Are We Having Fun Yet?

Barack Obama has been president for what, three days? Now all of a sudden the jobless rate is at a fourteen-year high. People are stocking up on guns and ammo. The stock market continues to plummet. And a blizzard is pummeling the Dakotas. What change?
In real life, I know that there are still seventy-some days of Pinhead's reign, but that makes me hungrier for the promise of a new world order. Not the kind we threaten people with, but the kind we reach out and share with the rest of the planet. Still, it was a clever move on Barack's part to say right there on election night that we won't be through all this in a single year, or even a single term. Bringing our troops home from Iraq won't happen overnight. Health care isn't going to up and surrender by reforming itself.
Today at school we were reminded of the realities of our situation. There were a great many little fracases that would have seemed quite natural just a few days ago, but here in Obama's America, it just seemed wrong. Shouldn't all the kids be getting along, safe and happy in the promise that, in fact, any one of them could grow up to be President of the United States? Maybe that's the problem. All of this hope has a natural backlash of feeling at times like a burden. If anything is possible if we work hard enough, then we haven't been working hard enough. Not yet, anyway. We've got seventy-three days to get ready.

Hangover

I confess. Yesterday I had no inclination whatsoever to crow about the results of the presidential election. After all, it's been twelve years since I picked a winner, and I'm still not exactly sure how to feel about it. I never did buy an Obama bumper sticker for our car, primarily because of my needless sense of sports jinxes. We never had a Clinton/Gore sticker on the car, did we? Of course we didn't have a Kerry/Lieberman sticker either, nor a Dukakis/Bentsen, and so on. I've always been much more relaxed about promoting "The Mystery Spot" than any particular political candidate. The idea of having to drive around for another four to eight years with the back of your car shouting "loser!" is too much for my fragile ego to bear.
Which is precisely the kind of sentiment that my wife was looking for when she turned to me, around the time the polls closed here in California, and wondered aloud if there was a way I could be cynical about this moment in time. Though I am known far and wide for my sarcastic impulses, I didn't have to suppress any dark thoughts Tuesday night. All that talk about hope and change really got to me. I thought of my father, who would have been bawling like a baby, having once served time in Jesse Jackson's original Rainbow Coalition in 1984. I thought about my niece, voting in her first election, and ending up dancing in the streets. Her words: "I have never felt more patriotic or happier to be a Boulderite. I have never been in a mass of hundreds of people, completely devoid of jerks. Everyone was grinning ear to ear, singing and dancing. We carried on for a couple hours, entirely peaceful the whole time. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, so I really wanted all of you to be part of it. Here's to making things a little better one bit at a time."
No less a cynic than Eddie Izzard suggested that this was the true beginning of the third millennium. And for that reason, we should all party like it's 1999.

Chrichtonisis

Michael Chrichton died today. Or perhaps he has been cryogenically preserved in some highly scientific and complex fashion until a cure can be found, or until his next book comes out. This would be highly ironic, considering his pronounced skepticism about global warming. Or maybe a sliver of his DNA will be saved to create an army of science fiction novelists bent on taking over the world via Kindle.
I can forgive the man his politics, since he had such an early and emphatic impact on my life. The apocryphal tale of how I came to read "The Andromeda Strain" over the summer before my fourth grade year is just one of those moments. I read those three hundred-plus pages with all its technical terms and adult vocabulary. When I showed up that September and told my new teacher that I had consumed this novel that did not appear on the approved fourth grade reading list. I got a lot of hard looks from Miss Stuart until she realized that I had accomplished this mild feat in part because I spent my summer in a mountain cabin with no TV. Michael Chrichton was my video.
It just so happened that I picked up "The Terminal Man" a couple of years later, not because I had any real connection to the author, but it had a cool cover and even though I wasn't as fond of it as "Andromeda," I devoured it just the same. It was this same year that I went to see "Westworld," mostly because it was featured in "Famous Monsters of Filmland" magazine. Little did I know that this was yet another brick, written and directed, in the entertainment empire of Michael Chrichton. I was eleven.
By the time "ER" and "Jurassic Park" rolled around, I had become fully aware of the brand name that was Chrichton. I remember trying to get through "Sphere," and finding it mildly entertaining, but more like a polished version of a Stephen King book. At least Chrichton could write an ending.
And now we've reached the end of Michael. Thanks for the memories, if not the periodic nightmares, and for helping me set the bar extra high in Miss Stuart's fourth grade class.

A Beautiful Day

I have never been with a group of people so happy about standing in line. None us actually burst into jubilant song, but that was certainly the vibe out there this morning at seven in the morning. In all the years that I have gone to this particular polling place, I have always been able to walk straight in. The poll workers has previously always outnumbered the voters somewhere along the lines of three to one. Not today. Today there was no time for small talk or donut breaks, this one was going to be work.
I had the good fortune to be standing in line next to a neighbor, the one with the McCain sign on his front lawn. We talked a little politics, but quickly turned to a discussion of the changing fortunes of the Denver Broncos. When the line spilt, we discovered that we were on the "B" side. We were told that "B" was on the left. I suggested to my neighbor that this might be the only time in recent memory that he would be going left for anything. We shared a chuckle at that as we took our ballots and headed to our fold-out voting tables. I filled mine out quickly, having spent the better part of the past two weeks studying, and I made my way over to officially cast my vote. The room was full of moving pens and paper. There was a quiet intensity hovering over the entire proceedings.
I gave the manager of my local polling place a hearty handshake and a pat on the back and headed off to work. In my pocket I carried my three souvenirs: the barcode tab from the top of my ballot, an "I voted!" sticker, and a red and white mint. The sun was out, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

Suffrage

"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party." I suppose we can forgive Charles E. Weller for not including "women" back in 1867 when he first devised this cunning typing exercise, since it would be another thirty-three years before women could vote here in the United States of America. This is significant, since there are still a number of countries that continue to deny this right to the ladies, Saudi Arabia chief among them. Then there's Lebanon where Proof of elementary education is required for women but not for men. Voting is compulsory for men but optional for women.
Compulsory voting? How can that be? Granted, the images coming from Registrar of Voters offices around our nation over the past few days certainly give that flavor. Lines around the block, eager faces waiting for their chance to participate in the democratic process. No doubt this is due in large part to the sneaking suspicion that those machines and hanging chads are what helped bring on the past eight years of Pinheaded Governance. Trust is a very important part of any relationship, and we can only hope that the faith that has been extended in the mail and via absentee ballots will be rewarded.
Then there's the genuine enthusiasm for getting out and voting. I became enamored of the experience relatively late in life, after a friend pointed out that, if I was so caught up in current affairs and global politics, I should find my way over to my local precinct and cast my own ballot. The fact that voting wasn't compulsory was the part that really challenged me. I am very good at doing what I am supposed to do, but not always so good at doing what I ought to do.
Tomorrow is different. Tomorrow is something I, along with an estimated eighty-five percent of the registered voters here in the United States, must do. See you at the polls.

Trick Or Treat

Over the past few weekends, the Republican nominee for president and his running-mate have subjected themselves to the playful ridicule of the jesters on NBC's "Saturday Night Live." In the latest bit, John McCain appeared during the cold opening of the show, making his plea for support on QVC, the Quality, Value and Convenience shopping channel. The joke being that his campaign couldn't afford the lavish infomercial unleashed by Barack Obama earlier in the week. Maybe this was a way for Lorne Michaels to kick in a little extra to John McCain's war chest, having already donated his maximum of $2,300 personally.
Or maybe at this point we're all starting to get the joke. Sarah Palin took a prank call Saturday from a Canadian comedian posing as French President Nicolas Sarkozy and telling her she would make a good president someday. "Maybe in eight years," replies a laughing Palin. After she was made aware of the joke, Palin campaign spokeswoman Tracey Schmitt said, "Governor Palin was mildly amused to learn that she had joined the ranks of heads of state, including President Sarkozy and other celebrities, in being targeted by these pranksters. C'est la vie." Mildly amused in the same way that we all are to hear the rumblings of the Alaskan governor's plans to run for President in 2012. Near the end of the call, Sarah is informed of the true identity of the caller, to which she replies: "Ohhh, have we been pranked?" Obama's campaign spokesman Robert Gibbs, commenting on the prank, said, "I'm glad we check out our calls before we hand the phone to Barack Obama." You never know when Hugh G. Rekshun will be on the line.

Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head

"Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets." Travis Bickle
Travis was talking about the Mean Streets of New York City, but he may have been on to something. Outside, the sky has opened up and there is currently a swirl of water rising up to the curb on the street in front of our house. The real rain is here. Last night's candy wrappers are making their way toward storm drains that haven't seen moisture for months. Our driveway has once again became a major tributary. The scum isn't all gone just yet, but there air is full of raindrops and change.
Travis wasn't referring to California's ongoing drought, or the relative ineffectiveness of the NYC Public Works. He was pointing a finger at the urban decay that he saw around him. That finger was on a trigger, and it was pointing at a fictional senator running for President of the United States. Then, as abruptly as the downpour began, he shifted his focus and went crashing headlong into rescuing Iris from her life of ill repute. When the smoke clears, Travis is a hero and Senator Palantine is on his way to winning the election. Travis is a hero, but he's still driving his taxi. When we see him last, he drops Betsy off in front of her flat, blows off her fare, and drives off into the streets that have swallowed their share of rain. But what will happen when the sky opens up again?
Outside, it's raining in America. Let's hope for a good, hard rain.