Late night run-in with the Madison police

It’s not what you think. No one called the police on me. I called the police on THEM.

Late the previous night someone took a club to the car that we park on the street, shattering and ripping out side mirrors, antennas, and generally leaving their vampire-tooth gashes up and down the body of the vehicle.

Being reticent to go out on days when March gusts of wind make the outdoors inhospitable, none of us noticed this car-nage until late in the evening, when our visitor decided that she had to get out and see the world [our visitors often feel somewhat isolated in the suburbs, what with the nearest hub of commercial activity consisting of a strip mall with not much in it beyond a Bob’s Copy Shop (an essential to suburban living) and a Hooters Bar (no comment)].

The car is a nifty little Corolla that once belonged to my mother. It got left behind when my mother decided to move to California to become one of those weather-obsessed (“is it as miserable as I remember it in Wisconsin right now?”), radically-leaning (words such as imperialism and socialism can be heard among the clatter of soup spoons in her cafeteria), gray panther types (power to the aging!) of Berkeley. In the typical way of an older driver, my mother had never put many miles on the car. Thus, even though the vehicle is old (not quite as old as she is, but gettin’ there), the odometer would have you think it’s virtually off the showroom floor.

Feeling frugal with this inherited machine that is now mainly driven by visitors, we have never bothered to insure it much – though of course, we insure against the damage to the planet that may be caused by its gentle movement around town.

As soon as we noticed the shattered glass and the twisted metal last night, I called the non-emergency police number and had the following conversation with the officer-on-call:

nc: “I’m calling to report that someone bashed in our car.”
Police: “A real shame. Do you know who did it?”

nc: “I have my suspicions..”
police: “Good. Would you like to give us some names?”

nc: “My suspicions are only suspicions. I know better than to accuse people without evidence of their guilt. However---- now that you ask, I do know that the car has an enemy. Last year a driver ran into its parked little sweet body and we made her pay substantial sums to get it fixed. She may well hold a grudge.”
Police: “What’s her name?”

nc: “No no, you’re not going to make me say it.”
Police: “Well, would you say that there’s more than a $1000 worth of damage now? Because if it’s less, why then we can just mail you some forms and you can self-report!”

nc: “What, no house-calls anymore?? In any case, it’s more than $1000. It costs $5000 these days to repaint a scratch on a fender. Of course it’s more than a $1000! The car has been walloped by a maniac with a clear homicidal impulse.”

Several hours later, a very young, very friendly officer came to our door. I had hoped he would come with great fanfare, lights shining, siren blasting, to scare the bejesus out of the people who did it, should they be watching from behind a shrub. But no, all was quiet, save for our barking Ollie who obviously has not yet learned to be intimidated by a blue uniform.

The officer wrote up the damage and gave me some good advice as to where I can get some salvaged replacement parts (for those who are curious: at the dump). I asked if he’d had any other calls of this nature lately, just to see if our peaceful existence is coming to an end (today: quiet suburb, tomorrow: drug-trafficing, gang-infested mean streets of the south side of Chicago type -- our last place of residence prior to moving to Madison). He answered “well, I typically work the downtown beat. It’s a little less calm down there, you know. Nice little block you got here.. noticed there’s a pretty little house for sale up the street?”

Maybe he’ll be a neighbor one day soon. Good. Our battered little car will feel safer. So far, being surrounded by houses where people’s jobs run from stamp-collecting (that is seriously the income-generating occupation of our immediate neighbor) to film-making (where the flamingos reside, see post in February) hasn’t kept vandalism at bay (mailbox bashing is a neighborhood past time for the young and restless).

Tomorrow, think red carnations

I would have thought that Hallmark would have picked it up in a big way: what other holiday is there that'll sell the cards, between February 14 and March 17? And, if you are not of the shamrock heritage, even March 17 doesn’t work. So why hasn’t March 8th been heralded as the holiday to end all holidays?

In my years in Poland it was perhaps the most important of the winter celebrations: a day for the proverbial red carnation-- International Women’s Day. I have never thought that the day received much attention in the States. Most years, I can hardly remember it’s here. Do I miss the red carnation I would have gotten in Poland from male colleagues, friends too? No. But I miss the significant attention brought on this day to women’s issues. It was an excuse to get the nation to focus, if only for a day, on persistent gender inequality and discrimination, particularly in the home and workplace.

No, I never did much care for the carnation: it was a mummified flower that seemed to withstand days on end without water. It would last the same amount of time whether you left it in plastic cellophane, neglected in the closet, or placed it in a milk bottle on the kitchen table. But March 8th was just a touch early for the tiny violets, the lilies-of-the-valley, or the forget-me-not bouquets that would be sold by old women from full buckets at every major intersection in the city just a month or two later. This was March, and so it had to be the carnation.

Waiting for a call

There is a reason why the phone is not a favorite of mine. I’m always wishing that it would ring, or, more often, wishing that it would not.

This time, while waiting for a friend and reader to call back, I was staring at the closed phone book, and I saw on the cover of the White and Yellow Pages a little pop-up ad announcing: Homeland Security Guide; see “H” for Homeland Security.

Thinking that perhaps there might be some things I could learn about – like what I could be doing even now to protect myself, for example, I flipped through the pages in search of this Guide. First I checked the red business pages: nothing. The listing went from “Homedco” to “Homemade.” Next, yellow pages: nope, straight from “Home Warranty Providers” to “Homeopaths.” Well, of course, I should have checked US Government: no, nothing again. It moves from “Highways” to “Horses” (horses?? Oh, it’s the phone number for “wild horse and burro adoption”).

I knew I had problems adapting to new technology, but this is a phone book, damn it. I should be able to manage a phone book. Good thing there isn’t a real crisis.

Up up and away

A story caption in the NYT caught my eye –“If You’re Thinking of Living in Exile...” it read. I had assumed it was targeting those who will be disenchanted with the results of the November elections (up to 50% of the population after all, or, in the style of 2000, perhaps even more). In fact, the story is about the lives of exiled dictators.

Could the world do no better than offer a home on the Riviera to the “Cannibal Emperor” Jean-Bedel Bokassa (from the Central African Republic), who, in his time, had the reputation of killing then eating his enemies? Or how about Idi Amin Dada, whose milder sin was to rename Lake Victoria the Idi Amin Dada Sea, and whose great atrocity was that he allowed a quarter million of his country men and women to be murdered? Why would the international community leave him to bask in his Saudi Arabian retreat?

The article in the Times reminds us that lest we rush to criticize the French or the Saudis for taking in Bokassa or Amin, we might recall that the US gave Marcos a posh villa to run to on the Hawaiian coastline not too long ago.

Trump trumps Pepin

Did Donald Trump consult chef Jacques Pepin before snaffling the Apprentice title for his show? Pepin wrote the memoir in 2003, so it’s not as if it’s a text from a more distant past. Or, maybe Pepin and Trump are one and the same? I don’t really know the show – I tried watching once, but truly could not stay with it.

How about the publication? This is from the Apprentice, the book: “I was thirteen and a half years old when I quit school…My parents somewhat reluctantly—but wisely—went along with my decision. To be sure, I was an “old” thirteen, hardened by the war. At an age when most kids don’t know how to cook their breakfast, I had already worked in four busy restaurant kitchens.” And later: “I had loved to forage for food in the forests.” And: “my tastes have remained simple. I like straightforward food that is well seasoned and elegantly presented without fuss or deception.” Finally: “On television I wanted to teach viewers essential techniques of cooking… I became convinced that the only requirement for getting my own (TV) show was raising half a million dollars, an undertaking that I knew nothing about.” Okay, that seals it: different men, a world apart.

BTW, in trying to find out more about the Trump show, I came across the site where you can apply to be on the Apprentice in the second season (here; on that same site, you can also read about THE DONALD. The Nina did not do that). Only four days remain, thus you should act quickly. If a friend got on – I’d watch.

A long detour along roads poorly described

From my earliest posts here, I’ve admitted to being a fan of travel writing, consummately working through shelves of essay collections in bookstores, searching out pieces that may offer a touch of whimsy or a more serious reflection, sometimes pointedly witty, sometimes ponderous and brooding.

But over the last few years, reading travel narratives has been a bit of a disappointment. So many books, magazines and publications contain journalistic, snappy texts that are functional and impersonal, with a minimal amount of asides, so that the pieces no longer meander [oh, say, along a buckwheat strip of yellow blossoms in a Slovakian village, where the only wealth is in the mouths of residents whose rotting teeth have been replaced by gold crowns, and where the most coveted piece of clothing is likely to be a tight fitting Frank Zappa t-shirt, worn on Sundays only, of course], but GET YOU THERE RIGHT AWAY, with bold purposefulness.

And I’m not thinking of travel guides (these have improved considerably over the years). I’m thinking of the classic travel essays, on topics as different as Parisian booksellers and the disappearing hutong neighborhoods of Beijing. For me, travel writing should not be hurried or terse. But neither should it distract with an overabundance of history or geography. These forays into factual accounting have cropped up especially in works of traditionalists of the genre–for example, writers for the NYT Sunday Travel Section—who are more likely to immerse you in historic asides these days than to offer a personal statement or an insight on a destination.

So, every quarter, I look forward to the NYT Sophisticated Traveler, and each time I toss it aside with great resignation.

But not today. Messud’s piece on Washington – a city where she once lived and now remembers with the kind of nostalgia that is reserved for places one has left behind—is sentimental but not sweetly so: “Perhaps perversely, I miss Washington’s almost puritanical streak, that it is no place to window-shop, no place for luxuries: all the fancy stores have long been pressed out to the suburbs, leaving the city center for industrious pursuits like the making of laws and money—but leaving room, potentially, too, for thought, rather than stuff.”

Mewshaw’s essay on pre-Olympic Athens hoists you, along with the author, into the cab which he takes from the airport: “the cabdriver smoked, as does apparently every man, woman and child in the country, and he fretted with worry beads as he tuned in bouzouki music on the radio.” The cab hits a gridlock. Mewshaw observes “It’s estimated that Athens has more than 2 million automobiles and 500,000 motorcycles, and at any given moment all of them appear to be stalled in anaconda coils of exhaust. For more than 20 years, motorists have, in theory, driven only on alternate days, according to whether they have odd- or even-numbered license plates. But rather than halve the volume of traffic, this law has prompted many people to buy two cars.”

And finally, there is the Livsey piece on wombats and kangaroos. It begins thus: “As a girl, growing up in Scotland, I knew exactly how to reach Australia. All I had to do was dig deep enough, and eventually I would emerge on the other side of the world, where everyone walked upside down and strange animals would hop to greet me. I was a determined child, but after several attempts yielded holes only a few feet in depth, I admitted defeat.”

Perfect essays. Travels writing took a detour, but now seems to be finding its animus and wit. That’s great news for the addicted reader. The future looks good again.

Ping zap chugga chugga

The house is radiantly energized with one visitor here and one yet to come (next week-end). In the space of a few minutes this obliging visitor cleaned up some of my erroneous wordage, links, and files on the computer. No word yet on the future of photos on this blog (see post below), but in reality, I no longer care. It is enough to have the house filled with live demonstrations of Hey Ya dances and to listen to stories of funny people doing hilarious acts in unusual ways. The pace of life changes. So, too, should the tenor of the posted blogs in the next few weeks: mediocrity cannot be dissipated that quickly, but maybe the internal energy will rise and move things forward. After all, the strenght is not in what we write, it’s in what we want to convey.

Moving up: from picture books to chapter texts

There are so many jokes on the internet about the technologically incompetent, that just running through the pages and pages of humor can make your eyes crust over. For instance, technocursed.com will give you story upon story of idiocies committed by people like ME on their computers. The techno-cursed quizzes multiply exponentially – all are hateful reminders about how STUPID we all are, misusing terminology, misunderstanding instructions, all of it DUMB DUMB DUMB.

Well, it’s back to basics for me. I don’t care that even the Amish people now have computers, I don’t care that everyone beeps their way now through every movie, restaurant, hallway with cells and who knows what else sounding the alarm. I WANTED TO POST A DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS PHOTO OF 2 STORKS, with a semi-funny story to go with it, AND I CAN’T DO IT! I quit.

A reader applauded my initial move into the visual arts (see post below). "Welcome to 2004" was the not-so-veiled message. Well, the only visual art you’re going to get from now on is black script on a white background. Black and white: fashionable colors for those of us who have moved BEYOND the abstract maze of visuals, assaulting at every turn. Just wait and see: after their first brush with color, these experimentalists will implore the black and white trend-setters to take them back into their (our) fold. Ahhh the svelte black and white sophisticates – stark sumptuousness –all in the word, nothing else, just pure, sensual, cerebral, elegant text.

And so become yourself…

A favorite little ballad from my college days – Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “teach your children..” These days, you would not be able to keep a straight face and write these lyrics, yet I’ve had others tell me that they, too, find the gentle melody and words quite touching. A fragment to remind us:

You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye

Teach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picked, the one you'll know by

Don't you ever ask them why
If they told you, you will cry
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you

And you, of tender years
Don't know the fears that your elders grew by
And so please help them with your youth
They seek the truth before they can die
Etc.

A shame that the singer David Crosby has had to struggle with keeping his life in order. Not too long ago, I remember listening to an interview with him; he seemed more balanced then, more focused on his current work. How quickly it all can scramble itself again. Read the story about his most recent arrest in NY here.

Picture this...or not

Not to be outdone by the magnificent visual addendum to Ann’s blog, I have spent the morning tinkering with my html knowledge deficiencies, feeling myself ready to be among the posters with the mostest.

I had chosen Krtek to lead me into this brave new word. Krtek is an animation wonder: 60 years old, he has seen his homeland, the Czech Republic, undergo some pretty heady changes.

Krtek appears in short animated films for children, and he is far more popular in his home country and in Germany and Japan than any Disney character. Why, then, does he lack an American following? It has been said that Krtek is too slow moving for the crazed frenetic action packed cartoon scene in the States. The New York Times describes the Krek movies thus: “Krtek films are, in fact, slow, but also lyrical and so hypnotically distinct that they can feel less like watching movies than climbing into another human's head" A comment by Michael Medved, the film critic: “It's an alternate universe, like all of the best animated stuff is. But it's an alternate universe that feels astonishingly refreshing and kind."

In an interview, Mr. Miler, Krtek’s creator, said: "Pretty much the whole world knows Krtek; America, which is usually first in everything, is last in this...I always look at American history, and it is a very hard one. People came. They conquered a continent. They suffered hardships, and that hardship is reflected in its movies. I look at children there and think what they are watching is a reflection of that hardness. If you look at America, it is epic. Whereas here, it is more poetic. I feel here there is more lyricism."

So, Krtek is my aspirational hero, my symbol for the new era in blogdom.

There's just one problem: according to loyal readers, Krtek isn't for everyone: many get a blank space where his innocent little face should be. The new era has not yet begun. Back to html education.

The church, the state, and the people of Poland

It is nothing short of amazing to read today (in several of the more obscure news sources, of course) that Poland’s governing Social Democrats will introduce a bill easing abortion law in that country. The current law is among the most restrictive in all of Europe (only Portugal, Ireland, and Malta have laws that are equally punitive and harsh): it permits abortion only in the first 12 weeks of pregnancy and only if the woman is a victim of rape or incest, or if her health or the health of the fetus is severely endangered. A doctor performing an abortion under other circumstances may be imprisoned for two years.

The Catholic Church has been instrumental in shaping the current, restrictive laws affecting reproductive choice. In a country that is more than 95% Catholic, a widespread acceptance of the Church’s position should be a predictable reality. But the Church, a powerful political force in post-communist Poland, is suddenly losing its connections to the public. I see the new legislation as a real sign of a national disengagement from the Church’s platform. 60% of the people are in favor of loosening restrictions on abortion. That is nothing short of remarkable.

On another note, the person introducing the new law is Jolanta Banach. She is a member of the Social Democratic party, and thought to be Prime Minister Leszek Miller’s strong rival in the elections that are just around the corner. Wouldn’t it be interesting to see Poland outpace the United States in electing a woman to a national position of leadership? In less than twenty years, Poland has jumped from having almost no women actively engaged in party politics, to now having a number of them leap frog right to the top. Very impressive!

George Washington type guilt

I look outside at the soon-to-be grassy strip by the curb and I see a tree stump. A few months ago a tall tree lived its full and glorious life there, giving shade and cool summer comfort to the world below its broad canopy of branches. The tree is gone and it is my fault. I asked the city to chop it down. I thought it was dying and I hated to see its yearly decline – each spring, more brittle branches, fewer leaves, less beautifully displayed.

The question is, if I had the tree killed, what will I do to my dog or my neighbor, to say nothing of those closer to me once they show signs of wear and tear? What happened to the idea of sticking by those who have grown old before you, who are there to share their wisdom and counsel and shade?

The city will plant a new tree come spring, but it wont be the same. The old one is gone and it is my fault. Move over in the guilt line, George.

The love/hate relationship with an office

Tonight I grew increasingly concerned that I am perhaps forming too great of a dependence on my office. It is, after all, very late, and after a rollicking Friday evening, here I am in my Bascom Hill den, in the empty Law School building, attempting to get “stuff done.”

I turned to my friend google for a quick consult, and I feel better already. True, google wasn’t precisely on point. The office issues it asked me to address (at the Realtor Magazine site here) aren’t entirely applicable to the academic setting. Moreover, I think the flagged article is attempting to help the poor soul who HATES her office, rather than the one who fears excessive attachment, like I do. Nonetheless, I proceeded with the questions asked of me just to see if there were trouble spots I ought to take note of. In this particular version, I believe the employee is trying to ascertain if the office atmosphere has become TOO dysfunctional. I am told to give a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to the following (in answer to the question “is it true that”):

-- Management sets goals that no one ever reaches, and then berates sales associates for not reaching these goals (true: the exam grading deadlines are hellish, and the pressure to submit grades on time makes suicidal alcoholics of all of us);

-- Sales associates and/or managers use rumors to try and manipulate office policies behind the scenes (well if they are, they’re keeping me out of the loop);

-- When errors occur, the first reaction is to blame someone, not find a way to solve the problem (if the computer doesn’t perform, I blame the computer. What, am I suppose to do, fix it?);

-- Many workers complain of headaches, backaches, sleeplessness, and other physical manifestations of high stress (complain? Yes. Are they for real? Maybe not);

-- Management is overly controlling, insisting that everything be done exactly as it dictates (that would be the provost or the chancellor or the dean? Nahh, never hear from any of them);

-- One or two people are always complaining, writing angry memos to supervisors, and getting into disagreements with other workers (oh, is this about the email exchange of the last few days? It was all in jest, wasn’t it? I certainly didn’t mean a word I said);

-- Company initiatives such as sales contests always seem to be structured so that someone—often the same someone—is the winner, and everyone else is a loser. And then the losers are reminded of the fact (oh no, wrong. We all know who the perceived “winners” are, but we aren’t so mean spirited as to point a vicious finger at the losers);

-- You find yourself going into work later and later, arriving late for appointments, and frequently procrastinating rather than getting work done (doesn’t everyone?).

Like I said, this was overall a relief. No dependency, no need to bail out either. Just a nice week-end night of work at the office. Lovely night at that. Spring-like.

Weather issues

A reader and friend from the NY region wrote that the city is looking good at this time of the year. Trees are budding –that kind of thing. I find it odd that New Yorkers show off their budding trees given that there are so few of them to go around.

By contrast, on the local news, the weatherperson assured us that we need fear only two more major snow storms this year. And, in a couple of weeks or so, the weather should explode.

I’m looking forward to the explosion.

A colleague’s blog (here) has a quiz about countries that truly represent who you are. A survey person (wake up all you survey types) could have a field day with this one because if you do it several times, you are asked different questions. It’s hard, therefore, to control the outcome and the results are sort of bizarre --- I ranked as Canada and Sudan, depending on the questions asked. My colleague asked if I simply changed the answer on the “weather” question (there is such a question under ONE version of the survey). No, I never got the weather question again. It was an impossible question anyway – which is more you, a cool climate or the hot tropics, baby! How about not anything near those two answers?

I have a friend who lives in Singapore. The average temp there is 82 every single day of the year. When I visited, it was 82 on the day I arrived, and it was 82 on the day that I left. It never budged. The sun rose and set at the same time, and it continues to do that year-round. I know I am sounding like the parochial northerner that I am, but this struck me as the most challenging season of all – perpetual sameness. Still, Wisconsin winters are too long, spring is too short and comes far too “late in the season.”

The plight of the Eastern and Central Europeans

I read in the paper (IHT here) today that the EU countries (try: the whole world) are having problems remembering who is who in the political leadership of the 8 soon-to-be member countries of Eastern and Central Europe (Poland, Hungary, Czech Republic, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Slovakia and Slovenia).

Of course. But one has to hold the press somewhat responsible here. I scour the international section of the NYT daily for news of Poland or any of the other neighboring states. Once every several months, in the “Europe in Brief” section I read a sentence or two, but that’s it.

It was so much more interesting for Americans to read about the overthrow of communist governments than it is to learn of Poland’s plight as the increasingly disenfranchised yet-to-be member of the Union. Everyone knew who Lech Walesa was, or the Czech, Vaclav Havel – heroes to the west (I’m not sure most Poles continue to idolize Walesa in the same way that Americans do).

The article describes briefly the following: “they [Western Europeans] probably do not know Ivan Miklos, the deputy prime minister of Slovakia who last year introduced one of the most innovative fiscal projects in Europe, a flat tax of 19 percent on income, corporate profits and retail sales; Sandra Kalniete, the Latvian foreign minister who grew up exiled in Siberia and who will soon serve as European commissioner in Brussels; Stanislav Gross, a rising star in Czech politics who began his working life as a railway engineer.”

Such rich histories in these forgotten places! Interesting people doing intriguing, innovative work. When will we learn to look east in the hope of learning something new, rather than always exporting advice and turning a blind eye to what happens next?

Mais oui, c’est normal...

I know, I know, I do not need another excuse to give a nod of admiration toward the French and their eating habits. I wont go on for too long. My paper of choice (when I get around to exercising that choice, which, unfortunately, is not daily), the International Herald Tribune, poses the following question (here) from its comfortable French seat: why do Americans neglect communal eating?

The French love their food, we know that, but what they also love is the company of others during meals. We’ve read in the past that even in the urban climate of frenetic Paris, French people will take on the average at least an hour a day for lunch. The article today points out that the same holds true for evening family meals and the school lunch, which in all schools is an hour, followed by some more social time. In some schools it runs even longer.

Compare this to our own wolfing down of food: only one out of three American families sits down to dinner together, and school lunches have 15 minutes allocated to them, including time spent in the cafeteria line (I guess our experience in this was unique, since I believe the local high school extended the eating period to a hefty 17.5 minutes, or thereabouts).

At least I know now why the offspring from this household skipped happily from one grade to the next and why their parents kept their sanity throughout. The article says the following:

"Yet study after study shows that having meals together as a family is good for both adults and children. A University of Michigan study found that mealtime at home was the single strongest predictor of better achievement scores and fewer behavioral problems for children. Mealtime was far more powerful than time spent in school, studying, worshiping, playing sports or arts activities."

There is no doubt in my mind that communal eating has benefits for the soul as well as for the body. It’s worth taking the time for, n’est pas?

Week-end… is there a week-end?

A reader and a friend asked today what I was doing this week-end. Having stated here that I do not treat the blog as a personal declaration of any sort (see post March 2), you would think I would not take this opportunity to address the question in the blog context. Yet I feel I must. The simple answer is that a visitor is flying in tomorrow and so I will be taking another look at Truax and admiring displays in the gift shop in the absence of any other worthwhile airport activity. But the more complicated answer is that perhaps I will initiate a first meeting of bloggers-who-have-lost-all-sense-of-reality-in-their-conversion-of-each-day-into-one-long-blog-run.

Not everyone can belong. My colleagues, for example, are not invited. Ann rarely blogs in the evening, and Tonya has taken a day or two off, presumably to form a comfortable and enduring relationship with TiVo, whomever he may be. Since I am a founding member, I can state the terms: if you care more about posting than you do about calling your own mother (respectfully assuming that you have a mother), you’re in. If you travel to the desert and immediately start inquiring about the location of the nearest internet café (see posts, February 13, 14, 15) –you’re in. If you’re reading the second paragraph of the first page of the novel you started the previous week –you’re in.

Frank Lloyd Wright once remarked: “I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters.” A blogger is more likely to follow the dictum of Kingsley Amis, who wrote: “If you can't annoy somebody, there is little point in writing.”

Spooky spy stuff…

Last night I posted a blog entry questioning Senator Feingold’s recent vote against the extension on the ban on military-style assault weapons (see below). I had my say then and there, after which I retired to a yoga-like position of total political disengagement. I thought it would last at least a week.

Today, though, I came home to a letter from Senator Feingold. On the envelope I read, in big bold letters against a red background, “HOW MUCH DO YOU AND I AGREE?” I don’t want to open it. It’s spooky. How quickly did Senator Feingold muster his support to respond to my critical blog post? Will I be mentioned by name inside the letter, perhaps as a subversive force that is undermining the deeply (albeit, at present, slightly camouflaged) democratic tradition that the Senator wishes to align himself with?

Did anyone else get the same letter? If not, I have to believe that I am being targeted.

Truly, this isn’t excessive worry on my part. I know when these things get politically charged. Remember, please, that I come from a history of tough times for the political outlier. Back in the 60s, one of my NY (elementary school) classmates came up to me and asked “is it true that in Poland armed guards stand outside of each classroom and SHOOT anyone who disagrees?” And, in case that wasn’t enough, in those years, my family was not permitted to drive through many counties in each and every state because of our status as belonging to the Polish (a.k.a. communist) diplomatic corps (Georgia was the only state in the entire Union that did not restrict our movement; Florida, where we liked to drive to on winter break, was so full of prohibitions that it would take us days just to circumvent the counties that forbade our presence). So forgive me for feeling slightly disconcerted: I think I am again being shadowed, for who knows what reason. That, or else Feingold knows he made one big political error.

We forgive thee

What I admire is a nation with a big, forgiving heart. Under Switzerland’s NEW law (and I have to question why it took almost 60 years to enact it, given that mortality rates would act to dwindle the affected population), anyone who was punished for violating Switzerland’s “neutrality” (my quotation marks) during World War II (say for helping in the rescue of Jews), may now receive an official pardon (a very brief paragraph about this here).

In essence, people like Aimée Stauffer-Stitelmann, who had been jailed for several weeks for helping smuggle Jewish children into Switzerland during the War, can be granted a pardon. Of course, those children, now adults, have pardoned Ms. Stauffer-Stitelmann a long time ago, but now we have the Swiss joining in on the forgiveness train. So, is it in the spirit of “forgive and forget?” Like I said, a mark of a country with great humanity and a generous heart.

Again, the Oscars

Columnist Broder from the Washington Post announces his own Oscars for the Democratic Primaries (read it here). He writes the following:

"It's obvious that the John Kerry campaign was the political equivalent of "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King." Just as that epic dominated the Oscars, the Massachusetts senator won battle after battle, starting in Iowa and going right through Super Tuesday."

In addition, Broder wishes to hand out the Best director award to Mary Beth Cahill (who took over managing Kerry’s chaotic campaign back in November); Best Actor: goes to John Edwards (no explanation needed—“awesome performance” writes Broder); for Best Supporting Actress we have:

"A tie between Elizabeth Edwards and Teresa Heinz Kerry, who campaigned vigorously and effectively on their own and managed, when on stage with their husbands, to avoid the adoring gaze that once was expected from the candidate's spouse. Smart, independent women, they did much to signal a welcome change in American society. And a special award to Judith Steinberg Dean, who sent the same message simply by sticking to her medical practice."

Finally, Best Supporting Actor: to Ted Kennedy (for working the crowd before a Kerry appearance); Most Gracious Withdrawal: Joe Lieberman (I don’t have to agree with all the awards, do I?); Most Gracious Endorsement: Wes Clark, “the retired general who went to Wisconsin to endorse former Navy lieutenant Kerry and said to the winner: "Sir, request permission to come aboard;"” and at the tail end, the Worst Supporting Actor Award: “Jerry McEntee of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees, who jumped the gun on most other labor leaders in hopes of being the kingmaker in Howard Dean's campaign and then publicly abandoned Dean a week before Wisconsin. Dean had plenty of faults, but he didn't deserve this. As columnist Mark Shields has written, McEntee's double-cross probably scotches whatever hopes he had to become the next president of the AFL-CIO. Loyalty is supposed to mean something in politics and in life, and he failed the test big-time.”

Can I add a few about others in the run for president? Best Animation, Short Subject: Ralph Nader – truly a cartoon performance, one hopes of a short duration; Best Producer: Republican Fundraisers for putting up such sums of money for GWB, part II. With the exception of the Godfather, isn’t it the case that the sequel is always worse than the original? Oh Lord.

The simple life of the Richies

The perennial question at the time of divorce is, should there be an award of spousal support? If so, how much and for how long? If you read court decisions, you’d come away thinking that spousal support is the norm. Moreover, it is awarded both to recognize the contributions of each spouse (not only the income producing one) during marriage, and to respond to her or his need to maintain a lifestyle proximate to that at the time of marriage. The idea is that divorce should not result in the enrichment of one at the cost of the other – i.e. the spouse that’s economically less well positioned to start a life alone. If you talk to divorce attorneys, however, they will tell you that the reality is less predictable and only approximately 20% of spouses walk away with long term awards.

And so how should the divorcing Richies be treated by the courts? CNN reports that Diane Richie is asking for support as a matter of fairness. She has been accustomed to spending lavishly (her monthly expenses include: $1000 for laser hair removal, $20,000 for a visit top to her son at boarding school, $450 on facials, $250 on nails, etc.). It would be a hardship to change her lifestyle. I would not be surprised if she were granted quite a hefty monthly sum. This is in the LA jurisdiction – her expenses are likely to be regarded as fair and reasonable.

The ballad of Leonardo Balada

Lacking yoga (see post below) to calm my inner turmoil, I decided, instead, to google some of my elementary school teachers to see if they attained any greatness, something more significant than simply shepherding me through 2nd, 3rd, etc grades.

By far the most impressive of the lot is Leonardo Balada, experiencing quite the meteoric rise from elementary and middle school music teacher to renowned composer and professor at the Carnegie Mellon School of Music. He taught me music during 5th through 7th grades, and I remember thinking him then to be rather odd, what with a string (it was always a string) of blond hair falling over half his face, and a slumped posture of a genius in the making.

He let me sing in the ‘special’ solo at the closing school ceremonies before I left for Poland and so I decided to love him right then and there. But when he shortly after traveled to Poland and called my family home, I pretended that I didn’t exist and hung up on him. That was to be my last contact with the incomparable Mr. Balada (see his site here). Unless… unless… what if I were to send him an email explaining that his googled accomplishments have boosted my spirits on a quiet March evening in Madison? What if I apologized for hanging up on him that day in Warsaw, in the summer of 1966? No, some images are best left alone. If he didn’t remember ever having taught the spunky and not altogether compliant kid in his music and choral works classes, I’d be crushed, and then googling his name would never be a calming force again.

A Democrat in search of New Balance

Tonight I should have by-passed the local press. Not only did I have to lose my evening tranquility by reading a nonsensical story blasting divorce attorneys (see post below), but then a well-intentioned reader directed me to the article, also in the Cap Times, indicating that Senator Feingold, for reasons known only to himself (the stated reasons are not entirely comprehensible), was one of just a handful of democrats voting against the extension of the ban on military-style assault weapons.

I know that Feingold and I share the same birth month/year, I know that I could heretofore trust him on representing the democratic platform in the Senate, and I can’t really say that I am a single-issue voter. However, this is just too disturbing. Can anyone explain what credible reasons Feingold would have for voting in the way that he did?

I will go into a political shut-down mode for a while. Reading the paper is too harsh on the system. I wish I were the type who could do two hours of yoga every time I read something disconcerting in the press. Maybe it’s time I found some distractions. My colleagues (see blogs here and here) are all into TiVo. I don’t even know what TiVo is. Sounds like sneakers you would wear for jogging. Personally, I like the style of New Balance – both as footwear and as a slogan favoring the tranquility I am currently missing.

How many distortions can one story have?

Reading today’s Cap Times (local paper) on the subject of divorce through lawyerless mediation, I felt like canceling my subscription right then and there. In a calmer mode I decided that too many papers were being discontinued by me because of an emotional reaction to a poorly written story; reason prevailed and the paper will continue to grace my doorstep in the late afternoon.

When a newspaper article takes one or two missteps, it is not inappropriate to write a quick note clarifying the inaccuracy. The story on divorce, however, had, when last I counted, twenty one inaccuracies, some of them verging on blatant misstatements of fact.

It is so easy to argue that lawyers milk their clients at the time of divorce; that parents are encouraged to pursue their own interest instead of the child’s best interest in custody disputes; that if you would only take the lawyers out, some other less money-grubbing professional could step in and do a better job. The fact is, most courts have built-in mandatory mediation sessions, many appoint a separate lawyer to represent the child’s best interest, and very very few cases ever go to trial, because the pressure to settle a dispute is enormous. Judges hate divorce and custody battles, and do not look favorably upon lawyers who do not resolve the issues prior to a court appearance.

I always worry that the push toward mediation – so fine-sounding in its simplicity – will undermine the interests of the weaker party, the one that hasn’t the emotional strength to persevere. I admit that I am not a fan of divorce proceedings – I find them flawed in any number of ways. You need only attend my Family Law lectures to hear my concerns on how couples and children are treated at the time of dissolution. I spend almost the entire semester on this. But running this article which praises the services of some company offering a “better way” to a divorce, is grounds for mandating a retraction. It’s just too horribly written to belong in even the local paper.

A true resident

Last week I was spending a long afternoon listening to students appeal their denials of residency status for tuition purposes here at UW (I am on a university committee that hears these). A young woman came in with her husband. They moved here from Colorado because of her studies (in law, of all things). She had appealed once before and had been denied, and now she was back. I asked her what had changed since the last hearing. She responded that she and her husband had received a bill for sidewalk maintenance in front of their home this last December (they bought a small house in Madison when they moved here for her schooling) – a hefty sum of $1000 was owed by them to the city of Madison. Surely, said she, this now makes her a full-fledged member of this community and, therefore, a true resident of Wisconsin.

She was wrong and I spent a while explaining why. But I think the woman has connections high up. Today in the mail I received a white envelope with threatening words on the front of the envelope: OFFICIAL NOTICE it read. Inside was a letter from the City Engineering Division informing me that my sidewalk was going to be inspected imminently, with the strong possibility of major repairs down the pike. A bill for this city service would follow.

Coincidence? I can hardly think so. Our sidewalk was repaired just two years ago, and we paid THAT bill shortly thereafter. There is, to my uninformed eye, nothing wrong with the sidewalk – it is as smooth as an ocean pebble. It is beautifully straight, not a tear nor a dent to be seen along its long, well-tended stretch.

I fear that our non-resident has set the city against us. I can only expect now an annual repaving of the sidewalk. With the huge bill, of course.

Numbing beauty

One of the odder email subscriptions that I receive (on a very irregular basis) is a newsletter on Florence doings. Yes, that would be Florence, Italy. I think it must be targeting expats because it is in English, and it speaks of things that would be of interest to a foreigner spending long periods of time there.

This morning, I read in it the following: “When he visited Florence, the French writer Stendhal, after a few days spent admiring the architectural and artistic wonders he encountered at every step, was stricken by a sort of blackout, a prostration brought on by the sight of such highly-concentrated beauty.”

I read this with a sort of early March longing to be overwhelmed by something so piercingly flawless that it would make me numb. It would be best if this would coincide with Spring Break so that my own prostration would not hinder any teaching effort. It is hard to find that kind of stunning visual perfection in a landscape that always looks dirty during this month, and a town that is more on the pleasant and attractive end of things rather than fetchingly stupefying. It is easier to be a Florentine in March than it is to be a Madisonian.

Uniquely Vermontian

I am sure I could eventually come to understand why the state of Vermont voted overwhelmingly to support Dean today. But this other piece of news (here) – about the town of Killington wanting to secede from Vermont to become a part of New Hampshire (a mere 25 miles away) is a bit much. Though, it would be interesting to give cities and towns the choice of state affiliation. Madison would probably opt for Massachusetts. And where would Berkeley go? No state quite matches its idiosyncratic disposition. A fascinating idea, all the more remarkable since I am sure that the laws of the chosen state (in today’s case, those of NH) were not thoroughly examined to determine if they were compatible with the mood of the town.

Perhaps the one conclusion one can walk away with today is that Vermont can’t quite shake that now fading glory of being in the public eye.

A day of interesting conversations

A reader tells me:

r: your blog is so personal, I could never blog in that way…
nc: personal? I wont even reveal the top movies selected in my name by the “pick-a-DVD service” (see post sometime in January), I write about the most benign events in my life, I say little, if anything, about what I’m REALLY thinking, that’s for email or personal encounters, not for BLOGS…what do you mean by ‘personal’?

r: well, just as an example I would never say where it is that I am traveling..
nc: that is completely impersonal! I write travel stories on the side, that’s how impersonal travel is in my mind. I hosted a travel website for years and wrote constantly about visits to family farms and vineyards in distant places. Writing about travel is not personal, it’s a nudge to look at an issue from the other side of the ocean, with a different focus perhaps…

r: well yes, but you reveal your position in the process of writing.
nc: do I? Are you sure? Maybe sometimes. I suppose. I guess everyone does know whom I voted for. Or, at least it can be assumed. I’ll grant this much: writing a blog is much like going to a dinner with hosts at a foreign university: the same level of detail would go into a conversation there. After a shot of sake, that detail may expand a little, but it will always be a story within the boundaries of that wonderful, yet limited, conversation.

“Drama-starved pundits…”

“Drama-starved pundits"--these are words used in a WPost article today referring to those who will pick up on Cheney’s comments on the gay marriage saga, looking to see if there is enough of a rift between Cheney and Bush for the president to dump Cheney from the ticket anytime soon. Not wishing to be subsumed into this category, I will NOT devote much space to Cheney’s very amusing answer to the question of whether he supported Bush’s proposed constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage [hint – Cheney made himself out to be a complete non-person, which is perhaps not a surprise, but it is rather funny in an awful sort of way].

Perhaps more disturbing is the reporting of support in this country for the VP: Cheney has an approval rating of 33 percent, disapproval 36, and 31 had no opinion. As to that last number, in the words of the Post, “where have these folks been?”

the happy families of Coaticook

The NYT describes (here) a town in Quebec (Coaticook) where the mayor is providing subsidies so that people would hurry up and multiply. Currently, the number of births averages to about 1.3 per couple. He is hoping that by throwing in a large sum of money for a third child (and fourth, and fifth…), along with subsidies for children’s sports equipment and music lessons, he can keep the families large, culturally and physically fit, and happily married.

Maybe, maybe not. He admits to having no data to support this, though he feels that it can’t but help prod families into making that decision to have even more little rabbits.

The fact is, family-friendly subsidies are not new. Many countries use financial incentives to boost reproduction and to keep young parents in the work force. France is a classic: over 80% of women are employed (ditto Japan) – a fact that reflects the country’s offers of day care subsidies, nanny subsidies, and a number of other benefits for the birthing mother. Last I checked, close to 95% of all French children ages 3 – 5 attended state-funded child care programs (with great food to boot). Far fewer women are in the workforce in Britain and Canada– where the governments are less forthcoming with subsidies.

In Coaticook, Cananda the offer is of piano lessons and hockey sticks and $750 as an incentive to have that extra child. Parents are grateful, I’m sure, with every peanut thrown their way, but oh, is this ever a peanut!

Conversation in the hallway

reader (r): if you could have 5 million people read your blog daily, would you be happy?
nc: No. definitely not. All those anonymous addresses clicking in – never.

r: if you could have 5 thousand people read your blog daily, would you be happy?
nc: no, same reasons.

r: if you could have 500 people read your blog daily, would you be happy?
nc: I think that’s still too much. Unless the readership was composed of people who were no more than one degree of separation removed from me: friends of friends is okay. Friends of friends of friends -- maybe. Complete strangers? It’s not whom I think of when I write a post. I’d have to change my style.

r: if you could have 50 people read your blog daily, would you be happy?
nc: that’s it? I have 50 people in my Family Law class alone. I’m sure this blog hasn’t yet reached all their computerized little fingers, but yes, I would like at least two readers who are not reading to see if they can figure out if I say anything that will help them on their exam.

r: so how many readers would make you happy?
nc: quality, man, it’s all about quality. A reader should like to read the kind of stuff that I like to write about. Style, content, experiences, quirky selection of topics – all that has to please, otherwise it’s a misfire. Lucky thing is, if you’re a reader who logs on only to wince at the mere titles of some of the posts, you of course know that you can find a million other blogs to make you happy. Or, you can start your own little slice of heaven. [And I want to see YOU keep it lively and bold on a daily basis, for months and months!]

What’s wrong with slam dunker?

Class notes from today:

nc: “Why isn’t this case a slam dunker, a no brainer, and easy win for the plaintif?

student: “Professor Camic, it’s not a slam dunker because you can’t say anything is a slam dunker. The word is ‘slam dunk’.” [here student makes a swift and forceful hand motion implying some baseball move that is unrecognizable by me but appears to satisfy the visual requirements of what is a slam dunk]

The edification of the immigrant continues.

Brief comment after ever-so-brief walk with dog

Weather update: the snow has officially melted in the backyard. Completely. Now is the time to draw mighty plans and turn great ambitions into reality: the season of heaving and hoeing is just ahead. Each year I remove the next five to ten square feet of lawn and convert it into planting space. I do it by hand – none of the heavy machinery for me. I’d spent my first years of life and the best part of every childhood summer in a remote village in Poland with my grandparents (electricity arrived only when I was 5, running water and indoor plumbing came much much later). The love of working the soil comes from those years. Now if I could only convert all this suburban rocky clay soil into something that can sustain plantlife, I would be happy.

Politics and songs

An interesting article in the Washington Post today made me wonder if its mission is to spot inconsistencies in NYT reporting (read it here). But let me bypass that for now. Further into the piece, the author turns his attention to Kerry’s campaign (this is a cite twice removed – in other words, I am citing to the Post, which, inturn, is citing to the National Review and so there is an element of mockery here):

Why does Sen. John Kerry talk incessantly about Vietnam?
Obviously, it has given him a great political advantage in past campaigns and he hopes it will do the same in his race for the White House. But there might be another reason. Perhaps more than any other presidential candidate in recent memory, Kerry seems to be living in another time, playing a movie of Vietnam over and over in his mind . . .
Is Kerry's the only campaign to play Jimi Hendrix -- specifically, 'Fire' from the 1967 album Are You Experienced? -- at rallies? Other candidates -- like John Edwards, with his theme song, John Mellencamp's 'Small Town' -- aren't exactly cutting edge, but they have chosen somewhat newer stuff.
And what about the music on Kerry's bus? Before the Iowa caucuses, Washington Post reporter Ceci Connolly described the candidate hanging out on the bus with Peter Yarrow, his old friend from Peter, Paul, and Mary. 'Pedro, sing us a song,' Kerry ordered one day. Yarrow picked up a guitar and began to play and sing -- and later waxed nostalgic about the antiwar rallies he attended way back when with Kerry and Eugene McCarthy.
Earlier, Connolly wrote, when Yarrow sang 'Puff the Magic Dragon' at an event in a private home in Ames, Iowa, 'Kerry lifted his fingers to his mouth for a quick toke on an imaginary joint. You can almost see his thick mane of silver hair returning to the shaggy brown do of those days.'
This man is living in a time warp. No wonder Kerry sees any conflict -- Gulf War I, Afghanistan, Gulf War II --as a potential Vietnam. In Kerry's world, Vietnam is running on a continuous loop on that big screen TV -- with Jimi, Kris, and Peter, Paul, and Mary singing in the background.

Oh how annoying! Can we trivilaize the man any more than this?

Dressing without care

In today’s Cap Times, columnist Doug Moe both complains that Midwesterners have to “wear” the label of having no taste (especially for clothes), at the same time that he admits to hating anything other than white socks and flexible waist-line pants (would that be on a rubber band?) and to despising any sort of neck wear. Moe suggests the following reason for why men would even contemplate putting on a tie: “men wear neckties (only) because women wear high heels – it’s a form of attire revenge that each gender practices on the other.”

So is he agreeing with the label of skuzzy tastelessness? Hard to say. And maybe the label of “good taste” should not enter into any discussion of dress or style. You can only irritate someone by proclaiming knowledge of what stands behind it since claiming to recognize good taste is already a boast: it elevates you to a level of greater insight, to having an educated palate, discriminating judgment and a good eye.

But is there nothing in the claim that Midwesterners are poor dressers? Certainly everyone would agree that overall, Wisconsinites are comfort-oriented in their dress: practical rather than extravagant. I think you could go to the best restaurant in sweat pants and no one would care. In Poland, even those on a shoestring budget take great pains to present themselves well in public. You need only ride the subway in Warsaw to see this – students and older people alike are extremely mindful of what they wear. Moe in his white socks, flexible pants and open collar shirt is basically saying “heck with it, I’ll do what I dang well please.” The kinder interpretation is that clothes are, after all, only superficial markers of anyone’s worth, proxies for an affluence in resources rather than spirit. But an “I’m not going to bother” attitude does say something else about a person, doesn’t it? Being a slob, clothes-wise or otherwise, is a request for the indulgence of others. Isn’t it a sign that you’re privileging the self over those around you?

What if

A Polish reader sent me photos from the reunion of our university class of economists. I had begun my studies in econometrics with these guys at the U of Warsaw in 1969, and I would have gotten my MA with them in 1974 had I stayed, but I barreled out halfway and moved to NY and to a new field of study – sociology (only, in the end, to capitulate to law). The photos had the effect that reunions have on people if you haven’t been tracking others’ progress. Everyone looked much the same, only 30+ years older.

It is interesting to play the “what if” game with yourself, so I indulged in a little fantasy, aided by the photos. What if I had stayed... I’d be there juggling a glass of wine (one hopes it is wine and not stronger stuff, but in Poland you never know) with them, talking about our changing careers in light of Poland’s economic reforms (my class was greatly affected by the transformations – not always in a positive way; some are struggling with keeping employed). I’d exchange stories about how my little bobus (kiddie) turned into a fine young Zygmunt or Waclaw (neither name is particularly a favorite, but I’m just spinning here), and I’d ask for a recipe for the newest version of poppy-seed cake. We’d review our winter vacations and our plans for the summer (Poles cannot be content without at least two hefty vacations, during the winter and summer, sometimes supplemented with a brief little escape, maybe for a week or so, in the fall). Most definitely we’d comment on how joining the EU will affect the environment, or the success of a local favorite shop that's struggling to stay in business. Everyone talks about the EU, and us econometricians would be right in there churnin’ numbers and keeping fingers crossed. Late at night we’d walk the city streets toward home – but wait, who is “we” and where is “home?” Here’s where the game starts being complicated. Better get back to work – so much easier and more linear.

Days of wine and marriages

An odd way to begin a new month, a new week, and a new morning: to write a blog post about a story from last month’s Wine Spectator.

It all, however, makes sense. I have been up since dawn clearing the stack of accumulated bills and magazines from February in what has become a monthly ritual (first day of each month) of bill-paying, grumbling about paper waste and junk mail, and in general, snarling at every window-envelope that crosses my path. I am almost done with the stack and am celebrating with a quick post on an article I paused to read a minute ago.

The article is about Gavin Newsome, obviously written before Mr. Newsome put himself on the map by permitting gay marriages in the city where he is mayor (SF). My Berkeley-residing mother had already alerted me to the fact that he is an ambitious individual (somehow when she says this it always sounds like a pejorative). The WS article, similarly, is not blind to Newsome’s ambitions. It starts out with the following:

Garvin Newsome seems to have it all—a successful business centered around wine, restaurants and resorts; good looks, charm and sophistication; a wife who is a former model turned city prosecutor; a politically connected father [later on we find out that his dad is a retired state appeals court judge]; and a billionaire family friend and financial backer [that would be Billy Getty, son of billionaire philanthropist, Gordon Getty]. Now, at age 36, he is also the new mayor of SF and a rising star in the Democratic Party. Newsome…says he always tries to set ‘big, hairy [??], audacious goals’ for his business and for himself. ‘I don’t want to have a modest goal and then reach for it,’ says the entrepreneur, whose innovative businesses include a fine dining restaurant that sells wine at retail prices [this is unheard of: our trio of top-of-the line restaurants in Madison marks up at 2 -3 times the retail price, which always makes me ill] and a winery that puts screw caps on a $100 plus cabernet [way to go! Cork spoilage is the single biggest reason why nice bottles of wine sometimes taste like bird bath water; even when the wine survives an imperfect cork, it may still be in some way affected by it. A good way to satisfy yourself that this is true is to blind-taste wine from many bottles coming from the same case, same cellar, same barrel—they wont all taste the same; how can that be? Obviously cork impact].

Stories of this type of energetic enthusiasm for bold reform are rare. Newsome’s ambitions appear to be targeting even higher goals for the future. Can he sustain his fervor for affecting change? He says of himself that he “lives in exclamation points!” How refreshing. I’m such a fan of this type of passion and zest. Surrounding yourself with images of (and contacts with, if you're lucky) people who live “in exclamation points," as opposed to between anti-smiley faces such as this :( , has to be the healthiest way to proceed and create (whatever it is that you are destined to create).

Reflecting on the Academy Awards

A reader who has been amused with my Award obsession for a while now suggested that I perhaps should consider switching my focus to the “Independent Spirit Awards” (aired late Saturday night). I must truthfully admit that I had never heard of these awards (possibly because I tuned out at the mere sound of the words “Independent Spirit” in the media, thinking these to be signifiers of some military action in a distant region of the planet). Okay, assuming that these are authentic awards, what is it that sets them apart from the rest? My friend writes that the Independent Spirit Awards were more entertaining in a less formal way, with recognition going to a greater variety of films. And what were the results? Who even showd up? My pal says: “Lost in Translation dominated, and Charlize, looking incredible in jeans and a white blazer, won. Those two darling girls from In America were there.” It does sound like a better version of what I succumb to each year.

It almost made me want to give up on the Academies in the future, but not entirely. For one thing, if you have been watching something regularly since 1976, without a break, it would have to be a pretty miserable experience for you to give it up now. Also, you know that the world (or 1 billion pop, which is a good part of the viewing public) is watching and so you are tracking not only the winners but the possible reaction of those watching the winners.

But it is frustrating when you do tune in and you find that all dresses look alike, all speeches sound alike, and there are NO SURPRISES (except that Sean Penn showed up; A+ for his comment, too). Many will write tomorrow that these were the most boring of all the Oscar shows. Not true for me– I did NOT drift off, there were no long production numbers, and Billy was tame but not sleep-inducing.

Maybe it is more of a milestone than anything else: it’s March (or this year: almost March), we’re almost done with winter, and there is hope: that someone will say something that will change the world in a positive way, that someone will be recognized for a talent that is truly remarkable, that there will be something there to amuse us on that big gray box called the TV.

So, one realized hope out of three isn’t bad, right? And there’s next year to look forward to. Only someone else will have to slaughter the lobsters (see post below). It’s just getting to be too brutal for me.

Things that a blogger can be grateful for:

...That a small handful of Academy Award recipients had the drive to include in their message of thanks something/someone other than names of unknown to us people (sincere thanks to moms is a good things, as are messages questioning the existence of WMD);

...That the balance of support v. protest against some of the content of this blog today was kept level at 1:1 (at least this is a guess – I am assuming there was silent support, since people don’t typically write unless they have objections);

...That it is now officially March, a month that portends of good things to come, thereby negating all the bad omens associated with February.

A Sunday evening quiz

Q: What happens when you set your internal alarm to 6pm (central time) thinking that this is when the Awards are aired and find yourself staring at Barbara Walters instead?
A: I turn beet red, turn off the TV and go back to blogging.

Q: What does it say about a 'scholar' who chooses to watch the Awards but neglects the political debate between democratic candidates earlier that day?
A: That she was busy earlier maybe doing her work so that she could take the time to do something frivolous in the evening?

Q: Is plunging live lobsters into a pot of boiling water a humane act ending lobster misery, or an act of sheer barbarian monstrosity?
A: Somewhere in between, but I hate doing it and offer prayers of remorse even though I am not exactly religious.

Q: Is it okay to watch something so inane as Barbara Walters interviewing DK of NY?
A: No, but I’m itching to do it, so the post ends here.

Is it me or you?

A wonderfully loyal reader and friend from Poland today admitted that sometimes my text runs completely into terrain that muddles and befuddles her. I just want to publicly reassure her that this isn’t at all due to her (or anyone’s) knowledge of English of Americanisms. It muddles and befuddles most readers I am sure. In fact, I just took an informal poll and the results are clear: I write spontaneously, oddly, inconsistently on topics that range from odd to odder (why DID I blog about my ancient truck, excuse me, van?). In my moment of complete humility and deep appreciation – thank you all for sticking by me in this project.

Sunday chat

I am recording the following conversation between a reader (r) and myself (n):

r: I have known you all these years and I never knew you owned a truck [referring to post from February 28]

n: Yes, you do know! Don’t you remember the time you needed a ride to Noah’s Ark where the water animals play?

r: You have never given me a ride in a truck. Well, once, you helped me move in a U-Haul truck, but that is it. And where do you keep the truck? Does it fit in your garage? Is it a pick-up? Like one of those Chevy pick-ups that they write songs about?

n: Of course not, it’s just a gray number, with a cracked headlight from the day you borrowed it and decided that you would fit it into a tight parking place at Border’s but couldn’t.

r: That is not a truck! It is nowhere near a truck! You are misleading your readership.

n: Listen, where I come from, a vehicle that is five times as big as you need or want it to be is a truck. A car is a little number that you zip through narrow passageways. This is a monster vehicle therefore, in my eyes, it is a truck. (sigh) People here can be so literal…

Taxes and legacy admissions

The NYT Magazine has an article today that tracks the debate about whether universities should abandon the “legacy advantage” in their admissions policies. The author notes that affirmative action has become the “political punching bag of the right” while legacy admissions – a significantly less important factor in admissions, but a factor nonetheless – has become the “political punching bag of the left.” The article concludes that neither affirmative action nor legacy status are going to go away anytime soon.

Oh, I know the time has come to cast away legacies – a relic of an aristocratic past, I know… For me, however, legacy status has a fundamental similarity to taxes. How so? Well, I am big on taxes. I only don’t like them in practice because they take a chunk out of the paycheck. But I believe in them, I don’t try to avoid paying them, and I think it is right that I should pay more if my income goes up (which it wont – see post on February 27). The devil within, however, gets happy when there is a rebate check in the mail. I do not send it back to the IRS with a note saying – here, the government needs this more than I do. I deposit it in the bank and think happy thoughts about next year’s vacation.

I feel the same way about legacy admissions: I agree that they are inherently unfair. Being in a household full of first generation college (to say nothing of post-college) grads, I certainly can say that I reaped no legacy benefit, and that offspring of this household reaped no benefit either, given their own educational choices. So of course, I am a wee bit wistful: when the first-time reapers, the yet-to-be-born grandchildren can finally lay claim to that privilege –pfffft! away it flies. I know, I know –and so it should. But darn it, can we wait just one more generation before we get rid of it? No no, I didn’t mean it. I like taxes, I don’t like legacies. Final answer.

Blog posts well taken

I want to mention two blog posts that were as interesting as anything I might cite to in the press:
The first is Tonya’s (here), where she states her belief that film stars rarely transit successfully into the music world. I balked when I read that. [Though I do think that her other comments about the incongruity of upper-east-side NY women rapping are well-taken; I’m not sure that I agree in principle, but I do see that it is an awkward genre to push yourself into if you haven’t any identification with the life milieu that gave birth to this type of music.] Surely that can’t be right? Oh yes it is: there ARE more singers that move successfully into acting than there are actresses/actors who then pick up a singing career. I can think of a million that have gone the route of singing-to-acting and I cannot think of any moving in the other direction with great success. A friend pointed me to Lena Horn, since she really became initially famous for her movies and only later did her singing career take off. Oh, and I suppose one could mention Jim Nabors – how about that, I now have all of TWO! But why is it almost impossible to go further with this list?

The other post that made me dig into my limited storage chest of counter examples was Ann’s (here) where she reflected that most politicians tout the careers of their fathers and rarely showcase the humble work of their mothers. Of course, there is a small group out there (Clinton comes to mind) without identifiable fathers, and in those cases humble moms make the cut. But the point can be taken out of the political context as well. I have a number of colleagues who paint a picture of their upward mobility by referencing their dad’s work, by-passing their equally blue-collar employed moms. Here, the reasons aren’t so mysterious, but the general phenomenon is fascinating nonetheless, in that, absent some element of fame associated with our mothers, we almost always rush to describe the work of our fathers, and sometimes by-pass entirely the achievements or under-achievements of our mothers. If you don’t buy this, try in your imagination to start the description in the other direction – “my mother was…. “ and then after a pause “… oh, and my father was…” Awkward, and rarely done.

Slow food

Good title because: it has been a slow blogger day, and I haven’t had enough food to keep me happy (an evening event that was never touted as being food-centered turned out to be even less food based than one would have expected, leaving me basically hungry).

Slow Food is, of course, a movement, born in Italy, but spread to many parts of the world (see their web site here). It is an idea that I deeply believe in but can only adhere to in an abstract sort of way, because in reality it appears to run counter to everything else that we do to speed through life. We do not slow down to cook, to eat, to savor (the company or the food), we don’t slow down for much of anything. Though, I have to admit to being a card-carrying member of the snail – the symbol of Slow Food. And I’m proud of it.

UN on the march

In her blog (here), Ann linked to a songbook, dated 1944, that is a compilation of lyrics for songs of the Women’s Army Corps. I had seen her copy of this, and the link now gave me a chance to read over some of the songs. I was especially intrigued with the section that has the so-called songs of the United Nations, and disappointed that the idea here was only to give a chance to mispronounce some words from far away places in the spirit of global unity.

In a different forum, one can pick up still other songs that are identified with the UN. At the UN school, even in 2nd grade (which is when I joined the school, in 1960) we would start off each weekly assembly with the following:

The sun and the stars are ringing
With song rising strong from the earth
The hope of humanity singing
A hymn to a new world in birth

Chorus: United Nations on the march
With flags unfurled
Together fight for victory
A free new world

Take heart all new nations swept under
By powers of darkness that rise
The wrath of the people shall thunder
Relentless as time and the tide
(chorus)

As soon as the sun meets the morning
And rivers go down to the sea
A new world for mankind is dawning
Our children shall live proud and free.
(chorus)

It was, in retrospect, rather funny to have the younger and older students sing these lyrics over and over again. For my rather confused, 7-year-old mind, learning English was tough enough. I’m sure I missed the subtleties of “take heart all you nations swept under by powers of darkness that rise.” But oh, how I would love to belt out that part about the marching United Nations, all fighting (fighting whom?) together for a free new world. I was such a fan of this idea. I loved my school (even though the city of New York generously let us use only a “condemned” former public school building; weekly fire drills thus had to be enforced with an iron hand, because the threat was very real), I loved the UN itself – the great meeting halls inside thrilled me to pieces. They still sort of do.

And I wasn’t the only one who felt allegiance to the ideas espoused in the song and the school in general. Of course, you had to be pretty forward thinking to begin with to send your child there, what with all those little communist kiddies running around the already dirty halls. But it is worth noting that from my small class of about 20, my best buddy Radhika Coomaraswamy (for whom I dedicated a song on WABC Radio – “the 19th nervous breakdown” – because I was leaving the States 'for good', and I knew she liked it; sadly, the announcer butchered her name, though she wasn’t listening at the right moment anyway) became the UN Special Rapporteur on Violence against Women, sweet little Ashok Alexander is now the Director of the India AIDS Foundation, funky John Zorn with his shirt tails always dangling, turned out to be quite a remarkable musician-saxophonist (it started with the UN song!!), recognized now for championing the music of the obscure, forgotten artists – most others I’ve lost contact with, but I am imagining that they are pushing other important boundaries, commensurate with the spirit of our school. So was it simply a blind repetition of lyrics? Maybe not.

Retreat into politics

I’ve noticed in myself a reluctance to blog in a political vein lately. There are many reasons for it (among other things, what I think about politics is oft times predictable and even oftener --not with a great deal of entertainment value; to agree with a position is not, for me, blogworthy unless that agreement comes with a singularly interesting perspective), but I will step away from this pattern for a minute and point to the Washington Post editorial today. It states a very simple truth: GWB is starting with the Republican fear campaign, imbedding in everyone the idea that “a Democrat in the White House will only raise taxes.”

The Post correctly states (isn’t it nice that little me can vouch for the veracity of the leading DC journal) that neither Kerry nor Edwards want to repeal the tax cuts for the vast majority of income earners, keeping in place the child tax credit, marriage penalty relief, the new 10% tax bracket, etc. What they both do want to repeal is the tax break for the 2% of Americans that have an income over $200,000.

Though we are all aware of the fact that the beneficiaries of GWB’s largess were the wealthy, I hadn’t quite studied the numbers and so it did surprise me to read that, in the words of the Post, “this group amounts to the wealthiest 2 percent, but it stands to reap 28 percent of the benefit of the tax cut this year.”
It’s a good editorial to read at a time when the Bush reelection team is starting to sound its principal economic theme. You want to keep everyone focused on keeping the simple math straight. News stories and editorials are crucial to that effort – the clarifications shouldn’t be left to the opposing Democrats, this is a matter of correcting misinformation that is coming from the White House. There are numerous opportunities on the horizon for newspapers that take on the mission of setting records straight.

Reality check

Again I am asked if my “readers” are mere figments of an overindulged imagination and again I am going on record as stating that they are not. Once you blog with your real name, the obligation to blog with real events and real people is very real. Comments aren’t a frequent thing, but when they come and they are of general interest I do address them here.

I have given up on addressing them only on a Sunday, however, mostly because I am impatient, forgetful, and slightly worried that if I make a point of doing that, it will be like a bad version of NPR’s Thursday’s emails without the emails.

One more real note on real issues: last Thursday I took my dog Ollie to the vet for his annual check up. Ollie has joined the ranks of Americans struggling for a sane level of body mass. The dog has gained weight and is now about 15% over his optimal poundage (46 instead of the desirable 40 lbs). That is indeed a reality check: I am going on record with a resolution to walk the beast regularly instead of just letting him run around once in a circle in the back yard whereby on my command “hurry up, Ollie” he does his thing. The command was a clever trick, taught with great patience and perseverance on my part, for days when I would want to retire from dog-walking, but the time has come to reassess my values. From today onwards (I pick my starting date with great care, paying careful attention to the weather), we are back on the dog track. Look for us all over town – the chocolate colored American water spaniel and the reluctant owner of mixed origins.

Indispensable?

Teaching at UW may offer compensation far beyond that which appears in your bank account on a monthly basis. It is also true that the dollar compensation that has been trickling in has not been subject to much of an increase in recent years. Market forces aren’t necessarily determinative in setting pay scales in an academic setting. Nonetheless, occasionally, the devil in me wonders if I’d fare well were I to make a case to the administration for an adjustment to the salary I have been receiving, given that I, like everyone else I suppose, would love to believe that it is not commensurate with that which I bring to the university. Today being “pay day” made me all the more happy that there is indeed a tool out there – a “meter” in Fortune Magazine that allows me to predict the probability of success were I to go begging for a raise (look for it here).

A series of basic questions leads to an assessment of how indispensable I really am. The result is not really surprising. The title of the questionnaire says it all—you need only ask yourself “are you indispensable” without even plodding through the questions. This will save you some anxious moments where you check off boxes page after page knowing that each answer is placing you even closer to the category of “you will never get a raise at all because you are just so damn dispensable,” a place where none of us want to reside.

One might well ask how many faculty at the Law School are truly irreplaceable? My “score” indicated that I have an indispensability rating of “Medium to Low.” I could, I suppose, tweak the answers to reflect some more intangible indirect contribution that my enormous talents are supporting (I may be replaceable, but is the replacement going to love her students as much?), but at the most basic level, responding in terms of the unique value of my field of expertise (there is great value, but I have doubts as to the uniqueness of it), the questionnaire couldn’t be more blunt in telling me that I best forgo the plug for more dollars.

I did for a moment consider reading the link at the end entitled “How to Get a Raise When the Well has Run Dry,” but gave up after I fully grasped the meaning of my mediocre indispensability rating.

The anticipation builds

A reader wrote that my post on the Oscars inspired her to have an Oscar party this year. One has to let go of one’s individual sensitivities here and not mind that an invitation was not forthcoming. Keeping a blog reader happy is far more important that attending to one’s own social needs. Let me show my generous spirit and pass on a few tips to make her evening a complete success:

1. don’t hand out ballots and ask people to vote. The winner will make a complete idiot of her/himself. They will regret their behavior the next day and you will regret having had them over: a lose-lose situation;
2. don’t serve dinner beforehand. Many people like the preshow more than they like the Awards. You’ll be serving goat cheese soufflé as an appetizer and half your guests will already be glued to the TV;
3. don’t invite people who really are into the ceremonies: they’ll keep telling everyone to be quiet and a quiet party is no one's idea of a success;
4. don’t withdraw into yourself and read legal briefs so that everyone can see how cool and, ergo, bored you are with the ceremonies; that kind of boredom is contagious and you’ll soon have yourself a slumber party.

Oh, I could go on. Fact is, these parties are far less fun than seeing people in a non-TV context. But, if you must spice up your own viewing pleasure, go for it. And don’t invite me. I’m already committed. I’m baking up a soufflé, I have a stack of briefs to read – the whole bit.

Spring fever

As my afternoon went to coaching a group of law students in their moot court competition prep, I missed the chance to grab something for lunch. These events lead me to conclude the following:

1. I am really seriously nuts about my students (not all of them). When I listen to them speak, I see a future that is filled with their talent and humanity. I can’t wait ‘til my generation (and those before) steps aside from the legal profession, to be replaced by these guys.

2. I am really seriously nuts, period. Because I was running so late with everything, I decided to treat myself to a cup of coffee at Ancora. This is an indulgence because I cannot otherwise justify spending $3 for a latte that I can easily make in my office (and I have the fridge, the burner, and the stove-top little moka to do it, too). Since it was such a gorgeously spring-smelling day, I was rather upbeat and chipper in my slow meander toward Ancora (via parking lot, grocery store, post office etc.). At the entry to the coffee shop, a guy was sort of loitering, chatting up various customers as they were coming and going, in the most friendly of ways. Eventually he left, and I remarked to the sellers rather slyly “my, he was excessive!” And they smiled and nodded (sales people will agree with anything you tell them) and I left. And of course it struck me that I should not speak of “excessive” since I had just minutes ago spent a great deal of time explaining to a store clerk the virtues of buying fresh basil in February (he seemed genuinely interested), and telling the postal clerk that the stamps in Poland almost always have great artistry to them and this, in turn, opened the door for a number of other reflections on differences between the two cultures (the Hilldale postal clerks are extraordinarily patient with stories of this nature perhaps due to the fact that the average age of their customer tends to be 94 –prime time for story telling). Okay, it had not gotten to the point where I was accosting virtual strangers with conversational anecdotes, but still, I decided I should be more careful or else my mother’s predictions about the decline in the mental health of all our family members (she exempts herself I believe, which is good: we need to have someone keep the records of our demise) will have turned out to be true.

Movies for the week-end

If you're one of those who has requested email updates of NYT film reviews, you will have gotten the following capsules of what this week-end offers:

Passion of the Christ: After a horror-movie beginning, complete with demons, menacing music and creepy camera moves, Mr. Gibson settles into a long, relentless contemplation of torture, maiming and execution. His stated goal was realism, but the emphatic musical, visual and aural effects — the first nail is driven into Jesus' palms with a sickening thwack that must have required hours of digital tweaking — make the film a melodramatic exercise in high-minded sadomasochism. In spite of concerns about the anti-Semitism of Mr. Gibson's portrayal of the Pharisees, the movie is more grueling and unnerving than outrageous or offensive. For a movie made out of such evident religious conviction, it seems utterly lacking in grace.

Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights: This reimagining of the recklessly melodramatic 1987 original is packed with flashy, taffeta silliness, and a desperation for a sweaty PG-13 sexiness so laughable that the cast members deserve Oscar nominations for getting through the picture without cracking up.

Twisted: The greatest mystery in this laborious, nonsensical thriller is why the director Philip Kaufman bothered to lend his talents to such mediocre studio hackwork.

I suppose it is not inconceivable that the producers will try to salvage some good words from those reviews, if only for the future DVD rental market, which is often driven by reviews on boxes. For example, you could truthfully quote (without even changing the meaning much):

Passion of the Christ: “Mr Gibson settles into a long…contemplation. [E]mphatic musical, visual and aural effects.. a melodramatic exercise.. a movie made out of …evident religious conviction.”

Dirty Dancing: HN: “Packed with flashy…sexiness… The cast members deserve Oscar nominations...”

Twisted: “The greatest mystery…thriller… The director Philip Kaufman lend(s) his talents...”

Not exactly catchy slogans, but if you’re a dazed customer who has just spent 3.5 hours staring at countless DVD boxes trying to decide what to rent, it all kind of blurs together anyway.

The senior citizen in the parking lot

How old is my truck?
It is so old that I need a key to open the door (though I never lock it--what for?), but I don’t need a key to start the ignition (I don’t know how this happened but it seems these days I can just turn it on, much like a light switch).
It is so old that I bought one of the first models at the inception of this particular line of trucks, and I am still driving it even though after a long and happy history, the line has been discontinued.
It is so old that no one asks me to pick up prominent visitors at the airport anymore for fear that I will be driving them in THAT TRUCK.
It is so old that I’ve stopped ever going to a drive-through car wash. I’m afraid that the brushes will cause the sides to collapse on me much like a deck of cards and I’ll be devoured by the steely swirling monster bristles.
It is so old that… okay, enough. It is old. But I have no reason to discard it. It starts, it moves, it doesn’t guzzle gas. Can one demand more of a vehicle?

There is the image issue. I remember many years back when I drove some law students to the court house, one said “uh, we always sort of pictured you driving a SAAB.” I felt that to be a complement and it was disturbing to know that I had shattered a classy myth. From there, it is but a small drop to appearing for class in clothes that belong to the last decades, having vinyl furniture in your office, and generally exhibiting a loss of pride in the aesthetic presentation of oneself and one’s surroundings. I’m keeping up with the other stuff so far, but I’m on alert for signs of decline.

I never would have guessed...

The reason we love the Oscars (just bare with me, I realize not everyone loves the Oscars) is that in the end, they are unpredictable. Imagine if they were like political elections: polls indicate that X is the clear frontrunner; exit interviews indicate that Y is leading, the NYT endorses Z. That would be far less interesting.

But the fact is, we really don’t know who the winners will be.

We can weigh the merits of a performance (though even here we typically do not have a consensus), we can factor in such things as “the Academy owes her one” or “he wont get it – he never shows up anyway.” But these factors are rather random. Depending on whom you talk to, you may get bizarrely skewed answers. For example, here’s a little conversation that I bet no one is paying attention to (appearing in some side story in the Times):

"A week ago I would've said it was Sean Penn," said Tony Angellotti, an Oscar campaign expert working for Universal this season. "But at my table at the S.A.G. Awards," he said, referring to the guild ceremony, "we all looked at each other and realized we'd voted for Johnny" for the Oscar. "I'm not sure Johnny Depp is going to win, but he's getting a lot more votes than I suspected," he added.

How seriously are we to consider this? Are there other table-side conversations taking place? Do they offer another intervening force or factor? EVERYONE this year is predicting that Charlize Theron will win ‘Best Actress.’ But is this in itself reason enough to suspect that, therefore, maybe she wont win?

I have not missed an Oscar show since I moved permanently to the States in 1972. Most years I will not have even seen all the movies nominated for best picture. One fancy dress looks the same as the next (though I will try to pick out the DK gloves this year). My memory for names is laughable (and many do seize the opportunity to laugh), and if asked right now, I could not tell you off the top, which film won best picture three years ago. But I am fascinated by this fact of unpredictability. Post-Oscar analyses will offer the missing factors that we all will have neglected to consider. In the mean time, we can but guess and entertain each other with our own foolishness for never being 100% right. Enjoyable? Very much so.

Marrying Omar Sharif

The first time I was seriously considered for marriage was when I was 6 years old. My equally young Polish friend Janek announced, after a momentary critical evaluation: “when I grow up, I will marry Nina.”

You might say that this verged on being an arranged marriage, as his parents were cordially friendly with my parents. The only reason my path crossed Janek’s was because my parents made me spend time with him. Eventually I didn’t much mind, which is how arranged marriages have also been described to me – eventually you may even start liking your spouse.

But Janek and I were never meant to be. My travel to the States pretty much cut him out of my life.
Still, Janek kept in touch with my sister (who lives in Warsaw), and the last time I traveled to Poland, she asked me if I would agree to see him again, just to catch up. She would sit in on the meeting, as would Janek’s wife (idle curiosity, I’m sure).

Before agreeing, I asked my sister how I would find Janek. After all, it’s been 44 years since marriage was suggested, and I haven’t seen (nor thought much about) him since. She looked conspiratorially at me and said: “he looks terrific: 100% like Omar Sharif.”

I was reminded of this exchange today as I listened to NPR on the way home: there was a story on the return of Sharif to the movie scene. Of course, the real Omar Sharif is much older (72), while my “Omar” is my age (see earlier post for an analysis of how YOUNG that is).

Janek-Omar and I did meet over coffee. We eyed each other, his wife eyed me, my sister eyed the entire situation. It wasn’t awkward at all. But one has to wonder, what would have happened had I not left for New York? Would I now be helping him launch a mountain bed and breakfast in southern Poland? Would we eventually have even liked each other? Probably not. I can’t help but see Janek not as Omar but as the little boy in a cowboy suit, with a gleam that spelled trouble. But I did take a photo of us, just to show interested parties back home how close I came to marrying someone who looks now exactly like Omar Sharif.

The politics of age

If the NYTimes told you (through an editorial endorsement) to vote for Kerry but you had been leaning toward Edwards, would you switch? No, probably not. But if the Times told you to vote for Kerry acknowledging that Edwards is a wonderful candidate – perfect for 4 – 8 years from now, would you then switch? Still maybe not? And if the Times admitted that in the past, presidents have come to the White House with pretty empty political resumes, but that was before September 11, would you perhaps give Kerry another glance? Especially if in the same breath the Times portrayed Kerry as a mature, balanced candidate with experience in foreign affairs, while noting that Edwards lacked decisiveness and great depth?

Newspaper endorsements are an odd thing. Most of us would never admit to following a paper’s pointing finger except in instances where we don’t know a thing about the candidate, as for example, in races for county register of deeds. But an endorsement portends of things to come: in Wisconsin it preceded the rush toward Edwards. Or maybe it legitimized it. And that legitimacy influences one’s thought process, doesn’t it? “Well okay, if EVERYONE is going to be voting for him, I might as well too.”

It seems that the loaded term that emerges from the Times endorsement is “experience,” and that the paper has determined that this lies at the base of “electability.” Edwards is given little credit for positions he takes, except that the paper admits that he has populist appeal. It’s fascinating that in the end, age is seen as such a virtue: either political age (meaning number of years on the political scene) or real age. Come to think of it, I don’t remember when this country last elected a president who had not a whole lot of one or the other (though many have squeaked by with only “real age” in their favor). But hey, Edwards only LOOKS young. He’s MY age after all (less than two months younger). Not good enough?