My Kindgom for a shoe....

Obviously, this is a weekend for me to have footwear on the mind, since I am still gloating about my new boots. Therefore, my thoughts have turned to other, somewhat less well shod folks in this world, who not only don't have new boots, but have been throwing around what footwear they do have in the interests of advancing their own personal agendas. Which seems pretty counter-productive to me. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Recently, our current President, George Bush, made a surprise visit to Baghdad, Iraq, and Afghanistan to visit the troops a final time before leaving office. The trip itself wasn't all that newsworthy - outgoing Presidents typically make these kinds of visits to the troops as they prepare to leave office.

Just for the record, I think it's the right thing to do. It's a way for the President to personally thank those people whom he has put into harm's way for making the sacrifice, a sort of rousing farewell so they know their efforts have been appreciated, and not taken for granted. It's a common action for leaders to visit and rally the troops that are fighting at their behest, and on their behalf, and it's a very effective motivator, as well as a nice personal gesture.

I am certain that seeing the President on their field of battle is a way to feel solidarity with the folks at home, who are largely unaware, even in the age of the 24/7 news cycle, of exactly what those sacrifices consist. So, in short, I'm for him making the trip, I think it was the right thing to do. And, in addition, I have respect for him that would be willing to go into one of the most dangerous places in the world, where there is without question a price on his head, in order to bring his message to the troops personally.

But this trip was a little different. I've often read that the journalism world is a jungle, but you don't expect it to be genuinely dangerous, a threat to someone's physical safety. At most, you occasionally wonder about the safety of the reporters themselves, as they cover the news from some of the most dangerous locations on earth. [The recent death rate of reporters in war zones is truly appalling, as they have become easy targets for whatever wacko fringe group want to make an easy hit.] But in a press conference, the only barbed objects that one should fear are the sharp comments being made by skeptical reporters who don't quite buy what is being sold at the podium.

Which brings us back to this brief surprise visit to the war zone, where we find George Bush standing at the podium at a news conference on a sunny Baghdad afternoon, answering questions about the war to an audience of mostly Middle Eastern reporters.

Now, let me just say, I am a firm believer that our President, whether I support him politically or not, is our international representative, sort of an everyman American, speaking and acting on our behalf when he is making state visits abroad. As such, we have a right to demand that the respect due his office be shown, wherever he may be in the world. Apparently, however, not everyone agrees with me. And I take umbrage.

On this occasion, a reporter, it's unclear to me where, exactly, he is from, although he works for an Egyptian news agency (ya, THAT Egypt, the one that is theoretically sort of our ally,) actually threw both his shoes and a series of verbal assaults at our president, a sign of intense disrespect in an area of the world not exactly known for reasonable behavior, anyway.

I have to give George credit, really. He showed an interesting ability to dodge the verbal (and footwear) bullet. I was impressed by his ability to see it coming and avoid being hit by the unexpected shoe assault. You have to wonder if he spent time on the field while he owned the Rangers, because he looked just like a kid taking batting practice eying up the ball.

I was also impressed at his ability to remain gracious and keep the situation light hearted and not take himself too seriously. It was, in my opinion, a presidential moment, in which he represented both himself, and our nation, in the best possible light. It could have been a critical international incident.

Instead, it was a humorous sound bite, because he was able to take himself out of it for a moment and see it for what it was - a moment of protest against a policy that someone disagreed with. I think part of the appeal of George Bush is exactly that, in fact - he never has appeared to take himself too seriously. That's an attractive quality in the most important leader on the face of the earth, I think.

But that is where the story goes seriously awry, in my opinion. The President himself was spot on in words and deeds, and I am proud of him for how he responded. But there is a dark side to this story, one that needs to be examined and dissected, so that it never happens again.

The errant reporter was quickly subdued, thanks not to the US Secret Service, a group of people paid very well by you and me, the taxpayers, to protect the President of the United States even at the cost of their own lives. In this case, the thanks goes to another reporter, who slammed this guy to the ground and waited for the Secret Service to pile on, acting like they had done something when, in fact, they did nothing at all.

I don't know about anyone else, but I have to say, I am not exactly impressed with the Secret Service in the situation. Things happen, and I suppose I can see how it's possible to get off one shoe and throw it without attracting attention beforehand. You can't really anticipate someone taking off their own footwear and throwing it, especially in the circumstance.

Objectively considered, from the reporter's perspective, he didn't really have much in the way of weapons at hand, so his shoes probably seemed like the best choice, despite the obvious reality that he was never going to get away from there unscathed. The fact that he wasn't wearing his shoe was going to come up on the way out, seeing as how a shoe got thrown, so it's assumed he knew he was going to be apprehended and beaten to a pulp. It's still Iraq, after all.

Although, come to think of it, I am forced to observe that Muslim adherents seem to have a fondness for footwear as weapons recently, an interesting trend that I find noteworthy, and apparently, so should the Secret Service. Perhaps footwear should always be as suspect in press conferences as it seems to be for the regular citizens at the airport. Still, all in all, I can't really blame anyone for not stopping the first shoe assault. But I am appalled that the reporter was able to throw both of them.

If this is an example of Secret Service protection, for which the American public is paying a premium price, it is inadequate, to say the least. If I were Laura, I wouldn't be letting George out of the White House again until he was out of office. And if I were Michelle, I'd be a nervous wreck. Four years of that kind of worry and you would have to pack me off to the rubber room for sure. (I will admit, I have one foot in the door at all times anyway. But that would put me right over the edge.) Given the lunatic fringes that exist right here in our own country, you would think the Secret Service would have been prepared for anything, and instead, it seems they were caught, dare I say it? flat footed.

I understand they were in a foreign country. I understand that you have to give latitude to that country and their own police force. But this is not just another tourist hitting the beach in Cancun. This is the President of the United States, and he was visiting the country whose cause you can fairly say he has championed non-stop since entering office. Say what you will about him, he has been consistent on Iraq, and his belief that this is a just war, and that we have freed them from tyranny.

So I think it's fair to ask, where were the Secret Service? Where were his police and military protection? What were they thinking in not keeping a sharp eye on every single person in that crowd? While they were all accredited journalists, and the weapon of choice was a shoe instead of a gun, for which we can all be eternally grateful, this is an incident which should never have occurred. We cannot screen for every eventuality, and it could have been a bomb hidden in his shoe instead of just a shoe. It is clear that in that part of the world, life has a different value, and the value of martyrdom is far higher than the value of remaining on this earth to many people.

Human aspects aside, I shudder to think what would have happened had something catastrophic occurred, and President Bush have been severely injured, or God forbid, assassinated over there. Our country is already in crisis. That would probably throw us over the edge. We do not need that interruption in the national process of transferring power from one president to the next. While I am, obviously, glad for his family and personal friends that he is okay, I am glad for us as a country as well, because I think we are too fragile, too strung out, too vulnerable, to risk something that damaging happening right now.

Benjamin Franklin told the cautionary tale from history about how for wont of a horseshoe nail the kingdom was lost. While the origins of that little proverb are likely found in the story of Richard the Third and Henry VII and The Battle of Bosworth, [a moment in time which literally changed the course of Western history, and paved the way for the Tudor dynasty and the English Reformation,] the meaning of the ditty is still crystal clear. If you don't pay attention to the small stuff, you will lose the bigger battles as well. We are at war with the zealots in this world, and we cannot afford to let down our guard, either at home or away, for even a moment.

So, to the Secret Service, SHAPE UP. Intensify your training. NEVER forget that the very future of our nation, and even the future course of the world, could be in your apparently incapable hands. You have one of the most serious jobs on earth. Perhaps you should put your walkie talkies down, and just open your eyes and look around you. The threat is not only from the great. Sometimes, it's the little stuff that brings you down.

And to everyone else, keep your shoes on. Unless you're at the airport, of course.

Booting up....

Into each life some snow [so I'm paraphrasing, give me a break,] must fall. And if it does, you should be wearing boots, I think. So, with that in mind, last week I went to buy myself some new boots.

I am, if you didn't realize, a very delicate hot-house flower of a girl. I need tender loving care, and I wilt easily. Well, my feet do, anyway. In short, I have the world's most sensitive feet. The Princess who got black and blue from the pea? She has nothing on me. If I have a speck of lint under my foot, I will be sore for weeks. Thus, the proper fit is paramount in my shoe shopping expeditions.

I bought myself a pair of Bear Paw boots some years back. They are amazing boots - lined in sheepskin, warm and cozy suede exterior, just the right amount of chic, but still practical. Unfortunately, they are so comfort filled and attractive that my even more attractive adolescent swiped them out from under me, and now I no longer have the booted options available to me that I once did.

Thus, I headed off to procure another pair for myself, in a size that would make it uncomfortable for any other resident of my household to permanently borrow them.

I spied the coveted item at the store called Wild Pair, a trendy little boutique in my local mall. They are not inexpensive boots, but I will spare no expense to be certain that my tender feet walk unmolested by faulty footwear.

I should just say that I have never been to Wild Pair before. That is not a name that really shouts out to me that I belong there, seeing as how I could never be confused for something that belongs in a zoo. However, they had, in a bold display, the very boots I desired right in front of the door, and they drew me in like a rebel Starship caught in a tractor beam.

I tried on the perfect pair, excited to contemplate my newly booted appendages, and with great haste wrote my check and high tailed it out of there. I sped home to waterproof the sueded surfaces, so that I would be able to don them in the snow soon to arrive. The spray requires a substantial dry time, so I was going to be prepared for the upcoming onslaught.

I awaited the dawn with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Santa related holidays. [I am trying to be seasonal here, otherwise I would obviously have mentioned my birthday.] I rushed to the kitchen to slide my feet into the cushy cloud that I knew would envelope my feet, and sat back to admire.

But no. It can't be. A flaw in the ointment. Or the boot top, really. I looked closer, well, really my neck briefly resembled a trombone slide as I maneuvered my eyes into the perfect range to take in the outrage now presenting itself to me, and saw that indeed, the eyes were not deceiving me. There was a slice, as from an errant knife, right across the top of the new boot.

I was desolate.

I attempted to rally from the blow, arguing with myself that I could live with it, it wasn't really a big deal, it wouldn't be a problem, REALLY. Then I took a step. The whole thing suddenly separated, like an earthquake in miniature, and there was a now a gaping gash across the top of my new boot.

I immediately called the store, girded for battle, anticipating an argument, expecting to have to defend myself from accusations of inappropriate knife usage at the very least. But no. The manager kindly said, "Bring them right in, and we'll get you a new pair immediately." Well, that certainly did take the edge off the anger, I must say.

I headed on up to the mall again, not a small trek, but since gas is back down out of the stratosphere, I can just barely afford to drive around again. I parked, I walked in with my box, I entered the door of the store, and they were... gone. I stood there looking at the display boot, thinking that it was a size smaller, but that's my small foot, and maybe I could make it work - when suddenly, here was the clerk. She apologized for taking so much time. Her boss was on the phone, and in this economy, if I had to choose between my boss and my customer, I'd pick the boss, too. So I told her no problem, showed her the boot, and she was rather surprised.

But she said, let me get you a new pair. So we got the new pair out of the box, checked them over carefully, you can be sure, and I even got a 25% discount. Which I promptly spent on a new waterproofing spray which is so high tech it only needs 30 minutes to dry.

I raced home, sprayed and sprayed again, and I was all excited to pull on my new boots and break them in. Snow was still on the ground, it was still icy cold outside, I had not missed prime boot wearing weather after all, and all was well in my world.

Except, of course, it's me. So naturally, there was a problem. When I pulled on my new boots the next morning, and I stood admiring their pristine loveliness, I suddenly realized that my foot hurt. It was a soft hurt, sort of an annoyance more than actual pain, and I told myself that I was dreaming. I was just having sympathy pains for the poor boot that would now never have a foot to hold. It couldn't possibly be that I would get another defective boot.

I barrelled forth into my day, wearing my boots, but becoming increasingly tense with each step, as I gradually lost all ability to deny, even to myself, that there was a problem with my new boot. Finally, I broke down and pulled off the boot, to find a toe so raw it was aching, and the nerves were jangling all the way up my leg. I knew it was not going to be a joyful moment, but shoved my hand down to the bottom, where the toe meets the top, and sure enough, there was the problem.

The lining of the brand new boot was bunched up and folded over, creating a riffle in the bottom of my shoe that was roughly equivalent to the Great Wall of China. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I sighed. I said rats. I said uff da, the strongest epithet I can muster under stress. I got out the receipt and called the store, again, certain that this time they would have no more to do with me. I was going to be labeled a chronic whiner, and they would shut the gate and refuse me entrance.

But no. They said, bring it back in. Well, first the manager said, "Are you sure it isn't the toe box?" Well, ya, I'm pretty sure, since the lining is bunched up and folded over in one boot, creating a wall the size of the Great Wall.

So off I head to the mall once again, miserable that I will now have to emerge from the warm cocoon of my home into the cold, shod only in boots with holes in them. This is what I get for trying to be prepared, I was whining miserably to myself, as I drove my truck up to the mall once again, resentment etching a furrow into my brow. (Well, not really. I just wanted to use the word etch, and this seemed like a good time.) Mostly, I was just bummed to be making the drive for the third time in three days, which is more than I have been to the mall in the past three months. Or year. Or two.

I arrive at Wild Pair, expecting to at least have to explain myself, or to face a gauntlet of tough questions about what I did to their boot to make it defective, but no. Once again, they could not have been nicer to me. Honestly, its rather hard to be a curmudgeon when people are nice to you.

She felt the ridge, gave her opinion that it was certainly not going to be acceptable to have a boot with that kind of flaw, and went and got me a new box, apologizing for my inconvenience. In gratitude, I bought another item, this time boot cleaner for the long lost pair that seem to have shown up rather surprisingly often on the feet of one of my nearest and dearest, but a little worse for the wear.

Rest assured, I looked these boots over outside and IN, and just to be sure, I also wore them for about ten minutes in the store. When I had declared myself fully satisfied, I happily left with new boots in hand, a fully satisfied customer.

I recommend Wild Pair highly to anyone who wants to shop in a store that stands behind what they sell. I am impressed, to say the least, that they accepted my complaints without an excuse, simply exchanged them as requested, and even gave me a discount for my troubles. There are not many places where you can get that kind of customer service any more, and if it's important to you, then Wild Pair is your kind of place.

I brought my new boots home, sprayed them, waited overnight, and with slightly deflated expectations, pulled them onto my waiting extremities the following morning, wondering what might go wrong next. But no. I was once again surprised, this time to find that nothing at all was wrong. All is well in my booted world, and I am fully satisfied and walking on a cloud even now.

Leave it to me to find the two pair of defective boots that Bear Paw has ever made. Wild Pair has never had a pair returned before, they told me in amusement. I guess they just haven't dealt with a princess quite like me.

Decorating madness....

There is a time honored tradition amongst those who celebrate the holiday of Christmas, [as opposed to the "Winter Holiday" observed by popular culture these days.] The house is torn apart, and every single item on display is replaced with something red, green and festive, exhausting the women of the family before the holiday itself even arrives. This is an undertaking of hours and days and weeks duration, involving billions of dollars collectively, requiring ridiculous amounts of hard work, only to take it all apart again in just a few short weeks, reversing the work so recently accomplished.

I wonder if men have even a small idea of the exhaustion experienced by the women of the household as they prepare for the greatest show on earth. Apologies to Barnum and Bailey, but the circus has nothing on the three ring spectacular known as the Christmas holiday season, written and directed by women of the family, and merchants, everywhere.

From Thanksgiving to Christmas, it's a non-stop whirlwind of decorating, shopping, baking and twinkling lights, and the entire production is generally written, directed, produced and acted out by the legions of women running the family show the world over, with dads playing a minor supporting role. (Ah, those twinkling lights. Which, I am happy to report, are, in fact, still twinkling, at least in my case. I wish you luck with yours.)

I suppose that could be construed as a sexist remark, but in all honesty, who does the Christmas preparation in your household? When you think of your growing up years, who do you associate with all the sights and sounds of Christmas in your house? That's what I thought.

In my household, there is no "Father" figure any more. Actually, if you asked any of us, we would have to acknowledge that there never was, but that's another story. I do all the preparation work by default, just as I always have. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, it has always been my arena, and now that I am broke and have no time, it is more challenging than ever. Santa Claus, where are you? I don't want my two front teeth for Christmas, I want more hours in the day. Or perhaps two extra hands. And if you wanted to pad my bank account, I wouldn't object to that, either.

Not to digress, but my lovely teen aged daughter has a fetish for outside lights on houses. And I do mean ON the houses. It is not enough for her to throw some strings of lights on the bushes and call it a [cold] day. She would prefer to have the Griswald's come to life in our own household, and to light up the neighborhood with the results of our hard effort. To make a long story short, that isn't going to happen. Ever.

I have patiently explained to her many times that while women can, indeed, do anything they set their minds to, putting up lights on the house is a "dad" job. I don't want to discourage her from thinking that she can do anything interesting that she wants to do in her own life, I just want her to understand that if you want lights on your house, you need to marry wisely. A lesson I really wish I had learned earlier rather than later, so hopefully she will benefit by my abysmal example.

I am not sexist, you understand, I am parentist. I believe there are certain roles for which one parent or the other is simply better suited by nature. Lights on a house falls under the father category, as does trimming the tree trunk before sticking it into the stand. (Since we are short one father, we simply use the circular saw, which is cheaper and more efficient than my ex, Mr. Handy, and the crow bar and hand saw routine he used to employ.)

One of the sweetest things my daughter has ever said to me is that she wishes for me that someday I would have a man in my life that would put lights on my house. It was a wistful statement, and held a lot more than the simple words on their surface, of course. I knew exactly what she meant, and it makes me melt even now, just to think about it.

You may well be wondering what falls under the mother category. In the case of Christmas, the answer would be pretty much everything else. Which brings me to yesterday.

I spent all day, when I would rather have been writing on my blog, [obviously, keeping in touch with the many fans family wide who read my meanderings assiduously,] redecorating my living room to bring the festive nature of the season to the heart of our little abode. I worked my fingers to the bone, went up and down the ladder, and up and down the stairs, approximately 5,000 times, in order to make the house seasonal and celebratory.

I decorated the family room first to make it fun for the onslaught of teens rapidly heading in my direction. I strung the garland, hung the paper snowflakes, cleared and dusted and redecorated the entire room, making it a veritable festivity central. Which must have been appreciated, since they were here until the wee hours, long after Santa would have gotten bored and gone home, leaving stockings unfilled, if it were Christmas Eve.

Then I moved on the living room. More hauling, more climbing, more decorating. You never really know how much stuff you have until you start pulling it all out to decorate for Christmas. I recall when I was little looking into the boxes that came down from the cold upstairs, filled with the treasures of Christmas. It was always so exciting to see them appear, you knew good things were in store sooner rather than later. But there would still be things in the bottom of the box, and I couldn't understand why my mother didn't put up every last thing she owned.

Now that I have grown up, I find that I, too, leave things in the bottom of the box. There are simply too many things to put them all out. I have lighting and other things that there is just no place for any more, but I can't bear to discard it, either. So instead, I hang on to it, just in case the day arrives when it will once again be appropriate in my home. I am learning from my mother, it seems, to the detriment of my basement space.

Thus I find myself this morning, sitting in my newly redecorated space, happily enjoying the beauty of the surroundings, and feeling more festive just to look around. I put another number on my advent calendar, bringing me one day closer to the magical day of Christmas. I am reminded, through the nativity sets that I have set up in the middle of my room, what the real reason for the season is, whose advent we are celebrating. I see a few small gifts under the tree, offerings of love to my family to let them know that I care about them, and cherish their joy more than anything.

And I realize, once again, that I am lucky to be the mom, the purveyor of the family dreams and traditions, the one around whom the outward, secular celebration of Christmas, at least in my household, swirls. My family's joy and fun and happiness in this season are augmented by the hours of work and effort that I put into it, and that is my reward. Parentist though it may be, my children will never be without the memories of my hard work and extra efforts, even when I am long gone. Sometimes it is good to be the mom.

Most times, really. Except at 2:30 in the morning when some goofy boy shows up unannounced to throw wood chips at the window of your teenaged daughter, like some love struck Cyrano de Bergerac on a hormone high. That is a dad thing to handle, and since we are one short, I have to fill in, and it's not my deal AT ALL. But anyway....

Like most women, when I sit back on Christmas Day and think about how everything went for us this year, I can feel the satisfaction of a holiday season well done. The cards got written and mailed, the baking will get done [thanks, Mom,] the decorations were put up, the tree was acquired, the stockings were filled, the gifts which betoken our love for one another were duly appreciated, pictures will have been snapped, and at the bottom of it all, the hard work will have been worth it, because the people I love most will have had one more Christmas to add to their storehouse of memories.

Ho! Ho! Cold!

Yesterday, when I left home at 8 a.m., the sky was overcast, but it wasn't that cold out, and I didn't give a second thought to what the day might bring. I worked inside all morning, and by the time I emerged from my igloo of jello boxes and Ramen noodles, my particular area that I was managing during my duties as a volunteer for the Johnson County Christmas Bureau, the snow had fallen, the ice had formed an unseen layer on the roadways, and I was at serious risk driving around the rest of the day.

Although this wasn't the first snow of the season, it was the first real snowfall of this winter. The first time it snowed was on a weekend, and no one was out, nor was it more than a thin layer atop the grass. There was no need to emerge from the safety of our warm and cozy homes, so the damage was limited and short term, since it melted almost immediately.

This time, the snow fell harder, longer, and colder, and it has not only stayed, it has accumulated, the real measure of whether it is officially winter, a least in my mind. I woke up this morning to blue sky, the sun is now shining, and the snow is glistening and shimmering like crystals tossed carelessly on a jeweler's countertop.

Having grown up in Minnesota, I lived there for the first 27 years of my life, I am very familiar with the white gift from the sky. I am aware that some people really love the snow, and consider it to be a real thrill to see it drifting to earth from on high. I have never been a fan. If I could, I would return it for sand and beach.

So it was a disconcerting moment for me to emerge from the cool safety of the Christmas distribution into the cold, snowy reality. First things first, cleaning off the truck. Problem there. No coat. No gloves. No brush. Ugh.

I swept aside my aggravation along with the snow, and opened my door. Naturally, the seat was inundated with a shower of snow, which stuck in the fibers of the seat, with the inevitable outcome that entails. [Meaning, if I had a tail, it would have been wet by the time I next emerged from the truck.]

But eventually, I was situated and on my way. Next problem. My rear wheel drive truck sliding into the street unbidden and undriven. Or at least not intentionally driven that way. That was how I learned about the ice under the snowy crust on the surface of the road.

Fortunately, no accident for me, no cars were coming at that moment, which is far more luck than skill, I can assure you. Eventually, I arrived back at my home, and I remained snuggled inside my warm and cozy abode for the remainder of the bleak and snowy day.

I was reminded, watching the flakes meandering lazily from the sky, that there was a time when snow signified a magical opportunity to run outside and mess up the pristine surface, to shuffle and run and make the snow fly up like my own personal blizzard.

There was a time when the falling flakes triggered a desire to pull out the sled or the cross country skis [stop snickering, I used to be pretty fair at it,] and shoosh and slide my way through the crisp winter wonderland that suddenly transformed the familiar boring landscape into something new and almost mysterious.

There is little of the mystery and thrill remaining for me any more. I am a sun worshipper, someone who sees the snow as the enemy to be defeated and overcome. Snow, these days, is an obstacle for the most part, to be hurdled and then disregarded.

But for a brief moment last night, as I glanced out the window while closing the blinds, and saw my twinkling lights shimmering and sparkling under the new white coats on each little bulb, [remarkably, they are still working, for now,] I felt that unbidden thrill of possibility that the first real snow of the year always incites in the child hidden within. For that second in time, I felt the cold on my nose, recalled the crisp air and the wet mittens and the snow pants and boots and the feel of the sled underneath me flying down the little hill behind my house, and tasted the tantalizing possiblities once again that makes childhood so magical.

I am suddenly inspired to finish my work day early, and get the house prepared for Santa to come calling. Ho, ho, ho! Some hot chocolate is in order, I think. Marshmallows, anyone?

No parties in prison

I simply could not be more gobsmacked tonight, considering the case of Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich. In case you have been under a rock today, Blagojevich is the currently under indictment nitwit who was apparently caught on tape, no less, selling a senate seat to the highest bidder, which in the end, threatened to be himself.

I am not usually one to be surprised by anything a politician does. I have been known to opine that they are all corrupt, that they are all in it for themselves, and that I don't trust any of them. So you would think I would take this in stride as a matter of course, a confirmation that, in fact, my cynicsm is justified.

However, I have surprised myself this time. Apparently, hidden somewhere deep inside, I harbor some latent hope that the people who want to lead this country are better than I think they are. Who knew? But it must be so, because tonight I find myself struggling to wrap my mind around this episode and, quite simply, failing. Utterly.

One can only shake the head and ask, WHAT on EARTH could he have been thinking? The nature of the indictment against him is so sweeping, so devastating, one is left to wonder if the man was delusional, or just simply that arrogant? Quite possibly both.

The level of stupidity involved in this situation is simply dumbfounding. There is no way to make sense of someone who had such blatant disrespect for the law, who was so lacking in understanding of the rules of public and private conduct, and who so clearly believed, deep down inside himself, that the law did not apply to him, that he was willing to openly do something that was self-evidently, and explicitly illegal, and he thought it wouldn't matter a bit. He IS, after all, the governor. Surely the rules are different for him.

We have seen plenty of famous people tripped up by stupidity - actors (Ryan O'Neal,) politicians (Eliot Spitzer,) athletes, (OJ Simpson.) There are legions of stupid people out there doing stupid things, and getting caught. What IS it with powerful people that seems to make them think they are immune from the rules of civilized conduct that the rest of us must observe?

However, the stupidity of this particular situation is beyond my ability to make sense of it. It is so idiotic, it makes you think there has to be more to the story than meets the eye, just because it is so totally absurd, it couldn't possibly be what it seems. And yet, no other explanation for what I heard he said on tape comes to mind.

In our local daily paper, which allows online comments, the trolls are out in full force, commenting and painting all Liberals, their code word for enemy, as the scourge of the earth. It's not unexpected, but disheartening, none the less.

Because this is not a party crime. This was not something sanctioned by anyone, except the Governor himself, and it certainly isn't any more reflective of the party voters than any other criminal that was elected to any higher office is reflective of their party. There are enough examples on both sides of the aisle to fill the plate without expending energy on throwing poisoned arrows at your imaginary foes. Frankly, who needs enemies, when our own elected officials, the very people leading us, are so blatantly and brazenly against us.

I do not agree with George Bush often, as my nearest and dearest will certainly be happy to confirm. But his old line, "Either you are with us, or you are against us," could not be more true than in this case. If you are betraying the trust of your elected office by putting up for sale to the most advantageous bidder an elected office in our federal government, or any government, for that matter, in my opinion, that is treason, and should be treated accordingly.

In the case of corrupt politicians, they are stealing democracy from us all. I am an equal opportunity disdainer. Oh for dumb. That's all I have to say.