September 30, 2008--Don't Know Nothing 'Bout Geography

I do not have a problem with Sarah Palin’s not having had a passport until last year and using it only once to visit Alaskan National Guardsmen in the Middle East.

Lots of folks are well traveled and in spite of that know very little about the world. They race around and thus do not have the chance to learn anything much about the countries they’ve visited or even if they settle in for a while most are there to absorb the art and culture. Unless they read the local press, talk widely with people who live there, or seek the opportunity to meet with political figures and journalists, they come away without much subtle understanding of the history of the region or the issues they face.

I’ve never been to Saudi Arabia or Indonesia but feel I have a pretty good grasp of their history and what is currently going on there. Nothing of course trumps an in-depth visit, but reading books, newspapers, and magazines is a pretty good way to keep up with things. If you have anything resembling a real interest it is also not difficult to find knowledgeable people to talk with. Even up in Alaska.

And that’s where I find particular fault with Sarah Palin—there is no evidence from her few interviews that she has been in any significant way interested in the world beyond her state’s borders. Even the three countries Alaska borders. Yes, three, because not only does she appear to know virtually nothing about Russia and Canada, except apparently what she can see, but she also seems not to know very much about the country of America—the rest of America, the Lower Forty-Eight.

This lack of basic knowledge, this inability thus to see and discuss things in anything resembling context, is what is getting her into trouble in her few interviews.

Tina Fay got it right—not only does she imitate Palin by essentially quoting her directly, but also by disjointly babbling on, stringing her memorized talking points together into series of non sequesters, she exposes this inability to see or set anything in context.

Some are claiming that Sarah Palin is not very smart and that is her problem. This may be true but I am reluctant to make that demeaning claim—she may actually be smarter than she seems. My concern is that she appears to lack curiosity. She looks for things to believe in, be they ideological or religious, and for her that seems to be enough.

Metaphorically, this was summed up for me when last week, while settling in in New York City for a few days, beyond the quick handshakes at the UN and the obligatory photo-op at Ground Zero, she mentioned that her husband and children had visited that “goofy evolution museum”—this is an actual quote and was not scripted by Tina Fay—the Museum of Natural History.

You don’t have to believe in Creationism, as she does, not to think about this as a great place for any curious person to visit. If you want Goofy, there’s always Disneyland.

September 26, 2008--"This Sucker Could Go Down"

Doddering top gun John McCain, watching his poll numbers slip and obviously afraid to go toe-to-toe with Barack Obama in the debate scheduled for tonight, imitating George Bush’s fateful Mission Accomplished appearance on the deck of the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln, parachuted into Washington yesterday afternoon and cravenly, with only his own political future in mind, scuttled the emerging agreement on the economic rescue plan. What Senator Chris Dodd more correctly labeled “the McCain rescue plan.” The only thing missing was the fly-boy suit.

Isn’t McCain’s current political slogan “Putting America First,” which of course implies that Obama puts it second behind his own political aspirations? In what way did Captain McCain yesterday act accordingly?

His stunt was so transparent that even Republicans were annoyed with him for showing up in the Senate, where he’s been AWOL since April, and turning the delicate negotiations, which were clearly making progress, into a self-aggrandizing political circus.

The Republican leader in the House of Representatives, John Boehner, pretty much inadvertently revealed the political truth behind the stunt, which for him is at best a once-a-year event, when he tried to get away with claiming it was the Democrats, not the Republicans who had done the political posturing.

His top aide put this accusation even more directly while at the same time also leaking the truth. According to the New York Times, that aide, Kevin Smith, said Republicans revolted, in part, "because they were chafing at what they saw as an attempt by Democrats to jam through an agreement on the bailout early Thursday and deny Mr. McCain an opportunity to participate in the agreement." [My italics. Article attached.]

So let the economy collapse into what Nobel Prize winning economist Sarah Palin has already labeled another Great Depression because John McCain isn’t being allowed to take credit for something in which he had no role.

Sorry, I got that wrong—he did in fact play a big part. For years, since his participation in the savings and loan collapse as a member of the notorious Keating Five, and for years as chair of the Senate Commerce Committee, he did have a major role in dismantling the financial regulatory and oversight capacity of the government that has contributed mightily to the current economic crisis, a dismantling that our war hero does not have the courage to take any responsibility for.

Now, I do not pretend to understand many of the issues underlying the current crisis, but I do know enough to know that it must be very serious when I read, also in the Times, that Secretary of the Treasury Paulson got down on his knees in front of Nancy Pelosi yesterday after the photo-op White House meeting dissolved into partisan rancor, praying to her not to abandon the rescue plan. He’s the former CEO of Goldman Sachs and I imagine didn’t get to that lofty position through such desperate gestures.

For once President Bush may have gotten it right when, also during that meeting, sensing the deal was unraveling, said, “This sucker could go down.” And he wasn’t talking about Hank Paulson on his hands and knees in the Roosevelt Room.

September 25, 2008--Piling On

Too bad no one’s watching the CBS Evening News with Kati Couric. She’s pretty much the only one in the old media asking tough questions, and when people equivocate or try to dodge them presses them with even more dogged follow ups.

Case in point--her interview yesterday with Sarah Palin. I confess not to having watched it until I picked it up on YouTube after my sister-in-law alerted me to it. Check YouTube yourself of it you prefer things in print read the New York Times story linked below.

Palin was in New York for a whirlwind meeting with a selection of world leaders and made herself available for the Couric interview. This was supposed to show her off as ready to take on the Number One job if something were to happen to John McCain. Even though Laura Bush contradicted this during an appearance on CNN when she said that “of course she doesn’t have [foreign policy experience]. You know, that’s not been her role.”

Well, Palin revealed how true that is from the reports about the inanity of her conversations with various presidents and prime ministers. Mainly getting-to-know-you chitchat and flirting.

And then later with Kati Couric she showed that she is also not up to speed on domestic matters. Especially the economic crisis. While a calm and a steady hand are required to attempt to stabilize things—forget fix them—she compared the current situation to the Great Depression. Even George Bush in his medicated gloom-and-doom speech last night didn’t go that far.

Then poor John McCain, suspending his campaign and racing back to Washington to do who-knows-what (so revved up that, claiming he was too busy solving our economic problems, he cancelled his appearance on Letterman who then publicly mocked him by showing pictures of him being made up for another TV interview being taped at the same time), McCain had to back away from the person he assured us is “the best qualified vice presidential candidate in history.” Better, I imagine, than John Adams.

The Times, not often flippant in its news coverage, quoted Palin verbatim, dialect and all, when pressed by Couric to give specific examples of times when her running mate called for greater government oversight of the securities industry.

First Palin hemmed and hawed and spoke in non-specific generalities. But when Kati Couric wouldn’t let her get away with that Palin said that McCain’s call last week for greater regulation of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac is “more than a heck of a lot of other senators and representatives did for us,” Couric, still not satisfied, called for other, earlier-than-last-week examples, Palin, still chipper, replied: “I’ll try to find you some and I’ll bring ‘em to ya.”

As they still say in my old neighborhood—Don’t hold your breath.

September 24, 2008--The Ladies of Forest Trace: Whose Future Is It Anyway?

“Can you help me understand something?” It was my 100 year-old mother calling from Florida. Without waiting for my response, which would have been, “Of course,” she said, “Not my girls, the ones I eat dinner with every night, but Sarah and her canasta friends came over to us yesterday to talk about the election.”

Eager to hear what she had to report because I have been using the ladies of the Forest Trace retirement community as my own private focus group since theirs is such an important state and thus their changing views about who to vote for may prove to be a good way of keeping track of which way Florida an thus this election may be leaning.

They still feel moral responsible for electing George Bush in 2000 and want to make amends by voting for a Democrat. But in spite of this, after Hillary Clinton lost the nomination many of them reluctantly played with the idea of voting for John McCain, actually against Barack Obama who they felt had been unfair to Hillary.

“You remember of course how I was the only one here who supported Barack Obama during the so-called Florida primary.” Even with the bad connection I could hear how she underlined the so-called. “All my girls were for Hillary. They still liked her husband and thought the two of them back in the White House would be good for them and the country. I never trusted her and even though she is a woman I didn’t think that was enough of a reason to vote for her.”

I could hear an audible sigh, “Oh, how the ladies were angry with me. How could I, they said, vote against the first woman to have a real chance of becoming president? I told them, those that would listen, that I would rather have a good president than a female president and that in my opinion Obama would make the much better president.”

I mumbled my agreement. “And wouldn’t it be equally special to have a black man elected. Of course I didn’t say that to them. That would be pushing things too far. But then after McCain picked that floozy from Alaska . . .”

I had to interrupt, “Mom, please, she’s not a floozy. I don’t like her any more than you, but it’s not helpful to talk about her that way. Look what they said about Michelle Obama. We’ve talked about how unfair that was, so we can’t allow ourselves to talk about Sarah Palin this way. Though to tell you the truth,” I couldn’t help myself from adding, “she does look as if . . .”

“You see what I mean. Even you, the professor, likes his gossip! But that’s neither here nor there. They came around, as I told you, the girls, and now they’re all voting for Obama. I’m making sure they fill out absentee ballots because who knows, between now and November 4th we may all be in intensive care or worse.”

“Now mom, please don’t talk that way. You’re more than 100 and basically perfect.”

“Except for my little stroke in February. Remember, we weren’t so sure I’d be here for my birthday in June much less for Election Day. And to tell you the truth half the girls aren’t looking so hot to me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way but I know that’s the way you are and I love you for it.” Which is true. “But what were you saying about Sarah and her friends? I thought you didn’t like them. How come they sought you out? And of all things to talk about, the election.”

“I too was shocked. She passes me in the hallway at least twice a day and always has her nose up in the air. She thinks she’s a fancy lady, what with all that jewelry. But I have an eye for those things and know it’s only costume.” I could hear my mother chuckling.

“So what was on their minds?”

“They are very upset about the stocks. Most, like me, in addition to Social Security, have a little invested in Wall Street and they’re worried. They know I have a good broker, George—you met him, no—he has such a nice office where you can sit and have coffee and . . .”

“What else did Sarah say? About the election, I mean. I have to run in a few minutes and don’t have time now to hear about George, who, yes, is very nice.”

“You’re always running off you have so much to do, but I thought you’d want to know that after telling her and her friends that I’m sitting tight, I couldn’t help but nudge them a little about McCain. How he had played a big role in making this mess and how now every day he has a new position on the economy—it’s healthy, it should be left alone, it needs to be regulated, the little people have to be helped. I wonder how he can eat and talk with the same mouth.”

“And?”

“And, when all they could say to me that they’re worried about their Social Security and medicines and how much the Early Bird Special is at the Inverrery Diner, I let them have it but good.”

“What did you say?” My meeting could wait.

“I asked them if they had children and grandchildren. Of course I knew the answer. In addition to kvetching about how much a quart of milk costs all they ever talk about is how their children never visit and their grandchildren never call. Though of course they’re all beautiful and handsome and brilliant.”

“That was good. And what did they say?”

“They just stared back at me like I was crazy. So I said again, ‘You all have young families but all you talk about is yourselves. If I hear one more conversation about Bingo or what’s for dinner or bowel movements I’m going to have to kill myself.’”

“I love it. And . . ?”

“Sarah’s best friend Yetta chimed in and said with that sneer of hers that I hate. ‘What’s so wrong with that? We shouldn’t care about ourselves? You don’t?’ ‘Of course I do,’ I said right to her face, ‘But I also care about my children and their families.

“’Look,’ I said, ‘look at yourselves. What do you see? The same thing I see. People with one foot in the grave. A lot of good the price of Early Birds will do for you then. You’re grandchildren will be left to clean up our mess.’”

“They said nothing so I paused to let things sink in and then really gave them the business. ‘And George Bush’s mess.’ To that a couple of them nodded. ‘And if we do the same thing again and elect this McCain his mess as well.’ I paused again, ‘That is if he lives. And then God help us. Not us, I mean God help our children. Mine and yours. It’s not ours but their future.’”

“I can’t believe you said that mom. Actually, yes I can. You were terrific and . . .”

She cut me off, “But there’s one more thing. The best part. That was last night. What I told you about. Guess what I found this morning slipped under my door? A note, with beautiful handwriting. From Sarah. She was a schoolteacher. Like me also in Brooklyn. We all have good handwriting. They taught us penmanship back then. Not like today where everybody scribbles. We know how to write a beautiful note. At least those of us who don’t have Parkinson’s.”

“Mom, what was in the note? I’ll bet she had a thing or two to say to you. You always tell me what a mouth she has.”
“Not so fast darling.” Now she paused so her words would sink in with me. “She wrote that she was so upset by what I said to her that she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned all night but when she finally got out of bed at five in the morning she sat down to write to. Let me read to you how she concludes.

“’Ray, it says, I want you to know that you gave me a very difficult night. But you will be surprised to know that I want to thank you for that. You were right. I deserved everything you said. I have been thinking only about myself and my aches and pains. How could I have not been thinking about my own family? You know I even have two adorable great-grandchildren who live on Long island.’ She does have beautiful handwriting. I wish you could see it. Next time you come . . .”

“Mom, please, this is wonderful but I do have to go.”

“’So for them,’ she wrote ‘for my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren you will be happy to know that I will be voting for Barack Obama.’”

“That’s wonderful!”

“But of course Sarah being Sarah she couldn’t help herself from adding, ‘Though I still don’t like him.’

We laughed together as I told her I loved her, hung up, and raced for the door.

September 23, 2008--Leadership

For decades there has been a growing body of literature that focuses on the qualities that characterize effective leaders. This is not a dry academic subject with little purpose in the “real world.” Quite the contrary, the things that have been learned have all been derived from a close examination of the actual qualities that proven leaders possess.

Most of the leaders who have been studied come from the business world and admittedly at the moment it is hard to come up with good things to say about our current crop of CEOs. And many studies have been about those who have been deemed to be effective in the political arena, though again at the moment it is hard to conjure many about whom we can say positive things.

With these caveats, in exactly six weeks we are going to elect someone to be our nation's leader? And isn’t it true that whomever wins is going to inherit a massive set of economic, geopolitical, and environmental problems which to untangle will require exceptional leadership abilities? Problems so massive that Barack Obama just yesterday said that the cost of attempting to bail them out is such that budgets for most domestic programs will have to slashed. I think that was his word.

But though we are hoping that the one we elect will embody the characteristics of effective leaders, we have had virtually no public discussion about what that actually means or, cynicism and fear aside, have not even glanced at all that has been learned about the things that define them.

Instead, until last week, we heard more about lipstick on a pig or how many years in the Senate constitute the best number to prepare one for the presidency.

Even a glance at the literature on leadership reveals that these are not the kinds of things we should be debating. And that glance suggests that virtually all studies of leadership come to focus on many of the following set of characteristics:

Every study shows that fine leaders have a broad view of the worlds in which they operate. In other words, they have a clear vision, a vivid picture, the foresight about where to go and the ability to imagine what success once there looks like.

They have the capacity to communicate that vision and the discipline to work with dedication and energy toward achieving it. To do this effectively, successful leaders are able to hold people’s attention. Even inspire.

Further, at the risk of lapsing into MBA-speak or psychobabble, they reveal that they have the integrity to integrate outer and inner values. This enables them to have the capacity to engage in honest dealings with well-controlled emotions.

They hire or draw to them people with the talent and appropriate experience to work effectively as part of a “team,” and they give them the room to do what it is that needs to be accomplished. They are good at listening to them, considering their dissenting views, and being direct and frank with them about what is and isn’t working. Being magnanimous helps since giving public credit to others when they deserve it makes everyone more effective.

They display the humility to recognize the abilities of others and, with their own skills of self-assessment, have an awareness of their limitations. And they have the capacity to learn on their feet, acknowledge limitations and mistakes, and while in motion make appropriate adjustments and corrections. Another way of putting this—they have a constructively critical perspective on situations, others, and themselves.

They are comfortable with complexity, ambiguity, and perplexity and are drawn to take on challenging and even seemingly daunting situations and problems. In fact, they like challenges and responsibility and display genuine optimism that they can be worked on and even solved. They sweat the big stuff.

Good leaders are uniformly assertive. The opposite of aggressive. They are exceptional at stating what they expect and comfortable holding people accountable—themselves included—for their actions.

They may or may not be academically or intellectually gifted but all effective leaders have practical intelligence. They are savvy. They have smarts. And are mentally tough.

Successful leaders are uniformly open to promising new ideas even if they do not conform to conventional ways of thinking. In fact, they seek out creative people who are especially good at “thinking outside the box.” This does not mean that for its own sake they are innovation seekers but rather relish the give and take, the stimulation, challenge, and possibility of new ideas and ways of doing things.

A correlate to this is their ability to work with others with whom they disagree and when necessary, which is frequent with political leaders, compromise and make deals, realizing that little can be achieved without clever compromises.

They are compassionate and empathetic. Another way of putting this—they are good at feeling other’s pain and letting them and the rest of us witness that. If they are good at this—even if is not genuine—they by example reveal that this capacity is a sign of human strength, not emotional weakness.

And they all seem to have a fine sense of humor, dark at times though it might be, which is necessary to relieve tension and defuse opposition and hostility.

Ideally, when hiring or electing a leader, one should look for someone with a proven track record of in the past having demonstrated foresight and judgment. This is not always easy to do, and for certain will not be revealed in the bare bones of a resume.

I don’t know where this leaves you when considering John McCain or Barack Obama, but for me it’s an easy call.

September 22, 2008--The House that Ruth Built

It was early April and the family was gathered at Aunt Tanna and Uncle Eli’s apartment. After my grandparents died it had fallen to Eli to conduct Passover services and to Tanna, with the help of her sisters, to prepare and serve the sumptuous dinner.

As is traditional, Eli as the host, early in the reading of the Haggadah, set aside a napkin-wrapped portion of matzos, which would serve as the Afikomon. Since Jews no longer participated in sacrificing and serving the Pascal Lamb during Passover, this matzos symbolized that lamb and was to be the last taste of the evening—a sort of desert that was shared by all after the host broke it into enough pieces to serve everyone. Happily, to those of us still too young to understand or enjoy the magic of such symbolism, Aunt Tanna, and especially Aunt Gussie managed to bake delectable treats in spite of the Passover prohibitions against using normal forms of flour or leavening. It was well worth enduring what seemed an endless service and meal to get to her coconut macaroons and matzos-flour angel cake.

Though I did not at the time appreciate the meaning of the Afikomon, I did love the custom that required the youngest children (boys really) to “steal” and hide it from Uncle Eli. Which we always managed to do with his obvious complicity—he made an art form of looking the other way so that we could snatch and run off with it and hide it behind a sofa cushion in the adjoining living room. When it came time to need it to conclude the ceremonies Eli would make a broad theatrical effort to search for it, of course--with great sighing and frustration--always failing to find it. Even though the previous year and the year before that my cousin Chuck, his son, and I hid it in the very same place. Obviously stealing and hiding things were not among our limited number of talents.

So when Uncle Eli would give up in faux-frustration, with much squealing of delight we would retrieve the Afikomon from the sofa and hand it over to him so he could do his symbolic thing and we, the best part, would get our reward. The year before we, actually Chuck, asked for two pairs of boxing gloves—one for each of us which through the year he used almost every weekend to pummel me, his pathetic sparring partner, as he “trained” to become the last in a long line of Jewish boxing champions. And though I was quite a good punching bag for him, he was better at schoolwork than in our improvised ring and went on to become a successful personal-injury lawyer. What else was appropriate for an ex-boxer?

The year question, in advance, we had planned to ask Eli to take us to Yankee Stadium, where last night the Bronx Bombers played their final game—it is to be demolished this winter and in the spring the Yanks will move into a new Yankee Stadium across the street from the 83 year-old original: the House that Ruth Built.

But back then, with the Dodgers ensconced and beloved in Brooklyn where we lived, with Chuck, and me under his influence, unlikely and passionate Yankee fans—you could get killed on any Flatbush street corner for showing even mild interest in the hated Yankees—a secret trip up to the Bronx to attend a game in person was a transgressive treat. Eli, who liked the idea that in their risky enthusiasm for the Yankees his son and nephew showed signs of intrepidness—he himself had as a boy escaped from Tsarist Russia and made his way on his own to America—was happy to accede to our request, receive the Afikomon, and bring the long evening to conclusion—it was getting late, the family was showing sign of restlessness, and some had to make the long trek back to Long Island.

A week later, Uncle Eli told us that through a friend he had gotten box seats for the three of us for June 13th. Though my memory is beginning to fail me I will always remember that date vividly because, as good fortune would have it, June 13, 1948 turned out to be the day the Yankees retired Babe Ruth’s uniform number. Everyone knew that the Babe was suffering from throat and neck cancer and did not have long to live, and so they wanted to honor him before he was unable to be there in person to bask in the cheers and love of the more than 100,000 of his fans who packed that great iconic ballpark.

There is grainy newsreel film of the event that helps jog my recollection--

A stooped and fragile Babe, desiccated to half his bulky size, wearing his uniform with the iconic number 3 emblazoned on his back, no longer the physical manifestation of the Sultan of Swat he had been during his playing years, on that sultry afternoon, he shuffled haltingly to home plate where he stood, leaning heavily on his bat as if it were a crutch rather than the instrument of divine power it had been, to take in the adoration of his fans.

And though Chuck still harbored dreams of stepping into the boxing ring in this very Yankee Stadium, where not that many years before Joe Lewis avenged himself, and all of America, by defeating in slightly more than two minutes of the first round, the great Aryan hope, Max Schmeling, through my own tears I saw Chuck’s.

So many years later, with Chuck prematurely off with the Babe now in an even-better, loftier box seat, last night mine flowed again when the Bambino’s 92 year-old daughter Julia threw out the first ball at the last game that will ever be played in her father’s house. More symbolism.

September 19, 2008--The Ladies of Forest Trace & the Last Four Percent

My mother reported that the “girls” watched much of the Republican convention. Particularly on Wednesday night when Sarah Palin addressed the faithful.

For the women of Forest Trace, all at least in their 80s, to stay up so late for anything other than arthritic pain is out of the ordinary and in this case represents a commitment to electoral politics. By 10, 10:30 at night most have been asleep for two hours. But they didn’t want to miss this. After all, when her name first surfaced as McCain’s choice for running mate most, who had been ardent Hillary supporters and were disgruntled, thought having a woman on his ticket might be persuasive enough to get them to vote Republican.

This made my 100 year-old mother cringe. These ladies had been lifelong Democrats from at least FDR’s time and some were old enough to have helped organize the ILGWU. A few went back far enough that they remembered the time when women weren’t allowed to vote. So for them to even consider voting for a Republican made my politically savvy mother worry that women like this might tip Florida again into the red state column.

Over breakfast and dinner this past week, my mother did what she could to bring the girls back to their traditional political home.

When word circulated that Governor Palin, in spite of the way she is representing herself, had in fact been in favor of the notorious Bridge to Nowhere, the ladies responded that what can you expect, she’s a politician who wants to bring money and jobs to her state. When reports filtered down to the Lower 48 that Palin, when mayor of Wasilla, had tried to intimidate the town’s librarian into removing certain “offensive” books from the library, the girls, though they had lived through the Nazi era and had seen books considered to be subversive burned by storm troopers, in spite of that still vivid memory, they said that young people today have to be protected from violence and smut.

Nor were they persuaded to return to their democratic roots when my mother pointed out that though she inherited a budget surplus when she became mayor Palin left to become governor she left Wasilla $20 million in debt. “Who in government,” they said, “doesn’t spend money. She seems so sweet and nice so she must have spent it for a good cause.” My mother said, she overspent when she built a hockey rink for children. They said, “Well of course, she’s a Hockey Mom.” They laughed at that, thinking she must be a wonderful mother. When my mother responded in growing frustration that what does being a mother have to do with preparing someone to be president, they shrugged her off with, “And you think it’s easy to raise five children? You only had two, so what do you know.” Things were clearly getting testy at Forest Trace.

But my mother is if nothing persistent. She moved on to a new tack when it became clear that Palin was a last minute choice. McCain had wanted to choose Joe Lieberman—a big favorite among the Forest Trace demographic—and when ultra-conservatives warned McCain that they wouldn’t vote for someone who supports abortions, the self-described maverick caved into them and named Palin.

The ladies also had an answer for this, saying that McCain was only pandering to conservative Republicans and when—my mother shuddered at the “when”—he becomes president he’ll revert to his old moderate self and will not appoint more Anton Scalias to the Supreme Court.

So my mother played the health card among her fellow Forest Trace residents who know from their own chronic ailments what cruel things age can do to a person. She asked them how they felt about having a 72 year-old president in the White House who has had recurrent melanoma. They all know, don’t they, how dangerous this condition is and how likely it is that it will show up again if (she couldn’t bring herself to say “when”) he is elected? And in that circumstance, she asked them what they thought, in these perilous times, about having someone as unprepared as Sarah Palin becoming president? There was no response to that. They know from cancer.

And finally, my mother added, seeking to seal her case by taking a new tack, what does it say about John McCain that he didn’t know all these things about her when he selected her? What kind of a president will he make (she should have said, “might he make”—but I forgive her she was on a rhetorical roll) if neither he nor his people did a proper job of vetting her? “All they needed to do . . .” she was about to add when 94 year-old Gussie interrupted her.

“Are you also using that new word?”

Thrown off balance, my mother looked quizzically back at her.

“’Vetting.’ I mean ‘vetting.’ That one.”

“It’s not a new word. They use it all the time.”

“I also never heard it before. ‘Vetting’—it sounds,” she winked, “Yiddish to me.” That was my mother’s friend Esther.

“I can’t believe you girls. It has a very distinguished etymology.” Thus challenged my mother reverted to the voice and diction she used when she was an elementary school teacher back in Brooklyn. “It has a Latin root. From the same source as for ‘veto.’ From vetare. I looked it up recently. In the original, of course, it means ‘I forbid,’ which is exactly what John McCain should have done when Governor Palin’s name came up—after having her properly vetted he should have vetoed her selection.” At that, sensing she had finally trumped them, she smiled at the girls, who were by then avoiding eye contact.

After a moment Bertha looked up and said, “Come now, Ray, where’s your sense of humor? You know us better than that. How could you think we would vote for someone like McCain, much less a Sarah Palin? We just like to be fair and challenge all assumptions. And have a little fun!” My mother breathed a sigh of relief. “We also know about her. Didn’t she also sit in her church recently and listen to a sermon about the Jews for Jesus? You didn’t mention that. I survived the Holocaust and could never bring myself to vote for someone who would do that.” The other ladies were nodding in solemn agreement.

“And,” Esther chimed in, “can you imagine her and her family in the White House? They would have to count the silverware after a state dinner.”

My mother and the ladies looked back at her with collective raised eyebrows. “Now, now girls. You know me. Always making my little jokes. I’m sure they are very nice people. But not nice or qualified enough to be our vice president.”

About that they were now all in agreement and could get back to talking proudly about their grandchildren.

But then again, she wouldn't be my Jewish mother if she stopped worrying.

September 18, 2008--Time Out

I've got a lot of running around scheduled for this morning. Back on Friday

September 17, 2008--Who's "Fighting" For Me?

Yesterday morning, when tuning in to CNN and MSNBC to check to see if there was any money left in my 401K, I saw side-by-side live snippets of both Barack Obama and John McCain on the stump talking about the meltdown on Wall Street.

Paying only half attention it was obvious that Obama had the much better take on what is going on, how we got to this point, and what he would do about it.

However, however, McCain's speech was politically much more effective. You can imagine my surprise--both were reading from teleprompters, something in itself that should have provided Obama with a considerable advantage; but, what can I say, McCain, again politically, won the day.

While McCain said over and over that he would fight for us--that's the word he used relentlessly--Obama felt more theoretical than personal. This wasn't helped by the fact that McCain managed at times to look straight ahead into the camera whereas Obama not once looked us in the eye, so to speak.

The current state of the financial markets and the trickle up havoc, to quote Obama, that this is causing "ordinary" people should be an ideal opportunity for Obama to cast appropriate blame on the Bush administration and the Republicans in Congress--McCain front and center--while putting on display his much better assessment of what has to be done. But, and this is a big "but," unless he can also look right at us and show us that he not only understands but also feels our pain, McCain, as phony and hypocritical as he is, will win the political argument.

Yesterday, McCain, and not Obama, felt to me like much more the man of the people that voters in their frustrated and frequently deluded ways go for on Election Day.

This in spite of the fact that McCain, who clearly doesn’t get it, continued to assert that the “fundamentals” of the economy are strong. He is losing the argument but, as the polls now show, convincing voters, who should know better, that he is better able to handle the economy than Obama. Palin has incomprehensibly helped with that but it’s also because McCain is doing a good job of coming across as the one who is angry about Wall Street greed and will fight for us.

Like it or not, and I don’t, we thus need to take a cold look at how things might be appearing to undecided voters who are truly not sure who they will support in November. On the basis of yesterday’s comparative stump speeches, I’m concerned.

September 16, 2008--The Donald Watch

Desperate for distraction I’ve been channel surfing and scanning the inner pages of the New York Times and the Enquirer for tidbits of juicy news. For the moment I’ve had it with Wall Street and now Sarah Palin’s Road to Nowhere, which actually got built.

Reruns of Hogan’s Heroes are working as is the news that actress Anne Hathaway’s former boyfriend, Raffaello Follieri, pleaded guilty recently to 14 counts of wire fraud, conspiracy, and money laundering. At least someone who has been stealing money from investors is going to jail.

Remember him? He’s the one who parleyed his alleged connections to the Vatican and even the Pope into a considerable personal fortune, claiming he had an inside track to them that allowed him to scoop up Church real estate at below market prices. Through playboy developer Ron Burkle, close friend of Bill Clinton’s, he managed to wheedle his way to the former president himself, getting him interested in his real estate ventures by convincing him that he was going to use some of the profits for “socially responsible” purposes. It takes a charmer to charm a charmer.

How does someone get away with something for so long that’s so obviously scammy? In Follieri’s case, as with so many others, this did not take very long—he arrived in New York City in just 2003—and it involved using his attractiveness and likeability to work his way up the social food chain. At first, having no money, he mooched apartments from people he met at parties which in turn led to his being introduced to wealthy investors. They were seduced when he told them that the uncle of the Dean of the College of Cardinals was affiliated with his company. Before very long, Follieri’s new “friends” were pressing money on him to invest in his non-existent ventures.

Publicist Lizzie Grubman should know how this works. She makes a living, after all, from puffing up the reputations of the less-than-famous, that is after getting out of jail herself as the result of having been convicted of running down a half dozen working-class Southampton locals who wouldn’t quickly enough get out of the way of her SUV. The Times quotes her as saying that she saw Follieri working his con game at various social gatherings and charity events. (Article linked below.)

Such people, she said, lure others by enticing them with “symbols of wealth”—lavish vacations, private jets, and bottle service at clubs, whatever that is. “The game he played,” the unfortunately named Ms. Grubman said, “was not unique. Planes, trains, and automobiles are very sexy to anyone who is young.” Or, she could have added, some not-so-young ex-presidents.

Thus, Raffaello is off to jail. But the plea deal also requires him to give up $2.4 million in cash, nine pieces of jewelry, and 12 watches. The latter include a Rolex, a Cartier, a Harrods, and a Donald Trump. Yes, that Donald Trump, who apparently is not only defacing the skylines of cities around the world with his high rise monstrosities, but to complement his clothing line—available at Macy’s—The Donald is also hustling watches.

I know from Rolexes, but Donald Trump watches? Thus I went to the Internet to see what I could learn. I assumed they must be quite a luxury item if they are among the watches Follieri was forced to surrender. I was, however, surprised to discover that on eBay you can get your hands on one for anywhere between $29,98 and $56.98. Though maybe now that Follieri has made them notorious they will go up in value.

I would suggest, though, that if you’re in the market for an investment watch from The Donald, also on eBay, for $349.99, you can put your hands on a mint-condition, vintage Donald Duck.

September 15, 2008--USA, USA, USA

One would think, among other things, that after Sarah Palin’s interview with Charlie Gibson that there would be some decline in support for the McCain-Palin ticket.

It was obvious from that that whatever her other qualities she knows virtually nothing about the world beyond Alaska—except that she feels she understands Russia because one can see it from her home state by looking across the Bering Straits. In a dangerous world it should have been unsettling to voters that she admittedly knows nothing about the Bush Doctrine which calls for preemptive military strikes and has under girded our foreign policy for more than seven year and led to the endless quagmire in the Middle East.

Other views of hers suggests that she would seriously consider going to war with her neighbor Russia if the Republic of Georgia was a member of NATO, and she indicated that in a McCain administration the U.S. would not “second guess” Israel if they launched a nuclear attack against Iran. In effect giving them carte blanch to do so, which they might very well undertake now that the Likud super hawk Benjamin Netanyahu is again about to become Prime Minister.

And we learned much more during the past week as reporters descended on Alaska to take a close look at Governor Palin’s record. We learned more about her enthusiastic support for earmarks, including until the last minute the Bridge to Nowhere; we learned about her personal and secretive management style and how she mercilessly fired people to replace them with under-qualified elementary school friends; we learned that she did in fact sell the state airplane but not on eBay as she claimed and at a $600,000 loss; we learned more about how she raised taxes and left her hometown of Wasilla in debt; we learned that she is not a cynical millenialist pandering Bush-like to Evangelical voters but actually believes that God directs her and our country’s daily political and military activities and is poised to bring about the Rapture and Armageddon; and we learned that those videos of her among Alaskan troops in Iraq are in fact of her visiting them in Kuwait, that she lied about being in Iraq, literally only sticking her toe across the Kuwait-Iraq border so she could claim she had the courage to visit the war front.

This daily stream of revelations has caused reporters and editorial writers to sputter almost speechlessly. The New York Times, as just one example, published a lead editorial on Saturday in which they could barely contain their befuddlement and outrage that John McCain, by selecting her, would have done something so self-serving, dangerous, and unpatriotic.

Frank Rich yesterday fulminated that by putting Palin on his ticket McCain, if they are elected, has virtually made her our next president—she is now driving the election and would thus have to be de facto anointed because if he wins in November it will be because of her and, Rich even treads on this unspeakable ground, considering the state of McCain’s health it is likely she will in fact become president before 2012. (Column linked below.)

There is even the beginnings of a Palin backlash among some of the more thoughtful, non-movement conservatives. One would suspect that this chorus of revelations about the “real” Sarah Palin, this sense that she is electorally and physically not much more than a heartbeat away from becoming our president would be having an effect on voter inclinations. Especially when our economy is close to collapse; storms are lashing the country in ways that remind us of the tragic and incompetent Republican response to Katrina; oil companies have resumed open gouging; and we are stuck in two failed wars that have contributed to our insecurity, bankruptcy, and the death and maiming of tens of thousands, one would think that any Democrat, even one with a funny name and of mixed racial background would by now be well in the lead in the national polls.

But what we see is the McCain-Palin ticket surging ahead with a lead that has widened this past week in spite of all the Palin news.

I have been struggling for more than a week here to understand this seemingly self-defeating phenomenon. Yes, it is cultural and largely gender based. Many of the disaffiliated who are hurt the most by national and global conditions—those losing their homes and savings, those whose children and loved ones are disproportionately fighting our wars, those who are living alone and struggling to raise their children, those whose jobs are in jeopardy, those who had to stay behind along the Gulf Coast as hurricane Ike struck because they didn’t have the money to fill up their gas tanks and pay for motel rooms, those who feel ignored or mocked and by the media, and those who are devout Fundamentalists—they represent Sarah Palin’s growing constituency. In their frustrations and subjectivity, they care more about seeing themselves reflected in her than in what she might actually do if she were to become vice president or president. They no longer want leaders who they can “look up to.” They’ve seen what those kinds of experienced and qualified leaders have done. Now they appear to be turning to ones who remind them of themselves.

As life for them becomes more circumscribed and perplexing, their defiant response to any nuanced set of issues that challenge and threaten us are spontaneous chants of “USA, USA, USA.” Or, following the craven lead of Rudy Giuliani, “Drill, baby, drill.” As if any of this can get the job done.

Thus, I worry.

September 12, 2008--Sarah Palin's Appeal

I’ve been struggling to understand Sarah Palin’s appeal and why her presence on the McCain ticket appears to have lifted it, especially among white women voters.

By the issues that presumably concern most women—ending the war, protecting the environment, improving education, family-friendly health policies, affirmative action, and the right to choose—Sarah Palin fails miserably. She’s further to the right than either McCain or Bush on these matters and yet we see her appeal, yes this excitement among so many. Every national poll suggests that as of now she has reversed the gap in white women’s electoral intentions—from a 10 point lead for Obama to at least as much now for McCain.

This may turn out to be a short-lived phenomenon—the appeal of the new, of celebrity—but then again it may not. If it proves to be more than another example of 15 minutes of fame (in her case, about two weeks thus far), it puts Obama’s candidacy in jeopardy.

In her column in the New York Times yesterday, Maureen Dowd, noting that Sarah Palin has agreed to be interviewed by Charlie Gibson; and suspecting that he might have a list of softball questions for her, came up with suggestions that Dowd felt would test and expose her.

She hopes Gibson will challenge her about her version of Troopergate (moving to fire her sister’s allegedly abusive husband), billing the state for per diem expenses for living in her own home rather than the governor’s residence, having Alaska pay for family members who accompanied her on state business, her flip flop about the Bridge to Nowhere, seeking to ban books from the Wasilla library, asking God to intercede in the building of a new Alaska pipeline. Things of this sort that would convince any rational person, when seeing her hypocrisy and dissembling, that she is not the authentic kind of person she and McCain are claiming.

Maureen Dowd may be right; but I suspect that Palin’s appeal is less rational than cultural and thus her new followers will not find what she is likely to say to be a turnoff. In fact, I suspect for many they will like her even more.

It could turn out to be another form of powerful Republican political ju jitsu in which an opponent’s strengths get be transmuted into vulnerabilities while their own weaknesses become strengths.

For example, when pressed about the stay-at-home per diem, her acolytes may say, “What’s wrong with a working mother of four or five wanting to take care of the kids while doing her job from home? I wish I could do that.” When asked about taking her husband and children with her on out-of-state trips, they may say, “That only shows what a devoted wife and mother she is.” When probed about wanting to ban books, many may say, “What’s wrong with that? Do you want your children exposed to smut? I certainly don’t want my kids to be reading Judy Blume. And while we’re on the subject of Governor Palin, I don’t find fault with her wanting to protect her sister from an abusive husband. I would want my sister to do the same thing. And, please, can we leave God out of this.”

This kind of counter-response is what I fear and unless the focus can be shifted back to McCain and his failed policies and corrupt career, if Palin remains above the fold, it will continue to be tough to figure out how to take her on and prevail.

September 11, 2008--Day to Remember & Think

Back tomorrow.

September 10, 2008--The Palin Effect

Just as I was about to drift off for the night, with CNN flickering in the background, I saw images of thousands of people lining the streets in some Ohio town. I thought—Good. Obama’s got his mojo back, people are returning to their senses, and all will be right with the world.

I heard Anderson Cooper say that these throngs of voters had been waiting for hours. That’s what I like to hear, I thought, hoping that the turnout suggests this key state might tip in Obama’s direction and that as a result I’d be able to get a good night’s sleep for the first time since last week, since Sarah Palin became a rock star.

But then I heard Cooper say that these mainly women were waiting to catch a glimpse of Governor Palin, not Senator Obama. And sure enough she then came into view and plunged into the adoring crowd.

So much for sleep.

He went on to report that national polls were now showing the race to be a dead heat, the result of a nearly 20-point swing among white women from Obama/Biden to McCain/Palin. Before Palin’s nomination Obama had a 41-53 point lead among them, and now those polling numbers had substantially reversed.

With another OJ Simpson trial beginning in Las Vegas I thought about the first one—how dramatically differently whites and blacks responded to his acquittal. How race in that case trumped everything else. And now, in the presidential campaign, how it is appearing that perhaps gender for so many is everything.

It could even lead to enough women voting for McCain because of the sex of his running mate to put him and her in the White House in spite of the fact that on every issue that one would expect to influence female voters Palin is even more regressive than McCain.

When many women who were angry that Hillary Clinton was not going to be nominated said they might in protest vote for McCain, for most of them it appeared that all one had to do was utter two words to get them to think about the consequences—“Supreme” and “Court.”

But with a women on the Republican ticket the two words we may be hearing now are “who” and “cares.”

This feels to me like such a consequential election—with the world, our economy, and our social fabric in shreds—that I have been trying to do what I can to help the Obama campaign. Here and in other ways I have been doing my thing. Including recently passing along to my personal network blogs and articles about Sarah Palin’s background—things that are emerging from Alaska by those finally doing some vetting.

I saw a photo of her in an American flag bikini toting what looked like an automatic weapon. And just yesterday someone sent me a list of the books she attempted to ban from the Wasilla library. Thinking it would help undermine her candidacy I passed along both of these.

As it turns out neither may have been authentic. The photo was likely Photoshopped and the list included a number of books published after she was no longer mayor. (She did, though, have at least informal discussions with the librarian about removing some books from the shelves but apparently did not pass along a list.)

So, in my overeagerness to help Obama I did the very thing others had done to him to try to bring down his candidacy, things at the time that I had decried—among many other things circulating photos (I think authentic) of him in African garb and claiming (falsely) that he had been present during Reverend Wright’s past 9/11 chickens-coming-home-to-roost sermon.

Thus, I am not feeling good about either myself or the trajectory of the polling numbers. Ironically, the two might very well be intimately connected: as the media, including TV, newspapers, the bloggers, aggressively take on Sarah Palin—fairly and at times like me unfairly—those who feel that she metaphorically reflects and represents them in their frustration and anger are even more drawn to her. “You see,” they appear to be saying, “look how someone like her is so abused and ridiculed by the successful and smug and self-satisfied. Right on, Sarah. Way to go girl. I’m with you. As I said, ‘Who cares about the Supreme Court.’”

September 9, 2008--Sarah Palin: Third Thoughts

I promised myself that I would move on. No more from me about her. Not even in the guise of listening in on the dinner conversations of the ladies of Forest Trace. Well, I lied.

This is too important an election to be blogging about the self-indulgent habits of the mega-rich or the religious fanaticism of various fundamentalists. Unless of course when the mega-rich are the out-of-touch Cindy and John McCain and the religious fanatic is none other than Sarah Palin.

McCain’s masterstroke was to select her so he could change the subject from him to her. We’ve stopped talking about his five or six or eight houses; we’ve stopped noticing Cindy’s parade of $5,000 outfits; we’ve stopped wondering what it means about Senator McCain that he dumped his first wife who stood by him all the years he was a prisoner in Hanoi a few days after he took a look at how disfigured she was after her near-fatal auto accident; and we’ve stopped talking about his political career—how though he may have been “right” (whatever that means) about the so-called surge in Iraq he was wrong about the much, much more important decision to invade and occupy Iraq; and though he wants to maintain and expand George Bush’s tax cuts and breaks for the wealthy and corporate elites that have ruined our economy and whose one trillion dollar war has brought us the cruelest tax of all—inflation and now rampant unemployment, not to mention millions of foreclosures and the loss of equity in everyone’s homes.

Next to Barack Obama who wants to raise taxes on those earning more than $250,000 a year George Bush, John McCain, and his even more conservative running mate are the most radical income redistributors in history. In their case, not from the wealthy to the struggling but from the working and middle classes to the rich. Talk about taxing and spending and class warfare! The Republicans in this regard have put the Democrats to shame.

But, no, we’ve ceased talking about any of this in our current obsession about her and have been seduced into viewing this election as a contest about who is the real change candidate—John McCain and his Hockey Mom or that old-fashioned Liberal with the funny name.

Thus I want to talk about her some more because if McCain is elected she is likely to become our president before the end of his first term. I’ve cited this grim fact before—he is 72 years old with a serious form of recurrent skin cancer. Even if it doesn’t get him between now and 2012 there is a much better than 50 percent chance that it will reappear again and disable him.

As the media vetting of Governor Palin continues, in spite of the McCain campaign waging all-out-war against the media (a war unlike Iraq, by the way, that they are winning: MSNBC just fired Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann as their presidential debate and election anchors—see linked NY Times article), as reporting about Palin’s career in Alaska continues we are learning additionally disturbing things about her. Some of it gossip but most of it well within legitimate reportorial bounds.

She told the country last Wednesday that if she becomes vice president families with special needs children will “have a friend and advocate in the White House,” though while governor, before she had her own child with Down Syndrome, with a sister who has an autistic son, she had not been such a friend and advocate up there in Juneau. She only reluctantly signed legislation initiated by others to increase funding for children with special needs.

We have also been learning about her interest in Jews for Jesus. These are folks who are working hard to convert Jews to Christianity in preparation for the End of Times, when true Christians will be Raptured (lifted directly by God to heaven) as a signal that the Antichrist will soon appear, Jesus will return to earth, there will be the Millennium, and then finally the Armageddon.

Palin believes all of this is imminent. It has long been rumored that George Bush does as well and, if true, would help explain his Middle East policies—the reoccupation by all of the world’s Jews of Greater Israel, which includes Iraq, is a precondition for these allegedly-prophesized occurrences. And though we may speculate about President Bush, there is no doubt about Sarah Palin—there is much videotape circulating on the Internet, and now being picked up by the traditional media, that shows her speaking with passion about these biblical matters.

She has even said that Alaska will be a privileged and secure place to live come the End Days. And she has repeatedly claimed that God has been directing her political career and her policies, including drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and the construction of another pipeline across Alaska.

I suppose that if God is guiding one’s policies that may be more important to voters than whether or not a candidate for high office is a hypocrite or knows anything on her own about the world. But to any even casual students of history this must sound familiar--the last time divine-right claims such as these were in widespread circulation was in the 1790s during the Ancien Régime and last days of King Louis XVI in France. And, of course, Marie Antoinette.

September 8, 2008--"Vetting" & the Ladies of Forest Trace

My mother reported that the “girls” watched much of the Republican convention. Particularly on Wednesday night when Sarah Palin addressed the faithful.

For the women of Forest Trace, all at least in their 80s, to stay up so late for anything other than arthritic pain is out of the ordinary and in this case represents a commitment to electoral politics. By 10, 10:30 at night most have been asleep for two hours. But they didn’t want to miss this. After all, when her name first surfaced as McCain’s choice for running mate most, who had been ardent Hillary supporters and were disgruntled, thought having a woman on his ticket might be persuasive enough to get them to vote Republican.

This made my 100 year-old mother cringe. These ladies had been lifelong Democrats from at least FDR’s time and some were old enough to have helped organize the ILGWU. A few went back far enough that they remembered the time when women weren’t allowed to vote. So for them to even consider voting for a Republican made my politically savvy mother worry that women like this might tip Florida again into the red state column.

Over breakfast and dinner this past week, my mother did what she could to bring the girls back to their traditional political home.

When word circulated that Governor Palin, in spite of the way she is representing herself, had in fact been in favor of the notorious Bridge to Nowhere, the ladies responded that what can you expect, she’s a politician who wants to bring money and jobs to her state. When reports filtered down to the Lower 48 that Palin, when mayor of Wasilla, had tried to intimidate the town’s librarian into removing certain “offensive” books from the library, the girls, though they had lived through the Nazi era and had seen books considered to be subversive burned by storm troopers, in spite of that still vivid memory, they said that young people today have to be protected from violence and smut.

Nor were they persuaded to return to their democratic roots when my mother pointed out that though she inherited a budget surplus when she became mayor Palin left to become governor she left Wasilla $20 million in debt. “Who in government,” they said, “doesn’t spend money. She seems so sweet and nice so she must have spent it for a good cause.” My mother said, she overspent when she built a hockey rink for children. They said, “Well of course, she’s a Hockey Mom.” They laughed at that, thinking she must be a wonderful mother. When my mother responded in growing frustration that what does being a mother have to do with preparing someone to be president, they shrugged her off with, “And you think it’s easy to raise five children? You only had two, so what do you know.” Things were clearly getting testy at Forest Trace.

But my mother is if nothing persistent. She moved on to a new tack when it became clear that Palin was a last minute choice. McCain had wanted to choose Joe Lieberman—a big favorite among the Forest Trace demographic—and when ultra-conservatives warned McCain that they wouldn’t vote for someone who supports abortions, the self-described maverick caved into them and named Palin.

The ladies also had an answer for this, saying that McCain was only pandering to conservative Republicans and when—my mother shuddered at the “when”—he becomes president he’ll revert to his old moderate self and will not appoint more Anton Scalias to the Supreme Court.

So my mother played the health card among her fellow Forest Trace residents who know from their own chronic ailments what cruel things age can do to a person. She asked them how they felt about having a 72 year-old president in the White House who has had recurrent melanoma. They all know, don’t they, how dangerous this condition is and how likely it is that it will show up again if (she couldn’t bring herself to say “when”) he is elected? And in that circumstance, she asked them what they thought, in these perilous times, about having someone as unprepared as Sarah Palin becoming president? There was no response to that. They know from cancer.

And finally, my mother added, seeking to seal her case by taking a new tack, what does it say about John McCain that he didn’t know all these things about her when he selected her? What kind of a president will he make (she should have said, “might he make”—but I forgive her she was on a rhetorical roll) if neither he nor his people did a proper job of vetting her? “All they needed to do . . .” she was about to add when 94 year-old Gussie interrupted her.

“Are you also using that new word?”

Thrown off balance, my mother looked quizzically back at her.

“’Vetting.’ I mean ‘vetting.’ That one.”

“It’s not a new word. They use it all the time.”

“I also never heard it before. ‘Vetting’—it sounds,” she winked, “Yiddish to me.” That was my mother’s friend Esther.

“I can’t believe you girls. It has a very distinguished etymology.” Thus challenged my mother reverted to the voice and diction she used when she was an elementary school teacher back in Brooklyn. “It has a Latin root. From the same source as for ‘veto.’ From vetare. I looked it up recently. In the original, of course, it means ‘I forbid,’ which is exactly what John McCain should have done when Governor Palin’s name came up—after having her properly vetted he should have vetoed her selection.” At that, sensing she had finally trumped them, she smiled at the girls, who were by then avoiding eye contact.

After a moment Bertha looked up and said, “Come now, Ray, where’s your sense of humor? You know us better than that. How could you think we would vote for someone like McCain, much less a Sarah Palin? We just like to be fair and challenge all assumptions. And have a little fun!” My mother breathed a sigh of relief. “We also know about her. Didn’t she also sit in her church recently and listen to a sermon about the Jews for Jesus? You didn’t mention that. I survived the Holocaust and could never bring myself to vote for someone who would do that.” The other ladies were nodding in solemn agreement.

“And,” Esther chimed in, “can you imagine her and her family in the White House? They would have to count the silverware after a state dinner.”

My mother and the ladies looked back at her with collective raised eyebrows. “Now, now girls. You know me. Always making my little jokes. I’m sure they are very nice people. But not nice or qualified enough to be our vice president.”

About that they were now all in agreement and could get back to talking proudly about their grandchildren.

September 6, 2008--The Ladies of Forest Trace: The Last Four Percent

All excited, my 100 year-old mother was on the phone. “Did you see Wolf last night?”

“Who?”

“Wolf Blitzer. All the girls love him. Bertha even thinks he’s Jewish.”
I
gnoring that, I said, “No, I missed him. But what’s up?”

“What were you doing? Watching the Yankees?” How did she know? “Aren’t they in last place? There’s an important election going on.”

Ignoring that too, I said, “Yes, mom, basically they are in last place. But to tell you the truth, what with Sarah Palin and the stock market I needed some distraction.”

“So, you didn’t hear what’s going on in Florida?” I admitted I didn’t.

“You know how we all feel that we’re responsible for George Bush. For electing him eight years ago because we didn’t fill out our ballots correctly.”

“I know, mom, we’ve talked about that many times. It wasn’t your fault. You and your friends were tricked. How could they expect elderly people to punch holes in the right places on those paper ballots? You have to stop feeling responsible.”

“Yes, I know, but half of us have hands that tremble so much that we had trouble punching holes in the right places. I’ll bet that half the girls wound up voting for Pat Buchanan. That anti-Semite.”

I had nothing to say to that. “But this time around it will be different. I have everyone filling out absentee ballots. That way I can check to see if they did them correctly. No one wants to make the same mistake again. Ruth says, and she’s almost as old as I am, that this is the most important election since we all voted for Roosevelt. Franklin,” she added with a chuckle, “Not Teddy. We’re not that old.”

“I know, mom, you told me that after being infatuated with Sarah Palin they came to realize that if she becomes our vice president we’ll be the laughing stock of the world.”

“Worse than that. They are now saying that if, God forbid, John McCain is elected, what will happen when he dies.”

“We don’t know that he’ll be dying during the next four . . .”

“Believe me darling, all of us here know from cancer. My dermatologist tells me that a man of his age who has had his kind of skin cancer is unlikely to live another five years. Recurrent melanoma. So that’s why we are all worried.”

“I am too. I’ve heard the same thing. But do you think, what with the stock market, that McCain and Palin are still leading in the polls?”

“That’s why I called you. To tell you what Wolf said. I knew you were probably watching baseball.” That again.

“Well, what did he say?”

“It was about Florida.”

“Florida?”

“Yes. About how because Bush won Florida twice he won the election.”

“Really only in 2000,” I corrected her.

“I know. I know. Be quiet for a moment and listen.” I held the receiver away from my ear but could still hear her. She was that excite she was almost shouting. “He says that Florida is now even in the polls. 48 to 48. And just last week McCain had a seven-point lead. Isn’t that good news?”

It was I said. Feeling so pessimistic about everything, including the Yankees, I had tuned out for the day. “If it’s true.”

“If Wolf said it’s true, believe me it’s true.” She continued, “If Obama continues to do so well he might win Florida. Wouldn’t that then mean he’ll be elected?”

“Could be. But it still feels unlikely to me. The Republicans there control the election process and the balloting. You know the kind of shenanigans they are capable of. And I don’t just mean with paper ballots and rigged voting machines. Remember how good they were the last two times keeping black people from turning out to vote.”

“But haven’t you been telling me that Obama has lawyers ready to be at every polling booth? That they will be looking over everyone’s shoulder to make sure things are kosher?”

I had been talking with her about how good his ground game has been. How it was so effective that that’s probably why he defeated Hillary Clinton. “I agree. He is mobilizing thousands of poll watchers and lawyers. For Florida and everywhere else.”

“But won’t his winning here depend on turnout? At dinner, that’s what Esther keeps saying. It’s all about the remaining four percent.”

“I think she’s right.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“Me? Why, what do you mean?”

“I know you’ve been contributing money, which is good. He needs that. But what about other things?”

“I am planning to make telephone calls and of course I do write diaries for Kos.”

“With all do respects, darling, I never heard of Kos-Schmos, and how many people read those and how many of them are undecided?” That hurt. “You have lots of time now, now that you’re not working.”

“Well, I do have my writing.”

“You can do that from anywhere.”

“What are you driving at?” I was feeling defensive.

“Precisely that. Driving. Shouldn’t you be planning to come down here Election Day to drive voters to the polls?” In truth I hadn’t been thinking about that. “How many votes did Al Gore lose by? Was it 500?”

“About that.”

“And how will you feel this time if McCain wins Florida by the same small number?” I choked on that thought. “I still have my drivers license and I’m thinking about renting a car to take people to vote who don’t have cars.”

That prospect horrified me—my ancient mother, who is still basically perfect, but perfect for a 100 year-old—driving around in unfamiliar neighborhoods. Sally is thinking about doing the same thing.”

“Doesn’t she have Parkinson’s?”

“It’s in remission now. She remembers when women were first allowed to vote—so do I for that matter, I was 12 years old—and she is sure this is her last election and she wants to do all she can to see Obama gets elected. You remember she was for Hillary. All the girls were. But now she’s as much for Obama. So, what I’m saying, is that if we can do it, so can . . .”

She didn’t need to complete the thought. “I’m getting buzzed. There’s an important call I have to take. But promise me, mom, that you won’t be renting any cars. Sally is another story.”

“And?”
“
And, as soon as I take the other call, I’ll call AVIS and rent a van for November 4th. And I’ll get in touch with the Obama campaign in Broward County to see what I should do.”

“That’s my darling.”

With that I took the other call. It was my financial advisor. That also wasn’t going to be pleasant.

September 5, 2008--Lighten Up

Supermodel Linda Evangelista back in 1990 famously declared, “We don’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day.” Who knows how much she charges now to parade around in Prada, assuming anyone would any longer be interested in hiring her.

So when earlier this week the New York Times reported that Vogue, for its August India issue, instead of using professional models and paying them the going rate, to quote the Times, used “average Indian people.” (Article linked below.)

I assume, and a glimpse at the photos from the 16-page spread confirms this, that in this case “average” means some from among the nearly 456 million Indians who have to try to get by on less than $1.25 a day.

We have a picture of an ancient, toothless woman holding a kid who, in addition to her own worn clothing, is wearing a fancy Fendi bib. On another page we see a family of three perched precariously on a motorbike, getting ready for their morning commute, with the mother riding sidesaddle but sporting a $10,000 Hermès Birkin bag. Pocketbooks that are so popular that there is a backlog of orders and women who must have one are willing to wait months to get their hands on them.

This issue of Vogue is so over the top in its social obliviousness that columnists in India are outraged and have been calling the publisher and editor to task. Kanika Gahlaut, who writes for the newspaper Mail Today, says that the photo feature is “not just tacky” but an “example of vulgarity.” There’s nothing amusing, she continued, about displaying a photo of a poor person in a mud hut wearing clothing designed by Alexander McQueen.

Vogue India editor Priya Tanna defended the issue, saying that “fashion is no longer a rich man’s privilege.” There is a burgeoning middle class there and magazine folks and merchants have to come up with new ways to lure them into high-end shops.

“Lighten up,” she is quoted as saying. All Vogue is doing is “realizing the power of fashion,” whatever that means.

And part of that power is big money. Linda Evangelista is not the only one doing well. Last year Forbes Magazine reported that Victoria Secret model Gisele Bundchen made at least $33 million and ex-offender Kate Moss a cool $9 million.

The Times failed to report how much the woman in the mud hut was paid to trot around in her Alexander McQueens. Probably a handful of rupies.

Enough. I’ve got to get back to a tape of last night’s Republican convention. I failed to catch what Cindy McCain was wearing. Certainly not Pat Nixon’s “Republican cloth coat.” She wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those.

September 4, 2008--McCain's Cancer

Sorry, but after John McCain picked Sarah Palin to be his running mate, one heartbeat from the presidency as he and they say, we need to take a closer look than in the past at the state of his health.

In other words, specifically how many heartbeats away from being president might she be if he, God forbid, is somehow elected?

We know that Senator McCain had an aggressive form of frequently deadly melanoma. Key to understanding the virulence of this type of cancer is its potential to spread or recur. Perhaps overlooked is the medical evidence he supplied is the fact that it already did recur. This places him at much higher risk of additional recurrences in the future.

He has insisted that I maintain his anonymity, but in a discussion today with an eminent physician very experienced in these matters, I have been told that McCain has about a 70 percent chance of having a potentially fatal recurrence during the next five years.

And, I learned, that if there is a reappearance, a likely spot for cancers of this type is the brain; and, if that were to happen to John McCain, it might very effect his ability to make sound judgments since the part of the brain that might be the site for the occurrence controls rational processes.

I have nothing further to add for fear of seeming snide or unsympathetic.

September 3, 2008--Bearer of Consolation (Concluded)

Ruth did in fact want to say more. “To tell you the truth, it at times was so painful that I found excuses not to visit my brother-in-law. I’m not proud about that, but I was having some of my own troubles at the time, which we don’t have to get into. But I did get up there every few week, offering to try to help. On occasion, when she was really suffering I took the kids home with me for the weekend. So they could have some relief.”

“This was a few years ago,” Rona said, “how are they doing now?”

“You are not going to belief this,” Ruth brightened, “They are fine. Actually, all things considered, quite well. But that’s not the part you’re no going to believe. It’s how things got better for Bob that you’ll think I’m making up. But, thankfully, I have the pictures to show you as proof.”

“This sounds mysterious,” I said.

“So let me tell you about the bear.”

“The what?”

“You heard me—the bear. The bear who brought Bob back to the land of the living.”

“This I’ve got to hear.”

“Just keep sucking on your coffee and all will be revealed.” I took a long swallow and picked at my muffin. “I think I told you that he lives way up there,” she hadn’t but pointed in the general direction of New Hampshire, “by the border. Not far from Corinth. Kind of remote. But the sort of place they both liked. A good area in which to raise kids. About a week after Suzy passed I drove up there to look in on them. To bring them some things. And whatnot. To see if there was anything I could do. That sort of thing. He was as disconsolate as any human being I’d ever seen. He told me that the children were staying with his sister in Brattleboro. He thought that would be best for them since he couldn’t pull himself out of his unhappiness.

“And you could see it written all over him. In just those few weeks he had lost a lot of weight and with his not shaving and being all stubbly he looked like he was at about death’s door. The place was a mess. Stuff all over the place. Like no one had straightened up in years. And he had always been the most fastidious person you would ever want to meet. It was obvious he was in deep trouble. Frankly, as I told you, I had some of my own difficulties back home and since I couldn’t think of what else to do except urge him to eat and take care of himself, if not for him at least for the children’s sake, I got ready to leave. He was barely aware of my presence. As I tried to talk with him, to encourage him to try to begin living again, he just stared blankly out to space, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped tightly around him. As if he was hugging himself. It was the saddest thing you ever saw.”

“I can only imagine,” Rona said.

“Well you’re sure right about that. So much so that, try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to get back there. But I did drive down to visit my nephews. They were doing about as good as might be expected in the circumstances. It was summer and school was out and they had a couple of cousins there their own age who they were getting along with just fine. So at least that was good to see and it sort of helped me deal with my guilt about not doing a better job of staying in touch with Bob. I thought he was a goner and, though it pains me to admit this, I guess I just tried to put him out of my mind and get on with my own life.”

“I understand that,” Rona said, trying to offer consolation. “My mother is not well and every time I speak with her and hear her sadness I torture myself, asking why don’t I visit more often. On my truly bad days, I even think about moving closer to her so I can see her every day. But then I realize I have my own life to live. That I don’t want to give that up for even my mother. But I suspect like you, Ruth, I pay a price every day that I feel good or happy.”
PART II
“Yeah, yeah,” Ruth, again in her upbeat mode, waved off Rona’s words of understanding, “Shit happens to all of us. But the trick is to keep moving and not let them catch up with you. For example, like I was saying, here was my brother-in-law who was sailing along and all of a sudden he gets clobbered. But the good news,” she switched on a broad grin, “is that he’s all bounced back now because of that bear, which you keep interrupting me from telling you about like you think I’m nuts or still hung over from the weekend.”

“No, no,” I began to sputter.

“That’s all right. Just sit still for a few minutes, won’t you, concentrate on your coffee, and let me tell you what happened.”

We did as ordered, thinking this was going to be a good one. Another rural put on or tall tale.

“I heard all this from Bob’s brother Marc who, unlike me, visited him at least once a week. He called me one day, about three weeks after my last visit, sounding all excited. ‘You’ll never believe this,’ he said, ‘but he’s showing some signs of coming around.’ ‘How good,’ I said, ‘I was hoping to hear that.’ ‘That’s not it,’ he said, ‘not that that isn’t what we’ve been hopin’ for. For him to pull out of it. It’s the bear. Anyone tell you about that?’ Like you two thought about me,” Ruth shot us a look, “I thought he had gone nuts. ‘No,’ I said sort of humoring him along, ‘no one told me anything about a bear. What’s the story?’ I sat back and lit a smoke thinking this was going to be a good one.

“’There’s this black bear, a big one, six feet or so when he stands on his hind legs, whose been visiting him ‘most every day.’ I knew there were bears around where Bob lives so that didn’t surprise me. There are lots of bear sightings, especially at that time of year. ‘I know what you’re thinkin’,’ he said, ‘I’m not talkin’ about a bear on his property. I’m talkin’ about a bear who comes right up to his house, right up to him really, every morning, and sits with him the whole day.’”

“Well, you can only imagine what I was thinking. Either Bob or him have lost their minds. I figured now I have another case on my hands to worry about. Bob wasn’t enough. ‘I know what you’re thinkin’,’ he was reading my mind, ‘but I saw this, the bear I mean, the other day with my own eyes. Bob had been telling me about it and I thought, in his grief, he’s lost his mind for sure. But when I was up there three days ago there was Bob sitin’ out back where I had been seeing him since Suzy died, and sure enough by that stone fence that runs along his property line was that sucker of a bear sittin’ there like Bob’s best friend. Not more than ten feet from him. Just hangin’ out.’

“Now I’ve known Marc for years and he’s a solid citizen. Doesn’t drink a drop as far as I know and I doubt he uses any of that other stuff either. So I said, ‘Maybe it was just the day you were there. I mean that the bear was nearby. That’s a lot different than being there with Bob every day.’ He was ready for that and said, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday so I went back the next two days during my lunch break and sure enough there were the two of them getting’ along just fine. Yesterday, that bear was right up by Bob’s side, lyin’ on his back, stretched out in the sun, takin’ a midday nap! I’ve never seen anything like that before, and I’ve lived here all my life.’

“’I asked Bob,’ Marc said, ‘if he had any understanding about what is going on and he shook his head. With a shrug and a smile. The first one I’ve seen on his face since Suzy died. He said, ‘It feels like a miracle. Like Suzy sent him to me. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. This morning,’ Bob said, ‘I was sleeping late and would you believe it he came up onto the back porch and rattled the door. To tell you the truth, it scared me a little, I was sleeping so soundly—my first good night’s sleep since Suzy. But it was him. Looking for me. Calling on me to join him. At least that’s what I think he was doing. And when I pulled on my clothes, got some coffee, and did go outside there he was in his usual spot. Waiting on me.’

“I had just been listening to Marc on the phone but like now had goose bumps all over me. But still there was a part of me that doubted him. Though he did sound convincing. And sober. ‘I know you probably don’t believe me,’ Marc said, ‘I don’t blame you because if I didn’t have the pictures to prove it I wouldn’t believe myself. Including one I took of the bear fast asleep by Bob’s side.”

Ruth had to take someone else’s order but said she would be right back. While she drifted to the other end of the counter I looked over at Rona to see what she was thinking. “Pretty amazing,” she said, “but there are these stories about wild animals sort of adopting humans. Especially people who are in some sort of trouble or danger. But usually it’s when they’re are out in the woods and have seriously injured themselves; so I suppose . . .”

Ruth had returned before Rona could complete her thought. “That was last summer,” she said. “The bear stayed with him all through it. Almost every day until late August. By then Bob had been pretty much restored to his old self. He was still grieving, but he had definitely crossed over the line to join those who looked forward to living.”

That much I understood. “Give me a minute she said. I have something for you.” She pivoted and bolted for the kitchen.

While she was away, I said, “This is amazing, but this time I think I believe her. Ruth’s a kidder and can spin things to tell a good story. . .”

“Like you,” Rona interrupted with a twinkle.

“Yes, like me, but this time she seems serious.”

Ruth had returned and was leaning on the counter between the corn and blueberry muffins. “Just take a look at these.” She slid two photos across to us. “And this is not the work of Photoshop,” she said.

Sure enough in one there was a man who looked to be in his early forties sitting in a meadow on a recliner chair, and lolling on the grass not ten feet from him was a huge black bear. The other picture showed him again in the same chair with the bear sprawled out on its back seemingly, as we had heard, fast asleep.

“That second one, Marc took. The other one I took! What do you think of that?”

“A lot,” Rona said.

And I agreed. Quite a lot.

September 2, 2008--Bearer of Consolation

A waitress, let’s call her Ruth, at one of our favorite morning places was full of talk the other day. We were propped up at the counter as usual and honestly more eager for our first cup of wakeup coffee than the latest from Ruth.

Ignoring our relative unconsciousness and vacant faces, she went on about last weekend’s weather and the outdoor wedding she went to. She reported that she had bought a new pair of “stilettos” and had been worried all week that they would sink into the still wet ground and her husband, who told her to wear flats, would want to kill her. Not literally, she assured us, but he would have been “peeved,” that was her euphemism, if he had had to extract her or her shoes when she or they got stuck in the mud of the meadow. And that it was a full moon and so, since she “gets crazy” at those times, she couldn’t drink as much as she normally would have liked. But that was OK since her shoes worked out fine and the band was “hot” and she and “him,” she always referred to him as either “him” or “he,” “stepped out,” as she described it, and put on a pretty good show.

And all the while she chattered on she kept us lubricated with a second and then a third cup of just-right coffee; and, as a consequence, Rona and I came to our version of early morning awareness.

Noticing this, Ruth, always the kidder, said, “So I see you to have returned to the land of the living. I’ll bet,” she was at least half right, “that you didn’t hear a word I said.”

“No, no,” Rona fibbed. “I heard about the stilettos and about how you and your husband danced the night away under a full moon. Did I get that right?”

I marveled at Rona’s powers of concentration at such an early, uncaffeinated hour, and so did Ruth who shot her a skeptical look. “So then I should tell you about my pool. I already filled you in about how it’s nothing that special, just a place to splash around in after work and I dig around in my garden. And how refreshing it is. Well you know how frigid it’s been these past few nights and you can only imagine how cold it is by now. So, yesterday, when I finished weeding I was all sweated up and, silly me, without even thinking I stuck a toe in and then took the full plunge. Well, I almost died. Good thing he was around so he could call 911.”

This got our full attention. I even put down my coffee and got ready to express concern. But before I could she rolled with laughter and said, “I was doing a little exaggerating. I did feel like I was having a stroke or something, but he only needed to drag me out and give me a little mouth-to-mouth, if you get my drift. To warm me up. Let’s say it was a fun afternoon.” She winked. “More coffee?”


“It does sound like you had a fun weekend,” I finally managed to say, “and I’m glad you’re OK.”

“Never better,” she bubbled, “But I should take your order. You’d better put something in your stomachs besides coffee. We do have banana-apple muffins this morning. I know you like the bran but these I can vouch for. I had one right out of the oven and it was perfect. Made me feel I didn’t mind being back here at work after yesterday.” She winked again. “I guess by now you know that I like to enjoy my time. I’ve lived up here in Vermont all my life and to get through the winters you have to figure out ways to have fun while you can. And I mean more than just figuring out to deal with the winter weather. But I’m sure you two lovebirds know all about those! I mean you never know from one day to the next what to expect from life.” From the shifting timbre or her voice I knew that she was now, as she often did, turning serious. I pulled my stool closer to the counter so I could hear her better.

“Take my sister for example. She had it all. Enough education not to have to do this work.” Ruth’s sweep of a gesture took in all of the luncheonette. “She worked in real estate when things were going good. Married to the sweetest man you’d ever want to know. Two perfect kids. Cute. Smart in school. Just what anyone would dream of having. They were going along just fine, she’s a little older than me, when one day she felt a lump and before two long she had to have a mastectomy.”

“My God,” Rona said, “I’m so sorry to hear this. How is she doing?”

“Well that was more than ten years ago . . .”

“I suppose that’s good then,” I said. “They must have gotten everything.”

“That’s what we thought. Specialy after five years. They consider that a cure don’t they? Well, in her case maybe she was cured by that definition but two years after that she had a recurrence. She lasted another two years, poor thing. As good as things had been that’s how bad they became. She suffered so. But Bob, her husband, I told you how sweet he is, he took care of her every day of the last years and days of her life.

“He owned a hardware store and it was doing pretty well and basically running itself. He was able to be away from it so he could be with her. Kept her home pretty much the whole time. It was quite a love affair. He was so kind, so nurturing. Taking care of her became his whole life so you can only imagine how he took it when she passed. He thought that he somehow had failed her. His job was to take care of her. Keep her alive. And then that happened. When he no longer had her to love and take care of he felt like his life had lost its purpose. Which I suppose in many ways it had. It broke your heart to see him. I’ve never seen anyone sadder or more lost. It was like he just wanted to die. To join her. I think if it wasn’t for the kids still needing him, during the first few months after she was gone, he too would have withered away.”

Ruth turned away from us and I saw her shoulders heave as she took in a few deep breaths. When she turned back to face us she was again her old buoyant self, coffee pot in hand. “Decaf time, isn’t it? I know you guys like to switch to it for your, what is it, your fifth cup? You New Yorkers sure know how to put it away!”

I wasn’t sure if this signaled that she no longer wanted to talk more about her sister and brother-in-law; but by then I knew her just well enough to recognize how she would often in an instant shift from joshing to serious talk, and so I offered, “That must have been really hard for you.”

She did in fact want to say more. “To tell you the truth, it at times was so painful that I found excuses not to visit. I’m not proud about that, but I was having some of my own troubles at the time, which we don’t have to get into. But I did get up there every few week, offering to try to help. On occasion, when she was really suffering I took the kids home with me for the weekend. So they could have some relief.”

“This was a few years ago,” Rona said, “how are they doing now?”

“You are not going to belief this,” Ruth brightened, “They are fine. Actually, all things considered, quite well. But that’s not the part you’re no going to believe. It’s how things got better for Bob that you’ll think I’m making up. But, thankfully, I have the pictures to show you as proof.”

“This sounds mysterious,” I said.

“So let me tell you about the bear.”

“The what?”

“You heard me—the bear. The bear who brought Bob back to the land of the living.”

"This I've got to hear."

To be continued . . .