To master a new language, you'd better get the bulk of your study in before the age of twelve; to become an athletic superstar or a genius inventor, the cut-off age is even earlier (and it helps if you're surrounded by the best schools and coaches and you are an Aquarius); but the master cooks I've uncovered all got their start after age thirty.
At twenty-seven, this puts me ahead of the game.
I wonder why the cooks in my admittedly-small sample set of three (Julia Child, Madhur Jaffrey, and Kathleen Flinn--the last of whom is not as internationally renowned as the first two, but I just finished reading her book and she fits into the "after thirty" category) all came to it later in life and managed to overcome the steep learning curve that separates introductory study from mastery.
The answer to the first question is pretty easy: most households are structured so that young people don't have to do a lot of cooking. One doesn't practice cooking the way one practices sports or music. Cooking well doesn't net many college scholarships. It makes sense that people might not seriously think about food and cooking until after they move out on their own, and might not seriously decide they need to learn how to cook until they have had a few years of weird/boring/badly prepared novice meals.
The learning curve thing is more interesting. The part of my brain which could learn a new language has all but disappeared; the brain-muscle connection that might have helped me become a star soccer player is long gone (let's face it; in my case, it was never there to begin with); but the part of my brain that knows how much ground coriander to add to a pan of steaming cauliflower and zucchini is just getting started.
Let's take it a step further. When I was eight years old, I wanted to be a ballerina. So did Kathleen Flinn and so did thousands of other little girls. Sure, you can say, it's because the tutus were pretty, but could it also have been because my brain was primed, at that moment, for that kind of learning?
Has anyone ever strapped electrodes to people's heads while they cooked a meal, and compared the parts of the brain that light up, and determined whether certain parts "light up better" in adults than they do in adolescents? (This would be difficult to do, perhaps, because to really see the inside of the brain one needs a MRI, and there's no room to get a mixing bowl and wooden spoon inside the MRI machine.)
This whole musing, incidentally, was spurred by a brief thought I had when walking to work the day after Obama was elected. I passed by one of the newspaper boxes and saw the headlines sticking out: Obama Ends War On Terror, etc. And, walking breezily past the newspapers under the bright-blue sky and smiling at how glad I was that Obama had managed to reverse all of Bush's executive orders in one morning, I thought--completely spontaneously--"if Obama can become President and do all of this on his first day, then I can become the best cook in the world."
And then I thought "why did I think cook? why didn't I think writer or worker or Ashtangi or any of my other identities or interests?"
Which led me to believe that my brain is somehow, at this point, primed for cooking; the way it was primed for ballet when I was eight years old.
It also led me to believe that I need to get myself into a for-real cooking class instead of the pretend one I've enrolled in for the next two months. ^__^
And there you go.
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
President Obama Will Protect Me From Zombies
I was on the National Mall for the inauguration.
Here's what happened:
I was originally supposed to meet a group of friends at some ungodly hour of the morning at the Chinatown metro. From there, we were to walk down to the mall, etc. etc. etc. just to make sure we would get a place in front of a Jumbotron. Well, at 11:30 p.m. the night before we all started txting back and forth; some people were dropping out of the group, other people wanted to meet on the Mall itself instead of walking to Chinatown and backtracking, etc. Around midnight, txting with one hand while scanning predicted inaugural foot traffic reports on the computer, I realized that the following day was going to be completely unpredictable, and all best efforts to organize would only result in frustration. I sent off a txt along the lines of "Will meet you on the Mall. Entering 17th Constitution and will proceed east towards 7th Constitution. I have to cross Penn Ave to get there so if I am held back by crowds DON'T WAIT FOR ME; go through security xpoints and stake out a spot!"
Once I had instructed everyone not to wait for me, I went to bed and slept.
I woke up, deliberately, well past the ungodly hour (it started with a 5) at which we had originally agreed to meet. It was one of the smarter things I did that day. I took the long route, circumventing the parade entirely, and was on the Mall by 8:00, while some of my friends who took the early route had been waiting in queues since 6:00 a.m. (It helped that I came at the Mall from the back, through the Washington Monument, instead of waiting in the lines near the Capitol Building.)
By 8:30 my cell phone had stopped working, and I had no idea where any of my friends were. I wandered east for a while and then realized the futility of playing a giant game of live-action Where's Waldo. Also, it was cold. I decided that I had soaked up plenty of Obamamania atmosphere (and there was plenty of Obamamania, with everyone around me cheering and jumping up and down--unless that was just to keep warm), and that I would be much better off watching the inauguration in a cafe. I'd jet out as quickly as I came, be at Busboys and Poets by 9:30, and from there (where, no doubt, my phone would work again) start txting my friends to join me.
And then I discovered that no one was letting anyone off of the Mall.
From 9:00 to about 11:00 I wandered up and down the fringes of the Mall with hundreds of other people, all of us wanting to leave, all of us being blocked at every potential exit. Security was locked down. No one was being let on or off. Many of us had maps; mine was printed from the internet, others were more official-looking purchased maps, and some of us tried to use the maps to argue with the policemen and National Guard: but this says that 14th Street is reserved for pedestrian exit! The guards said they were sorry, but the exits were now closed.
It made sense that we couldn't leave on the north side of the Mall, because we would be crossing the parade route; but we couldn't even leave on the south side. Again I was stuck with hundreds of people, moving in a slow shuffle only to end up in front of policemen who told us to go back onto the Mall.
The Federal Triangle metro was closed, but the metro station itself was open and marginally warmer, and I ended up waiting there for a while with crowds of others trying to stay warm. The saddest people in my group were a very well-dressed family who had flown in to DC to watch the inauguration from some VIP hotel; their limo had let them off by the Capitol Building and told them they could cross to their hotel at 7th and Constitution, which had been one of the streets reserved for pedestrian crossing but which was now blocked off. The mother and her daughters were wearing strappy heeled shoes and no socks; the father kept saying "rub your toes, baby."
I had a book; I read it, and by 11:15 decided to head on back to the Mall to watch the jumbotrons. Despite the crowds I had a great view, and watched as Obama and Biden appeared to wild cheering, Bush and Cheney appeared to boos and hisses, and the inauguration oaths were given and received. It was a historic, humbling moment.
And then I did something very stupid. I was pressed up against a tree, it being one of the few places where a short person could get a bit of a height boost, and I suddenly thought I would take a small piece of bark from the tree to commemorate the moment. The instant I did it, I was ashamed at my thoughtlessness--after all, if everyone in the four-million-strong crowd took a piece of bark, or a rock, the National Mall would be stripped bare--and let the piece fall without putting it into my pocket.
After the speech was given and the presidential parties left the stage, it came time to consider how to get home. My original plan was to stay for a while and watch the parade on the Jumbotrons; to try and let the crowd disperse a bit before making my way out of the Mall. (This, in retrospect, would have been a stupid move.) Instead, after staring at the Jumbotrons for a while and deciding that they didn't seem to be showing anything but a message advising the crowds that the only available exit was on 14th and Independence, I gave up and decided to go home.
Did I mention that the only exit was on 14th and Independence?
Here's where the zombies come in.
You've all seen those movies: Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, National Mall Egress of the Dead. People spreading out in all directions, climbing up onto overpasses, walking over bushes and flowerbeds (never mind my poor piece of broken bark), squeezing between gates and embankments and that plastic orange netting which blocks off construction zones, tearing down the netting, walking over turned-up earth and the grates where the water drains from the road, swarming over any available piece of ground looking for any exit other than the only one that is actually available, the only one not blocked at the end by the National Guard.
Where do people end up in zombie movies? The mall. And that's where we ended up, too; pressed back to back (belly to belly) inside the mall at L'Enfant Plaza, shuffling forward an inch at a time as we slowly made our way towards the L'Enfant Plaza metro.
It took me over three hours from the moment I set foot inside that mall to the moment I made it the hundred yards (or so) to the metro itself. Just like in zombie movies, the mall was lit up and the music was cheerfully playing; the stores were even open, if we were interested in taking a break from the crush of things to explore the sales at Lady Foot Locker. As we slowly inched by some people begged the store employees for water; when one woman fainted the crowd demanded that the man at the nearest store call 9-1-1 (as none of our cell phones were working, yet); he said "Do you think I haven't called anyone? I've called everyone! Police, 9-1-1, nobody will come!"
We passed by the mall restrooms and, surprisingly, very few people peeled off to use them (I did, and there was no line whatsoever). About two hours into our travel we inched past an Au Bon Pain, and the workers stood at the doorway calling out "Water! Three dollars!" and money and bottles passed their way over the crowd.
And then there was the kid in front of me, who was probably eleven years old and who began to beg his mother for an Au Bon Pain cookie. Sure, you might say, the kid was hungry, but this kid had been continually snacking out of his mother's purse since we had started our egress. His mom told him no; the kid kept whining "I want a cookie!" until finally the elderly white couple in front of us, no doubt wanting to show Obama-love to this young black child, offered to buy the boy a cookie. The mother took a moment to restrain her anger at this couple's attempt to co-opt her parenting, then said graciously that it would be all right. Then the Au Bon Pain employee got in on the game and announced that the cookie would be free and handed it to the kid, who took one look at it, said "eew! raisins!" smushed it up in his hand and started demanding a chocolate-chip cookie. At this point his mother gave him a few harsh words and that was the end of it all.
I had my book, which I read; when I got to the end of it I started at the beginning again. Every ten minutes we shuffled forward a few more inches, which I thought was strange since I knew the metro trains were supposed to be running on rush-hour schedules (one train every three minutes) until I got close enough to the door to see that there were two huge masses of people trying to get in; us, on the inside of the mall, and another group at the metro's outdoor entrance. I was so glad that I had chosen the indoor route.
The police let two groups of the outdoor crowd in to every group of the indoor crowd; which made sense, logically, but did not make the people at the front of the line very happy. It was only near this very end of the line that things started to get chaotic; it was only near this very end of the line that I remembered the trampled Wal-Mart worker and realized that I had no way of getting out of a very similar situation, should one occur. But the police with their bullhorns kept order, never mind the people trying to push and shove and get through out of turn; and finally, finally, it was my turn and I was shoved through the door to the metro escalators and on my way.
Once inside it was a simple trip and I was home in ten minutes. The parade was long gone, the balls were starting, and the line inside the L'Enfant Plaza mall was still slowly pushing its way through towards home.
But it was worth it--I guess--because we were there, on the National Mall, to watch Obama's inauguration.
Here's what happened:
I was originally supposed to meet a group of friends at some ungodly hour of the morning at the Chinatown metro. From there, we were to walk down to the mall, etc. etc. etc. just to make sure we would get a place in front of a Jumbotron. Well, at 11:30 p.m. the night before we all started txting back and forth; some people were dropping out of the group, other people wanted to meet on the Mall itself instead of walking to Chinatown and backtracking, etc. Around midnight, txting with one hand while scanning predicted inaugural foot traffic reports on the computer, I realized that the following day was going to be completely unpredictable, and all best efforts to organize would only result in frustration. I sent off a txt along the lines of "Will meet you on the Mall. Entering 17th Constitution and will proceed east towards 7th Constitution. I have to cross Penn Ave to get there so if I am held back by crowds DON'T WAIT FOR ME; go through security xpoints and stake out a spot!"
Once I had instructed everyone not to wait for me, I went to bed and slept.
I woke up, deliberately, well past the ungodly hour (it started with a 5) at which we had originally agreed to meet. It was one of the smarter things I did that day. I took the long route, circumventing the parade entirely, and was on the Mall by 8:00, while some of my friends who took the early route had been waiting in queues since 6:00 a.m. (It helped that I came at the Mall from the back, through the Washington Monument, instead of waiting in the lines near the Capitol Building.)
By 8:30 my cell phone had stopped working, and I had no idea where any of my friends were. I wandered east for a while and then realized the futility of playing a giant game of live-action Where's Waldo. Also, it was cold. I decided that I had soaked up plenty of Obamamania atmosphere (and there was plenty of Obamamania, with everyone around me cheering and jumping up and down--unless that was just to keep warm), and that I would be much better off watching the inauguration in a cafe. I'd jet out as quickly as I came, be at Busboys and Poets by 9:30, and from there (where, no doubt, my phone would work again) start txting my friends to join me.
And then I discovered that no one was letting anyone off of the Mall.
From 9:00 to about 11:00 I wandered up and down the fringes of the Mall with hundreds of other people, all of us wanting to leave, all of us being blocked at every potential exit. Security was locked down. No one was being let on or off. Many of us had maps; mine was printed from the internet, others were more official-looking purchased maps, and some of us tried to use the maps to argue with the policemen and National Guard: but this says that 14th Street is reserved for pedestrian exit! The guards said they were sorry, but the exits were now closed.
It made sense that we couldn't leave on the north side of the Mall, because we would be crossing the parade route; but we couldn't even leave on the south side. Again I was stuck with hundreds of people, moving in a slow shuffle only to end up in front of policemen who told us to go back onto the Mall.
The Federal Triangle metro was closed, but the metro station itself was open and marginally warmer, and I ended up waiting there for a while with crowds of others trying to stay warm. The saddest people in my group were a very well-dressed family who had flown in to DC to watch the inauguration from some VIP hotel; their limo had let them off by the Capitol Building and told them they could cross to their hotel at 7th and Constitution, which had been one of the streets reserved for pedestrian crossing but which was now blocked off. The mother and her daughters were wearing strappy heeled shoes and no socks; the father kept saying "rub your toes, baby."
I had a book; I read it, and by 11:15 decided to head on back to the Mall to watch the jumbotrons. Despite the crowds I had a great view, and watched as Obama and Biden appeared to wild cheering, Bush and Cheney appeared to boos and hisses, and the inauguration oaths were given and received. It was a historic, humbling moment.
And then I did something very stupid. I was pressed up against a tree, it being one of the few places where a short person could get a bit of a height boost, and I suddenly thought I would take a small piece of bark from the tree to commemorate the moment. The instant I did it, I was ashamed at my thoughtlessness--after all, if everyone in the four-million-strong crowd took a piece of bark, or a rock, the National Mall would be stripped bare--and let the piece fall without putting it into my pocket.
After the speech was given and the presidential parties left the stage, it came time to consider how to get home. My original plan was to stay for a while and watch the parade on the Jumbotrons; to try and let the crowd disperse a bit before making my way out of the Mall. (This, in retrospect, would have been a stupid move.) Instead, after staring at the Jumbotrons for a while and deciding that they didn't seem to be showing anything but a message advising the crowds that the only available exit was on 14th and Independence, I gave up and decided to go home.
Did I mention that the only exit was on 14th and Independence?
Here's where the zombies come in.
You've all seen those movies: Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, National Mall Egress of the Dead. People spreading out in all directions, climbing up onto overpasses, walking over bushes and flowerbeds (never mind my poor piece of broken bark), squeezing between gates and embankments and that plastic orange netting which blocks off construction zones, tearing down the netting, walking over turned-up earth and the grates where the water drains from the road, swarming over any available piece of ground looking for any exit other than the only one that is actually available, the only one not blocked at the end by the National Guard.
Where do people end up in zombie movies? The mall. And that's where we ended up, too; pressed back to back (belly to belly) inside the mall at L'Enfant Plaza, shuffling forward an inch at a time as we slowly made our way towards the L'Enfant Plaza metro.
It took me over three hours from the moment I set foot inside that mall to the moment I made it the hundred yards (or so) to the metro itself. Just like in zombie movies, the mall was lit up and the music was cheerfully playing; the stores were even open, if we were interested in taking a break from the crush of things to explore the sales at Lady Foot Locker. As we slowly inched by some people begged the store employees for water; when one woman fainted the crowd demanded that the man at the nearest store call 9-1-1 (as none of our cell phones were working, yet); he said "Do you think I haven't called anyone? I've called everyone! Police, 9-1-1, nobody will come!"
We passed by the mall restrooms and, surprisingly, very few people peeled off to use them (I did, and there was no line whatsoever). About two hours into our travel we inched past an Au Bon Pain, and the workers stood at the doorway calling out "Water! Three dollars!" and money and bottles passed their way over the crowd.
And then there was the kid in front of me, who was probably eleven years old and who began to beg his mother for an Au Bon Pain cookie. Sure, you might say, the kid was hungry, but this kid had been continually snacking out of his mother's purse since we had started our egress. His mom told him no; the kid kept whining "I want a cookie!" until finally the elderly white couple in front of us, no doubt wanting to show Obama-love to this young black child, offered to buy the boy a cookie. The mother took a moment to restrain her anger at this couple's attempt to co-opt her parenting, then said graciously that it would be all right. Then the Au Bon Pain employee got in on the game and announced that the cookie would be free and handed it to the kid, who took one look at it, said "eew! raisins!" smushed it up in his hand and started demanding a chocolate-chip cookie. At this point his mother gave him a few harsh words and that was the end of it all.
I had my book, which I read; when I got to the end of it I started at the beginning again. Every ten minutes we shuffled forward a few more inches, which I thought was strange since I knew the metro trains were supposed to be running on rush-hour schedules (one train every three minutes) until I got close enough to the door to see that there were two huge masses of people trying to get in; us, on the inside of the mall, and another group at the metro's outdoor entrance. I was so glad that I had chosen the indoor route.
The police let two groups of the outdoor crowd in to every group of the indoor crowd; which made sense, logically, but did not make the people at the front of the line very happy. It was only near this very end of the line that things started to get chaotic; it was only near this very end of the line that I remembered the trampled Wal-Mart worker and realized that I had no way of getting out of a very similar situation, should one occur. But the police with their bullhorns kept order, never mind the people trying to push and shove and get through out of turn; and finally, finally, it was my turn and I was shoved through the door to the metro escalators and on my way.
Once inside it was a simple trip and I was home in ten minutes. The parade was long gone, the balls were starting, and the line inside the L'Enfant Plaza mall was still slowly pushing its way through towards home.
But it was worth it--I guess--because we were there, on the National Mall, to watch Obama's inauguration.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Too Many Stories!
I have way too many blog posts to write and not enough time to tell them!
Let's see...
Let's see...
- I tried to make laddoos using a recipe from the internet, and they turned out like laddon'ts.
- I had a party! It was awesome! There are pictures!
- President Bush's email address is nuts and OMG Hillary SoS and Obama is so cool and I loved the article about Michelle Obama's booty and should I be one of those people who rents out her apartment for inauguration weekend????
- I also have all these other pictures I've been taking, like the one of the Epic Fail sign, and I need to post them so you all can see them!
- I bought a pair of gloves which is good because I didn't have gloves before, and they're the kind that go part of the way up my arm so they keep the whole thing warm, and they've got a diamond pattern knitted into the back and they're really pretty.
- I've gotten to the point in Ashtanga where my yoga teacher is assisting me into getting into more complicated postures, and now I'm all "should I be going to class every day so she can assist me more?"
- Also I read this Ashtanga book which was all about focusing my mind and stuff, and I'm like "I can do that, but then I would have to stop doing my daily practice while I play last night's Daily Show/Colbert Report on Hulu, and I don't know if it's worth the trade off, even if following the drishtis promises me inner peace and enlightenment."
- I've made three more loaves of bread! They're still totally weird shapes because I've been baking them in my Dutch oven, but tomorrow I'm going to buy a loaf pan and that should solve the problem.
- I saw Christopher Plummer speak tonight, and it was sad because he looked nothing like Captain Von Trapp but at the same time I wish that when I'm 78 years old I could be just as articulate and witty and intelligent as he is, never mind the face wattles.
- Today's Questionable Content is just like the inside of my head is, most of the time. ^__^
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Obama's Shoes
I love my MBTs. Love-love-love them. I'd like to buy the world a pair.
When I first wrote about my MBTs, I posed a question: what kind of athletic shoes does Barack Obama wear?
Well, now we have an infamous picture to give us a clue:
Ladies and gentlemen, the President-Elect of the United States of America wears Asics.
Should I change brands?
When I first wrote about my MBTs, I posed a question: what kind of athletic shoes does Barack Obama wear?
Well, now we have an infamous picture to give us a clue:
Ladies and gentlemen, the President-Elect of the United States of America wears Asics.
Should I change brands?
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Election Day
Here's what I remember.
Debating on whether or not to go to Ashtanga class in the morning because if I skipped it, I could be the first in line at the polls and then I could have even more time for volunteering. In the end I went to Ashtanga. (It was a great class.)
Straight to the polls after that, standing in line for just over 45 minutes before it was my turn. They offered me the choice between a paper ballot and the electronic voting machine, and I said "whatever's easiest," which I regret only a little bit because they gave me the paper ballot and I was hoping I would get to see what one of those fancy e-voting machines looked like.
Giving my (slightly unusual) last name to the woman with the voter registration sheets and hearing her comment "wow! there are two people here with that name!" Getting to tell her that, yeah, the other one's my sister and we live two apartment buildings apart.
Feeling a bit of chagrin while staring at the ballot and realizing I know nothing about any of the candidates running for any office other than President and Congress. I vote straight ticket where I can and skip the things like School Board, where I figure I'll let the parents sort that one out.
Taking my "I Voted" sticker into Starbucks to get my free coffee, which I load up with honey and cinnamon. Everyone in the Starbucks voted for Obama and we're all talking about how awesome it was.
Going home, showering etc. and heading out to Obama Headquarters in Arlington. On the way stopping by Ginza, a Japanese boutique in Dupont Circle, to give one of the employees the direct number of a person who would drive her to the polls. (All that phonebanking and the one person I actually, directly, helped push to vote for Obama came from a Saturday conversation in a Japanese boutique while I was looking at Totoro bento.)
Showing up in Arlington and being immediately shipped off to Stafford. Trying to remember all the verses to "Children, Go Where I Send Thee."
Breaking bread, literally, with other volunteers in Stafford, VA because I was the only one who had had the forethought to bring any food with me. (We shared a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich.)
Once again feeling that our GOTV work was as much symbolic as anything else; we knocked on doors all afternoon and everyone we talked to had already voted. (Not to mention that we were GOTVing in a very upscale neighborhood; these people didn't need any rides to the polls. The people who needed the rides were the ones like the young woman at Ginza, hourly workers who need someone to quickly shuttle them over and back before/after work or on a lunch break.)
Coming back, changing into a flirty little dress with the intention of meeting friends at a wine bar to watch the election results. We get there, bar's packed, so we change gears and go to a friend's apartment.
Color-coding a map. With crayons. Knowing it's going to happen and still being a little bit nervous.
Then: OMG VIRGINIA WENT BLUE!!!! (People told me it was partly my doing but really I think I did very little in that respect.)
Hearing "it's official: our next president is Barack Obama" from the man who brought integrity back to journalism, the host of the best f***ing news show on television, Mr. Jon Stewart.
After the immediate celebration, when the outcome was known and only thing left on the television was punditry, getting up to put on my shoes and go home to bed only to hear "wait! you can't leave before his acceptance speech!"
And as we all waited, we began to hear people walking outside of the apartment window, banging on pots and pans and cheering and horns honking and everyone moving as one mass (whose idea was it?) to the White House, and we debated whether to go and watch the speech tomorrow on Hulu like dorks but we waited, all of us antsy and me literally jumping up and down and we watched our new President-Elect Barack Obama from behind that somber reminder of bulletproof glass call out to all of us YES WE CAN and then we were off, in the rain, me wrapped in my friend's coat, giving hugs and high fives to strangers, all the cars stopping to let us pass through, to the White House where there were drums and cheering and singing and a giant cardboard Obama cutout being passed from hand to hand as if he were there crowdsurfing with us ('cause you know he would) -- and then we saw, unbelievably, in the crowd of 4,000, more people we knew, and we all hugged and took photos and jumped up and down and cried and then the lights in the White House went out and we said that the next day for sure Jon Stewart would talk about how President Bush tried to get all those damn kids off his lawn.
The most amazing thing was how peaceful it was. No one got hurt. No one got in any fights. (I checked the crime reports the next day.) We were all excited and many of us were drunk, but it was so joyous. Even when the crowd started singing together that "na na na na, hey hey, goodbye" song, even that was good-spirited. It was the very definition of peaceable assembly.
In bed at 2:30 a.m. Up the next morning at 7, rolling out the yoga mat.
Debating on whether or not to go to Ashtanga class in the morning because if I skipped it, I could be the first in line at the polls and then I could have even more time for volunteering. In the end I went to Ashtanga. (It was a great class.)
Straight to the polls after that, standing in line for just over 45 minutes before it was my turn. They offered me the choice between a paper ballot and the electronic voting machine, and I said "whatever's easiest," which I regret only a little bit because they gave me the paper ballot and I was hoping I would get to see what one of those fancy e-voting machines looked like.
Giving my (slightly unusual) last name to the woman with the voter registration sheets and hearing her comment "wow! there are two people here with that name!" Getting to tell her that, yeah, the other one's my sister and we live two apartment buildings apart.
Feeling a bit of chagrin while staring at the ballot and realizing I know nothing about any of the candidates running for any office other than President and Congress. I vote straight ticket where I can and skip the things like School Board, where I figure I'll let the parents sort that one out.
Taking my "I Voted" sticker into Starbucks to get my free coffee, which I load up with honey and cinnamon. Everyone in the Starbucks voted for Obama and we're all talking about how awesome it was.
Going home, showering etc. and heading out to Obama Headquarters in Arlington. On the way stopping by Ginza, a Japanese boutique in Dupont Circle, to give one of the employees the direct number of a person who would drive her to the polls. (All that phonebanking and the one person I actually, directly, helped push to vote for Obama came from a Saturday conversation in a Japanese boutique while I was looking at Totoro bento.)
Showing up in Arlington and being immediately shipped off to Stafford. Trying to remember all the verses to "Children, Go Where I Send Thee."
Breaking bread, literally, with other volunteers in Stafford, VA because I was the only one who had had the forethought to bring any food with me. (We shared a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich.)
Once again feeling that our GOTV work was as much symbolic as anything else; we knocked on doors all afternoon and everyone we talked to had already voted. (Not to mention that we were GOTVing in a very upscale neighborhood; these people didn't need any rides to the polls. The people who needed the rides were the ones like the young woman at Ginza, hourly workers who need someone to quickly shuttle them over and back before/after work or on a lunch break.)
Coming back, changing into a flirty little dress with the intention of meeting friends at a wine bar to watch the election results. We get there, bar's packed, so we change gears and go to a friend's apartment.
Color-coding a map. With crayons. Knowing it's going to happen and still being a little bit nervous.
Then: OMG VIRGINIA WENT BLUE!!!! (People told me it was partly my doing but really I think I did very little in that respect.)
Hearing "it's official: our next president is Barack Obama" from the man who brought integrity back to journalism, the host of the best f***ing news show on television, Mr. Jon Stewart.
After the immediate celebration, when the outcome was known and only thing left on the television was punditry, getting up to put on my shoes and go home to bed only to hear "wait! you can't leave before his acceptance speech!"
And as we all waited, we began to hear people walking outside of the apartment window, banging on pots and pans and cheering and horns honking and everyone moving as one mass (whose idea was it?) to the White House, and we debated whether to go and watch the speech tomorrow on Hulu like dorks but we waited, all of us antsy and me literally jumping up and down and we watched our new President-Elect Barack Obama from behind that somber reminder of bulletproof glass call out to all of us YES WE CAN and then we were off, in the rain, me wrapped in my friend's coat, giving hugs and high fives to strangers, all the cars stopping to let us pass through, to the White House where there were drums and cheering and singing and a giant cardboard Obama cutout being passed from hand to hand as if he were there crowdsurfing with us ('cause you know he would) -- and then we saw, unbelievably, in the crowd of 4,000, more people we knew, and we all hugged and took photos and jumped up and down and cried and then the lights in the White House went out and we said that the next day for sure Jon Stewart would talk about how President Bush tried to get all those damn kids off his lawn.
The most amazing thing was how peaceful it was. No one got hurt. No one got in any fights. (I checked the crime reports the next day.) We were all excited and many of us were drunk, but it was so joyous. Even when the crowd started singing together that "na na na na, hey hey, goodbye" song, even that was good-spirited. It was the very definition of peaceable assembly.
In bed at 2:30 a.m. Up the next morning at 7, rolling out the yoga mat.
Monday, November 3, 2008
YES WE CAKE IS AWESOME AND YOU SHOULD GO READ IT AS SOON AS YOU ARE DONE READING THIS POST
My Obama-Biden Pie got picked for Yes We Cake!!!!!
If you like Obama and desserts you definitely need to check out Yes We Cake. You will not believe how many people out there are making delicious Obama-themed dessert.
Anyone out there making a McCain cake?
Anyone?
(googles "McCain cake," gets nothing)
yeah, didn't think so.
If you like Obama and desserts you definitely need to check out Yes We Cake. You will not believe how many people out there are making delicious Obama-themed dessert.
Anyone out there making a McCain cake?
Anyone?
(googles "McCain cake," gets nothing)
yeah, didn't think so.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Contribution
This will be a quick post (I hope) and I probably won't post again until after Election Day.
It's at a moment like this when I sit and think "did I, as an individual, do enough to help support and promote Barack Obama?"
On the one hand, even asking the question is ludicrous. Obama's raised more money than any other presidential candidate in history, and he's a beloved international superstar.
On the other hand, we've got people like Joe the Plumber who clearly misunderstand Obama's policies (not to mention his background) and we've got a campaign of people working hard to make sure all those misconceptions stay at the top of their minds.
So what did I do to contribute to the Obama campaign?
I made two donations -- one symbolic, when I had very little money, and one that was a bit more substantial.
I spent several evenings phonebanking, although I didn't put in nearly as much time as other people I know.
I also spent one day canvassing in Virginia. I kept putting it off because I knew it would be a transportational hassle, and truth be told it was; I left my apartment at 2 p.m. and went from DC to Arlington, then was asked to hop into a carpool heading towards Manassas, then was driven from the Obama HQ in Manassas to a residential neighborhood, then spent 1/2 hour canvassing before it got dark and our team leader told us to pack it in. The travel time (round-trip) was nearly five hours, for just that little bit of canvassing.
So there you have it. That was my contribution. (I'm also going to do some volunteer work on Election Day itself, but I'll write about that later.)
Did I do enough? Well, I could have done more, that's for sure; and at the same time calling answering machines and spending hours in a car to knock on doors of people who aren't home also isn't, exactly, helping Obama. I mean, it doesn't feel like it's being helpful to spend time dialing numbers of people who won't answer. Making a donation feels much more helpful, and I'm glad I was able to contribute financially.
But out of all the hours I put into trying to contact voters who, 99% of the time, didn't pick up their phones or answer their doors, I did have one good conversation with one undecided voter. Interestingly, many of the other people I've talked to about their volunteering experiences said the same thing. Hours of what seemed fruitless work, except for that one conversation.
The team leader on the Manassas trip summed it up as follows:
"Look, we've got 5 million people working on this campaign. If we each have one good conversation with someone, even if that's all we're able to do, we'll have doubled Obama's votes."
So there you go.
We'll see what happens.
It's at a moment like this when I sit and think "did I, as an individual, do enough to help support and promote Barack Obama?"
On the one hand, even asking the question is ludicrous. Obama's raised more money than any other presidential candidate in history, and he's a beloved international superstar.
On the other hand, we've got people like Joe the Plumber who clearly misunderstand Obama's policies (not to mention his background) and we've got a campaign of people working hard to make sure all those misconceptions stay at the top of their minds.
So what did I do to contribute to the Obama campaign?
I made two donations -- one symbolic, when I had very little money, and one that was a bit more substantial.
I spent several evenings phonebanking, although I didn't put in nearly as much time as other people I know.
I also spent one day canvassing in Virginia. I kept putting it off because I knew it would be a transportational hassle, and truth be told it was; I left my apartment at 2 p.m. and went from DC to Arlington, then was asked to hop into a carpool heading towards Manassas, then was driven from the Obama HQ in Manassas to a residential neighborhood, then spent 1/2 hour canvassing before it got dark and our team leader told us to pack it in. The travel time (round-trip) was nearly five hours, for just that little bit of canvassing.
So there you have it. That was my contribution. (I'm also going to do some volunteer work on Election Day itself, but I'll write about that later.)
Did I do enough? Well, I could have done more, that's for sure; and at the same time calling answering machines and spending hours in a car to knock on doors of people who aren't home also isn't, exactly, helping Obama. I mean, it doesn't feel like it's being helpful to spend time dialing numbers of people who won't answer. Making a donation feels much more helpful, and I'm glad I was able to contribute financially.
But out of all the hours I put into trying to contact voters who, 99% of the time, didn't pick up their phones or answer their doors, I did have one good conversation with one undecided voter. Interestingly, many of the other people I've talked to about their volunteering experiences said the same thing. Hours of what seemed fruitless work, except for that one conversation.
The team leader on the Manassas trip summed it up as follows:
"Look, we've got 5 million people working on this campaign. If we each have one good conversation with someone, even if that's all we're able to do, we'll have doubled Obama's votes."
So there you go.
We'll see what happens.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Phonebanking for Obama: The Undecided Voter
I've put in a lot of phonebanking hours in the past week, left countless answering machine messages, and talked to a handful of people (usually one out of every ten calls results in an actual contact).
Most of the conversations were very brief: "Yes, I'm supporting Obama, kthxbai," or "No, I support McCain, get off my phone." I was able to talk to one woman about how she could start phonebanking herself. No one, unfortunately, seemed interested in learning how they could support Obama by voting early.
But, in all this mess, I did get to have a substantial conversation with one undecided voter.
She said "Listen. I don't know who to support right now because I don't know who is going to have the better economic plan. They're all talking and talking but first of all I can't tell which plan is better to begin with, and second of all I have no idea whether either of them will actually follow through."
I thought for a moment, and this is what I told her.
"I can't say for sure that Obama is going to do everything he is promising to do. I'd like to think he is, but you're right, we can't ever say for sure. But if you're thinking about the economy, if you're thinking about who is going to take care of your money and of the country's money, think about this: Obama made the choice, early in the run, not to accept public funding and instead to run his campaign on donations from supporters. McCain chose public funding. But Obama's choice allowed him to raise more money than any other presidential candidate in history.
Think about this, too. In his personal life, even before he decided to run for President, Barack Obama had no credit card debt. John McCain has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, despite his wealth and his seven houses.
So I don't always understand the details of these economic plans either, but I know which of the two candidates seems to have a better idea of how to manage money."
There was a pause. Then the undecided voter said "That's a really good point. I never thought of it that way before."
Truth be told, until that moment, neither had I.
(And now I think Obama needs to make it into a commercial. ^__^)
Most of the conversations were very brief: "Yes, I'm supporting Obama, kthxbai," or "No, I support McCain, get off my phone." I was able to talk to one woman about how she could start phonebanking herself. No one, unfortunately, seemed interested in learning how they could support Obama by voting early.
But, in all this mess, I did get to have a substantial conversation with one undecided voter.
She said "Listen. I don't know who to support right now because I don't know who is going to have the better economic plan. They're all talking and talking but first of all I can't tell which plan is better to begin with, and second of all I have no idea whether either of them will actually follow through."
I thought for a moment, and this is what I told her.
"I can't say for sure that Obama is going to do everything he is promising to do. I'd like to think he is, but you're right, we can't ever say for sure. But if you're thinking about the economy, if you're thinking about who is going to take care of your money and of the country's money, think about this: Obama made the choice, early in the run, not to accept public funding and instead to run his campaign on donations from supporters. McCain chose public funding. But Obama's choice allowed him to raise more money than any other presidential candidate in history.
Think about this, too. In his personal life, even before he decided to run for President, Barack Obama had no credit card debt. John McCain has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, despite his wealth and his seven houses.
So I don't always understand the details of these economic plans either, but I know which of the two candidates seems to have a better idea of how to manage money."
There was a pause. Then the undecided voter said "That's a really good point. I never thought of it that way before."
Truth be told, until that moment, neither had I.
(And now I think Obama needs to make it into a commercial. ^__^)
Monday, October 13, 2008
Phonecalls For Obama
With three weeks to go, I finally got my rear in gear and did something I swore I would never do again: telemarket.
This time I was shilling Obama.
Have to hand it to him -- the setup they've got at My.BarackObama.com is pretty sweet. It's exactly like the old days... the names and numbers pop up automatically, I click a little box that says "answering machine" or "number disconnected" or (ideally) "supports Barack Obama," and the next number appears.
Only this time, of course, I'm using my own resources and phone minutes. ^__^
Unfortunately, the experience seemed to me much more symbolic than effective. I can tell my grandchildren that I played a role in getting President Barack Obama into the White House, but truth be told nearly all of my calls were answering machines. Which I expected; I don't pick up for unknown numbers either. (If Obama's campaign were really smart, they would set up some kind of Skype-like thing where all of our numbers could be routed through something which would cause the display on the cell phone/call waiting to read "Barack Obama." That would at least tip off the people as to who was calling.)
I did two sets of calls (one in the morning and one in the evening) and only spoke to two people. One woman told me to get off her phone, and one man spent a long time explaining to me exactly why he didn't vote.
"The country isn't even going to be here in five years," he told me.
"Where is it going to go?" I asked him. "Do you think it's going to be taken over by another country?"
"I think we'll have started moving to Mars by then," he said. "I keep hearing on the television about how they want to move us all to Mars."
Anyway. I suppose "every little bit helps," as they say, and I will do my civic duty and continue to sell Obama over the phone, but... it wasn't quite the exciting political experience I was hoping for.
Still, I'll be able to tell my grandchildren.
This time I was shilling Obama.
Have to hand it to him -- the setup they've got at My.BarackObama.com is pretty sweet. It's exactly like the old days... the names and numbers pop up automatically, I click a little box that says "answering machine" or "number disconnected" or (ideally) "supports Barack Obama," and the next number appears.
Only this time, of course, I'm using my own resources and phone minutes. ^__^
Unfortunately, the experience seemed to me much more symbolic than effective. I can tell my grandchildren that I played a role in getting President Barack Obama into the White House, but truth be told nearly all of my calls were answering machines. Which I expected; I don't pick up for unknown numbers either. (If Obama's campaign were really smart, they would set up some kind of Skype-like thing where all of our numbers could be routed through something which would cause the display on the cell phone/call waiting to read "Barack Obama." That would at least tip off the people as to who was calling.)
I did two sets of calls (one in the morning and one in the evening) and only spoke to two people. One woman told me to get off her phone, and one man spent a long time explaining to me exactly why he didn't vote.
"The country isn't even going to be here in five years," he told me.
"Where is it going to go?" I asked him. "Do you think it's going to be taken over by another country?"
"I think we'll have started moving to Mars by then," he said. "I keep hearing on the television about how they want to move us all to Mars."
Anyway. I suppose "every little bit helps," as they say, and I will do my civic duty and continue to sell Obama over the phone, but... it wasn't quite the exciting political experience I was hoping for.
Still, I'll be able to tell my grandchildren.
Monday, September 29, 2008
My Rant Against [title of show]
Today I could write about the economy, but I'm finding that the more I read about what's going on in the financial world, the less I understand it. This makes me feel stupid, which I don't like. But when NPR spends all of Morning Edition talking about how bad the bailout is for the taxpayer, and then the NYT explodes with how awful the not-bailout is for the taxpayer, I find myself... more than a little confused.
So I've re-adjusted my cash-flow budget so that I might save a little more. You know, 'cause saving is good. (The one thing that really frustrates me about all this financial talk is everyone focusing on keeping "credit available to the American consumer, so they can go about their day-to-day lives." Wasn't it credit that got us into this mess? Where's the focus on building an economy where the American consumer can live within his/her means?)
And I've re-adjusted my rant towards something I can understand, and something which seems to me to represent everything that is wrong with everything, right now.
[title of show].
What is [title of show]? It's a new musical. About writing a musical. It was profiled on NPR, and it's the new hot thing, and the authors used a combination of YouTube and The Secret to get the musical on Broadway.
There have been musicals about writing musicals before, the most notable and comparable example being Merrily We Roll Along. But Merrily was also about what happens after the musical goes to Broadway, and how to balance fame and family and old friends, and what happens after you become un-famous and nobody remembers you.
[title of show] is about a group of people who want to go to Broadway so they can meet Ellen DeGeneres. There's no show-within-a-show; the musical being written is the musical itself. Literally:
And later:
And it goes on like this.
It's the same thing all over again. Jeopardy becomes Deal Or No Deal. Presidential candidates who are statesmen become "Russia's flight pattern over Alaska makes me qualified to handle foreign policy." And now Broadway's newest star is this musical about writing a musical about... nothing at all.
And the fact that I can't understand exactly what is going on with this Bailout or No Bailout thing makes me feel stupid, which all seems related somehow.
So I've re-adjusted my cash-flow budget so that I might save a little more. You know, 'cause saving is good. (The one thing that really frustrates me about all this financial talk is everyone focusing on keeping "credit available to the American consumer, so they can go about their day-to-day lives." Wasn't it credit that got us into this mess? Where's the focus on building an economy where the American consumer can live within his/her means?)
And I've re-adjusted my rant towards something I can understand, and something which seems to me to represent everything that is wrong with everything, right now.
[title of show].
What is [title of show]? It's a new musical. About writing a musical. It was profiled on NPR, and it's the new hot thing, and the authors used a combination of YouTube and The Secret to get the musical on Broadway.
There have been musicals about writing musicals before, the most notable and comparable example being Merrily We Roll Along. But Merrily was also about what happens after the musical goes to Broadway, and how to balance fame and family and old friends, and what happens after you become un-famous and nobody remembers you.
[title of show] is about a group of people who want to go to Broadway so they can meet Ellen DeGeneres. There's no show-within-a-show; the musical being written is the musical itself. Literally:
A, D, D, D, F sharp, A
Will be the first notes of our show...
And later:
JEFF
Maybe someday we could get a theater
And if not this festival then somewhere out west
HUNTER
TV actors in our show, what could be swee-ater?
JEFF
Thanks. Great.
We could get that woman who was on Empty Nest
HUNTER
Dinah Manoff, she’s awesome!
JEFF
Yeah
HUNTER
She was in Grease
JEFF
Yeah!
BOTH
And Leader of the Pack!
We could
Ask significant questions
We could
Get important points across
Like are we writing for art
And is art a springboard for fame
And will fame get us a sitcom
And a sitcom get us on Ellen
And will Ellen get folks to like us
And if they like us
Will they mike us
Me and You
And it goes on like this.
It's the same thing all over again. Jeopardy becomes Deal Or No Deal. Presidential candidates who are statesmen become "Russia's flight pattern over Alaska makes me qualified to handle foreign policy." And now Broadway's newest star is this musical about writing a musical about... nothing at all.
And the fact that I can't understand exactly what is going on with this Bailout or No Bailout thing makes me feel stupid, which all seems related somehow.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Bracelets
After watching the debates (and being surprised at how well McCain turned out -- where were the verbal gaffes? the inattention to detail? the inability to understand the world around him?), I have only one real question:
Why weren't either of them wearing those bracelets? They both seem to have promised their respective constituents that they would proudly wear the bracelet to remember the service of our troops, but neither of them seem to have made good on the claim.
I know that if Obama and McCain wore every bracelet or button, or kept every trinket that was offered them, they would implode under the weight of it all -- but it seemed odd that McCain told that "I promise to wear your bracelet" story (and Obama followed up with "well, I promised to wear a bracelet too!") without raising up his wrist to show all of sentimental America that he had kept his promise.
I mean, McCain wasn't even wearing a flag pin. Clearly he can't be trusted.
Why weren't either of them wearing those bracelets? They both seem to have promised their respective constituents that they would proudly wear the bracelet to remember the service of our troops, but neither of them seem to have made good on the claim.
I know that if Obama and McCain wore every bracelet or button, or kept every trinket that was offered them, they would implode under the weight of it all -- but it seemed odd that McCain told that "I promise to wear your bracelet" story (and Obama followed up with "well, I promised to wear a bracelet too!") without raising up his wrist to show all of sentimental America that he had kept his promise.
I mean, McCain wasn't even wearing a flag pin. Clearly he can't be trusted.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Politics, Policies, and Personalities
A friend (who did not grow up in the US) was complaining to me the other day that "Americans vote based on personalities, not on policies."
To which I responded, rather vigorously, that even if we wanted to vote based on policies there wasn't a lot of real information out there; how could we really determine what a campaign's policies were if Exhibit A continually contradicts itself ("The fundamentals of the economy are strong... no, they're weak... no, the American worker is strong..." and arguing for both more and less federal regulation in the same sentence!) and Exhibit B promises hope-&-change but is just a smidge vague on the specifics.
"I was listening to NPR the other day," I said," and they were interviewing both Obama and McCain's economic advisers, and the interviewer asked each of them how their candidate planned to help the American worker. And both of these people said the exact same thing: they plan to create more jobs and improve health insurance. And the interviewer didn't press any further. So how are we supposed to honestly evaluate these policies?"
In short, of course it comes down to personality, or to the few clear-cut policy issues like abortion/guns/gays.
Unless there's a font of detailed policy information out there that I haven't yet found; somewhere besides the NYT and Wonkette and Salon (okay, I know it wouldn't be on Salon, but...).
Where should curious Americans go to make their educated political choices?
To which I responded, rather vigorously, that even if we wanted to vote based on policies there wasn't a lot of real information out there; how could we really determine what a campaign's policies were if Exhibit A continually contradicts itself ("The fundamentals of the economy are strong... no, they're weak... no, the American worker is strong..." and arguing for both more and less federal regulation in the same sentence!) and Exhibit B promises hope-&-change but is just a smidge vague on the specifics.
"I was listening to NPR the other day," I said," and they were interviewing both Obama and McCain's economic advisers, and the interviewer asked each of them how their candidate planned to help the American worker. And both of these people said the exact same thing: they plan to create more jobs and improve health insurance. And the interviewer didn't press any further. So how are we supposed to honestly evaluate these policies?"
In short, of course it comes down to personality, or to the few clear-cut policy issues like abortion/guns/gays.
Unless there's a font of detailed policy information out there that I haven't yet found; somewhere besides the NYT and Wonkette and Salon (okay, I know it wouldn't be on Salon, but...).
Where should curious Americans go to make their educated political choices?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Even in Arcadia...
(Image from Questionable Content. Buy their stuff; it is cool.)
I am spending the happiest part of my life worrying that it's all going to disappear.
There are so many things I love about my life right now: my yoga class, my morning walk through Dupont Circle, my breakfast of yogurt-banana-Kashi, my job and all the interesting things I get to do all day, my apartment and its bookshelf and papasan and sunset-overlook windows...
And, not unrelatedly, the fact that I'm -- for the first time ever -- earning enough money not only to survive, but to live with a sense of relative, if modest, luxury. (In other words, my bookshelf came from Target, but my soap came from Lush.) I am earning more money than my expenses, which should make me happy.
And it does. But it also makes me spend all-too-valuable time wondering if it will all end somehow.
It doesn't help that banks are collapsing and stock markets are falling as we speak, and it certainly doesn't help that we're entertaining the idea of electing a VP-cum-President who thinks that starting a war with Russia is a good idea. (Very relieved to know that Ms. Palin was, in fact, wrong about the way NATO works and we would not be "forced" into war with Russia were Georgia to join NATO.)
And it certainly doesn't help that I spend a piece of every beautiful morning walking to the office past row after row of architectural marvels, all of them only high enough so I can still see the sky, and thinking "if we attack Russia, they'll attack DC and destroy all of these pretty buildings..."
Part of me knows, obviously, that this kind of thinking is self-indulgent.
The other part knows that on some level it is true. Maybe not the Russia part (I hope not the Russia part), but certainly the idea that "this too will pass" applies to good times as well as bad.
Ultimately I'm afraid that I will lose all of this and have to crawl back into somebody's basement with the crickets and the spiders. Or have to spend a week eating a botched pot of dal because I can't afford to throw it out. Or give up this job I really like for... telemarketing.
I suppose, in the end, the only real solutions are:
1. Enjoy now while it's happening.
2. Save as much money as I can, in the process.
And vote Obama.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
My Rant Against Sarah Palin
I'm, like, unhealthily obsessed with Sarah Palin right now.
I keep scanning feeds hoping to find breaking news along the lines of "Palin found to be doing something incredibly illegal; VP candidacy dropped."
There's something heartbreakingly, mindbreakingly wrong about the way in which she is being embraced by her party. Forget her family drama; forget the gun-toting and the abstinence-teaching; forget the fact that we saw Levi, last night, smacking a big wad of gum as he joined his new family on the Xcel Energy Center stage.
She's unqualified. She's so unqualified.
And we live in a country where her claim that she can be Vice President because she was a mayor and a hockey mom is embraced.
What's difficult is that it's a variation on the same narrative that Obama fans love to love about Obama: a person rising out of obscurity, against all odds, shattering barriers at every step.
So I can understand why Palin fans love the same story.
But she's so unqualified.
She admits she knows nothing about the world outside America and has, in fact, left the country only once in her life.
And sure, she's down-home, just like us, drives a minivan, doesn't stand on ceremony. Future son-in-law chewing gum on the national stage? No big deal, we're all friends here.
(Side rant: that one thing -- that stupid little wad of gum -- strikes fear into my heart. It speaks to a lack of attention to detail and nuance. No one; not Sarah, who, to be fair, probably didn't know about it beforehand, not Todd, not Bristol, not even the assistant stage manager standing in the wings with the family before they went onstage; no one told Levi to get rid of the gum.
Which means they didn't notice, which is bad, or they didn't care, which is worse.)
And she's so unqualified.
Even if she hadn't lied about her policies and past decisions, even if she hadn't exploited her daughter to cover her ass, even if she hadn't delivered a nasty speech insulting her opponent... even if she were kind and sophisticated and intelligent... she's completely unqualified.
She's never been part of the world; only part of America. And that is not what we need in a Vice President right now.
I keep scanning feeds hoping to find breaking news along the lines of "Palin found to be doing something incredibly illegal; VP candidacy dropped."
There's something heartbreakingly, mindbreakingly wrong about the way in which she is being embraced by her party. Forget her family drama; forget the gun-toting and the abstinence-teaching; forget the fact that we saw Levi, last night, smacking a big wad of gum as he joined his new family on the Xcel Energy Center stage.
She's unqualified. She's so unqualified.
And we live in a country where her claim that she can be Vice President because she was a mayor and a hockey mom is embraced.
What's difficult is that it's a variation on the same narrative that Obama fans love to love about Obama: a person rising out of obscurity, against all odds, shattering barriers at every step.
So I can understand why Palin fans love the same story.
But she's so unqualified.
She admits she knows nothing about the world outside America and has, in fact, left the country only once in her life.
And sure, she's down-home, just like us, drives a minivan, doesn't stand on ceremony. Future son-in-law chewing gum on the national stage? No big deal, we're all friends here.
(Side rant: that one thing -- that stupid little wad of gum -- strikes fear into my heart. It speaks to a lack of attention to detail and nuance. No one; not Sarah, who, to be fair, probably didn't know about it beforehand, not Todd, not Bristol, not even the assistant stage manager standing in the wings with the family before they went onstage; no one told Levi to get rid of the gum.
Which means they didn't notice, which is bad, or they didn't care, which is worse.)
And she's so unqualified.
Even if she hadn't lied about her policies and past decisions, even if she hadn't exploited her daughter to cover her ass, even if she hadn't delivered a nasty speech insulting her opponent... even if she were kind and sophisticated and intelligent... she's completely unqualified.
She's never been part of the world; only part of America. And that is not what we need in a Vice President right now.
My Worst Nightmare?
Last night I dreamed that Sarah Palin became president....
and John McCain was in a permanent vegetative state, hooked up to eternal life support in Puerto Rico, having already changed the Constitution in several key places with an added amendment that no one could change the Constitution back as long as he was alive, which, thanks to modern technology, could be for thousands of years...
(The real question: Why Puerto Rico? My dream's explanation was that since McCain wasn't physically in the lower 48, he could therefore control the entire country "from afar.")
and John McCain was in a permanent vegetative state, hooked up to eternal life support in Puerto Rico, having already changed the Constitution in several key places with an added amendment that no one could change the Constitution back as long as he was alive, which, thanks to modern technology, could be for thousands of years...
(The real question: Why Puerto Rico? My dream's explanation was that since McCain wasn't physically in the lower 48, he could therefore control the entire country "from afar.")
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
It's Not (Necessarily) About Class
One of the reasons the whole Bristol Palin thing made me so uncomfortable was because it brought up my latent fears of being "classist."
Because, as I noted in this post, it isn't actually the pregnancy that makes me cringe. Pregnancy is a biological imperative. It happens, and people choose to deal with it in different ways.
And, as Obama reminded us, his mother was only eighteen when he was born.
But there seems to be a difference between Ann Dunham and Barack Obama Sr., and Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston, and that's where my classist sensibilities spring up.
Or, as I said shamefacedly to a friend, "It's not about the pregnancy. It's because the whole family's... trashy."
Which means low-class, which means I am an evil elitist.
But my friend countered by saying it wasn't really about class. It was about the Palin family's deliberate presentation of the anti-intellectual spirit. It's about the Palin parents' choice to create a home where viewpoints were not explored and multiple perspectives were not considered. It's also about a family's choice to take pride in their ignorance -- not only of Alaska's proximity to Russia or what a Vice President does all day, but of all those trixty little things that used to be considered "manners" and which have something to do with not posting "I'm a f**king redneck" on one's MySpace page and not exploiting one's daughter to take the heat off of oneself.
Like the NYT says, tonight Sarah Palin is going to "take aim at the Washington elite."
Oh, but there she is... so I had better stop blogging and watch the speech.
Because, as I noted in this post, it isn't actually the pregnancy that makes me cringe. Pregnancy is a biological imperative. It happens, and people choose to deal with it in different ways.
And, as Obama reminded us, his mother was only eighteen when he was born.
But there seems to be a difference between Ann Dunham and Barack Obama Sr., and Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston, and that's where my classist sensibilities spring up.
Or, as I said shamefacedly to a friend, "It's not about the pregnancy. It's because the whole family's... trashy."
Which means low-class, which means I am an evil elitist.
But my friend countered by saying it wasn't really about class. It was about the Palin family's deliberate presentation of the anti-intellectual spirit. It's about the Palin parents' choice to create a home where viewpoints were not explored and multiple perspectives were not considered. It's also about a family's choice to take pride in their ignorance -- not only of Alaska's proximity to Russia or what a Vice President does all day, but of all those trixty little things that used to be considered "manners" and which have something to do with not posting "I'm a f**king redneck" on one's MySpace page and not exploiting one's daughter to take the heat off of oneself.
Like the NYT says, tonight Sarah Palin is going to "take aim at the Washington elite."
Oh, but there she is... so I had better stop blogging and watch the speech.
Talking Points
Because we were talking about politics at work...
I realized that no, I don't exactly know what the Republicans' policies are, not beyond the vague talking points, nor do I really understand how they hope to implement them over the next four years.
And then I realized that it didn't matter.
The Republicans, as a group, could have the best ideas and policies in the world. The Republican Party could know how to make gold out of iron and then distribute the gold over magical rainbows to the entire world.
But it doesn't matter because they pick, as their figureheads, people who think that Iraq is next to Pakistan and Alaska is next to Russia.
And then: why do they do that????? Yes, I know that they want to represent their candidates as "ordinary," non-arugula-eating Americans. But isn't there a single Republican candidate out there -- isn't there even someone who comes across as "down-home" and "ordinary" who can also use persuasive, accurate rhetoric?
The whole thing makes me want to slam my head into a wall.
I realized that no, I don't exactly know what the Republicans' policies are, not beyond the vague talking points, nor do I really understand how they hope to implement them over the next four years.
And then I realized that it didn't matter.
The Republicans, as a group, could have the best ideas and policies in the world. The Republican Party could know how to make gold out of iron and then distribute the gold over magical rainbows to the entire world.
But it doesn't matter because they pick, as their figureheads, people who think that Iraq is next to Pakistan and Alaska is next to Russia.
And then: why do they do that????? Yes, I know that they want to represent their candidates as "ordinary," non-arugula-eating Americans. But isn't there a single Republican candidate out there -- isn't there even someone who comes across as "down-home" and "ordinary" who can also use persuasive, accurate rhetoric?
The whole thing makes me want to slam my head into a wall.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Everyone In America Should Watch Howards End Right About Now
This is the scene (actually, the passage of the book) that has been running through my mind since the Sarah/Bristol Palin story broke.
(If you don't want to watch the four minutes: Anthony Hopkins' character, early in his life, fathered a child with his [unmarried] mistress. Now Emma Thompson's character accuses him of being a hypocrite because he is condemning Helena Bonham Carter's character for being unmarried and pregnant.)
That's half of it.
But there's another half, too. The "I'm a f**king redneck" half. The sort of squalid glee with which the "see, Bristol couldn't have been pregnant... because she already was pregnant!" announcement was made.
Sigh.
In the Howards End world, characters hinge on honesty and intelligence (and connection -- but I'll leave Forster's epigraph for another discussion). Jacky Bast is not condemned because of her status as Henry Wilcox's mistress; she is condemned for her lack of intelligence and her choice to remain ignorant (and flaunt it, like our "f**king redneck" friend). Likewise: the scene in the clip above isn't about pregnancy or marriage, not really; it's about honesty.
And there seems to be a great lack of honesty -- and intelligence -- in this situation.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Buried Child: Political Quote Of The Day
From Mark Murray and Reuters:
So... Palin says "See! I have proof that Trig isn't the secret lovechild of my teenage daughter, because seventeen-year-old Bristol was already pregnant when Trig was born! Nyah nyah, liberal bloggers!"
That is at least eleven levels of saddening.
The 17-year-old daughter of Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin is pregnant, Palin said Monday in an announcement intended to knock down rumors by liberal bloggers that Palin faked her own pregnancy to cover up for her child.
So... Palin says "See! I have proof that Trig isn't the secret lovechild of my teenage daughter, because seventeen-year-old Bristol was already pregnant when Trig was born! Nyah nyah, liberal bloggers!"
That is at least eleven levels of saddening.
Friday, July 4, 2008
T-Shirts = Votes. Happy Fourth of July!
While waiting on the National Mall to see the official DC Fourth of July Fireworks Blowout (don't bother; highly overrated and overcrowded), I walked by dozens of small carts selling street meat, water bottles, glowsticks, etc.
Oh, and one thing more.
"O-bama, O-bama, get your O-bama t-shirts right here, change we can believe in, get your Barack Obama t-shirts..."
Every time I walked by a person selling Obama merch, I got all happy inside. Then I realized something that made me even happier.
No one, anywhere, was trying to sell a John McCain t-shirt.
Oh, and one thing more.
"O-bama, O-bama, get your O-bama t-shirts right here, change we can believe in, get your Barack Obama t-shirts..."
Every time I walked by a person selling Obama merch, I got all happy inside. Then I realized something that made me even happier.
No one, anywhere, was trying to sell a John McCain t-shirt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
