Archive | Politics

Blondes Have…

 


StreetSong.jpgDo you remember how Bob on Sesame Street used to sing that song about “three of these things belong together…one of these things just doesn’t belong…”? 

Let’s play that game now.

Nancy_Pfotenhauer.jpg
That’s number one. The impressively named Nancy Pfotenhauer, nee Nancy Mitchell (would YOU go from Mitchell to Pfotenhauer? Seriously). She used to work for the group Americans For Prosperity (which means what, I wonder? Is there a group that works against prosperity?) Now she works for John McCain.  

Number two:
nicolle.jpg

This is Nicolle Wallace, who perhaps used to be named Nicole Walace. She used to work for Bush but now she works for the McCain campaign, like Nancy.

Exhibit three:

Thumbnail image for CindyMcCain_full.jpgCindy McCain, nee Hensley.  She doesn’t so much work in the way you and I might understand that word. 

 And now for the fourth member of the set:
sarahpalinalask.jpgSo kids, which one doesn’t belong?

Mmmm, nope, it’s not Cindy, although you might think so, given that she’s the only one whose job involves that wonderful phrase “living off the interest.”

Nope, the winner is…la belle Sarah.

Our little game illustrates the reall (sorry Nicolle; it’s catching) – the real reason why McCain thinks Sarah Palin is an “outsider.” It’s got nothing to do with Alaska.

She’s a brunette.

Hey. It makes as much sense as anything else, doesn’t it?

Continue Reading · on October 20, 2008 in Politics

The Blame Game …

 

kairyssdal.jpgYesterday, on “Marketplace,” the radio show that makes it almost possible for me to understand economics, the fabulously voiced host, Kai Ryssdal (the man judging pumpkin pies in the picture above) read letters and emails from listeners. Not surprisingly, most listeners had strong feelings about the financial bailout and the country’s fiscal meltdown. Ryssdal started the segment with the comment that “revenge is a dish best served cold,” and ended by saying that even those who didn’t want revenge clearly want to blame someone for the mess.

That started me thinking about blame and why it’s so tempting – and satisfying – to point the finger at someone and say “YOUR FAULT.” And of course, that finger-pointing is something one tries to inoculate one’s children against: “I don’t care whose fault it is, you are not allowed to whack your brother with a wooden train track.” To which Liam likes to respond: “Caleb instigated me so I couldn’t help it. It’s HIS FAULT that I hit him.” 

Do you see how mature I am in NOT talking about the blame games within a marriage … and my somewhat uncomfortable realization that my children may not be the only people who need lessons about personal responsibility. I know, I know that I shouldn’t hit my husband with a wooden train track just because he left his (dirty) socks on the table again.

But I digress. 

So there I was, listening to “Marketplace,” sitting in traffic on the FDR, and because I was alone, I indulged in the deliciousness of finger pointing (and okay, maybe a little ranting, too).

And I figured it out. I know where to point the finger; I know who is to blame for it all: Iraq, Katrina, the housing bubble (and the subsequent POP that has beslimed the country), the financial implosion…

 

nader.jpgThis guy.

Ask yourself: what would have happened if he hadn’t thrown his ego in the ring against Gore and Bush, way back when …

See? 

Now you want to point your finger too.

Continue Reading · on October 8, 2008 in Parenting, Politics

Clarice Plays for the Rangers



clariceandrudolph.jpgClarice here is not Clarice Starling with her good bag and cheap shoes (or was it good shoes and cheap bag, that hissed insult from Hannibal Lecter), but the original Clarice — the literally doe-eyed friend of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

I remembered Clarice after we saw Circus Amok last weekend because in our house, Clarice-the-deer is not the hyper-feminized bashful herbivore she is in the world of Rankin & Bass. Liam made her something else…

Last fall, for Liam’s birthday, we went to midtown with three of his friends, who have developed a tradition of going to Build-A-Bear Workshop for their birthdays. Why it’s become such a fixture with them, none of us can understand, but it’s easy and relatively painless as an outing, if you can resist the endless rows of bear-friendly accessories (wildly over-priced, just like accessories in the real world).

Liam spent long minutes perusing all his choices and then chose Clarice.

But then … what should Clarice wear?

The decision? Apparently, Clarice plays for the New York Rangers: blue plush pants, Rangers jersey, little blue pillbox “helmet” that sits awkwardly on top of Clarice’s permanently affixed red-and-white polka-dot bow.

The checkout clerk held up Liam’s creation to the other clerks and said “I’ve never seen this before.”

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Given the almost endless permutation of ensembles available at BBW, it seems rather remarkable that Liam is the first to put together this combination. At Build-A-Bear, you can find every sports team, rock-n-roll, hip-hop, construction workers … You can even buy full combat uniforms for all branches of the military – with one significant omission, as one of Liam’s friends discovered: “WHERE ARE THE GUNS?” he bellowed. 

And it’s not a bad question, really. I mean, if you’re going to sell Army bears, Marine bears, SEAL bears, Air Force bears … why not be completely honest about what you’re selling? Why is it okay to sell fatigues and uniforms from all branches of the armed services and yet sidestep the one thing that all these uniforms have in common?

If we all have the right to bear arms, why isn’t it all right to arm bears?

Clarice, by the way, had a wonderful season with the Rangers and will be starting at forward this year.

I think Jennifer Miller would approve.

Continue Reading · on October 1, 2008 in Gender, Politics

Sandbox Economics

 

playground.jpgThe playground. To an outside observer, it is a noisy but innocent enclosure, in which children frolic and gambol, engaging each other in happy chatter and utterly compelling games of make-believe.

From the inside, however, the playground offers insight into the world Darwin saw in the Galapagos a hundred years ago: a universe in which the strong perch on monkey bars hurling projectiles at the weaker inhabitants below.

Consider, please, the sandbox.  Ever watched a two-year-old in the sandbox as he or she marches around snatching all the shovels, all the buckets, all the little sandy matchbox cars and plastic ponies and green octopus sand-molding thingys?  And then she herds these things into a corner, claiming that she NEEDS them.  She WANTS them.  They are all, in fact, HERS.

 

sadie-sandbox.jpgThe parent nervously intervenes, tells little Coco or little Cooper that, no, the toys belong to the other children too, see, and won’t it be more fun to play together? 

To which the child would respond, if the child had the proper vocabulary, “Fuck that. I got this stuff, possession is nine-tenths, lady, and those suckers are SOL.” 

Every parent has been in the position of having to reach gingerly into the sandbox and redistribute the toys. And if you’re a parent and insist that you’ve never had to do that…well, either you’re not paying attention or you’ve given birth to Christ.

Don’t you love the moment when you realize the only recourse is to lift your kid bodily out of the sandbox (ignoring all those veiled glances from the other parents  who are delighted that it’s not THEIR kid causing the scene) and carry his flailing, weirdly strong little body (how a child can be so strong on a diet comprised basically of white food is anyone’s guess) over to a bench for a little talk about how it’s nicer to share. 

The kid may grudgingly agree with you, but it’s a purely contingent acquiescence, designed only to get the hell back INTO the sandbox and start the process all over again, perhaps attempting to lure another child into becoming a co-pillager, thus deflecting some of the trouble away from himself.

Over the past few years, as I sit in the playground, watching all these would-be Masters of the Universe stomp around, I’ve had the depressing thought that maybe, at base, we are all … base. Are greed, self-interest, and violence so deeply embedded in human nature that my endless reminders of “say please! say thank you! ask nicely! share with your brother!” will create only the thinnest veneer of civilized behavior and that as soon as the going gets too tough – or too easy – it will be every man for himself? Caveat emptor, mofo…

I trust that by now you see where I’m going with this? Let’s substitute … hmmm …Wall Street for sandbox, and million-dollar bills for buckets and shovels.  Does the picture become clearer?

The men (and okay, probably not all men – Carly Fiorina comes flapping to mind) who have been running our economic show (into the ground) remind me of the seagulls in “Finding Nemo,” who hurtle through the harbor, screeching “mine, mine, mine” until they get stuck, beaks first, and are unable to move.

Nemo-seagulls[1].jpg  

So now Henry Paulson and Ben Bernanke et al have their beaks in a sail (or asses in a sling; choose your visual) and we are supposed to do what, exactly? 

A $700 billion dollar bailout? That’s a whole lot of buckets and shovels. 

As we say on the playground, there are consequences for bad behavior.  Do these guys really expect us to REWARD them for their greed and stupidity, their cupidity and amorality? 

We’re going to give this big check to Henry P. and expect him to be the grownup who patrols the sandbox and gets everyone to behave? A man who only a few months ago was on the Sunday talk shows extolling the virtues of the “flexible” US markets?  He reminds me of the playground parent who sits on the bench furthest from the sandbox, scrolling endlessly through her blackberry while her little angel tramples everyone in the sandbox. This same parent, of course, swoops in, eyes blazing, as soon as anyone dares to chastise Little Angel for grinding sand into some other kid’s hair.

If there are no rules – no rules that anyone can understand, anyway – and no punishments for skirting just to the outside of the law, then why should we be surprised that Wall Street is slipping slowly into New York Harbor? No one with any power to intervene seemed to notice, or care, that scruples were being compromised almost as fast as fortunes were being made.

And now these same people want us to give them back their toys, maybe even give them newer, bigger, shinier toys.

My own inner child – herself never far from the surface – looks at this mess and screams “NOT FAIR NOT FAIR NOT FAIR.” 

She’s right. It’s not fair. But that’s life in the sandbox, I guess, if there aren’t any grownups paying attention. 

Continue Reading · on September 24, 2008 in Politics

Register!

 

supremes.jpg
The other night my friend Chris asked why Sarah Palin spurred me to start this blog. At first I thought he was kidding – la belle Sarah rattled a lot of cages, not just mine.

I started to explain, no, it wasn’t just the incredible cynicism of the McCain camp assuming that just because she’s a woman, Palin would show all of us “vagina Americans,” as Samantha Bee so wonderfully put it on The Daily Show a while back, that McCain could be an alternative to Clinton.

And then — I confess — my response became a rant.

“But ignore their cynicism,” I said to Chris. “What about…the Supreme Court?”

Let’s imagine it’s ten years down the road. McCain is long since dead, and even though President Palin was ousted at the end of her first term, she managed to appoint three Supremes to the bench, who haven’t just revoked Roe v. Wade, they’ve made it practically illegal even to THINK about abortion.

Now imagine that my oldest son, who is now almost eight, has decided he likes girls and has … er … gotten into a Bristol-n-Levi situation. What would we do? Fly Liam and his galpal to Canada or Mexico for an abortion? Or say to our almost eighteen year-old-son, “oh heck, honey, we know you made a bad choice, but let’s do the responsible thing and have a wedding. And then, heckfire, you can both move in with me and daddy in our two-bedroom apartment and we’ll find a space for the new arrival. Maybe the bathtub could be a bassinet?”
 
But wait. Here’s an even darker scenario:

Imagine this: my younger boy decides that he likes boys, not girls. Then the shit will really hit the fan. Because in a post-President Palin society, it will have become illegal for boys to touch each other at any point, at any age, other than during a hockey or football match, when most of their bodies are carefully concealed under protective padding.

hockey_hug.jpg

Now as it happens, Chris wrote a great book a few years ago, called Queer Cowboys, which is about the long tradition of queer culture that pervades that greatest of all US myths, the cowboy (It’s available on Amazon – just use the portal to the right). Chris lives in PA half the week, with his partner Clyde, who is, coincidentally, a jockey – not quite a cowboy, but damn close. I’m hoping that my Palin rant over dinner the other night makes them get on their ponies and ride around the neighborhood registering voters, if for no other reason than to ensure that my kids–everyone’s kids–can shtup without fear. Or at least, no fear other than the fear of being grounded for all of high school and maybe college, too.

What’s that you say? Haven’t registered to vote yet? No need to saddle up the ponies … just click here!

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Continue Reading · on September 24, 2008 in Politics

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