says, should be following in his footsteps. Oh, BTW, can we call off Friday's debate, while we're at it?

Who took McWalnuts off his meds? Are we really looking for a President who, in every pressure-filled situation, has this kind of a knee-jerk reaction? I admit a certain level of admiration for his political advisors, who know how to stir the pot, but over the long haul, the outcomes are not good. Every situation seems to be assessed in terms of short-term gains (meaning: What will give me a leg up in the battleground states?), rather than longer-term positives (meaning: I really am putting my Country First™).

Everyone I have polled in my admittedly-small and definitely Obama-leaning circle of cronies has had the same reaction to McCain's announcement: He's afraid of the debate. And whether or not this is true, we're all amazed that a man who last week announced that the economy is fine, and who has wrapped himself in a couple of financial debacles in the past, now deems himself necessary in a negotiating process that started, and has proceeded, without him.

I watched Obama's town hall today, and he echoed what I've been feeling for over a year: This crisis has been affecting the middle class for quite some time. Inflationary pressure, declining home values, a deteriorating job market-- it's folks like my nephew, who couldn't even find a job at McDonald's when he came home from college for the summer -- who've been pummeled already. All they're saying to Wall Street is this: "Welcome to the party, y'all. And BTW, we're not interested in funding your golden parachutes in return for all the trouble you've caused us."

So much for our 30+ years of trickle-down economics (yes, we got a bit of a respite with Clinton, but Dubya trashed those achievements, didn't he?). We've trickled ourselves right into a New New Deal. We might as well put a guy with the political DNA to manage it into office. FDR Version 2.0, if you will. I don't think that's McCain. He seems to put about 30 seconds of time into the planning process: rather than decision-making capability, he seems to have some kind of cartoonishly-large hero complex that causes him to leap before he looks. Great for the headlines, murder on the bottom line.

Thanks, but no thanks. I'm voting for the guy who calls Paul Volcker for advice, not the one who calls Carly Fiorina, who got bounced out of her own job for knee-jerk reactions. Birds of a feather ... If you buy McCain's story today, I got a Bridge to Nowhere and some AIG stock to sell you.

(Art adapted from a cartoon by Olle, with my apologies. Here's a link to the original: politicalhumor.about.com/.../Superman-McCain.htm)