Behold the Worldwide Feeding Frenzy

In an extraordinary convergence of awful international events a lot of us are looking on somewhere between horror and bewilderment as the Catholic church cannibalizes itself; old Republicans chew on their younger, hipper conservative cohort even as it tries to save the geezers from themselves; and our good Governor Goodhair dines out on obfuscation and half-truths in an effort to lure Californians from one state in budgetary distress to another -- all the while turning his back on the hundreds of thousands of poor women and children who will be without health care due to his proud rejection of billions in federal aid designed to help them.

It's enough to cause indigestion in anyone with a conscience.

Yet here we are once again, in front row seats at the theater of nutty national governance as it threatens to throw the country into financial chaos unless the petulant adolescents who pass for a congressional delegation can somehow get their act together and elevate country above petty squabbles.

We haven't seen much of the bipartisanship our poor, delusional president still seems to think is possible, so we must commend the Neanderthals who took office with the sole goal of stymieing President Obama at every turn for making good on their sick promise. I have never wished so fervently for Molly's voice as I have in recent weeks.  I can see her now, hunkered down at her computer, reassembling carefully researched data and committing to paper -- well, computer screen -- an evisceration of the men and women who profess such grand love of country, even as they invest inordinate energy in dismantling it.
 
I can see sweat running down the side of her face as she calls to account the likes of Michelle Bachmann, the stunningly vapid Minnesota  Tea (Party) brain who has denied global warming; denounced non-existent "death panels" as part of the president's health care program; accused a White House staffer of being a Muslim Brotherhood sympathizer; and impugned the character of Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius. Oh wait -- Bachmann also famously suggested in a campaign event that the 2011 earthquake and hurricane that struck the Eastern seaboard were messages from God -- adding, for good measure, one of the year's weirdest nonsequiturs: "Listen to the American people because...(t)hey know government is on a morbid obesity diet and we've got to rein in the spending."

As an ardent feminist, it would not elude Mol's sense of irony that Bachman sits on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.

Intelligence?

Really?

Sweet Jesus.

Yes, here we are, on the eve of an ill-conceived congressional plan that would cut funding for pre-school education programs and eliminate thousands of jobs in the public and private sector, all because a die-hard, intellectually impotent bunch of flag-pin-wearing pinheads who love their country so very much that they're prepared to drive it into the ground.

Talk about stirring it up...

Still Stirring It Up: Don't Say "Second Amendment" To Me Between Now and...

Still Stirring It Up: Don't Say "Second Amendment" To Me Between Now and...: Let me tell you a story: About 35 years ago, I broke down and let my daughter walk to school alone. We only lived a block away from ...

Don't Say "Second Amendment" To Me Between Now and 2013

Let me tell you a story:

About 35 years ago, I broke down and let my daughter walk to school alone. We only lived a block away from her school, and the one little street she had to cross was closed at one end, so there was virtually no traffic on it. She said I babied her too much and other kids were allowed to walk to school alone.

And so, on a wickedly frigid winter day I relented. She was appropriately bundled. I was late to work so after she left I jumped in the shower, got dressed and was looking for my glasses when I heard a lock click and this wet, shivering little person walked in, sobbing. I had neglected to listen for school closings, and hers was among those observing a snow day. There had been no crossing guard at her assigned place at a fairly busy street. Then, adding insult to injury, my daughter stepped into what she thought was frozen and sank up to her knees in frozen water.  At a sewer.

I stripped off her wet clothes, stuffed her into warm jammies and deposited her in my bed.  I then called in sick, undressed, put on  my nightgown, made cocoa and crawled in with her. We watched "Sesame Street" and "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and whatever else on PBS in the morning until we fell asleep. That afternoon we built a house with Lincoln Logs and tried to figure out how to make a car with Lego. While I started dinner, she made tea for her favorite stuffed animals while I started dinner. When the time came, she helped me make meatballs for our spaghetti dinner. I mean, other than meat loaf and mashed potatoes, what do you eat on a miserable winter's day?

Throughout that day and the next week all I could think about was what could have, might have,  happened.

My thoughts flashed to that very cold day when I heard about the latest mass killing -- this one in Connecticut -- and how it never occurred to the parents of the slain children that when they dropped their sons and daughters off, or saw them off with their backpacks that they would never see them alive again.

I don't cry a lot. As I write this I can't stop. I can't begin to imagine how "Merry Christmas" will never be the same for those mothers and fathers. I don't know if I can bring myself to say it to anyone. I'm angry and filled with pain for those parents.

Neither can I begin to imagine what goes through the minds of the lily-livered members of Congress and the equally cowardly members of any state legislature where "gun control" is some sort of two-word epithet. If the people in a position to change the way we look at gun-related deaths can't understand why we need to rein in the accessibility of assault weapons, then we are even a sicker nation than I think we already are. I think at this point even Bob Dole would agree with me.

In weighing in on the  matter, Mother Jones, one of the precious few magazines to do brave investigative reporting anymore,  tells us this, citing the most recent in dozens of mass shootings in this country alone -- starting with  the movie theater murders in Aurora Colorado in July; the Sikh temple shooting in Wisconsin and including the 1991 massacre of 44 at Luby's in Texas;  the 1992 killing of 44 at a California high school; the twenty-five 1993 deaths in a Long Island Railroad shooting; the 1994 deaths at the hands of a inside a hospital at the Fairchild Air Force Base at the hands of a former airman; and so on up to 1999, the year in which two gunmen killed 39 people at Columbine High School. That same year multiple murders occurred in Atlanta, Ga,; Honolulu, Hi.; Fort Worth, Tx,.; and Tampa Fla.

The magazine goes on to say that  since 1982, altogether there have been at least 61 mass murders committed  with firearms across the country, from Massachusetts to Hawaii. "Of the 139 guns possessed by the killers, more than three quarters were obtained legally. The arsenal included dozens of assault weapons and semiautomatic handguns. Just as Jeffrey Weise used a .40-caliber Gluck to massacre students in Red Lake, Minnesota, in 2005, so too did James Holmes with an AR-15 assault rifle in that darkened Colorado movie house. Lest we forget, a military psychiatrist killed 43 people at the Fort Hood army base in Texas two years ago. The disposition of Jared Loughner's case in the 2011 critical wounding of former Arizona congresswoman Gabielle Gifford that also left 19 dead

On Dec. 21, the day of the Connecticut slayings, instead of allowing a law enforcement official to complete his commentary on why it is important to get guns out people's hands, CNN switched to a 10-year-old bumbling through his recall of events.  Really? I would much have preferred hear what the cop had to say inasmuch as law enforcement (with the notable exception of our chief law enforcer Attorney General Eric Holder) has repeatedly called for tighter gun controls -- especially on those sleazy gun show Neanderthals who sell on the down low. I hope it means something to Holder that the Connecticut incident  brought tears to his president's eyes.

Now that Charlton Heston's dead and a gun has pretty much been pried from his cold, dead hands, maybe it's quarter past time to pry them out of civilian hands that don't belong to  hunters. For now, I'd settle for Wayne Lapierre's gonads in my Cuisinart.

Finally, fair warning: If  you disagree with me, do so out of swinging distance, because I don't believe in guns..

Still Stirring It Up: Election? What Election??

Still Stirring It Up: Election? What Election??: The thing about the 24-hour news cycle, the thing I like least about it, anyway -- is the fact that a momentous event -- like, oh, say, ...

Election? What Election??

The thing about the 24-hour news cycle, the thing I like least about it, anyway -- is the fact that a momentous event -- like, oh, say, the re-election of a president is here for a moment, then gone the next. Then it's on to the next big thing like a certain political consultant who is probably still licking his wounds after being unable to produce one single successful candidate for all the millions he garnered from  donors.  Oh, and made for himself. Really wouldn't want to be in his shoes right now.

And no, we're not going anywhere near that 4-star general's triangular tribulations. No one could do that better than Jon Stewart did on a recent "Daily Show." But see what I mean?  Carl Rove was  stale news 24 hours after his stupendously unsuccessful promotion of right wing-nut hopefuls.  By the time I finish this something will probably have supplanted Israel's bombing in Gaza. Um, or not.

I was still unpacking from my two months  away from home when I learned of two deaths that shook me mightily: One, a dear and wonderful friend in New Orleans -- she was going for her first chemo treatment when I talked to her husband shortly before I left for one trip, and died before I returned 30 days later. The other was the death of Isaiah Sheffer, for many years the host of "Selected Shorts" at New York's Symphony Space.  He died just as I returned from the second trip. 

I never met  Sheffer in person, but I felt like I had. Sunday after Sunday I sat in my comfy  living room chair and waited for the tinkly music that presaged the start of "Selected Shorts," and wait for his gentle voice to welcome me and  introduce the evening's works.  Actors read short stories penned by  well- and lesser-known writers, and the program was always engaging.

I did, however, know  Diana Pinckley.  She and her husband John Pope graciously read and critiqued the Molly book manuscript before I submitted it. Diana came up with a title for the book I loved, but the publisher didn't, so you can pretty much guess who won that argument. (Fortunately another dear and wonderful  friend produced a title  everybody liked and that was that). Anyway, Diana took the rejection much more graciously that I did.  She arranged for me to have a book reading and signing at the Farmers Market and at Octavia Books, a charming neighborhood independent store.

While Diana's death left me deeply saddened, Sheffer's death affected me too.  She was only 60, two years younger than Molly was when she died. Sheffer, who died of complications from a stroke, was 76. When you are in you 70s, as I am, these confrontations with immortality  recall Longfellow's  reminder that art is long and time is fleeting. The time we have on this beleaguered planet is so short that it is increasingly a waste of time to fret over what we can't do or change;  to get angry with the moron who cuts us off in traffic;  the dunderhead who can't bother to stop for the driver trying to exit a parking lot at rush hour; the arrogant shopper who directs his/her filled-to-the-brim  grocery cart to the 'express'  checkout lane; the loud-mouthed idiot whose cell phone is grafted to his/her ear everywhere , all the time. 

These and other social transgressions call for a deep breath or two or three because there are other things to do. Other mountains to climb. Other places to see. Other friends to visit. Art is long and time is fleeting, so stir things up when and where possible, then move on.

Heading Home. Hurricane Be Damned!

With a Delta flight due to get me out of Boston in 24 hours I'm refusing to acknowledge the possibility that something stupid like a hurricane named "Sandy" is going to interfere with my polling place presence on Nov. 6.

"Sandy," for cryin' out loud.

That's a name for a big-eyed dog from a comic book or a play or a movie called "Annie," not some force of nature that, as I understand it (as of this posting on Saturday, Oct. 27 at 1:44 EDT) has already wreaked havoc with poor ole Cuba and can't make up its mind whether it's going to muscle its way up the Eastern seaboard, go inland a bit or slap the snot out of New England, including Boston. Meanwhile I'm trying to divine a voodoo ritual for sending the sucker out to sea without bothering any fishing, leisure or cruise boats.

So, barring the unforeseeable, this will be my last post until Austin is once again terra firma.

It has been a wild ride: got sick in Odessa, sicker in St. Louis, almost well in Wisconsin and healthy by Beantown.

Wisconsin was receptive and more than a few people had met and known Molly and were surprised to know her food-loving side. Minneapolis, of course, remembered her from her days at the Tribune -- which is still in print, thank goodness, but looking slim like too many dailies.

The Boston sojourn was organized by a friend and former neighbor from our days in Summit, N.J. Susan Chase is part of a remarkable group of women who have founded a non-profit that provides potable water by digging wells in a village in Ghana, and is now installing latrines to augment the one already in existence. And yes, that's one latrine for the entire village.

(This might not sound like much, but the World Health Organization says roughly 2.2 million people -- mostly children -- die annually from cholera, dysentery and other waterborne diseases carried in polluted water. So while masters of the universe are manning oil fields and planning pipelines to bring black gold to freighters for distribution around the globe, the Skidmore class of '71 is bringing water to children who can now live long enough to work those oil fields. If you want to know more about the program, go to worldclass-ghana.org.)

In all, it was a wonderful evening with alumnae coming from as nearby as New Hampshire and as far away as St. Croix. This is a bunch of no-nonsense, Elizabeth Warren-supporting, vote-or-die women who would take great umbrage at being labeled do-gooders. They are committed to doing good because that's what decent people who can afford to help others should do.

While others might take advantage of a visit to an historic city like Boston, I went in search of good food guided by advice from another friend and former colleague -- this time dating to my time as a reporter for the Denver Post. Kelli, her husband Andy and their baby Biscuit (whose real name is Parker) now live here and are as devoted to good food as your above-average food freak. Kelli proffered two recommendations, one of which was worth the week's salary it cost to park in the nearest garage.

The Boston clam chowder at City Landing on Boston Harbor was outstanding, but the lobster mac'n'cheese at Max & Dylan's Kitchen and Bar was a proper way to celebrate the end of the lobster season. Situated in Boston's Charlestown neighborhood, M&D's clam chowder wasn't as artery-clogging as City Landing's, but their blackened scallops -- a half dozen good-sized day-boat bivalves atop a drizzle of orange-horseradish marmalade -- were worth the forever it took to find a parking space.

So yeah, as the 2012 book tour winds to a close and funds threaten to dry up completely, it has been a worthwhile ride, notwithstanding Sandy's threats to keep stirring things up.

England. Wales. Houston. Umcka

If you only recognize three out of the four, not to worry: but if you ever feel a cold coming on whether you're in the UK, or Texas or St. Louis (where I am as i write this), get thee to a natural foods store and stock up on Umcka (pronounced "oomka") and Wellness Formula, scary looking oval pill things reminiscent of the monster Miracle Max concocted for Westley in "The Princess Bride."

Thanks to Umcka and Wellness monster pills I am now comfortably off  to the Chippewa Valley Book Festival in Eau Claire, Wisconsin then on to Boston where I hope I have enough clothes to keep me warm. Unfortunately, I was unable to spend more than four hours at the conference I originally came to St. Louis to attend -- thanks to coughs and wheezes and sneezes -- but that's history now, as is the second presidential debate, which I watched with great glee. It called to mind the phrase I heard throughout my month-long visit in England. Invariably dinners washed down with good wines and nice brandy loosened otherwise circumspect tongues, prompting such queries as "what's going on these days with your president and Mitt the Twit?"

It seems Brits take serious umbrage at presidential candidates returning to the mother ship and challenging queen and country's ability to host the world's biggest athletic event -- which was the usual stunning display of running, jumping, swimming, shooting, riding and diving. Unfortunately what wasn't seen on this side of the pond was the Paralympics, a 12-day display of a different sort, manifested in wheelchair events; swimmers with one arm or no legs; blind runners and amputees performing everything but gymnastics -- including wheelchair fencing, rugby, tennis, riding and volleyball.  I guess we weren't privy to this extraordinary event because, who knows, maybe we're too delicate to deal with events featuring less-than-perfect bodies? Maybe greedy sponsors or scaredy-cat networks didn't think they could make enough $$$?

Well guess what: stadiums and gyms and poolside crowds were as great for the Paralympics as they were for the big games. The most moving finale included disabled athletes joined by Olympians celebrating together. In this instance Americans were the biggest losers. Over there we watched in disbelief as these remarkable people did their running, jumping, fencing, riding thing.

On the other hand, in England we also watched Clinton speak at the Democratic convention (which now seems like ages ago) and interpreted it as a prelude of what was to come in the first presidential debate -- and we all know how that turned out.

But in talking with my friend Ed Finkelstein, publisher of the St. Louis Labor Tribune and much-respected political consultant, President Obama fumbled the first debate deliberately to throw governor Romney's camp off balance. Maybe the president did, maybe he didn't. What Romney did do was let punditry pump him up to the point that he forgot he was going mano a mano a guy who is full of surprises -- not the least of them becoming president. I think that is, has been, and will continue to be a bone that sticks in any number of throats.

Well, brother Romney clearly said to himself, if that first go-round was any indication, I'll just tap dance over this guy in round two. I'll toss out enough jumbled up compound sentences that this group of undecided voters will easily see how superior I am. I'll tell them about the binders full of women I found worthy of working for me when I was governor; I'll explain how my immigrant plan provides for "illegals" (yes, he used the term in front of a group  that included at least four or five Hispanics); I'll manage to conflate the issues of automatic weapons with two-parent marriage and hope nobody notices; and I'll keep repeating the same "values" verbiage over and over and hope none of these, these, these Long Island peasants will notice I'm speaking fluent argle bargle. And please, God, don't let Obama bring up that hijacked recording of me saying 47 per cent of Americans are freeloading tax and/or welfare cheats.

We know how well that worked out for him.

So now we're down to the wire. From here I go forth and spread my non-political message of cooking with Molly and dream my dream of an America where, on Nov. 6, all the people who say "my one vote isn't going to make a difference" will see the error of their ways and stir things up by checking every box that has the name of  the candidate most likely to work for a still struggling middle class, and not for those who inherited or cultivated great wealth on the backs of workers who watched their jobs go to that big Asian country Romney wishes he didn't have to talk about.

That ought to stir things up a bit.