Purple Prose Pens in Short Supply!

With the Obama administration having taken the reins of power and freed the land from the oppressive darkness of the evil Bush-Cheney years that shall henceforth be called "the-years-that-could-not-be-named, but-caused-all-that-is-wrong-in-the-world," writers from every corner of the globe are dusting off their thesauruses to rediscover positive adjectives.

Eight years of excoriating vitriol and "I triple dog dare you to Hate Bush more," one upsmanship in the journalistic world has left the media struggling to remember how to give an genuine compliment.

When Bill Clinton was elected president in 92, Newsweek ran a cover with him as Saint George with the pensive and supposedly "hypothetical" question, "Can He Save Washington?" with the Dragon being the obvious bureaucratic monstrosity that everyone denounces except when it's giving your state, special interest, bank, business, or "very special friends," a sizable kickback.

When "W" became president, there were equally silly articles talking about how "the grownups" had arrived. Every election, the news industry gets collective amnesia and works itself into a frenzy that typically would result in the issuing of a restraining order if exhibited by normal human beings.

In articles this week alone, President Obama has compared to Joshua in the Old Testament and John the Baptist and Saint Paul. One person said, hearing him speak was like hearing God. A professor of political theory likened the new president to being both Superman and Clark Kent. Memo to the good doctor, Superman IS Clark Kent! Not to mention the friendly neighborhood Spiderman giving his own web slinging thumbs up to the 44th person to hold the office via a commemorative comic.

There were articles about how the seagulls were in awe of the crowds as they soared overhead. 1000 stars seemed to gleam back at the President as he took the oath and the throngs took their pictures. The poetry flowed from every pen, except the poet's. The combined reverence of Couric, Oberman, Matthews and others rivaled love notes written by 14 year old nerds to the head cheerleader in ABC afterschool specials.

But we have been told, drool over the man's physique, fawn at his every utterance and please don't disturb the historic nature of the moment or the good vibrations half the nation is feeling in it's Pepsi One euphoria by asking any questions. We have to get with the program!

But how to compete when so much praise has already been given? Alas, I'm not sure there are superlatives left in the English language that haven't already been ascribed.

Here is my fledgling attempt to outdo the media in their dog like devotion. Comparing Obama to figures from the bible seems so "Right wing." We are an enlightened people. We eshew such pedestrian references as childish things. To venerate the President and properly acknowledge his place in history, we must go further back to summon icons worthy of such an individual.

First the academics should substitute Barrack's name anywhere in the Illiad or other Greek Myths, they find the name Zeus. The same should be done in Nordic, Odin shall now be Obama as well. There shall be a Buddah Obama, the Dahli Obama, and so forth.

The scientific community should then create a constellation using the National Star Registry and call it Obama. It will use every star visible to the Earth. Any stars having prior names shall shed them in light of the need to honor this historic leader.

Next, Congress must accelerate the Mint's production of quarters so that the only ones in circulation are Obamas. In Barrack we trust, all others pay Obamas. In fact, in light of the current fiscal situation, all other currency shall be seized to help pay for the bail out. It would have happened anyway, this just speeds up the process.

Then we can render unto Obama, what is Obama's. And all will be well. There will be Peace.

Ahhhhhhh, I feel it. The oneness.
All Hail Caesar!

On the Road to Oz

He still hasn't found that convenient bucket to throw in case of fire.

Poor Dorothy. He's been on that yellow brick road for a long time now, and still, Elphaba keeps popping up. Even when he's brought back the broom to the Wizards of the DNC, Hillary keeps appearing in the crystal ball saying, "I'll get you my pretty, you and your little delegates too..."

This despite the fact that Oprah the good has given her blessing and all of munchkin land --Hollywood has welcomed him. Susan Sarandon has declared she will move to Canada if he doesn't win, can the Balwins be far behind? In a grand gesture, George Lucas has given his Gnostic blessing to the young candidate who would be president..."The Force is with him." Those mitochondrians must account for the half votes in Florida and Michigan.

Obama is like Boba Fett vs. all the clones that became the army of Storm Troopers for the Empire...Dukakis, clone, Al Gore...clone...John Kerry...clone...John Edwards...clone of a clone...talk about recycling. He at least says these values with absolute personal conviction.

Now, Hillary is talking about considering the veep position. It's rather like the Black knight of Monty Python saying "None Shall Pass." To quote Arthur, "You fought nobly good sir knight but the battle is mine." "Have at ye!"..."Alright, we'll call it a draw." She's hoping she's James Bond strapped on the table coming up with the right phrase, "Operation Grand Slam." to turn off the laser. Given what eventually happens to Bond in that Movie, Bill is hoping the same thing too.

In legislation, Hillary has become the poison pill that results in what Washington laughingly refers to as "compromise." If you don't swallow her, the DNC will split, if you do swallow her, you will taste bad to some who found you appealing before. Is it the great perfect dream team or the iceburg merging with the Titanic? It depends upon who you ask and when.

One of the delegates said, joining forces would be like "discovering there's no tooth fairy." Someone should brief that unnamed influential Democrat mentioned in Maureen Dowd's column today, "tooth fairies...not documented as actual entities at least by scientific means."

Still, I find the man hypnotic to watch. Listening hard to every policy and speech being given, I can't help but wonder how he does it. No one makes the idea of having one's wallet sucked dry sound as appealing as he does. He could read the phone book aloud with depth of feeling.

Going to now fire up my SUV, fill my tank and stop by a McDonalds...

Future Politicians in the Family

My daughter doesn’t accept correction easily. She’s five and a quick study of her two older sisters. As such, she is quite convinced that she has everything figured out. For example, the other day I came upon her as her drink spilled all over the table, chair, her outfit and the floor. Grabbing paper towels to clean it up, I said the obvious. “You should be more careful. You dropped your cup.”

She folded her arms and gave me a cold corrective stare.
“I did Not.” She pouted at me.

“Yes. You did.” I couldn’t believe she would argue the point.
“I saw it.”

“NO I DIDN’T.” She shouted back.

Irritated, I stopped cleaning the mess. “Alright then, what happened?”

“I didn’t drop the cup. It fell.”

I suddenly understood that in her world, nothing she did was actually wrong as long as she could omit herself from the picture.

The technique remains the same even as children age. When my oldest was preparing for a special evening out at the local high school, he came down the stairs in jeans and a t-shirt. I explained that this tour of the school was about first impressions both ways and that he needed to dress up a bit. He went back upstairs.

My mom was visiting. She saw him come down, button down shirt and a tie and sensed he still needed a bit of sprucing.

“Did you brush your teeth?” she asked.
“Yes.” He said without looking or smiling.

“I don’t mean during your lifetime.”
He looked down.

“Did you brush your teeth today?”
“Yes.”

He still wasn’t making direct eye contact.

Mom is a veteran of these things.
“This afternoon?”

“Oh.”
Up the stairs he went.

Perhaps it is a consequence of living so close to the beltway where language only holds as much meaning as the speaker and the listener invests. Having such skilled negotiators for children requires that the parents be thinking two or three steps ahead with each and every utterance.

“Did you hit your sister?”

“No.” My son responds.

The sister is screaming, howling, proclaiming to all the world of her outrage at his having injured her and then denied it.

“Why is she crying?”

Rather than directly lie, a severely punishable offense, he shrugs his shoulders.

Knowing I can guess the actual series of events, I chose my next words carefully.

“Did you in any way, inadvertently or intentionally, touch your sister in some fashion that might have caused her to be unhappy with you?”

“What does inadvertently mean?”
“By accident.”

“What was the question?”
“Did you hurt your sister whether or not you meant to?”

He looks down at his feet, buying time to figure a way out of Mom’s verbal trap.
Resorting to a time tested trick of politicians, he tries blaming the accuser,
“She started it.”

Mental yoga aside, they’ll be ready for a career in Washington by the time they leave home.

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20 days until Erma Bobmeck Conference...guess I better start working on being funny.

Declaration of Independence

The Right to Liberty

The other day was Prize day. We awarded our almost four year old with a cool metal swivel seat tricycle (think big wheel) for becoming potty trained. He has about an accident a day but diapers are no longer part of the routine. No longer a toddler, he was a full fledged “kid” with all the rights and privileges therein, allowance, solo baths, and his own not a hand me down bike.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Picking up the box, hearing the parts inside shift, I knew I was in for it, but the vision of my son’s happy eyes when he feasted on the red and black shiny new wheels over road my common sense. I would be Ubermom for a few minutes in my son’s eyes.

Johnny Boo was at pre-school. When I picked him up, I explained there was a big treat waiting for him. He pestered me all the way home for clues. Amazingly, saying it had three wheels elicited the deductive guess of a Robot Dinosaur which sent me mentally scurrying and worrying, would there be let down?

No, the box picture was sufficient to earn “Thank you! It’s my favors. My very favors thing.” From him. Satisfied, I opened the box and momentarily hyperventilated at the eight screws, sixteen washers, two large bolts and several metal components that resembled a fossil dig of bicycle parts. The directions were alas, only in Spanish, which I never learned.

Freedom of Speech

When I explained this might be difficult to my son, he brightly answered, “I speak Spanish…Hola.”

Okay, with translator help like that, I could still follow the pictures. Self censorship followed for the next twenty minutes.

Right to Assemble Peacefully

By this point outside on the first Spring feeling day of 2008, my daughter wanted to help too. She kept picking up the parts, leading me to scramble to keep everything together. The wind sent the box and directions flying, sending Johnny Boo and me running in opposite directions while Cupie Doll examined the screws and washers undeterred.

With my legs covering the washers and screws, the metal parts splayed over my lap, the directions weighted down by my cell phone and the wrench, with Cupie Doll and the baby strapped into the stroller howling in protest, I began the process of making a bike. I won’t say potty training was easier.

Right against Self Incrimination

Twenty five minutes later, the bike sat waiting it’s maiden voyage –but I sent the prize winner in to the bathroom, I thought it would be bad form if he christened it on it’s opening run.
The pedals were too far for his legs.

“I can’t reach.” He struggled, he wanted to enjoy the bike but it was essentially useless in this state.

Back over my legs again, fifteen minutes of hassle later, the bike was ready.

Johnny Boo had gone inside to watch cartoons.

Returning with the promise of cookies and juice as a snack, he got on the bike. The brake was a source of great interest and our first drive halted every two feet as he kept squeezing the handle. “I know how to stop!” he said delightedly. He then tried the pedals. His legs were still about an inch short for easy movement, but he could do it. His eyes glimmered with the knowledge, he had WHEELS.

Freedom of Petition

“Can we go for a ride?”
“Yes.” I pushed the stroller alongside him as we leisurely moved down the hill. “Can we go downtown?”

I should have asked a question at this point, but I was savoring the first of Spring sunshine and the cool breeze and the satisfaction of having made something work for a change...I was in my “I’m Ubermom” moment. Not quite listening, I said, “Yes.”

We came to the mail box and I made the turn for us to go back up the driveway.

Johnny Boo’s face darkened. “You said we could go downtown!” He folded his arms angrily.
That Ubermom feeling faded away.

“Downtown! Where Dad Works!” He sounded exasperated. How could Mom be this dense?

Due Process

Explaining that 20 miles on a tricycle in heavy traffic is not possible. He was three year old, he had a bike. That was supposed to mean freedom.

He felt betrayed.

After trying to reason with him, I opted for a 21st century solution and handed him the cell phone. “Here, talk to Dad.”

Freedom of the Press

As my two year old helped push him back up the hill while I pushed the stroller, he chatted with his father “I’m driving Dad, but Mom doesn’t know how to get to Downtown so I can’t come visit you.” He explained. I need a spin doctor.

Right to A Speedy Trial

Back at the house, I broke out the juice and cookie snack, “Do you like your prize?” I asked?
“Yes. But it can’t go downtown.” He said as he looked mournfully out the window at it parked on the driveway.

Woman’s Sufferage

My daughter had thoughtfully pocketed the tools needed to assemble his prize and stood next to his bike, pretending to fix it.

Maybe I’ll let her do it herself when she becomes potty trained. Visions of giving her a kid tool kit that she could play with made me briefly smile at the idea of her creative energies being channeled in a positive manner. I’d be an Ubermom again for providing her with the proper outlet for her intuitive curious nature. Her smile would beam and it would be a beautiful moment in mothering…

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