Idle Worship

*MTV owns that image. I don't. And frankly, I don't want it. Just wanted you to know what $90K an episode looks like.

The most staggeringly unimportant advice I have ever received came from J-Woww. (You know, from that show. That-Show-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named.)

1. If you vomit, it is advisable that you do not continue to drink. 2. Nails are best kept trimmed when fights are a frequent occurrence in your social life.

Neither of these tenets is applicable to me, yet I found myself with rapt attention. It wasn’t really what she said. It was the way it was received by the syndicated morning show personalities. It was as if J-Woww had just proclaimed that God revealed the 11th and 12th commandments to her. Naturally, the radio spot was to promote a new book, which I am sure would prove equally as insufferable. But it is a sad commentary on our own laziness and stupidity when we allow this kind of uselessness to be elevated to celebrity status and actually give it the air to breathe and grow.

The other day I heard that “The Situation” was seen test-driving a Ferrari. (As an aside, it is interesting to me that I know who these people are. I don’t even have cable, and yet – they’re unavoidable.) We have scientists spending day after thankless day in a sunless laboratory, working on cures for cancer and new ways to produce energy, and they drive home in a Corolla. Meanwhile, this waste of tanned, freshly-laundered flesh drives a car that exceeds the net worth of my entire neighborhood.

It’s not just us everyday people to blame. I recently noticed that Benjamin Netanyahu was scheduled to meet with Justin Bieber. (I wonder if J-Biebs will also meet with members of the Palestinian Authority. Somehow, I doubt that.) I have nothing against Bieber. In fact, I watched his True Hollywood Story a long while back and actually think he’s a talented kid. But I just don’t get it. Maybe it’s like that Beatles Album with the subliminal messages. Does “Baby” hold the key to Israeli-Palestinian harmony? (Quick! Somebody play it backwards. I hear it says “Leave the West Bank” when you do that.) It seems to me like we’ve got it all wrong. We lampoon and/or make a total mockery of all things serious, most likely from an inability or laziness in trying to understand it. At the same time, we put the dunces at the head of the class.

I watched a documentary on education a few weeks ago (non-stop party over here) and the point was made that American students lag behind in global comparisons of nearly every category, where this was undoubtedly not the case in decades past. The only arena in which American youth utterly devastates the competition is in a measure of their confidence level. No shit. The new American dream is to grow up uneducated, and become a do-nothing mogul with a fragrance, a clothing line, and your own vodka. Or, you could always design handbags a la Paris Hilton. She shows the world her va-jay and puts some rhinestones and a Hello Kitty on a clutch – and we’re ready to give her the cover of Forbes.

Modern pop culture sucks. Look at the trajectory of reality TV. Examining just “The Real World” alone would be sufficient. A show that started with controversy and salient topics has devolved into a house full of vapid, but pretty, people ready to have an orgy the minute they step foot on set. The only thing that really differentiates us from the rest of the animal kingdom is our sentient capability; the ability to form a rational decision after evaluating a range of options. The line between us and the creatures driven by pure carnal instinct is growing pretty thin. Thinking with the head and the heart is overrated. Instant gratification is where it’s at and this requires only that you follow the whims of your genitals. (Oh, this is, however, subject to J-Woww's wise counsel. See above.)

I think we all have the potential to become completely selfish satisfaction-seeking people who operate on very base, carnal desires. But, I also believe every person has the potential to be incredible. The ability that probably lies latent within most of us is enormous. Activating it requires discipline and outright abstaining from certain elements. I wholeheartedly believe that you are what you watch, what you read, and what you listen to. Choose carefully, or you may soon find yourself wearing Ed Hardy and a spray-tan.

Let Them Eat Cake

One of the major driving forces for starting to write, and hence, this blog, seemed to be evaporating here lately. Maybe it’s the stress in my regular non-internet based life. Maybe a life replete with head injuries and minor concussions has finally caught up to me. Maybe politics has finally reached such a level of absurdity that it’s become intolerable. Wait . . what did I just say? Whoa.

Perhaps in my youthful naivete, I believed that one aim of politics, and everything that falls under the umbrella of it, was to actually improve the polity and the lives of all therein. (Excuse me for a minute . . . ) Sorry, I just had to break into a fit of laughter which devolved into a blank stare and a single dramatic, slow-motion tear. This might be one of those necessary and painful rites of passage. I’ve been overwhelmed with what feels a lot like apathy in this regard. This was a new feeling for me. I wasn't really sure how to manage it. I don’t see politics as the process by which competing factions are refined into an equitable or more centrist solution. I see it as the process. Period. A game.

I’m looking at this on two levels: the actors in a lead role (The Executive, and Legislative branches. To a much lesser extent, the judiciary) and the supporting cast (The rest of us.) I think it’s the actions of “the rest of us” that are so troubling. (But I think this plays into the broader problems.) What is clear now is that we are bitterly divided. I’m starting to think this is part of the plan. In a Marie Antoinette fashion, “Let them eat cake.” Or more appropriate for our current economic state and the level of opaqueness surrounding much of what transpires in federal-level politics – let them kill each other for bread crumbs. A more united citizenry could be problematic - for the powers that be.

Today, I was forced to slow down. The past four or five days have been brutally exhausting. I took a couple of hours and watched “Fair Game” courtesy of my local Redbox. This movie is about former CIA agent Valerie Plame Wilson and her husband, Ambassador Joe Wilson. (Not to be confused with “YOU LIE!” Joe Wilson.) That apathy dissipated for a moment. I realize I have had a string of fairly light-hearted posts, and I hate to kill that semi-playful vibe, but allow the opportunity to say that it was a healthy reminder of the Iraq War and how Executive Power can steamroll and mystify us into stupid submission. I felt angry again. Not the overwhelming, uncontrollable anger. The kind of anger that can be put to good use. It felt good to be myself again.

The other day, I indicated on facebook that I was “in.” As in, I would be voting for Barack Obama in 2012. I’d like to formally re -declare my status as “In, with one foot out the door.” (Unfortunately, that option did not exist .) And that option doesn’t exist in reality either. Obama (and whoever runs against him) is set to become the nation’s first billion dollar candidate. So at that bargain price (1/3 the GDP of Zimbabwe, roughly), we Americans can elect a leader who will never have to be subject to the needs of people like you and me, but will assuredly pay lip service to doing so.

So what to do? I plan to start learning a little bit more on if some actual change is really possible. When the dust settles a bit on the homefront, I think I’ll start with reading more thoroughly “A More Perfect Constitution” by Larry Sabato. (Read it years ago, and my recollection is foggy.) I’ve done a little research on public choice theory (legislation as an economic theory) and it seems to me that the only way to curb the self-interested behavior we see with political representatives who are largely funded by major corporations and presumably advance the interests of those groups when in office, is to alter the level of “transaction costs” faced by the players in the game. Essentially, make it harder for them to bullshit us so easily. Also, I believe that voting is important. I’ll be looking into other candidates – even third-party candidates. The two-party system is one hell of a mess. I wonder if it is no longer sustainable. I would genuinely love some feedback or thoughts on this issue.

At the end of “Fair Game”, Joe Wilson (as played by Sean Penn) quotes Benjamin Franklin:

“When Benjamin Franklin left Independence Hall just after the 2nd drafting, he was approached by a woman on the street.

Woman : ‘What manner of government have you bequeathed us?’

Benjamin Franklin : ‘A Republic, madam. If you can keep it.’

The responsibility of a country is not in the hands of a privileged few. We are strong, and we are free from tyranny as long as each one of us remembers his or her duty as a citizen. Whether it’s to report a pothole at the top of your street or lies in a State of the Union address, speak out! Ask those questions. Demand that truth. Democracy is not a free ride. I’m here to tell you. But this is where we live. And if we do our job, this is where our children will live. God bless America.”

The Late Unpleasantness

Nearly every day, I continue to read the Post & Courier online, despite no longer living in Charleston. This morning I was reminded that it is the 150th anniversary of the shots on Fort Sumter. More commonly known as the Civil War; more regionally known as “The Late Unpleasantness.” I’m on the fence about how I feel remembering the Civil War in a near-celebratory way. Students of history would disagree with its theatrical portrayal in "Gone with the Wind" and would replace it with accounts of extreme violence and desperation. That said, this era in history is fascinating. The idea that the nation was once on the verge of an irreparable fracture, and this all started where I once lived is humbling. Charleston has an almost magical quality about it, and I will be forever grateful for having had the chance to live there for several years. Despite this, I’m really very pleased to be a citizen of the United States as opposed to the Confederate States.

I have an abundance of affection for the South. I was born here, and I plan to stay – as circumstances will allow. Now, I am the first to criticize some of the more absurd events that have a distinctly Southern flair. For instance, not so long ago in South Carolina, the state legislature passed a bill making cock fighting a felony. I mean, thank God for that. I was really losing sleep over the fate of Palmetto State poultry. At the same time, the legislature failed to make a repeat domestic violence offense a felony. (I hear “Dixie” start to play in my head, even as I’m typing this.) Then there are our lifestyle choices. This past weekend, I begrudgingly took my daughter to Chik-fil-A. (Vegetarian options here: Waffle Fries and an Ice Dream cup.) Next door was a Lindy’s Chicken joint that looks like it could either be one of those roadside gems with a questionable exterior and culinary ecstacy inside; or, it could just be a greasy dump where the mac n’ cheese serves a dual function as napalm. An ambulance pulls in between the two chicken establishments. I felt like singing “Song of the South” as a salute. God love us. Death by chicken. If you’re doing to die, do so deliciously. Hallelujah and Amen.

Here’s the thing: I’m allowed to criticize. Were you born above the Mason-Dixon, I’d suggest you don’t. Most of us are aware of the skeletons in the closet. You don’t have to remind us. But this isn’t stopping people. Not too long ago, I read a story in the P&C about something South Carolina was doing wrong. (Take your pick.) Long ago, I swore off reading the comments here because it’s like biting down on a cold sore, just to see how much pain you can handle. But nonetheless, I found myself perusing this unflattering snapshot of humanity. One comment just set me on fire. Commenter – let’s call her Snooki – said something to the effect of “Hey, I’m from New Jersey, where we obviously have it all figured out. Even so, I moved here so I could complain about you. Too bad these dumb Southern bubbas can’t seek out our Northern wisdom so that your state could also be one big petrochemical refinery and hair gel mecca.” (that’s a loose recollection of what Snooki said.) First of all, I have nothing against New Jersey. In fact, I quite like it. But what is it that you have to teach us, you ol’ carpetbagger? Last time I checked, you have rednecks up yonder too. That’s right. I’ve stopped at a gas station in the middle of the night in rural Pennsylvania. It made “Deliverance” look like a Sandals Resort vacation.

Here’s a recent message I received from a friend (Bostonian) on how I was misinterpreting something. He chalked it up to “regional differences,” and explained it thusly:

Example: someone is late to work and if they don't tighten the f--- up they're going to get fired.

Southern English:"Now Tammy darling we really need you to come in on time ok? It really just doesn't look good for us and you're such a valuable member of the team that we all need your happy face sitting at the front desk at nine am on the dot ok sweet heart? I love your blouse by the way you look lovely, oh my god, and is that a new hair do? Well Tammy, thank you and please just try to be here tomorrow on time sweetie pie, ok? We just don't know what we could do without you."

Tammy doesn't show up on time and then is shocked she is fired.

Northern English:"Tammy, if you do not arrive tomorrow and every subsequent day on time at nine am you will be terminated. Thank you and have a nice day."

Absolutely true. But, the thing is – this is what I love about the South. While the predominant theme of human relations becomes a cold, sanitized, calculated method of interacting, with an emphasis on efficiency and infrequency – by and large – we still resort to pleasantries. Sure, go ahead and question the sincerity. But a spoonful of sugar always did help the medicine go down easier. We’re essentially saying the same thing, but we do it with a comfortable sweetness. Where your day-to-day workings take on a wholly utilitarian purpose, we like to find the beauty in life. While far from perfect, I appreciate the South’s adherence to unnecessary niceties. If you disagree and insist on convincing me otherwise, expect a more current unpleasantness.

Selling Out

One particularly poignant moment for me earlier this semester came as I was driving past the area in which most of the University’s Greek institutions are located. Like many colleges, these fraternities and sororities find themselves best expressed through garish murals painted along the roadside. I can’t help but notice them on my morning trips to my daughter’s school. The car is virtually the only place I can contemplate with relative ease. It’s no secret I spend most of my days stressed beyond reason. As I’m watching my chosen career field evaporate, leaving a desolate landscape in its absence, the burden of having to get a job that will allow for growth, that will help pay off my sizeable loans, and that will not make me want to kill myself daily is a heavy one to bear. (It seems that two out of those three is all that one can expect.) So, this particular morning was like every other – I’m driving – thinking about the possibilities, scheming, and fluctuating between self-assuredness and panic – when I see one of the latest additions to the Greek art repertoire. “No time to Siesta. It’s time to Fiesta!” Honestly, I think there were at least three exclamation points. I can’t recall. (Incidentally, this is my least favorite punctuation choice. Horribly abused.) I laughed, then I felt the urge to cry. Which I did not do, because I also typically put makeup on in the car and that would just be counterproductive.

(*As an aside, I do want to point out that this LL.M. was a good choice for me. In case anyone was about to experience a little schadenfreude at this statement. It is the choice to attend law school entirely that I sometimes lament, not the choice to continue further down the path.) Anyway . . .

You know, where did I go wrong in life? This was the thought that struck me. Why have I chosen this rigorous and soul-crushing path? I want my greatest concern to be what color to use on the mural for Casino Night. I want to stress out over what to wear to a formal. I want the most emotionally draining part of my week to be a fight with one of my best girlfriends that is rectified with tears, hugs, ice cream, and episodes of the Real Housewives. Yeah, yeah. I’m stereotyping. But you know, I’m not a terrible looking girl. Perhaps, I should’ve focused on my physical assets and gotten an MRS.

Law school, God bless it – is the place where undergraduate institutions send their biggest assholes. (As an LL.M. now, I can say I’m not privy to a lot of the typical pettiness – but it is true nonetheless.) And this extends, by and large, into the actual practice of law as well. I cannot imagine another professional field in which people actually take great pleasure in tearing each other down. To me, this extends from a deep dislike for oneself, but I’ll spare you the Freud speak. I am friends with one lawyer on facebook who consistently posts stories related to the decline of the legal profession. The general tone of his posts, to me, says: “I am employed and I hate it. You are thinking about law school, and you shouldn’t. (This is probably true, with some exceptions.) You are in law school, and you are hopelessly screwed. Ruining your day makes mine better.” I have always believed that a genuine desire coupled with a more specified plan of attack will produce desired results. But the drumbeat of bad news just doesn’t seem to have an end.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about an alternate strategy. It started off as a joke, but now I wonder – if presented with the opportunity – I might really go for it. Perhaps I should market myself, not as an attorney, but as a . . . uh, a domestic companion. Not really a housewife, because we don’t actually have to be married. But something along those lines. Do you want to discuss electric deregulation while I make omelettes? That can be arranged. How about I redecorate the living room, and then we can sit and talk about international energy subsidies? Imagine long walks on the beach discussing hurdles to renewable energy. Need a little help keeping the place tidy? No problem. A little reparteé on the public trust doctrine makes any household task more pleasurable. Your part of the bargain: pay off my loans and allow me the possibility of doing something meaningful with my life without fear of financial collapse. Either way, looks like I’m going to have to sell my soul, and after what she’s been through, it’s going at a bargain rate.

You're an Xbox, and I'm More Atari

*I don't own this image. I tried to find out who did and I cannot. If you do, please don't sue me. If you'll keep reading, you'll understand that this would be futile anyway.

I have come to two somewhat painful conclusions in the past few years: 1) The competitive and clique-prone nature of high school never ends. In fact, it gets worse. 2) I am so lame. Definitely not sitting at the popular table of life right at the moment. Now, I had a fairly pleasant high school experience. For that, I am grateful. But my post-high school life hasn’t been so easy.

One of the ways this dynamic comes into play is in the accumulation of stuff. Lately, I’m noticing this in terms of electronics, cars, and car accessories. I am sensitive to it right now because all of my e-necessities have suddenly become borderline mutinous. My laptop shuts off the minute it is unplugged. And it heats up to a threatening level. Not so long ago, I had an ear infection and I would just lay my head down on the computer because I didn’t have a heating pad, and this baby was cookin'. I’ve got a seminar paper to finish and a thesis to write. This laptop MUST hold out. (In case anyone is curious, the seminar paper is on Electric Transmission Cost Allocation and its importance in connecting renewable generated power, and the thesis is on offshore hydrokinetic energy. Party.) Further, my daughter has decorated the cover with stickers – a butterfly and Dora the Explorer – and I cannot fully remove them. Then there’s my phone. Oh, my phone. Sometimes it just shuts off. For no reason. But, it comes right back on! It just . . . shuts off. At random. So, there’s that. And it’s old. When I got it back in the Pleistocene Era, I was completely stoked because it had – (wait for it) a FULL Qwerty keypad. I could flip it open and text with great speed and accurate punctuation. Now, I have to contend with you people and your smart phones. NO, you smug yuppie. I DO NOT play Angry Birds or Words with Friends. I don’t even know what that is.

Then, there’s my sweet ride. I can’t complain, and I won’t complain about her because I have this paranoid fear that if I do, she will quit on me. Sometimes I pat her once regal dashboard and tell her she’s doing a great job. Ok, old girl – I’m not particularly happy about you heating up to just below the red portion on my temperature gauge when we’re in stop-and-go traffic, but you’re running! And for me, that has always been enough. Sometimes I expect to receive a letter from the University of Virginia, politely requesting that I remove my rear window sticker because I am bad PR. Besides the anxious growl she produces at red lights, there are the windshield wipers. Throughout our automotive relationship, those wipers have had periods during which they will spontaneously turn on. This is particularly embarrassing on sunny days, when I’m stopped. I feel like the occupants of the car next to me will look over and wonder if I’ve taken total leave of my senses. So, if I feel someone’s aware – I just push the wiper fluid button as if I am simply overzealous about a clean windshield.

I try to continually express gratitude that I have these things, although they are about as cool as wearing dental headgear in 9th grade. Truth is, for the moment, I have what I need in order to fulfill my current responsibilities. It’s not comfortable, or glamorous, but for now it will suffice. Besides, e-consumerism is completely out of hand. Admittedly, to a degree this provides some comfort in coping with my material inadequacy. But let’s be real people – these electronics – well, they own your ass.

Ever wanted to throw a brick through a Verizon store like a maniac because your expensive phone has malfunctioned yet again? Well, that’s because electronic companies have implemented policies of planned obsolescence. Your stuff, by and large, is made to wuss out by the time the company has augmented the technology enough to produce an I-(whatever) 4, et seq. Then, there’s the problem of e-waste. (I swear I'm not making this stuff up.) Electronics have some nasty metals inside. Sure, you can recycle them. But many of the companies that say they’re recycling them are often shipping them to this tiny Chinese town where they are picked apart by hand for spare change. This town has probably the highest percentage of cancer in the world. Guiyu, China. (Seriously, look it up.)

So, just like some offbeat but cool kid in high school that inspires the popular crowd to start sporting retrowear, knock-off Ray-bans, and Chuck Taylors, I’m bringing (un) sexy back, when it comes to my toys. Broke is the new black. You heard it here first, y'all.

Your Quinoa is $6.98. My Contempt is Free of Charge.

I recently read that 2/3 of what Whole Foods Market sells is not certified organic, but is tainted with genetically-modified matter and grown using chemically intensive processes. Despite this, it is marketed as “natural.” Personally, I’m not ready to grab the pitchfork and torch. Yeah, I make an effort to buy organic. But sometimes, it’s absurd. For instance, the other day I had to opt for the conventional zucchini because the organic was $3.99. Not a pound – EACH. At the risk of sprouting a malforming Miracle-Gro induced tumor, I’d prefer to not go broke. Someday, maybe I can afford to align my life with my principles. But I doubt it.

That said, I do wholeheartedly believe that organics are preferable. No, I’m not buying into some fad here. Shockingly, food is better for you when it isn’t doused in chemicals at regular intervals and intermingled with genetically-modified matter, the impacts of which, the world is yet to fully realize. But enough about that. I have become an anthropologist of sorts, when it comes observing the natural food store employee in their native habitat. Perhaps you have also encountered this species. It’s most marked characteristic is its thinly-disguised judgment.

Now, to be fair, not every employee of Whole Foods/EarthFare/Your Local Bastion of Self-Righteousness appears to have just eaten a turd sandwich. Some of these folks actually practice what they represent and exude an aura of health and wellness. Others, well. Their dreadlocks prevent them from working anywhere else besides a record store (and the Ipod has done away with that for the most part) or organizing the next chair-through-the-Starbucks-window anti-globalization rally. They’ve settled for a job that provides a space for smoking their Natural Spirits and scowling, and where facial hair may be grown in a completely unregulated fashion.

Some time ago when I had a day job and was forced to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt everyday, I would open my wallet and remove its contents at my local Whole Foods. (By that I mean, I ate lunch there.) This provided ample time for observation and some degree of interaction with the subject of my informal research. My conclusion was that I could buy all the wheatgrass and free-trade yerba mate in the world, but I was never getting any anti-establishment street cred with a head full of highlighted hair and heels. A shame. If we sat down to chat, we’d probably get along fairly well. Such is life in many instances, I suppose.

Perhaps nowhere in the world is this not-so-rare bird more populous than in Asheville, North Carolina. And they aren't relegated solely to hocking acai berry cleanses. When Asheville got an Urban Outfitters, I fully expected the streets to erupt in protest. “F--- you, corporate a-holes! We invented dumpster chic. And f--- that Mary-Kate Olsen too. Poseurs.” (As an aside, Urban is actually one of my favorite stores. Not all of it looks as if it were refused on sight at the Goodwill Donation center.) I remember one visit to Asheville with my sister. We hit several thrift stores downtown, and left with some great cheap finds. However, this otherwise enjoyable day was interspersed with some serious eye-daggers. In a few stores, we walked in and no one even spoke to us. Uh, awkward. When it’s just you and a latently venomous storekeep in a tiny space and no one is talking, it makes for some uncomfortable tension.

I worked in Asheville for a summer during a particularly low point in my life and it turned out to be exactly what I needed. After some initial awkwardness, the quintessential Ashevillians realized I was just as subversive, if not more so, than they were. We got along fantastically and I met some of the most interesting and hilarious people I’ve met thus far in my life.

Anyway, I hope it’s clear here that I don’t have an ill-will towards these tofu-peddlers. I certainly don’t. Probably just the opposite. But we’re all passing judgment on someone out of sheer misunderstanding, or fear of/laziness towards searching out some commonality. My challenge to myself this week, and to you if you feel so inclined, is to catch yourself passing that judgment. And then maybe, just stop.

Bo As Metaphor

A dear friend of mine recently moved to our nation’s capital; or as I like to call it, the place where civility and efficiency go to die. He was sharing stories about people he had met, which NPR anchor was actually a complete ass, and how the world of Congressional staff was like law school on a meth and Mountain Dew diet. I laughed when he told me that a friend of his had, at some point, been walking the Obama’s dog, Bo. Imagining a bright young graduate of one of America’s best universities as Executive Dog-Walker seems like an appropriate depiction of the recession. We spun off into a small tangential discussion of the dog, and then it kind of struck me that this canine is a pretty apt metaphor for the Obama Presidency thus far.

President Obama, as you might recall, arrived in office to the sound of cheering throngs of Americans convinced he really had the audacity to instill hope. I was among that hopeful crowd. The inauguration made me tearfully proud to be American. I’d say I’m still hopeful – but what was once a fire is now a flicker. Anyway, when the Obamas announced they wanted a dog, they were encouraged to adopt a shelter animal. Any good liberal knows that the poor, tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free applies to our animal friends as well, right? For a while, it seemed they would actually do this. What a symbolic move this may have been. The leader of the free world - a man with unparalleled power – would choose to lift up one downtrodden canine soul. Maybe a mutt wouldn’t be fashionable, but it was the right thing to do. Enter Ted Kennedy. In one fell swoop, some hapless pup’s dream of eating Filet Mignon on the South Lawn were dashed by the doggy equivalent of a Hermes Birkin bag. The audacity.

Senator Kennedy (may he rest in peace) is often viewed as a true liberal’s liberal. But for all his pros, one aspect of his political past really burns my biscuits. Cape Wind. Disgust. Just to say it out loud sends a shiver of hypocrisy down my spine. As a former member of the Alliance to Protect Nantucket Sound, he (and other politicians including Mitt Romney and John Kerry) favored sustainable energy and reducing our crippling dependence on coal and petroleum. Sure, sounds great! But not this wind farm, because HELLO – obviously, you are supposed to put that kind of thing near poor people. Stated succinctly, the project enjoyed support from the citizens of Massachusetts and many citizens of Cape Cod. But – GASP! - you simply cannot build in view of the Kennedy Compound. Self-serving politics at its unjustifiable worst.

"It’s politics, stupid." I find myself slightly altering George Stephanopoulos’ famous quote on the economy (emphasis on the stupid) when I wonder how my once audacious President became Neville Chamberlain to John Boehner’s Hitler. (I’m sorry. Even now, this feels like blasphemy. But alas . . . ) In the Washington Post today, Ezra Klein asks “What happened to the fierce urgency of now?” and “Where is President Obama?” Well, I guess he’s busy making difficult concessions. Stated differently, he’s forgoing the shelter mutt for the more politically palatable Portuguese Water Dog.

This brings me to me. Or, us. The young and idealistic set. Man, we talk a good talk, don’t we? But often our own actions don’t square with the rhetoric. I used to decry the heinous environmental impacts of factory farms, but I still ate some of what they were producing. Finally, I came to the conclusion that if this is something I really disdain, then I should stop eating meat and start supporting my local farmers to the greatest extent possible. So I did. And the burden of my own hypocrisy lifting felt pretty good, I must say. As the government faces shut down, we all know we can’t count on them to make the needed changes. Instead of solely arguing on the merits of cutting social welfare programs, volunteer in your local homeless shelter. Go to city council meetings. Work to fix this problem at home. Do something about it. Then argue. If you’re working for change, then argue to your heart’s content. Don’t just know enough to sounds smart casually debating with a friend over coffee, find something that drives you, delve into the problem, and find some way to make yourself useful.

I still have faith in our President. When he is on his game, he is remarkable. I know the “fierce urgency of now” is there, somewhere underneath all the politics-as-usual and metaphorical gifting of designer dogs. But until that’s found, it can’t be denied that our government is failing us; from the left and the right. So, take your old copy of “The Audacity of Hope” and tape your picture to the cover. Until Congress collectively pulls its head from the proverbial ass, we are all we’ve got. Team Shelter Dog.