The Night They Had To Close All The Starbucks

You all remember Tucker Carlson, right? The right-wing water carrier with the prep-school name (but apparently not the education) and the insipid bow tie? The one who got that bow tie handed to him live, on the air, by Jon Stewart and then had his show on CNN shit-canned? Who then moved to MSNBC and promptly lost his show there because nobody cared, even after he ditched the bow tie? Who is now relegated to playing that network's requisite voice from the right whenever Pat Buchanan has something better to do? And now, as a result of all this, has about as much political relevance as Freddie Prinze Jr.? Yeah, that Tucker Carlson.

Barack Obama made history last night. After capturing the Democratic Nom (and he has, folks) he spoke to his supporters in St. Paul. There were a lot of them. According to the Fire Marshall of that fair city - not his campaign, not the press - there were 17,000 people in that arena and another 15,000 outside it. That's a rairly respectable number especially when you consider that both McCain and Clinton spoke in what appeared to be oversized garages with supporters bringing their own lawn chairs. The Obama supporters came in all shapes, ages and colors and all seemed to be damned enthusisatic. Anyway...

Last night Tuck (he doesn't mind if I call him Tuck) was part of a post-primary discussion on MSNBC. As the moderator, Dan Abrams, offered up questions to the assembled pundits, Tuck cooled his heels waiting for his chance. Finally Dan tossed one to old Tuck. Tuck ignored it. He had something else on his mind. He wanted to do his bit for the cause. He jumped on Obama's speech from last night, in particular this poetic portion that closed it...

The journey will be difficult. The road will be long. I face this challenge with profound humility, and knowledge of my own limitations. But I also face it with limitless faith in the capacity of the American people. Because if we are willing to work for it, and fight for it, and believe in it, then I am absolutely certain that generations from now, we will be able to look back and tell our children that this was the moment when we began to provide care for the sick and good jobs to the jobless; this was the moment when the rise of the oceans began to slow and our planet began to heal; this was the moment when we ended a war and secured our nation and restored our image as the last, best hope on Earth. This was the moment – this was the time – when we came together to remake this great nation so that it may always reflect our very best selves, and our highest ideals.

Tuck opined of Obama that those were some lofty promises he was making. Dripping with sarcasm, Tuck said that Obama was boldly going to cure the sick, save the unemployed, and heal the planet. He then added that the rhetoric was the most ridiculous he had ever heard and that he couldn't imagine a plan that would ever live up to those promises.

Setting aside for a moment that the real hyperbole here is not Obama's, but Tuck's, what Tuck ignores, of course, is first, the nature of political rhetoric; all pols make promises, Obama just happens to be more poetic and much better at delivering that poetry. That is what people find inspiring about him. That leads to the next thing that Tuck misses; leaders have to be inspirational, especially in bad times. Hey, Tuck, you remember these political flights of fancy, don't you?
FDR - "We have nothing to fear but fear itself."
JFK - "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." & "I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the Earth."

It is not necessarily what the President does so much as what he can get the people to do that matters.

When another pundit pointed out to Tuck that Obama's supporters wanted change and he seems to be offering it, Tuck countered with, "Change is not always good. People don't like change." That statement would be ripe for parody had it not been uttered satirically days earlier at the Princeton commencement by Stephen Colbert. That would be two for two with Comedy Central, Tuck... if you're keeping score.

But Tuck saved his best for last. In his continuing oratory as regards Obama's speech, he said, referring to the throngs that filled last night's arena and its environs, Obama had better come up with a plan for those promises he was making because all those "slack-jawed Starbucks baristas won't stay starry-eyed for long."

So, if you couldn't get a latte last night there's your reason; all the baristas were busy cheering the future in St. Paul.

Obama Search Results

Today seems like it'll be a political day for me - just a little warning. As if to start me off properly on this path, I did a Yahoo search for Barack Obama just a few minutes ago. When the search results came back, at the top of the page the ever helpful Yahoo listed some other popular search words I might try...

Also try: barack obama biography, barack obama antichrist, More...

Yeah, the second option. This campaign is going to get much worse now - much less pleasant for everyone. You all know that, right?

Snack Attack

The baggies are everywhere, under chairs, wedged behind toys, stuffed into wads of clothing. Their contents spill out onto the floor or chairs or counters; pretzel dust, dried raisins, cheerios. It's my bane.

The Boy, like all tots his age, requires snacks. His have consisted primarily of those pretzels and raisins. He carries a baggy of them everywhere, always. Sadly, he puts them down. He gets distracted. He forgets. This is usually followed by, "Daddy, I need pretzels raisins, please." "Where's your baggy?" "It lost." Great. If I'm lucky I can round it up, but all too frequently it is mystappeared for the hour or so it takes before the dog finds it and carb loads.

Yesterday, was a moveable feast for the brown dog. The Girl has stepped up to her own baggy, lest a war break out over the Boy's. She is less a baggy-loser than a spiller. The dog had a field day chasing the girl from room to room faster than I could keep up until that canine stomach had had enough and launched its contents onto the rug. MMM, thanks. "Daddy, the doggy threw up. Right here."

I suppose all those pretzels are better than the fat-laden goldfish tossed at so many toddlers, but I can't help feeling that I have a pair of barflies in the making. All those baggies weigh on my conscience as well. But what's a dad to do.

Vengeance

Several years back, my pal Greg had to drop his mate off at work around mid-day. It was a Saturday and Greg had the day off. Not wanting to make himself lunch, he called a little Italian place near his partner's employer and ordered a calzone for take-out. When he arrived to get his meal there was some confusion before they realized his order had been lost. The girl behind the counter apologized and asked if he still wanted them to make it; it would be about fifteen minutes. Greg said sure. He would wander around the neighborhood and be back to get it. When he walked out the door though, he had a change of heart; screw them, he was going to get lunch somewhere else. He grabbed a burger and went home. As he was eating his phone rang. He didn't answer it - he knew who it was. The answering machine kicked on. The counter-girl's voice came through the speaker. "Greg," it said, calmly, correctively, maternally, "Revenge is an ugly thing."

She was right, of course. The list of horrors perpetrated in the name of revenge, both individually and socially, is endless. Still, it's what people do. They get even.

I have never been a big revenge guy. One of the few advantages of my emotionalism is that I rage and get over it. Though in the heat of it I may imagine some great comeuppance for my adversary, by the time it moves from the nebulous fantasy stage to actual planning I'm over it. Revenge just isn't an arrow in my quiver. I have been, however, its target.

Larry hired me to work for him at a cable television network. When he moved up to Executive VP, I went along with him. He mentored and protected me from the falling shit of office politics. I did his dirty work; fixing problems and keeping tabs for him on the other corporate officers with whom he did battle. He used that to great effect with the company president, Ms. Combs, (he referred to her simply as "the churn-legged woman") as she, for no reason I could ever understand, seemed intent on revealing her confidences to me. Our relationship - his and mine - was symbiotic and mutually advantageous. I learned a lot and we became good friends. He was very much a father figure to me.

When the network was sold we all lost our jobs. Larry, who had been a successful screenwriter before taking his corner office, opted to go back to that. I had decided to try my hand at it, as well, so we both ended up in Los Angeles. He again proved helpful to my career. He introduced me to my agent and various other folks that would help me along my way. I remained loyal to him for that.

He took a job as producer, or showrunner, of a tv series and hired me as the lead writer. It was an awful show and proved to be a dreadful job. No budget and a short time frame contributed to the problems, but the primary issue was Larry. He was in over his head and all his tap-dancing couldn't save him. As things began to fall apart he started to change from the funny, self-deprecating raconteur to a scrambling, blame-tossing, LA shark. It wasn't pretty and though I wasn't suffering for it directly, others were. It made me sad to see someone I liked so much and with whom I had grown so close show such a crass and undesirable side.

It all finally came to a head one night when he and I had a blow-out in front of cast and crew. It was 3:00 in the morning and no one could leave because we were shredding one another at the top of the only stairs that led to the parking lot. No one wanted to walk through a war that featured the producer and the head writer as combatants. After nearly an hour of shouting he issued his cliched ultimatum: "My way or the highway!" I took him at his word and gave him my resignation the next day. My departure opened the floodgates and others followed.

He felt betrayed. Those who stayed on bore the brunt of his rants and raves about my disloyalty; his claims that I had sabotaged him. His anger took on the form of paranoid delusions, even imagining I had monkeyed with the office phones before I left by placing gum in them to make the keys stick. It preyed on him night and day as my former colleagues received middle of the night calls from him wherein he raged about some just remembered (or imagined) slight he had suffered from me. The reports from my former coworkers were initially amusing, but eventually became quite sad. It was not how I had wanted it to end.

A year or so later I heard he had taken a showrunner position with a new syndicated incarnation of the Mike Hammer series. When I heard the news I hoped for the best for him, but I didn't expect it to go any better than the last. At that time I was dating the woman who would become my wife. She and I came home from dinner late one Saturday night and turned on the the television. Surprisingly, the Mike Hammer show was just starting as the screen came to life. My wife had heard a few stories about Larry and been filled in enough so that when I said, "Hey, I think that's Larry's show," she insisted we watch. It was as I feared: bad - top to bottom - very bad.

The plot of this particular episode involved Hammer seeking out a child pornographer/murderer. Hammer's job was to bring the vile slime down. As the plot unfolded and Hammer followed the clues that led him to the bastard, I winced at the writing and acting and lighting and everything else. But I really winced when we hit the reveal: the evil-doer, the molestor/killer, the slime Hammer was after was - Oh My God! - his old best friend. Hammer, of course, can't believe it, but he can't ignore the facts as he says bitterly, "I don't care what we used to be, Lex has to pay." Blast of music. Commercial.

My jaw dropped as I stared at the screen. My wife turned to me and said excitedly, "He used your name for the guy." "Yeah, for an internet child pornographer/murderer," I said. He didn't use my last name - that might be actionable. No, the character had my first name and the last name of our former, dreaded, network president. The slime was named Lex Combs.

The episode went on and on about how Hammer felt so betrayed by his friend and how could he have not seen how evil Lex was in the first place. It ends with a shoot-out in a warehouse. Hammer closing in on Lex, cornering him, and shouting the whole time, "It's all over Lex, you're done. There's no reason for you to go on, Lex. There's nowhere for you to go. Like a rabid dog you have to be put down. You're a monster, Lex" The villian, in that brutal final act, finally succumbs to this verbal barrage and blows his own brains out, much to Hammer's satisfaction.

It was remarkably disturbing for me. While my future bride laughed both at its badness, and at the idea of my name being used for a character, I felt freaked out. It was revenge of the highest order and though relatively discreet, it nonetheless sent me a message. Even though he was not credited as writer for that episode, as showrunner he wrote the season's bible (plots for all that years eps) and rewrote most of the scripts. It was his work.

Throughout history writers have used their quills to stab their enemies; it's a time-honored tradition. I should have been flattered by it, but its vitriol undid me. I could only hope it had helped him, and be grateful all that hatred flowed out through his words and not his deeds. We have not spoken since the day I left and I doubt very much we will ever cross paths again, but if we do I will try to laugh it off the best I can and wish him well.

His message has little weight, anymore, but it resonates. It proved once again, revenge is an ugly thing.

Backyard Poll Results

Badmitten rules! Obviously smacking a shuttlecock is what most of you enjoy. The potential for injury is ignored as Jarts (banned in most places) comes in second. The cruel skills of Croquet follow closely in third. Interestingly, Horseshoes gets no votes, perhaps because nobody has a pit in their garden. Other got a vote.

This week, how do you divide the domestic reponsibilities?