My goodness, a trip to NYC

I’d loaded my bag into the trunk, slammed the lid and took one last look up at the house. A could see tears lining the eyes of the 10-year-old’s face as it gently pressed up against the window screen.

I could tell she was feeling an alien emotion. I was going to be gone for four days and she was surprised to learn might to miss me. As the lone male in the house with three gals, my role is to be the butt of jokes. And as soon as middle-age spread concludes its gutsy march, I’m sure they’ll target me for butt jokes. 

Without me, there’d be no one to ridicule.

“Daddy, when will you be home?”

I’ll be home Monday evening, sweetheart.

“But I thought you’d be home Sunday.”

Well, I worked it out so I could spend one extra day with Mr. John. 

I was telling one of the most darling people in the world that, rather than spend another day home with her, I’d chosen to spend a day with one of the most corrupt people I’ve ever known in a place renown for wickedness.

Manhattan, here I come!

I’ve been invited to attend a lavish Big Apple press trip. For the next four days, truly, I’ll be living like a more humble sort of Trump. The itinerary includes three nights at a landmark hotel, great restaurants and luxury box seats to SRO shows.

Go ahead and feel free to resent me. It’s perfectly understandable.

Whether anyone, especially me, is worthy of such posh pampering is a moral puzzle. But the only thing worse than being unworthy of the attention would be to mope about being the recipient of it.

Life’s short and full of pain. You have to dance whenever you hear the music.

My end of the bargain is I need to come home and write and sell a dazzling story to a prestigious publication for all to see.

My great fear isn’t falling short of that obligation. No, I’m afraid I’ll do or say something stupid and I don’t want to come across as a jerk or a boob. Word would spread quickly and the next time I get invited on a trip, it’ll involve someplace like the Bob Evans in downtown Dayton.

To reduce the chances of this, I struggle to bury my inner smart ass so deeply in manners, silence and social aplomb I fear he’ll suffocate and my life will become meaningless.

That’s why the fifth day with John, my old college roommate, is so essential.

After four days of being polite, profanity-free and eating things like salad with silverware, those ponies will be ready to bust free of the coral. The older I get the more I enjoy days of true dissolution like the one awaiting me on Sunday.

Days like that remind me of every day from 1979-2001. I was never truly evil. I never went on one of those sprees that involved breaking all 10 Commandments.

Well, at least never sequentially.

Nothing surprises me more than the number of people who think I’m “good” in the conventional moral sense.

It practically floors my wife who is truly good. Not only is she good, she’s a church organist. I’m hoping the connection will earn her a get-out-of-hell-free card for her backsliding husband.

Yet people persist in inviting me to talk to high school students, introduce me to their friends and foolishly invite me into their homes without bothering to secure things like jewelry and bath towels.

I guess if you live in a small town long enough without getting busted stealing chickens you’re considered one of the good guys.

That’s why a day in New York with the never-married John is the perfect remedy to all that unbidden goodness.

John’s perfectly corrupt. He drinks like crazy, smokes cigars by the yard and is so sacrilegious it’s surprising some crusaders haven’t duct-taped a tall lightning rod to his bald dome.

Once on a drunken ramble with my wife and I, Val -- she was sober, she swears --  twisted her ankle on Lower East Side curb and tumbled into the filthy gutter. John said, “Wow! That’s gonna hurt!” and kept truckin’. He later defended his callousness by citing the need for haste to make last call in a bar with a really great juke box.

I love my wife, but absolved him based on his reasoning.

In short, he’s everything I’d be if I’d never gotten married only with fewer hairs.

So that’s what’s in store for the next few days. Decades of joyful dissolution have dwindled to days.

And Monday, none the worse for wear, I’ll return to joyful hugs and armfuls of souvenirs I can only hope aren’t crawling with bedbugs.

One day of debauchery will have to last me for another six months or so.

Then it’ll be back to being good, for goodness sake.

Eat at Sonoma Grille! I ethically ask

One of the most confounding aspects of what I for lack of a better word call my “career” is the arc of my ethics.

It’s gone completely in reverse.

Fresh from the ethical scolds lording over our nation’s journalism schools, most young reporters embark on careers so free of taint you’d think they were trying to achieve sainthood, not cover the hapless schleps mismanaging local school boards.

They won’t accept gifts, curry favor or drink with potential sources.

I went through that phase myself. Lasted about 10 days.

Then I got a good long look at my first paycheck. I realized I’d never get rich chasing news stories. So I decided being an unethical journalist would at least be more fun than being an upright one free of ethical stain.

I accepted freebies, played favorites and, hell, ever since I was in the fifth grade I’d go drinking with anybody.

Then something dramatic happened to turn me into one of the most unethical creatures on the entire planet, one that true journalists vilified for my scurrilous ways.

I started working for National Enquirer.

I’d found my true calling. From 1992 through 2001, I did more than 1,000 stories for America’s most notorious news magazine.

And it couldn’t have been more fun. I still wake up many, many mornings and read a story that makes me wish I’d never quit to do more mainstream nonsense.

While fellow journalists shunned me, I was always the most popular guy at the party. Everyone wanted to hear my swashbuckling stories about the time I sneaked into rehab with Courtney Love, crashed Julia Roberts’s 30th birthday party and got busted hiding in a church confessional booth the day actor Chris O’Donnell married his sweetheart.

The highlight, or lowlight as it were, may have been President Bill Clinton’s 1996 State of the Union Address. I remember watching it with my wife when Clinton began talking about how laws were needed to protect the privacy of hospital patients.

“We need these laws to protect (legendary entertainer) who had her personal hospital records stolen and published on the front pages of a tabloid for everyone to read.”

Then Clinton gave a grave nod to the gallery and this legendary entertainer stood up and gravely saluted back. Divided by so much, both Democrats and Republicans rose as one and erupted in righteous cheers.

I looked at my wife and said, “Hey! He’s talking about me!”

It was a doozy of a sleuth, one I’ll share in full detail once I’m certain all relevant statutes of limitations have expired.

I justified my shady shenanigans by believing celebrities who lie about their health, their drug usage and -- praise Jesus! -- dupe their fans about their morality deserve to be exposed as fraudulent.

All this makes for a lively class whenever I do occasional teaching to prospective journalism students.

I begin the session on the topic by saying, “Tonight we’re going to talk about the importance of ethics to modern journalism . . . This ought to take about six minutes.”

I always cite South Fork scoundrel J.R. Ewing who advised, “Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

This is funny to me because somehow this little no-pay blog has made me a paragon of ethics.

I don’t know how this happened. Maybe it was a mistake to put “Amish” in the title because it hints at something purer than I’ve ever been.

Because the old me would never have turned down a free meal at one of my favorite restaurants, and that’s what I did this week.

I got a friendly e-mail from a girl representing a viral marketing firm in Pittsburgh that goes by the name Nakturnal. 

They are offering me and I assume a guest a free meal at the Sonoma Grille. Now, my wife and I love it there. We went there for her birthday last year. It’s great. In fact, I gave it a flattering mention it in a recent blog about places I take out of towners to impress them with Pittsburgh.

In return, they want me to write about how great it is -- true -- and then offer a $25 gift card to one lucky reader.

“This would be a great way to reward your readers and get more interaction on your blog, as well as benefit us by getting the word out about this affordable fine dining experience,” the note read.

I should be thrilled with the whole transaction. This is downright wholesome compared to posing as a heroin addict to interview drug-addled Courtney Love as she’s struggling through the old celebrity 12-step.

But I just can’t do it. I don’t think anyone reads my blog to learn why I think the Char Su Duck at Sonoma Grille is so sublime.

If I was that influential, I’d influence up some more readers for my blog or perhaps some actual wage-earning work. And wouldn’t that be something!

So, alas, my lofty ethical standards prevent me from accepting even graciously offered freebies from the Sonoma Grille or any of Pittsburgh’s many other fine dining establishments.

To be clear: send me no freebies.

None.

But don’t let that stop you from sending them all to my wife!




Note: You can see my Enquirer greatest hits at www.chrisrodell.com

Make Daylight Savings Time weekly

I love this turn back the clock thing so much, I wish we could do it once a week. The cool thing about this is in 20 years, we’d only be about 18 years older.

Yes, Daylight Savings Time slows aging. But only by one hour.

If we did it once a week or maybe one minute per hour, we could live to be 175 years old.

I see many benefits. Gas prices would rise more slowly. Happy Hour would be Happy 61 Minutes (and generous bar owners would feel obliged to round up). And the timeless game of baseball would seem endless.

Well, that baseball part would remain unchanged to those who underappreciate its nuance.

We’ve never used “Time Out” as a disciplinary tactic. I guess it works for some, but it’s too early to discern the long-term effects.

For instance, when this generation of misbehaving children grows up and starts attending college and professional sports, will they depart the arenas and en masse head for a quiet corner whenever a referee whistles, “Time Out!”

Again with baseball, it used to be popular for teams to have “Turn Back the Clock Day,” when teams would dress in bygone uniforms and sell things like soda and popcorn for a buck and a quarter.

It was great fun and we thought it would be wonderful if the whole city complied. So if you had a “Turn Back the Clock Day” to say 1929, beer citywide would be a nickel and commuters would have to find horses to ride to work.

I guess I’d like to turn back the clock to the 1950s when it seemed like it must have been a really great time to be a white male who liked to drink. That would have worked for me better than say if I were a black male who liked to vote.

So I’m pretty comfortable with our times. Despite all our many upheavals and daily doom in the headlines, I’m optimistic about the future. I’m just not in that big of a hurry to have it come rushing up on us so quickly.

The exception, of course, being the year 2020 when my enduring insistence that 2020 will be a great year for visionaries is likely to finally gain marketing traction.

A friend of mine once said time is man’s worst invention. It’s very profound. As I’m becoming more conspiracy minded the older I get, I must conclude the concept of time was conceived by the guy who’d invented the first clock but couldn’t find a use for it.

So, voila, time! Now, if you have one fussbucket with a time piece then everyone needs one.

I say to hell with time. Let’s all just show up whenever we feel like it. And bring a book.

I have three watches I adore: one from my late grandfather; an Elvis one from my good buddy Quinn: and a really snazzy one generously gifted to me from a Las Vegas resort for work that didn’t warrant the bauble. They gave one to Val, too.

It was the oddest thing. We were there on an assignment for a now-defunct magazine. The magazines I’ve worked for that can now be described as now-defunct are too numerous to name.

But we were on a fancy lake cruise outside of town and our host presented us with two boxes from an elegant jeweler. Inside were these fabulous watches.

I said, no, we couldn’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.

As I was saying this, I was admiring the watch was on my wrist and thinking, “It’s a tad too snug, but I saw a jeweler in the casino. I’ll bet he’ll size it for free.”

I was correct.

Ethical considerations be damned, there was no way I was leaving Las Vegas without that watch. It’s magnificent.

To this day, Val still thinks some husky guy is going to show up at our door and tell us we need to kill Vinny or he’s taking back the watches.

I know this much: Val will kill Vinny. She loves that watch. Me, too.

But one of these days I’m thinking of making all three timepieces obsolete.

I’m thinking of getting a $75 tattoo of an $18,000 Rolex for my left wrist.

It’ll be waterproof, impressive in refined company, and will make even the wafer thin models look clunky by comparison.

I’ll do it one of these days, I swear.

I just need to find the time.

Standing is the new sitting

So I’m sitting here trying to think of a decent blog idea and all I can think about is how I wish I were laying here trying to think of a decent blog idea.

I’m doing this because in my mind I’m wrestling with recent news reports that said  standing has become the new sitting.

This is from Michael S. Rosenwald’s story from The Washington Post (I love the lead):

“Some people can’t stand working. Mark Ramirez works standing.

“He is not a waiter or a factory worker. He is a senior executive at AOL. Mr. Ramirez could, if he wanted, curl into a cushioned leather chair. No, thanks. He prefers to stand most of the day at a desk raised above stomach level.

“I have my knees bent, I feel totally alive,” he said. “It feels more natural to stand. I wouldn’t go back to sitting.”

Well, good for you. I guess none of us wants to be stuck one row behind guys like Mark next time we go to catch a matinee.

The story says standing at pricey gut-level desks (www.GeekDesk.com sells them for $799) is healthy, reduces drowsiness and is shown to increase life spans. It cited one fanatic who not only stands but walks a steady 1 mph on a treadmill while working at his desk.

Clearly, this endocrinologist missed his calling. He’d have made a dandy postal employee.

It’s an interesting debate, but I think I’ll sit this one out.

I learned early on stress is a killer and without fail I’m most stressed the more degrees I am removed from 180 horizontal. So my preferred postures are, in reverse order, sprint, jog, stand, sit, slouch and lay.

I’ve found the circumstance most geared to wellness is center bed, buried toes up in a quilt, while TV Land broadcasts a day-long marathon of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

If research proves that relaxing posture cures heart disease the way it cures hangovers it could replace CPR as a preferred emergency treatment.

I remember reading shortly after President George W. Bush appointed him defense secretary that Donald Rumsfeld’s true position was upright. With great foresight, he stood throughout the day for many of the reasons cited by today’s advocates.

I remember thinking: “Outstanding. What an innovative and thoughtful gent. Now, here’s a good guy to turn to if the country ever finds itself mired in a really stupid war.”

But successful standers are rare. The only two I could think of are “Price is Right” hosts Bob Barker and Drew Carey. Of course, if the tabloids are to be believed, both men spent considerable time horizontal and in the comely company of surgically enhanced women adept at gesturing toward things like skidoos.

At the other extreme is Hugh Hefner, the only man who’s made a success of his life lying down. But that job’s taken and when Hef goes he’s taking it with him.

So sitting to me is a happy middle ground.

I just can’t see standing catching on.

And how would history be altered if great leaders throughout history stood? What if Abraham Lincoln was renown for standing? How would that have altered the stunning Lincoln Memorial?

They’d need a hole in the roof.

How much more mayhem would Custer-killer Sitting Bull have wreaked had he been Standing Bull?

Would The Situation be more compelling if he was The Standuation?

It’s a lot to ponder, especially as I’m still trying to process just how Prop 19 was defeated in California.

You mean there is a deficit of pot smokers in California? The only thing I can figure is they’re all planning on casting their ballots this Saturday afternoon.

Now, there’s a group that’ll never be swayed by the standing-is-better argument.

In fact, many of the most avid pot smokers I’ve known through the years are perfectly at peace only when fully reclined.

Giving them the three options -- stand, sit, or lay -- and there’s only one eventuality.

Sit or get off the pot.

At least my hair's growing up

Barbers look at my hair the way gardeners look at weeds. That’s the sense I was getting the other day when I told the gal who cuts my hair I want to let it grow.

I want for my hair what I want for my children.

I want it to reach its full potential. I want it to be uninhibited. I want it to revel in the world for however long it is able.

“But you look so much better with short hair,” she says.

I resist the urge to tell her she’d look so much better with her face hidden behind a copy of my 2003 book, “Hole-in-One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore on Golf’s Luckiest Shot!” (Andrews McMeel, current Amazon Bestsellers Rank, 1,505,957).

It’s clearly in her self-interest that everyone walks around looking like Sinead O’Connor. 

But I don’t want to say anything to hurt her feelings, particularly when she’s waving a straight razor near my jugular.

Plus, I like her. She’s what my old man used to call a “broad.” She swears, tells bawdy jokes, and says her next shop will have a pool table and a keg of free beer for customers.

What a gal.

I spent about as much time looking for her as I did for a good bride.

A trip to the barber shop has always meant a lot to me. I’m convinced our late father never moved south to escape bitter winters because being away from Tony the barber would have killed him as surely as perpetual darkness kills petunias.

Besides a tidy trim, Tony brought light into our lives. He taught me my first dirty joke, how to place an illegal wager and he let me look at the Playboy magazines he kept in the drawer under the shelf with all the witch hazel.

About 10 years ago, Tony, besides hair, started cutting back his hours and I started getting my hair cut nearer to home. I tried the most popular and efficient barber in town. For $6.50, he could in four minutes make Samson resemble drill instructor extraordinaire R. Lee Ermey.

Of course, I wound up looking like every other guy in town.

My bar is full of them. Their heads are practically shaved. When two of them put their heads together to talk confidentially about guns, Sarah Palin or NASCAR, the combined effect looks like one wide bottom is trying make an angry point by mooning some invisible cross-bar antagonist.

I didn’t want any part of that.

So I went for a long extended purgatory in the awful unisex salons where I felt they were psychologically cutting off things more dear to me than hair every time I was assaulted by music from people like Beyonce.

That’s why I was thrilled to find Eileen, whose little shop is near my Mom’s place. She has a fellow barber, a Navy veteran whose every customer strolls out of the shop looking like they could be piped aboard a destroyer to commence swabbing poop decks.

It’s not the look I’m after so I go on Tuesdays when Eileen has the run of the place. There’s an old dog, a friendly clientele and lively banter to enrich the life of a guy who spends so much time alone with his imaginary friends, his imaginary employers and all their imaginary paychecks.

I knew she’d be resistant to my goals to grow my hair long, something I haven’t done in 20 year.

True, my hair is exhibiting signs of male pattern baldness. I’ve got the makings of one of those little monk caps on the crown and the forehead’s becoming a fivehead. Soon, I’ll have one of those little Nixonian tufts that look like some skilled motorcyclist burned rubber down the top of my skull.

So I guess I want to give the hairs that have stuck around a sort of farewell tour. Maybe that’ll convince a few of the wafflers to hang in there, that the fun’s just getting started.

Really, I’m not letting my hair down, I’m letting it up. I don’t want hippy hair like San Francisco Giant pitcher Tim Lincecum (way to go, Giants!).

I want to look like Einstein. I want go-to-hell hair.

Because I just don’t care. My wife’s not going to leave me if I’m having a bad hair day (although just at lunch she gave me a sarcastic, “Nice hair, Cosmo.”). 

My kids won’t run in shame if they see me approaching with unruly hair. Well, they won’t run any faster than they already do.

So that’s my plan. I’m letting my hair go wild. I’ll spend about six seconds on it in the morning and then it’ll be free to behave like East Germans did after the Berline Wall came down.

It can have a party.

Let’s call it a last hair-rah.

I Pledge Allegiance to The Pledge of Allegiance

I realize it’s been 48 hours since I pledged I would refrain from all political writings until 2012. 

So sue me for flip-floppery. Strip me of my blogging license. Forbid me from updating my Facebook status until all the votes are counted.

There’s been a spontaneous eruption of hysteria across the country and right here in my congressional district and now I raise what is tantamount to a cry for help.

I need someone to stop me from becoming a concerned citizen.

I’m thinking of taking an evening away from my beloved family and/or sudsy bar time to attend a meaningless candidate forum.

I’m thinking of doing this so I can set a record for the most consecutive recitations of The Pledge of Allegiance.

Thanks to -- and wouldn’t you know it? -- Glenn Beck, enthusiastically reciting The Pledge of Allegiance has become another hot button issue and a way for Beck devotees to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt they love America more than those the rest of us who merely mumble along.

It’s become vogue at candidate debates sponsored by the League of Women Voters to ask that The Pledge of Allegiance be recited prior to the forum. It happened the other night right here in my district.

And it happened in Evanston, Illinois, where suspiciously hyphenated moderator Kathy Tate-Bradish said, no, that’s not part of the agenda, thus labeling herself in the eyes of refined Beck followers a communist who must secretly worship Allah.

So they stood up and recited it anyway. Someone, hallelujah, filmed the patriotic outburst. 

Beck showed the whole silly kerfuffle, did a little research and here’s what he said on his Monday program. I’d italicize the phrases where he sneers sarcastically, but I fear the passage would be so italicized readers would get see-sick:

“We wanted to look at the moderator, Kathy Tate-Bradish, from the League of Women Voters. Oh, she sounds so neutral and everything. I mean, she’s even neutral on the Pledge, apparently — just a typical woman voter trying to get the truth out. No, not so much — not so much.

“She is on fire for Obama. She is a big-time Obama supporter. In fact, so much so, she’s part of his Organizing for America arm. Hmm. She’s even hosted campaign event in her home in 2007, part of her post on OFA’s, Organizing for America Web site, ‘Hope Action Change.’”

So now she’s getting death threats. The FBI is investigating.

See what happens when you stick your neck out and dare to become a concerned citizen?

This is exactly the kind of thing that could happen to me. Were I the moderator, I’d do everything in my power to keep the meeting moving along crisply so I could rush back and bask in the bosom of my beloved family and/or buddies at the bar.

In fact, if I were hosting the meeting, I’d begin the proceedings by saying, “Look, we’re not going to recite any pledges, neither of these guys will be allowed to make any speeches because we know by their party affiliations just where they stand. So let’s all congratulate ourselves for caring more than your average bear and head home to watch Game 3 of the World Series. I say Giants in six. Meeting adjourned!”

But as I’m opposed to any violence, especially when it’s directed at me, I’m feeling the need to attend a League of Women Voters forum so I can be heard reciting The Pledge of Allegiance.

Over and over again.

I think that would be the best way to inoculate myself against charges I’m squishy on the latest touchstone issue.

So when the spontaneous pledge is recited by fervent patriots and every one sat down satisfied, I’d raise my hand.

“Point of order! I believe The Pledge is so magnificent, I want to say it again. Others can join me or they can sit there in seditious silence while I recite this beautiful oath, this time sung to the tune of ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ Anna one! Anna two! Anna . . .”

Then I’d say it again. Because if saying something once proves you’re a patriot then saying that same thing 50 times must really prove it.

The furor reminds me of all those years not too long ago when everyone boarding a plane had to say, no, I don’t have a bomb next to my underwear and, no, I didn’t let a swarthy guy named Sayyid pack my suitcase.

Because no one who’d want to blow up an airplane would ever tell a little white lie to an airline clerk.

Really, I’m surprised anyone these days would even want to hold The Pledge of Allegiance in any regard. Its conception is tainted.

Had Beck or his minions bothered to do any research, they would have learned The Pledge was written in 1892 by Baptist minister Francis Bellamy (1855-1931), a man who devoted his life to a philosophy he described as “Christian Socialism.”

It’s true. The Pledge was conceived by a renown leftist (feel free to sneer) who believed in the liberal (sneer) dispersal of community property to benefit even the neediest (sneer) among us.

And what kind of man does that?

Election thoughts from a non-angry voter

(As noted in comment below, observant reader Emily Suess remarks how the picture I selected makes it look like Beck and I are both staring at the same thing. It's true, I say, it is a deity and He/She is smiling at me and is glaring at Glenn . . . I now return you to your regularly scheduled blog).

We’re nearing the end of the most heated and bitter election cycle since the last one and I’m proud to say I barely care.

The headlines say the electorate is enraged. They hate Obama. They hate Muslims. They hate the media.

Me, I’m mostly at peace because my hatreds are few and many of the things I most hate are getting the absolute crap kicked out of them.

Sure, I wish the Taliban were performing as poorly as the 1-5 Dallas Cowboys, but these things take time. And it’s impossible to diminish just how heartwarming the decline of the Cowboys is to me.

I’ve somehow managed to skate through this entire tumultuous election cycle without engaging in one political argument; any time someone’s tried to goad me into one, I’ve dismissed them with sound reasoning. 

I say, “Look, moron, there’s nothing you can say to change my opinion and as you seem so resistant to logic it would be a waste of my time to even bother trying to change yours. So let’s just sip our beers and discuss the endearing mysteries of women and the happy things we do that make them hate us so.”

I haven’t even stooped to political blogging although part of that is for strategic reasons. I know if my readership is anything like the general public then 50 percent of them will be infuriated if I write something kindly about the Democrats and 50 percent of them will be enraged if I say a Republican surprised me by doing something sensible.

That means I’d risk losing half my readers and that would leave me with, I think, just 4.5 of them.

The polls say the Republicans are going to sweep to power in the House and stand of chance of seizing the Senate.

This should make me, a man so liberal he even loves conservatives, as weepy as Glenn Beck when he considers things like apple pie.

But even if that happens, it won’t bother me one bit. Maybe because I believe the loonier elements of the right wing fringe will be exposed by having to govern and that will doom the Republicans for 2012.

Or maybe I spent all my anger during the Bush/Cheney years. I swear, I woke up every day swearing.

I swore it was a tragic mistake to invade Iraq (I was correct).

I swore cutting taxes to score cheap political points while waging two expensive wars would lead to financial ruin (I was correct).

I swore using wedge issues like gay marriage, stem cell research and Terri Schiavo to rally your conservative base and demonize your opponents would lay waste to decent political discourse for years to come (I was correct).

Right-leaning friends ask if I regret my support for President Obama.

Not for a minute.

The most sensible thing Bush ever did in office was betray his every conservative and capitalist instinct and launch the TARP program. I believe the experts who say that helped us dodge an historic bullet.

Obama continued the drastic steps needed to stave off chaos. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t popular. It had to be done. Dubya thought so.

Obama’s accomplished much in a hysterical political climate where a powerful arm of the mainstream media still hints he’s a Muslim tourist pallin’ ‘round with terrorists bent on overturning the U.S. Constitution.

Even when G.W. Bush was shredding the actual constitution, I never considered him anything as sinister as what Fox News daily asserts Obama is.

I didn’t think he was evil. I just thought he was stupid (I was correct).

Anyone who thought the historic mess the previous administration left behind could be cleaned up in two jiffy years was crazy.

The news today is pessimistic economists are surprised by a sharp drop in the number of unemployment claims. It is the second straight drop and a clear sign the dreadful job market is recovering.

So come Tuesday I’ll vote the straight Democratic ticket. I’ll do it twice if I can get away with it.

I do this to counter those who’ll be voting the straight Republican ticket to counter guys like me who vote the straight Democratic ticket to counter them, etc.

But I’m convinced the momentous measures taken the past two years have pulled us from the brink. 

And now it’ll be months before I feel compelled to write another political post.

Unless I’m afforded an opportunity to gloat.

I swear.

Tweet of the week from twitter.com/8days2amish.com: "Many political races are incredibly tight. They are neck and redneck."