Potpourri

We're two weeks away from the mid-term elections and there's a 'whole lotta shakin' goin' on.' I don't think I can add anything to the national conversation that hasn't already been said: witches, illegal housekeepers, inexperienced dolts and the usual punch/counter-punch of misrepresentations on both sides. As for the Tea Party and their presumed influence on the outcome, I will not dignify their ilk with comment.

So here's a random list, apropos of some things and nothing, of what's been on my mind lately. Many of these are generalizations but most bear some kernel of truth:

Mothers get blamed for everything and fathers, by and large, get free passes. Fathers can get away with murder but mothers are expected to be saints.

People who cut in line should be called out in polite but bellowing tones, reminding the offenders that other customers are following the rules, they broke them and it's not OK. Passive onlookers who say nothing are the reason such inconsiderate piggies continue to do it.

While grammar has generally gone the way of land-line phones, the media and the citizenry are committing grotesque crimes against the English language. The most glaring example I hear each day is the misuse of "is" versus "are", as in "There's too many instances of robbery."

Someone should inform TV newscasters that "the very latest" is redundant.

I welcome being wired for sound when I'm doing a power walk, and see the convenience of CDs, MP3s and iPods. But analog and vinyl still rule and there's no substitute, acoustically speaking, for listening to an entire album on a turntable. (Assuming you own a really good stereo system.)

It appears that, like JFK's assassination, we'll never know the real truth behind 9/11.

The placement of bathroom tissue on the dispenser is a hotly contested issue. For the record, sane people install it rolling out over, not under.

How is it that Nicholas Sparks' books are bestsellers and are subsequently made into movies? This applies to scores of so-called writers, of course. I picked up "The Notebook" in a grocery stack one day, read the first few lines and almost hurled. (As in the book, into the air, and slang for vomited.)

Someone should put an end to low-cut gowns (cut to the navel, that is) with openings wide enough to view half of female breasts. Jennifer Lopez started this trend and now it's ubiquitous. No woman with an ample bosom can manage it; it's strictly for the flatter-chested. And how do they keep their boobs from popping out? Velcro? Elmer's glue?

Moviegoers who talk during the feature presentation or make loud noises snarfing their popcorn should be ejected from their seats, James Bond-style. (For those of you who remember the real Bond, pre-Roger Moore.)

People who open their presents on Christmas Eve are cheating.

The Beatles are the greatest rock and roll band, period.

Global warming is not an environmentalist, Al Gore-concocted hoax. Check the latest stats for warmest years on record.

Logic serves an essential purpose and eludes far too many of us. However, the dictates of your heart and intuition are worth listening to, and, to achieve happiness, followed.

Finally, bloggers often have nothing better to do than post their worthless opinions. You need no credentials to blog. All you need is a computer and an attitude. Frankly, most of us need to get a life.

Don't forget to vote!

Franzen's Freedom

I'm obsessing about Jonathan Franzen and his new book "Freedom." I'm on page 400-something and only put it down to write this post and view some more publicity for the highly acclaimed "masterpiece." Franzen has reportedly brought back the Great American Novel (I wasn't aware it had left the building), gracing the cover of Time magazine and drawing humongous crowds at book venues nationwide. Even though I attended the Decatur Book Festival, I missed his keynote address, which drew over a thousand Franzenmaniacs. There's no question the dude is an exceptionally talented, gifted novelist. I realized this a few pages into his 2001 National Book Award-winning "The Corrections" and hung onto every word in one fell swoop reading marathon.

But Franzen, with his studious sexy looks and his I'm-hip-but-also-unassuming-manner, seems to attract lovers and detractors in equal portions. There are those who'll never forgive him for snubbing Oprah's Book Club anointing, probably her loyal followers and some of his competitors. Others who view the author as snobby, self-important and grandiose. I am a fan, unlike the Borders salesman who put up his hands defensively when I asked him if he'd read "Freedom." The chap recommends his favorites to all who enter the bookstore but apparently is a member of the Franzen Fatigue Fringe.

In his new novel, Franzen has a steady but rather pedantic finger on the national pulse. He gets it, capturing everything from stay-at-home moms and almost famous rock stars to Washington's unscrupulous politicos and the ever-evolving environmental crisis. His prose is polished, revelatory and finely-tuned to America's Different Drum. But there's an element somewhere in "Freedom's" mix that is annoying, even while one devours its elegant sentences and rips through nearly six-hundred pages. One candid observer opined that from all she could tell Franzen must be "an asshole."

Say what you will, he's arguably The Novelist for Our Times. Perhaps because of our disaffection with where we are at this point in our history, we simply don't like looking at ourselves through Franzen's lens. It's hyper-acute and spot-on. If you're not in the mood for self-assessment, pick up the latest vampire epic. But if you can stand an unflinching look in the mirror, go ahead and read the book that's got America buzzing.

Palin's Politics

I think I'm ready to run for political office. I have no qualifications to speak of; I never served on the student council or chaired a single committee for the PTSA. I don't attend homeowners association meetings. I don't go to public hearings given by the zoning board. But I have opinions, lots of them. I'm reasonably attractive for my age, have raised three children and had several careers. I'm intelligent and articulate. But I've never been to Alaska, written talking points on my hand or won a beauty contest. I transferred from one college to another, stayed there and got a degree...on time. My seal of approval does not get anybody elected. I don't speak in generalities, wink and say "You betcha." So maybe I'm not cut out for politics.

In other words, I'm not Sarah Palin. She has better skin, whiter teeth and a pricier wardrobe. She knows how to fish and hunt. I don't have a Twitter account. I'm several years older than Sarah. Men look twice at me but not three or four times. I came of age with the real feminist movement and marched for choice in D.C. I guess that leaves me out. Except in a case of self-defense, I would never kill a moose or polar bear. I don't spy on Putin from my kitchen window. What can I possibly offer my country?

I do have great legs but varicose veins invaded them. I could stand to lose five to ten more pounds. I'm a semi-vegetarian and I can effectively describe the Bush doctrine. No, there's no hope for me. I don't want to cut rich people's taxes. Not in a tanking economy with nearly 10% unemployment and startling new statistics showing we're going downhill financially. To reinvent myself as a high-powered female political machine I'll need Botox, a fanny lift and fresh peroxide on my hair. I'll need to stay mum about foreign policy and forget who's leading what country. I must brush up my use of cliches, embrace a decades-old Republican party line and rethink my teaching of sex education. No more condoms for my boys--just zip it.

I'd better quit while I'm ahead, stop reading the New York Times. Purge all records of having cast my first presidential campaign vote for Carter and working for Obama. Who needs a free-thinking liberal Boomer who doesn't have a legal trail, and wouldn't feel comfortable charging taxpayers with redecorating her governor's office? No Paul, my husband of nearly 25 years, forget about becoming the First Dude. How can we package our couplehood if we don't have a daughter who's given birth out of wedlock? It takes cojones to stand with Sarah, to usher in a Year of The Woman in Washington. Nope, no public service for a gal like me who'd like to help poor, unappealing women get a leg up the ladder. And heavens to Betsy, I'd have to proclaim: That Supreme Court needs an injection of conservative testosterone! I definitely don't have what it takes. Not with an A in debate class on my high school transcript.

Oh well, I wouldn't look good as a brunette anyway.

Privacy, Anyone?

An article in today's New York Times got me thinking about identity, the various roles we play, who we are and what's on our minds. "The Web Means the End of Forgetting" offers a look at where we came from, how we evolved technologically and our near-addictive fascination with offering our selves up to the world for scrutiny. How many people do you know who do not have a Facebook or MySpace page, Twitter account or other social-networking site? Maybe you can count them on two hands. Narrowing the field further, who among your friends and co-workers doesn't own a cellular, iPhone or iTouch? Know anybody without a desktop, laptop, Kindle, Notebook or iPad? Now we're down to one hand, I'll bet. Younger readers probably have no acquaintance with such a Luddite.

The most oft-cited reference to our desire to be known by the public for our accomplishments, position, education or sex appeal is Andy Warhol's prophetic observation, "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." It runs the gamut from YouTube covers to Balloon Boy and the unfortunate victim of media-run-amok, Shirley Sharrod. It's all out there-- someone's cellphone footage, the cameras descending, your embarrassing admission in a weak moment status update or this blog entry: our need to make an imprint on the collective consciousness. My baby is beautiful, here's a feat worth filming, I was quoted out of context, he threw the first punch. Whatever the fodder, the mill is always running.

At what point did we cross this threshold and plunge boldly in where man heretofore had never gone before? How eager we are, in general, to expose ourselves, report our activities, political slant, spiritual point of view or tag the latest digital photo. The expression, "She's a very private person," has little currency in the new millennium, not when she's broadcasting details of her personal life for the Internet to gobble and forever enshrine. True, some eschew instant-access machines in favor of subtlety or subterfuge. But by and large, we as a nation have become consumers of tidbits barely worth our consumption, let alone hours basking in the glow of an animated screen.

I joined Facebook because a old friend "invited" me to, which simply meant the engine scanned his email list and sent out the word. Into Face Forum I leaped, contacting people I hadn't seen or spoken to in decades, "friending" strangers and fending off pseudo-stalkers. Pictures of me in my prime went up, as did my opinions on everything from food to fascists. Like a child with its new toy I took quizzes asking absurd questions with misspellings aplenty, reported important and insignificant events, took sides and sought advice. Above all, I solicited attention. When some guy speaking Farsi begged me to watch his music video I hit delete and "defriended."

Sure, it's fun, I'm connected, in touch and aware but at what cost? I have a mobile phone that dates back to the Stone Age and prefer to read the written word on paper. I'm irritated when the bank can't reply to a simple query because of C. A. D. : Computers Are Down. Is it old-fashioned, to use an antiquated phrase, not to jump on the bandwagon and ride into infinity with notoriety nipping at my heels? Once you put it into our spinning sphere it ain't gonna boomerang. Call it second thoughts or abject regret, but I'm wishing I could retrieve a whole lotta data.

Mel's Madness

With the latest Mel Gibson implosion currently fueling office cooler commentary, it seemed an appropriate time to reflect on public displays of bad behavior. Or private ones, for that matter. Mel is apparently guilty of both, having made a series of offensive remarks during his drunk driving arrest four years ago and now, caught on audio tape by his girlfriend, dishing out a litany of abuse. The first incident could be chalked up to drunken nonsense, or so his publicist might say. But it had to be obvious to even Mel's fans that calling a female police officer "sugar tits" and tirades against Jews revealed his sexist, anti-Semitic side. There were rumors of this before, during promotion for his film "The Passion of the Christ," which reportedly depicted Jews in a stereotypical and historically inaccurate fashion. Not surprising, since the star's father is a Holocaust denier.

Mel's wife of 28 years and seven children, Robyn, divorced him in April of last year. That left him with a girlfriend and a "love child." Listening to the the tape of Oksana Grigorieva getting lambasted by Gibson is gut-wrenching. One thinks of all the victims of partner abuse and domestic violence who don't have a public forum to air their grievances. Gibson's verbal evisceration of Oksana goes so far beyond the pale it sounds like a B-grade horror film. Mel comes across like a killer in a slasher reel, complete with heavy breathing, endless threats and unbridled profanity. It's also clear he's a raving bigot. The agency that used to represent him has cut him loose. It's hard to imagine anyone willing to touch him after this exposure. He's a candidate for the Hollywood loony bin, far from the golden boy clutching Oscars for "Braveheart."

Similarly, parents reacted with disdain to the audio clip of Alec Baldwin's argument with his then-eleven-year-old daughter. Baldwin is not even in the ballpark with Mel on this one. He's just a tired, irritated father having a bad day, railing against his child for her thoughtless approach to their pre-arranged phone calls. He calls her mother, his ex-wife Kim Basinger, "an ass" which is tame compared to the gamut of expletives Mel rains down on his mistress.

If we are being honest with ourselves, if someone taped us at our worst we'd have a lot to account for. There is no defense for the loathsome Mad Mel, but the contemptible diatribe touched on some visceral elements found in many relationships. At one point Mel says, "You make my life so f---ing difficult." At another he tells her she has no soul, that they share "no spiritual common ground." I can relate to that one. I'm just not threatening to kill my husband over it. It was scary for my spouse to hear it too, for he also recognized the desperation in Gibson's screeching voice. It's an object lesson in the primal side of human behavior, a glimpse of the moral abyss, the car wreck you can't help rubbernecking. And sadly, it's another piece of entertainment on our info-driven radar screens.

The Oil Disaster

I can't stop thinking about the oil spill. Who could, with 24/7 live images of a gushing geyser polluting the Gulf of Mexico and at least four states with unrelenting force? Weeks ago, I remarked to my family that this catastrophe was worse than 9/11. It does not have the dramatic impact of what happened that horrible day, nor the resulting geopolitical ramifications. The oil spill looks less like a Greek tragedy than a Shakespearean dark comedy of errors, as evidenced by that viral YouTube video depicting BP execs fretting over how to clean up a spilled cup of coffee.

Details of what happened to precipitate the April 20th explosion have yet to be revealed. And the criminal investigation launched too late may never assign proper blame. Yes, the dreaded scoundrels of BP are at fault, Deepwater Horizon played a role and Haliburton made a cameo appearance. The people who run the Minerals Management Service were apparently too busy watching Internet porn to notice the gross overreach of corporate interests at the expense of environmental safety. The Obama administration underestimated this calamity from the start, barely registering a reaction until nine days after the event, waffling about who is in charge of fixing the mess, and only now demanding that BP come up with better methods of containing the oil within 48 hours, as of yesterday.

We see Thad Allen of the Coast Guard and BP's Chief Operating Officer Doug Settles giving news updates, along with a continuous loop of oil-drenched pelicans, beleaguered fishermen and the tide bringing in the slick slop. Reporters troll the shorelines interviewing people who came for a day at the beach and leave with sore throats and nausea. Clean-up crews are on some affected sites, while others remain untouched. Louisiana and Alabama politicians wail and beg for relief as Ragin' Cajun James Carville unleashes his fury at everyone involved. Even schoolchildren's ideas for solving the crisis are being vetted.

But the crude keeps coming. As a friend of mine posted on his Facebook status: future students of the environment will be taught in two categories, pre-BP and post-BP. There's no end to the dire consequences of this horror in economic, ecological and health-related terms. Yet the U.S. government is dragging its feet, BP is evading responsibility and no one in the world has a clue how to halt the damage. It's infuriating, embarrassing and pathetic. Dick Cheney, who authored energy policy during the Bush years behind closed doors and in total secrecy, is noticeably absent in all of this. As citizens, we also need to examine the part we play as oil-addicted consumers who can't be bothered to carpool or support a greener lifestyle.

I can't stop thinking about the oil spill. And it looks like it will be spilling clear to Christmas and beyond.

Cellphones Kill

As we bask in the lusty month of May, America is facing a colossal oil spill of epic environmental, ecological and economic proportion. A divisive immigration crisis strains at the fabric of Constitutional precepts. Oprah just declared a No Phone Zone Day. What do these three events have in common? They're all problems which seem to require an out-of-control spiral before they merit sufficient attention. The first two would exhaust far too much space and time to address, but there's a fix for the last issue all of us can and should embrace.

Imagine that you're in too big a hurry to take a shower and blow-dry your hair, so you opt to do both simultaneously to get ready on time. That's how insane it is to try to drive and "multi-task." Diverting attention from driving, regardless of whether we're crawling in bumper-to-bumper traffic or speeding down 285, is, as Oprah suggests, "a game of Russian roulette." New York City has outlawed the use of cellphones while driving and we should all follow suit. In Manhattan, it's a dicey enough proposition to walk while using a mobile phone, let alone successfully operate a metallic hulk capable of mowing down pedestrians and totaling other cars.

The sight of one-handed drivers clasping iPhones or Blackberries to their heads has become ubiquitous. These zombies do one or all of the following: mosey along at a glacial pace in a 45 mph zone, weave well over the yellow line, make turns with no regard to oncoming traffic, and sail blithely through red lights and stop signs. They also miss the intended exit on the interstate, narrowly avoid hitting runners, cyclists and baby strollers, and are generally oblivious to their surroundings. Yet somehow, because of our global love affair with constant communication, they all get a free pass while high speed demons are ticketed and drunk drivers are locked up.

The nature of the "crime" is twofold: if you're engrossed in a conversation behind the wheel, fellow motorists and innocent bystanders become virtually invisible; you can cause an accident or become a statistic yourself. Oprah's national campaign to halt the madness has called attention to a host of deaths due to cellphone use, often teens who not only chat and drive but also text while driving. How did we all get along before, in Superman world? You know, the one where phone booths still existed. All those discussions about what to pick up at the store, what to eat for dinner, the latest gossip, the wheeling and dealing--it all miraculously got done in the past, before the dawn of T-Mobile, Sprint and Verizon.

Enough people have died, been seriously injured or have had too-close-for-comfort-calls, thanks to the nifty little devices. If you're an offender, concede the harsh reality that you're willing to sacrifice your life or someone else's for the sake of convenience. That "urgent" ringtone can be ignored long enough to pull into the closest parking lot, cut the engine and tap a button. Cellphones are great when your car breaks down on a deserted road in the middle of the night or an axe murderer is stalking you. But meaningless gabbing mixed with mindless driving is a deadly mix. Besides, the jury's still out on what high-frequency microwaves do to those other gadgets--our brains. Go to Oprah.com and take the No Phone Zone Pledge.