Many of us in America know—viscerally feel—the historic moment we are at in this country tonight, the eve of the presidential election. In addition to the politics of the democratic candidate, the fact that Barack Obama may well be the first Black American president is both mind-boggling and absolutely right.
Even though there have been many disturbing one-liners in this election campaign, such as “radical” and “socialist,” to name two, little has derailed Obama’s campaign or his personal effectiveness. Despite the Rev. Wright debacle, the “community organizer” put downs and so on, Obama has been a role model for the youth of the country and for all of us. It’s been a long time since we have seen this kind of intelligence and grace in a presidential candidate. Barack’s vitality is sorely needed in this country.
Everyone likes to see the changing of the guard but few want to be in the old guard, the guard whose time has run out. Well, it may seem that way for McCain on the eve of the election, but that really isn’t how our political system works. Democrats hopefully will have a chance to implement some changes—health care, better diplomacy, a greener economy, and so on—but we know that no real change can take place without the cooperation of both parties in Congress.
Barack Obama’s face, not his color, is the right one for the USA today. His face reveals optimism, compassion, intelligence, and focus. He understands the average American and the global world in which we live. He is not threatened by diversity or globalization like so many Americans still are. Barack Obama has lived these twin aspects of postmodern life from birth.
If Barack Obama is elected president tomorrow, will it be the end of racism in this country? Unfortunately, no, but as journalist Dan Rather said tonight on CNN, “If Obama wins, we are on our way to becoming the country we want to be.”
M.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Where's Alice?
When last I wrote, I referred to Hillary as Alice. I was wrong; I feel like Alice because this presidential campaign is "Wonderland." No one is showing distinctive leadership potential for this country (and world) in crisis. The economy has slumped to the lows of the 1970s (w/o those promising interest rates). We have a health care crisis. High unemployment rates. Natural disasters. American education in crisis. The government bailing out AIG. Who, might I add, is bailing us out or standing up for us? The rhetoric is appalling. It's the longest campaign in my voting history.
It's every man (excuse me, Miss Alaska) for himself in this campaign. Disjunctive. Disjointed.
As one economist said today, "Do you want economic change to come from the bottom to the top or the top to the bottom?" Enough w/ trickle-down; let's try to hit the middle. Whatever that means.
M.
It's every man (excuse me, Miss Alaska) for himself in this campaign. Disjunctive. Disjointed.
As one economist said today, "Do you want economic change to come from the bottom to the top or the top to the bottom?" Enough w/ trickle-down; let's try to hit the middle. Whatever that means.
M.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A Poem
If She (Hillary) Is Iconic
she’ll stay in the game of politics (and life)
and why shouldn’t she so prettied up strutting her smarts
her voice melodious not monotonic as before
almost fluid like the velvet hairbands girls once wore
recently she’s either channeled past lives developed
her people’s ear or decided ex-Wellesley girls
and former First Ladies can drop the endings of their words
as in “knowin what yul’al goin thro” when
“talkin” to coal miners. Surely I can’t be the only one noticing
these changes I mean she’s so lovely from the waist up on TV
she reminds me of nuns who swath their bodies in long black cloths
yet show a curvaceous nape of neck or an extended palm of hand
she’s transparent like a butterfly trying to be a sphinx
the boys must figure out should she adjust her fan or tune her words
tighter she’s the queen of cards the ‘08 deal breaker
who decides when and where to lay her hand
maybe smile like Alice before the fall before she sprouts back up 8 ft. tall.
M.
she’ll stay in the game of politics (and life)
and why shouldn’t she so prettied up strutting her smarts
her voice melodious not monotonic as before
almost fluid like the velvet hairbands girls once wore
recently she’s either channeled past lives developed
her people’s ear or decided ex-Wellesley girls
and former First Ladies can drop the endings of their words
as in “knowin what yul’al goin thro” when
“talkin” to coal miners. Surely I can’t be the only one noticing
these changes I mean she’s so lovely from the waist up on TV
she reminds me of nuns who swath their bodies in long black cloths
yet show a curvaceous nape of neck or an extended palm of hand
she’s transparent like a butterfly trying to be a sphinx
the boys must figure out should she adjust her fan or tune her words
tighter she’s the queen of cards the ‘08 deal breaker
who decides when and where to lay her hand
maybe smile like Alice before the fall before she sprouts back up 8 ft. tall.
M.
Friday, February 22, 2008
A Little Life
When God’s creatures die, even the littlest, life must be acknowledged, celebrated.
The other day I received a phone call from my daughter telling me of the untimely death of a cat named Coach, who actually thought he was a dog, and maybe he was. Certainly the proverbial nine lives did not seem to apply to him. He was a leader among his fellow house cats and a lover of humans, no scaredy-cat. He had presence, panache.
When my son-in-law sent out pictures of Coach to his friends and relatives, a photo obituary, not for a moment did I think he was “over the top.” As a matter of fact, it’s made me realize the importance of paying attention to these little lives, which may not be so little after all.
The other day I received a phone call from my daughter telling me of the untimely death of a cat named Coach, who actually thought he was a dog, and maybe he was. Certainly the proverbial nine lives did not seem to apply to him. He was a leader among his fellow house cats and a lover of humans, no scaredy-cat. He had presence, panache.
When my son-in-law sent out pictures of Coach to his friends and relatives, a photo obituary, not for a moment did I think he was “over the top.” As a matter of fact, it’s made me realize the importance of paying attention to these little lives, which may not be so little after all.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Quandaries: The Twosome
Well, the Super Bowl on Sunday was a quandary to me. First of all, I really don’t know what is going on, and secondly, I’m never the guest I want to me at one of these Super Bowl parties. I figured out the opposing teams only two days before the event. I talk too much. The men generally dislike me. (Yet I noticed that a Baptist minister at this party seemed downright grateful for my presence. Nothing like good huddle over the Trinity between plays.) For one, I find the ads far more exciting than the game itself and have this maniacal gift of getting people “off” the game and “onto” discussions of consumer psychology, with your basic cheer of—“Let’s guess what product this ad is promoting!!” They either love me or hate me at these parties. My fan base is mostly women but I noticed that my good friend, Chica, chose to sit up close to the new flat screen and gazed intently on the “plays” as if she really knew what was going on. Maybe she did. In any event, she didn’t fall into the trail mix or slide into the Nachos from that position. Nevertheless, when I went to bed Sunday night thinking that the Patriots had won (left after the pizza at half-time), I was surprised to find out that the New York Giants were celebrating the next day. This Dewey-Truman scenario replayed itself even more, poignantly, when it took my Korean student at the American Language Center, who has been in this country a mere month, to explain to me today (after having skipped class for the Downtown parade) the final twists and turns of Sunday’s game. Unfortunately, I haven’t grasped the language enough to re-explain the upset.
Another quandary was my over-fifty liberal’s nightmare of indecision in the voting booth on Super Tuesday—whom to vote for? For the first time in my voting-booth life, I found myself explaining to the people from the League of Women Voters, that I just might vote for Obama instead of Clinton, even though my first allegiance is to Hillary-Hopefully-
The-First, but “instinct or vestigial optimism might just trigger that button for Barack,” I rattled. I think they actually pushed me through the curtain and yes, I voted for Hill, a vote for womanhood, experience, and her Girl Scout Spirit of indefatigability. I’ll be happy if she wins, but for some strange reason my mind replays Obama’s words from the last democratic debate. When Clinton responded to a question from Wolf Blitzer by stating that we can not just sit down and talk with our “known enemies,” Obama replied, “Why not?” This, I hope, resonates as the biggest, most momentous debate of them all.
M.
Another quandary was my over-fifty liberal’s nightmare of indecision in the voting booth on Super Tuesday—whom to vote for? For the first time in my voting-booth life, I found myself explaining to the people from the League of Women Voters, that I just might vote for Obama instead of Clinton, even though my first allegiance is to Hillary-Hopefully-
The-First, but “instinct or vestigial optimism might just trigger that button for Barack,” I rattled. I think they actually pushed me through the curtain and yes, I voted for Hill, a vote for womanhood, experience, and her Girl Scout Spirit of indefatigability. I’ll be happy if she wins, but for some strange reason my mind replays Obama’s words from the last democratic debate. When Clinton responded to a question from Wolf Blitzer by stating that we can not just sit down and talk with our “known enemies,” Obama replied, “Why not?” This, I hope, resonates as the biggest, most momentous debate of them all.
M.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Game Meat
Well, just when I thought the holidays were over, the “kids” from California arrived bearing gifts.
Gifts, I’ve noticed, run in categories. The most obvious (a.k.a. most desired), a gift certificate to Starbucks for an undisclosed amount. The most practical, “I’ll pay for half of the laptop; you pay for the other half” or as someone suggested to me, “I really do need a big girl’s purse.” And finally, the most exotic, especially when presented by vegetarians: game meat.
The recipient, fortunately, loved his gift of venison sausage, snake fillet, boar chop, and ostrich steak, but this M. was the one who had to unpack and store these items in the freezer when they arrived, still not frozen (despite the packaging) and still humming with some sort of life…force. Even though my ancestors did not partake of the Mediterranean Diet in the Old Country, I, for one, would never have made it to New Jersey if I had had to depend on wild meat. (I like to think the wild salmon got me here.)
Nevertheless, the proud recipient of the most exotic holiday gift eagerly awaits a dry, cold day when he can grill in his packed-snow backyard with his scarf and gloves on.
That’s one dinner party I won’t regret missing.
M.
Gifts, I’ve noticed, run in categories. The most obvious (a.k.a. most desired), a gift certificate to Starbucks for an undisclosed amount. The most practical, “I’ll pay for half of the laptop; you pay for the other half” or as someone suggested to me, “I really do need a big girl’s purse.” And finally, the most exotic, especially when presented by vegetarians: game meat.
The recipient, fortunately, loved his gift of venison sausage, snake fillet, boar chop, and ostrich steak, but this M. was the one who had to unpack and store these items in the freezer when they arrived, still not frozen (despite the packaging) and still humming with some sort of life…force. Even though my ancestors did not partake of the Mediterranean Diet in the Old Country, I, for one, would never have made it to New Jersey if I had had to depend on wild meat. (I like to think the wild salmon got me here.)
Nevertheless, the proud recipient of the most exotic holiday gift eagerly awaits a dry, cold day when he can grill in his packed-snow backyard with his scarf and gloves on.
That’s one dinner party I won’t regret missing.
M.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Manhattan Green
Manhattan Green
Walking through the Yorkville section of NYC with friends yesterday, I came across two unexpected sights:
One was a stately clapboard townhouse wedged between two large brownstones, situated on a typical city street filled with dry cleaners, doggie boutiques, and nail salons. The townhouse, a throwback to what old New York, or Yorkville, must have looked like in the late 18th century, clearly could not house a 9 x 12 carpet in its midst. This slender beauty—at least from outside appearances—was meticulously kept. A wrought iron fenced front garden led invitingly into a basement apartment below. The front door of the townhouse, though, contained no wreath or remnant of holiday cheer. It didn’t need to; modest charm sufficed.
The second sight, catty-corner to the clapboard townhouse, revealed a discarded Christmas tree with multiple strands of twinkle lights intact. After obligatory remarks about the wealthy and dispensable cash, I made a few furtively unsuccessful attempts to snatch the lights to use on next year’s tree, but only now do I pause to think about the degradability of these wires and lights, and the fact that someone (a city worker) will have to stop and painstakingly untangle and disengage the strands before the tree succumbs to mulch for the City’s gardens and children’s parks.
Whoever discarded the tree, lights intact, may have had a good reason. Who knows? Nevertheless, the hastiness reminds me of how quickly we move to end the awaited holidays, to signal a new beginning, clear out the cupboards, so to speak, and maybe end the waste. I want to believe that “end the waste” will be my motto for ‘08.
M.
Walking through the Yorkville section of NYC with friends yesterday, I came across two unexpected sights:
One was a stately clapboard townhouse wedged between two large brownstones, situated on a typical city street filled with dry cleaners, doggie boutiques, and nail salons. The townhouse, a throwback to what old New York, or Yorkville, must have looked like in the late 18th century, clearly could not house a 9 x 12 carpet in its midst. This slender beauty—at least from outside appearances—was meticulously kept. A wrought iron fenced front garden led invitingly into a basement apartment below. The front door of the townhouse, though, contained no wreath or remnant of holiday cheer. It didn’t need to; modest charm sufficed.
The second sight, catty-corner to the clapboard townhouse, revealed a discarded Christmas tree with multiple strands of twinkle lights intact. After obligatory remarks about the wealthy and dispensable cash, I made a few furtively unsuccessful attempts to snatch the lights to use on next year’s tree, but only now do I pause to think about the degradability of these wires and lights, and the fact that someone (a city worker) will have to stop and painstakingly untangle and disengage the strands before the tree succumbs to mulch for the City’s gardens and children’s parks.
Whoever discarded the tree, lights intact, may have had a good reason. Who knows? Nevertheless, the hastiness reminds me of how quickly we move to end the awaited holidays, to signal a new beginning, clear out the cupboards, so to speak, and maybe end the waste. I want to believe that “end the waste” will be my motto for ‘08.
M.
Friday, January 4, 2008
House Specials
Man's continuing quest for specialness...an e-mail from M.:
Well they did it. I arrived at Starbucks at 7:30 am and the Ham and Brie was sitting in the cold food section (for the first time in many weeks). The Barista had already put one aside for me. I pointed out that the sandwich needed to be heated so I asked if I could purchase it and bring it back at noon for a shot of heat. She suggested that I prepay and pick it up later. She proceeded to write my name on a slip of paper that she attached to the container.
I'll be back at lunchtime to enjoy my sandwich.
And back he came to enjoy a well-earned and well-prepared lunch. It pays to be in touch with one's needs, don't you think?
M.
Well they did it. I arrived at Starbucks at 7:30 am and the Ham and Brie was sitting in the cold food section (for the first time in many weeks). The Barista had already put one aside for me. I pointed out that the sandwich needed to be heated so I asked if I could purchase it and bring it back at noon for a shot of heat. She suggested that I prepay and pick it up later. She proceeded to write my name on a slip of paper that she attached to the container.
I'll be back at lunchtime to enjoy my sandwich.
And back he came to enjoy a well-earned and well-prepared lunch. It pays to be in touch with one's needs, don't you think?
M.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
The Starbucks Diet
Recently, my husband discovered that he had a congenital heart defect--major artery had to be rerouted and so on. Operation, a success, but weight needed to decrease in a hurry. And so, the Starbucks Diet was created by the second of the wise Ms.
The principles are rather simple: portion control, pleasant atmosphere (from his favorite spot in Plymouth Meeting, Pa., to the joint near the Museum of Natural History on Columbus Avenue in Manhattan), fat free alternatives (if one should choose), and accessibility to a barista's ear for criticism. M's an astute sandwich critic.
Panic set in about a month ago when rumor had it that Starbucks was merely experimenting w/ its sandwiches. Just as M thought the Ham and Brie was about to vanish forever, he penned a plead to corporate headquarters:
I have managed to lose ten pounds by eating your sandwiches. I hope to lose an additional ten. I accomplished this by eating your "ham and brie" sandwich for lunch and sometimes for dinner too. I was informed that your sandwich is being discontinued. This presents a problem for me. I recently had a double bypass performed and have been relying on this sandwich to get me through the day. Please reinstate this sandwich ASAP. Thank you.
Well, not so much a coupon from corporate headquarters, but staff in Pa. and NYC have been rooting for M and the ham and brie is soon to return, at least near the City of Brotherly Love. Well, we all know the saying about men and the way to their hearts.... Are you listening Starbucks?
M.
Next: Responses to M's letter from his acquaintances and family members or why is this guy so obsessed w/ food and a "chain" environment.
Website: http://www.starbucks.com/customer/contact/asp
The principles are rather simple: portion control, pleasant atmosphere (from his favorite spot in Plymouth Meeting, Pa., to the joint near the Museum of Natural History on Columbus Avenue in Manhattan), fat free alternatives (if one should choose), and accessibility to a barista's ear for criticism. M's an astute sandwich critic.
Panic set in about a month ago when rumor had it that Starbucks was merely experimenting w/ its sandwiches. Just as M thought the Ham and Brie was about to vanish forever, he penned a plead to corporate headquarters:
I have managed to lose ten pounds by eating your sandwiches. I hope to lose an additional ten. I accomplished this by eating your "ham and brie" sandwich for lunch and sometimes for dinner too. I was informed that your sandwich is being discontinued. This presents a problem for me. I recently had a double bypass performed and have been relying on this sandwich to get me through the day. Please reinstate this sandwich ASAP. Thank you.
Well, not so much a coupon from corporate headquarters, but staff in Pa. and NYC have been rooting for M and the ham and brie is soon to return, at least near the City of Brotherly Love. Well, we all know the saying about men and the way to their hearts.... Are you listening Starbucks?
M.
Next: Responses to M's letter from his acquaintances and family members or why is this guy so obsessed w/ food and a "chain" environment.
Website: http://www.starbucks.com/customer/contact/asp
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