Politics: October 2008 Archives

I may be a domestic terrorist. Or at least, I may have slept in the same bed as one. Which is not quite like "palling around with a terrorist," but close.

Yes, it's true.I slept in the house owned by William Ayers's parents. Not once, mind you, but several times. Pease tell Sarah Palin that I'm terribly sorry.

Here's how I found out about my shady past. When my mom was here to babysit for the boys while we went on our New Mexico trip (isn't it sad how excited I got about four measly days of vacation?), she and I were reminiscing, before I left, about my grandparents (her parents-in-law) and their big white house on Lake Michigan. Across the street from their house was a low-lying brick house, where some of us grandchildren used to stay if grandmother's house was too crowded, come holiday time - and with some twenty grandkids, overcrowding happened pretty quickly.

It was in that brick house that I discovered a copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex - But Were Afraid To Ask (the book, not Woody Allen's movie). My cousin Sophie and I used to take turns reading it aloud to each other, sometimes howling with laughter, sometimes gagging in horror - and fascinated by the pen-and-ink illustrations. 

Mom thought that was pretty funny - and then she remembered that the house was owned by the parents of William Ayers - yes, that Bill Ayers!  I was all "no way!" but she insisted, yes, Bill Ayers' parents; his dad was a big kahuna at Commonwealth Edison or something, and yes, yes, they lived across the street.

I wish I'd paid more attention to the house so that I could offer up some clues about what in Ayers' upbringing would lead him to the Weathermen - and then to a diabolical life as a reformer of public school education. But alas, I have only vague impressions of chairs upholstered in scratchy plaid wool, and a bedroom filled with books ... including That Book (which wasn't on the shelf, by the way, but in a drawer in the nightstand). 

Politics, when I was ten, entered my life only peripherally: I used to listen as my mother would simultaneously cook dinner and make canvassing phone calls for Abner Mikva, who was running for something-or-other in our district; and I had a McGovern bumper sticker on my bedroom door. That was about it. I was way more excited about the sex book than about the political rallies my grandparents had on their back lawn - but now, of course, I am thrilled to discover that I've got a connection to Bill Ayers, winner of the 1992 Citizen of the Year award from the City of Chicago; it makes my suburban childhood a bit more edgy, dontcha know?

There's just one small glitch in this story.

It's not true.

Mom is wrong. We double-checked with my aunt, the family story fact-checker - sort of a human hard-drive of family memories. 

And she says nope, never happened. The house across the street was owned by someone named Hendrickson, and they never blew up anything. I PROMISE, however, that my cousin and I really did read about sex in their upstairs bedroom, which explains why it was so easy for our parents to convince us that it was time for bed during that particular vacation: we couldn't wait to pick up where we'd left off the night before.

Ah, the ever-fertile imagination! Reading that book was wildly exciting, probably because we knew it was forbidden. And by the same token, I guess, it must be way more exciting to claim that a potential US president could be friends with a terrorist (thus invoking all those forbidden connotations having to do with race and general Otherness). Just being a guest - even the guest of honor - at a house party is so boring, so normal.

 Everything You Wanted to Know... was, of course, riddled with inaccuracies (did you know that Coke can be an effective douche? that lesbians and prostitutes are the same thing? that male homosexuality can be cured with therapy?) but at the age of ten, what the hell did I know?

I'm pretty clear on sex stuff now, in my early middle-age (okay, my late-early-forties), but you know what?  I like my mom's version of this story way more than the actual version. Who gives a shit about the Hendricksons, anyway?

If la belle Sarah can revise history, dammit, so can I, so here goes:

Not only did I sleep in Bill Ayers's bed, I was his child lover.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

 

Today, McCain again accused Obama of being "detached and academic" (sorry to link you to a Fox site; it can't be helped).

But of course, this is not the first time McCain has used "academic" or "professorial" as an insult - and you know what? This professor is tired of being used as a slur, dammit! (Maybe this is how US Muslims feel...?)

Because what the hell is wrong with being a professor, hmm? What's so bad about being an academic, after all, besides our penchant for pedantry? (And an adoration of alliteration?)

Following those questions is the realization that McCain clearly knows as little about professors as he does about women, the economy, or healthcare. I mean, have you ever in your life seen professors who have teeth like Barack or Joe Biden? Or suits like theirs, for that matter?

Does McCain want everyone to rant and rail and wave their arms around? What is the correct behavior when confronting a financial breakdown on a global scale? Hiding under the bed? Burying your money in glass jars in the backyard? Standing on Wall Street screaming obscenities?

Ironically, it's McCain who sometimes reminds me of my old professors (and by "old" I mean both old as in "ancient as the hills," and old as in a long-ass time ago when I was in college and in graduate school): erratic, frequently incoherent, seemingly oblivious to the passing generations. Professors like this needed to be talked to just so, if you wanted a passing grade.

As much as it galls me to agree with him about anything, however, I concede that McCain has a point: Barack is professorial; he is academic. And these qualities were clearly apparent at the town-meeting debate. As McCain ranted on about Ayers and Acorn and Almost-socialism, Barack leaned back on his stool, arms crossed, a little smile on his face - and I recognized that smile. It's a version of the smile I use - and that I've seen colleagues use - when our students say something particularly inane, or small-minded, or just plain dumb.

It's not fair to laugh at students outright (although I know some people do), and arguing with them seems unfair - the proverbial shooting fish in a barrel. So the only thing to do is lean against the desk and do the nod-and-smile. Maybe ask one question, see what the rest of the class thinks, and move on, leaving the nonsense in the dust behind us.

My students preface their response to questions with "I feel..." no matter what kind of question they're being asked. They don't even know they're flipping between "think" and "feel;" it's a completely automatic response. But because they articulate their answer as a feeling, the implication is that nothing they say can be wrong. Lately I've been insisting that they say "I think," unless they really are talking about a feeling. The students seem puzzled by my insistence, unsure of the distinction, and equally unsure why it matters.

But it DOES matter. Thinking and feeling are not the same thing, dammit, and the problems of the world cannot be solved, alas, by a session on Oprah's couch.

So when I see the professorial Obama, I'm thrilled, and it's not just because his sartorial splendor and Rat Pack ease might help change the image of my profession from one of overwhelming dowdiness and sensible-shoe-ness to one of groovy hipsterishness. I'm thrilled because you know what? It's time, frankly, for this country to get schooled: schooled about civic and individual responsibility, schooled about looking at the big picture and not the short term, schooled about responding from the brain and not the gut.

You'd think that as a military man, McCain would appreciate the discipline of an academic approach to problems. But no. He's decided that "real America" only deserves emotions; not intellectual engagement.

If I lived in real America, I might be insulted by a potential President who talks to me as if I'm not capable of thinking about the world's problems.

Luckily, I live in Manhattan, which according to McCain-Palin geography, isn't real America at all.

So I can think all I want.

 

Do you remember how Bob on Sesame Street used to sing that song about "three of these things belong together...one of these things just doesn't belong..."? 

Let's play that game now.

That's number one. The impressively named Nancy Pfotenhauer, nee Nancy Mitchell (would YOU go from Mitchell to Pfotenhauer? Seriously). She used to work for the group Americans For Prosperity (which means what, I wonder? Is there a group that works against prosperity?) Now she works for John McCain.  

Number two:

This is Nicolle Wallace, who perhaps used to be named Nicole Walace. She used to work for Bush but now she works for the McCain campaign, like Nancy.

Exhibit three:

Cindy McCain, nee Hensley.  She doesn't so much work in the way you and I might understand that word. 

 And now for the fourth member of the set: So kids, which one doesn't belong?

Mmmm, nope, it's not Cindy, although you might think so, given that she's the only one whose job involves that wonderful phrase "living off the interest."

Nope, the winner is...la belle Sarah.

Our little game illustrates the reall (sorry Nicolle; it's catching) - the real reason why McCain thinks Sarah Palin is an "outsider." It's got nothing to do with Alaska.

She's a brunette.

Hey. It makes as much sense as anything else, doesn't it?

Did you see this ad on the back of the Times Sunday Style section today? 

The ad heralds the opening of the new Juicy Couture flagship store on 5th Avenue, which was apparently slated to open in July, when this ad campaign might have made more sense.

Perhaps the ad creators were aiming for a Sofia Coppola-esque "Marie Antoinette" feel, you know, Chuck Taylors shelved among the satin court shoes in Antoinette's closet, and girls in towering powdered wigs bopping to The Cure?

What was most amazing about that movie, actually, weren't the oh-my-gosh-isn't-that-supposed-to-be-clever stylistic juxtapositions, but the fact that nothing happened: it was a movie utterly devoid of content, which, given the momentous events threading through Antoinette's life, reflects the triumph of surface over substance.

But back to Juicy.  Let's parse this slogan: instead of cake, we're offered velour; instead of food, clothing; instead of sustenance, shopping.

Had Juicy's store opened on schedule, their ad campaign might not have hit such a sour note, but coming as it does now, while Wall Street (along with Mom and Dad's 401(k)) crumbles into New York Harbor, the ad smacks of the kind of disdain displayed by the titans of AIG, who racked up a $400,000 resort bill the day after the government "loaned" the company $85 billion dollars.

(Oh, don't worry, we are assured by an AIG spokesperson, the trip was planned long before the bailout occurred. Apparently in the insurance business, trips like this are "as basic as salary as a means to reward performance." Hmm. And did anyone want to think about the fact that a steady stream of resort rewards like this one might damage a company's bottom line? Nah. Silly me to think such a thing.)

AIG's huge slice of government cake is separate, of course, from that 700 billion dollar layer-cake being offered to Wall Street from a recipe concocted by those Versailles-worthy bakers, Henry Paulson and Ben Bernanke, a cake now liberally (conservatively?) bedecked with pork-barrel roses. Perhaps one rose for each "no" vote on the first go-round?

Execs at Juicy Couture must be asking themselves whether crowds will flock into their huge new store, eager for velour tracksuits that cost $256. Or perhaps shoppers will economize and get just the $118 hoodie (which, for those of us who grew up in a different generation, means a hooded, zipfront jacket). 

Somewhat ironically (I often think that the ad folks at the Times must have a deep sense of whimsy), the lead story in the Style section is about parents having to say "no" to their teen-age children, due to belt-tightening measures, even among the Sutton Place set. One mother quoted in the article wonders if her daughter's selfishness was her fault, the result of "early lavishness" when her kids were young. Um, I dunno: if you give your kids everything they ask for, all the time, mightn't they decide that they are entitled to everything they ask for, all the time? And that thus, when times get tough, their response might be, "I don't care, I need my three hundred dollar tracksuit or I'll just DIE."

Nah. Silly me to think such a thing.

I missed the Juicy Couture boat, I confess. I never understood why you'd want to walk around with the word "juicy" on your ass, particularly if your ass were ... well, let's just say that most of the asses walking around out there aren't really equipped for such an epithet. Most, in short, don't look like this: 

Had I even an ounce of sewing talent, I would invent a different kind of sweat pant, a juicy alternative, if you will. These sweatpants would be designed for the fuller-figure gal, the woman with the butt that, with every retreating step, sways out the statement, "I carried several children to term and all I got was this ass."

I would call them Sarcasti-Pants and they would say things like "sardonic," "ironic," or - depending on your mood - "phlegmatic," "sanguine," "bilious," "saturnine."

I could special order a few dozen for Paulson, Bernanke, AIG execs (for their next resort outing, peut-etre), and Mr. I-used-to-run-Lehman-Fuld: tracksuits in a delicate puce velour, and across the ass would be emblazoned "oblivious."

Now I know that Juicy Couture isn't to blame for the financial meltdown or the hideous, corrosive gap between the extremely wealthy and all the rest of us - a gap that has widened into an abyss over the past eight years. It's clear, though, that we are headed for non-Juicy times, desiccated times, even, and heads are gonna roll.

And that's why this ad really pisses me off: so if you don't have three hundred bucks to spend on a tracksuit, screw you?

Is this how the French rabble felt as they peered in the windows of Petit Trianon, Antoinette's faux-shepherdess palace?

And thus through a somewhat complicated geometry, I think this makes Laura Bush into our Marie Antoinette. Do you think Laura wears Juicy?

 

Yesterday, on "Marketplace," the radio show that makes it almost possible for me to understand economics, the fabulously voiced host, Kai Ryssdal (the man judging pumpkin pies in the picture above) read letters and emails from listeners. Not surprisingly, most listeners had strong feelings about the financial bailout and the country's fiscal meltdown. Ryssdal started the segment with the comment that "revenge is a dish best served cold," and ended by saying that even those who didn't want revenge clearly want to blame someone for the mess.

That started me thinking about blame and why it's so tempting - and satisfying - to point the finger at someone and say "YOUR FAULT." And of course, that finger-pointing is something one tries to inoculate one's children against: "I don't care whose fault it is, you are not allowed to whack your brother with a wooden train track." To which Liam likes to respond: "Caleb instigated me so I couldn't help it. It's HIS FAULT that I hit him." 

Do you see how mature I am in NOT talking about the blame games within a marriage ... and my somewhat uncomfortable realization that my children may not be the only people who need lessons about personal responsibility. I know, I know that I shouldn't hit my husband with a wooden train track just because he left his (dirty) socks on the table again.

But I digress. 

So there I was, listening to "Marketplace," sitting in traffic on the FDR, and because I was alone, I indulged in the deliciousness of finger pointing (and okay, maybe a little ranting, too).

And I figured it out. I know where to point the finger; I know who is to blame for it all: Iraq, Katrina, the housing bubble (and the subsequent POP that has beslimed the country), the financial implosion...

 

This guy.

Ask yourself: what would have happened if he hadn't thrown his ego in the ring against Gore and Bush, way back when ...

See? 

Now you want to point your finger too.

Clarice here is not Clarice Starling with her good bag and cheap shoes (or was it good shoes and cheap bag, that hissed insult from Hannibal Lecter), but the original Clarice -- the literally doe-eyed friend of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

I remembered Clarice after we saw Circus Amok last weekend because in our house, Clarice-the-deer is not the hyper-feminized bashful herbivore she is in the world of Rankin & Bass. Liam made her something else...

Last fall, for Liam's birthday, we went to midtown with three of his friends, who have developed a tradition of going to Build-A-Bear Workshop for their birthdays. Why it's become such a fixture with them, none of us can understand, but it's easy and relatively painless as an outing, if you can resist the endless rows of bear-friendly accessories (wildly over-priced, just like accessories in the real world).

Liam spent long minutes perusing all his choices and then chose Clarice.

But then ... what should Clarice wear?

The decision? Apparently, Clarice plays for the New York Rangers: blue plush pants, Rangers jersey, little blue pillbox "helmet" that sits awkwardly on top of Clarice's permanently affixed red-and-white polka-dot bow.

The checkout clerk held up Liam's creation to the other clerks and said "I've never seen this before."

Given the almost endless permutation of ensembles available at BBW, it seems rather remarkable that Liam is the first to put together this combination. At Build-A-Bear, you can find every sports team, rock-n-roll, hip-hop, construction workers ... You can even buy full combat uniforms for all branches of the military - with one significant omission, as one of Liam's friends discovered: "WHERE ARE THE GUNS?" he bellowed. 

And it's not a bad question, really. I mean, if you're going to sell Army bears, Marine bears, SEAL bears, Air Force bears ... why not be completely honest about what you're selling? Why is it okay to sell fatigues and uniforms from all branches of the armed services and yet sidestep the one thing that all these uniforms have in common?

If we all have the right to bear arms, why isn't it all right to arm bears?

Clarice, by the way, had a wonderful season with the Rangers and will be starting at forward this year.

I think Jennifer Miller would approve.