Ok, I have emerged from semi-retirement (from blogging, not working for a living or even writing, since I am rewriting a one-act play I hope will be produced off-Broadway next year; wish me luck!) to comment on a newly released book on Barack Obama entitled Obama Nation by Jerome Corsi, the co-author of a similarly defamatory (and debunked) propaganda piece on John Kerry in 2004, as well as other crackpot treatises too silly to mention. Corsi’s new fish wrapping, which premiered #1 on the NY Times best-seller list this week, is ludicrously touted as:

Meticulously researched and documented, THE OBAMA NATION is the definitive source for information on why and how Barack Obama must be defeated—not by invective and general attacks, but by detailed arguments that are well-researched and fact-based.

One of many reasons this promotional blurb is funny is the premise that this birdcage lining isn’t simply rehashed “invective” and “general attacks” on Obama, mostly specious, many proven false, and all irrelevant to the salient question of who among the candidates for president (Obama, McCain, or various third- and fourth-party fringe nominees) would best lead this nation after eight years of economic, foreign-relations and Constitutional disaster.

What do we know about Jerome Corsi? I’m ashamed to admit he’s a native of Cleveland, a graduate of an esteemed University (Case Western) and a PhD from Harvard, his newest nemesis’s alma mater. Corsi was no slouch as a student, but his current “scholarship” leaves a lot to be desired. According to many unflattering reviews of his book, the “over 700 footnotes” that comprise his references are often links to dubious right-wing blogs, or to his own material, which I believe would be rejected by any good sixth grade teacher, never mind a publishing house like Simon & Schuster. But wait! His editor was none other than Cheney groupie-right-wingnut-pundit Mary Matalin. That ‘splains it.

Mr. Corsi is an admitted practicing Catholic (which is a Christian denomination; you know, followers of Jesus Christ, the guy who promoted "peace" and "love thy neighbor" and "turn the other cheek", the last time I checked) but referred to the late Pope John Paul II as “senile”, and bases most of his fear-mongering about Obama on the unsubstantiated allegations that Obama is closely tied with Islamic radicals because his natural father and step-father were nominal Muslims. The idea that religion (whether practiced or eschewed) should continue to be a pseudo-issue in this campaign is getting more and more ridiculous. After all, look what a so-called recovered-alcoholic born-again Christian has done to this country. I rest my case.

And speaking of recovered alcoholics, Mr. Corsi told Larry King (The Unthawed) that Obama’s statement that he hasn’t used drugs since he was 20 is unverifiable because “self-reporting, by people who have used drugs, as to when they stopped is inherently unreliable.”

So, using that logic, are we to believe that Dubya is still drinking? (The least of my concerns.) Or that the millions of Baby Boomers who stopped getting high when they starting investing their weed money into mutual funds are still closet dopers? Come on. Seriously! Either Corsi is incredibly ignorant about drugs, or he’s deliberately playing to the great unwashed masses of bigoted buffoons who wouldn’t vote for Obama in any case because he’s black, he’s “arrogant” (read: uppity), he’s “elitist”, or because he’s the boogey man Muslim about to turn our republic over to the islamofascists. (By the way, does that word make any sense? Do the coiners of such non-words even know the meanings?)

Interestingly (at least to me), Mr. Corsi was a frequent commenter on the forum, Free Republic in 2004. Remember we were introduced to the Freepers back during the Peterson case, when some of their typically vituperative members brought politics into my blog and later became Mutts? Ahh, yes. The good old days. I loved being attacked by Freepers like Jeanne (Valerie) Paredes (aka Just Amazed) when she warned me that she would be my “worst nightmare” while claiming the moral high ground in issues of childrearing, internet privacy and integrity. Yes, this is the same kook who sent the cops to my house when I revealed her identity on Usenet after one of the many people she offended online gave me the goods on her. But, I digress. This is simply a good example of the kind of nutcases who comprise Corsi’s constituency. Other frothing maniacs that come to mind are Sean Hannity, Bill O’Reilly, and Glenn Beck – another “recovered” alcoholic who is probably still going on benders, if you believe in The World According to Corsi.

One can hope that thoughtful readers, voters and the literate among us will reject this wholesale nonsense and demand issue-based debate in our elections. Yes, one can hope. Meanwhile, I cannot compose a better fisk than the one Obama’s campaign has devised here:

UNFIT FOR PUBLICATION

Good thing I am not actually running for Vice President. It would be a full-time job pointing out the countless false accusations made against me by bigoted, misogynist, xenophobic, sanctimonious, mendacious hypocrites. Oh, wait…never mind.

Today the senate passed the horrible FISA bill (where Barack Obama suddenly and inexplicably switched from vehement opposition to telecom immunity and warrantless wiretapping to voting AYE on this egregious violation of the Fourth Amendment; a switch I theorize has more to do with his attending the recent Bilderberg conference in Virginia this past June 6-8 [don your tin foil hats] than it does with moving to some illusive "middle" politically, but that's another entry for another day), and in response, I have joined this organization:

STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

I tried everything in my power to change Senator Obama's mind, including threatening to stop contributing to his campaign (I know, big deal, but still), writing letters to his campaign, posting on the "Stop FISA" blog on his website, and even praying for whatever it was worth that he would come to his senses, all to no avail.

My shock and outrage at his vote is only exceeded by my disillusionment. I guess I should have known better, but I was caught up in the fantasy (like millions of others) believing someone could make a difference in Washington.

Silly me. Like a bride who finds out on her wedding night that the chivalrous, charming sailor she married is actually Bluebeard. Arrgh.

As many of you know, I was an active supporter for the Obama campaign for the past 5 months in many ways: I volunteered in Cleveland for the Ohio primary and got out the vote during truly horrible late winter weather in early March. I donated regularly, albeit modestly, but in proportion to my resources. I invested more time and money in the Obama campaign than any other campaign in my life and would have continued to donate time, talent and treasure for the general election. I wore Obama t-shirts, wrote entries on my blog about supporting him, hung a framed poster of him on my bedroom wall, preached the Obama message, and would have been considered by everyone who knows me an “Obamaniac.”

But first and foremost, aside from any political labels, I am an idealist and a vehement protector of the US Constitution and will fight for its restoration and oppose any legislation or presidential signing statements that violate its fundamental tenets. Fortunately, my Congressman is Dennis Kucinich and, whatever you may think of him, he at least is an active and consistent protector of the Constitution. God bless him and Senator Sherrod Brown, who voted NAY today.

I'm not just a nouveaux fan or former Clinton supporter (I never supported her and I hope she is not on the short list for Veep) who has just begun to pay attention to politics because of the celebrity aura of Senator Obama or the fact that he is my age, or that he seems like the most outside of outsiders when most of us are sick of the corrupt politics in Washington. Frankly, if most of my friends and I had our druthers, it would be “Everybody Out Of The Pool!” The current Democratic leadership is a sham, and proved criminally so today.

In the not so distant past, Senator Obama voiced his opposition to retroactive immunity to the telecommunications companies that violated the law when agreeing to assist the Bush administration in its questionable wiretapping and data mining project. Rather than go into all the major policy issues that stink to high Heaven with Bush & Co., I feel very strongly that Senator Obama should have voted “NAY” on principle on the so-called “compromise” FISA legislation.

His “NAY” vote would have been symbolic. The Senate didn't need his vote for this bill to pass; it may yet be struck down by the Supreme Court someday soon just as the suspension of Habeas Corpus was in a recent 5-4 decision. There may be, as John Dean suggested, gaps in the bill that provide for criminal prosecution that Senator Obama would pursue when elected President. Regardless of these potential outcomes, Senator Obama should simply have voted “NAY” to protect his reputation, to allay the fears of his loyal constituency that he is caving to political pressure, and because this legislation is WRONG.

So, like a jilted lover, I am scorned and furious. FURIOUS! My romance with Obama is kaput. If I vote for him in November it will be a decision based on "the best of two evils", which is a tragic ending to what could have been a Fine Romance.

“We shoulda gone to the Grog Shop,” complained Patty. “The food’s so much better. And I have a fake ID.”

Lorraine grinned, “Yeah, well I tried to use my sister’s the last time I was in there and got busted, so I have to stay away until my hair grows another two, three inches.”

“You’ll always get carded, Lorraine, probably til you’re like thirty or something,” beamed Alex.

“Thanks, Alex…I think,” said Lorraine, with a squint.

Lorraine looked around and her heart skipped when she saw Darnell in a corner booth, sitting alone, reading the Friday magazine as though perusing for a better place to hang out. She never quite knew what he was thinking. He was an enigma for sure, which made him all the more appealing to her. But he was too old, already in college. What would he see in her – a sophomore, just turned fifteen, a figure like Dorothy Hamill’s (with a close resemblance of her famous bob), barely old enough to date “legally” according to the parental rules? She watched him for a minute. Darnell finally looked up and their eyes met. He gave her a crooked combination of smirk and smile; Lorraine winked back. Darnell sat up and motioned with the universal curled index finger for Lorraine to come thither. She frowned and shook her head and mirrored the gesture for him to come hither.

Neither one moved.

Then, either out of a gallant reflex to free the table for legitimate customers, or his exhaustion from the day’s hegira, Darnell stood up and walked to Lorraine’s table.

“Hey guys, fancy meeting you here. Can I join ya?”

Lorraine reached over and pulled out the chair next to her.

“Take a load off, Darnell,” she said, dispassionately, looking in the opposite direction to appear unfazed.

Alex asked if a large pepperoni would be enough. Lorraine grimaced, wishing there were pineapple on the pizza instead, but resigned herself to peeling the pepperoni off the bubbling pie and dabbing the grease with a napkin.

“What’s wrong, Lorraine, you don’t like pepperoni?” Asked Darnell, between huge bites. He must have been starving.

“No.”

“You want to spice it up?” Darnell shook some dried peppers on Lorraine’s slice.

“Hey!” protested Lorraine. “Whaddaya doin?”

“Try it. You’ll like it,” smiled Darnell. “You should spice up your life, honey.”

Alex looked askance at Darnell. Despite his nerd disposition, his primal male instincts sensed a threat. Darnell was not only older, wiser, stronger, faster and better looking, he was moving in on his girl.

“Lorraine, I think I’d better get you home. You know you have a curfew.”

Lorraine blushed in embarrassment.

“It’s not THAT late. Hold yer horses, Alex. Let me at least finish this dreadful piece of pizza. Kinda goes with the company,” as she sent Darnell a dark glance through slightly squinted eyes.

She was frustrated that both boys were suddenly treating her like a child.

“I’m going to go make a phone call,” she said. She stood up, excused herself and walked out the front door and down the parking lot toward the pay phone at the street.

Darnell and Alex exchanged evil looks.

Lorraine disappeared.

Darnell got up and peered out the front window of Trio's. Where was she goin? He sat back down with Alex. Time for brass tacks. No way was he going to let Captain Kirk ace him out for the girl he had hitchiked back 500 miles to see.

"So, Alex, you're captain of the computer club, right?"

"Yes, indubitably."

"Don't you mean 'incontrovertibly', you twit?"

"I guess."

"So, I was captain of the hockey team, and a National Merit Scholar to boot, and, if I'm not misstaken, we won two City and one State champioships. How'd you guys do?" he snarked.

"Well, we got crushed by Shaker Heights."

"Whatever, no hard feelings. And I'm thinking of getting Lorraine some flowers. What's her favorite color?"

"Dunno."

"Thought so. Good luck."

Darnell just sat back and hoped that Lorraine would return.

Alex and Patty left Trio’s a little after eleven. Darnell sat at the table, listless, finishing the crusts, resigned to the fact that Lorraine had ditched them both. He had to come up with a plan, but he was too exhausted to think. He’d been up close to 24 hours already and was slap happy. He trekked home and fell onto the couch in the living room in a comatose sleep. His mother woke up to his snoring and put a blanket on him.

It was a bright, cold Saturday morning, early November in Cleveland when the weather can vary from Indian summer to arctic blizzards. Darnell debated whether to hike to the rink to join his former team’s practice (they’d love to see him) or think up a reason to call Lorraine. After a breakfast fit for a lumberjack (eggs, bacon, pancakes, oatmeal, grapefruit juice, and a quart of milk), Darnell felt like a new man. He thought he could kill two birds with one stone: ask Lorraine to go skating with him at the afternoon session and he could get in a little workout as well as a little courting. It seemed like a brilliant plan at the time.

He dialed her number. Instead of the ubiquitous busy signal, the phone rang and Lorraine answered it, for a change. Usually one of her several siblings (how many kids lived there, anyway?) bogarted the phone at all hours.

“Hey, Lorraine. It’s Darnell.”

“Yes. Hello. What can I do for you?”

He couldn’t tell if she was messing with him or being polite. One never knew with Lorraine.

“Wanna go skating with me this afternoon?”

Lorraine paused for a few beats. “Sure. I’ll meet you at the rink at 2:00.”

Darnell hung up and began to plot a scheme to get her alone behind the big snow drifts left by the Zamboni. He knew she could skate well enough, but he hoped he could accidentally-on-purpose lead her to the pile of snow and feign a twisted ankle or something. Then her natural nurturing instincts would kick in and she’d let down that cool shell for a minute and feel sorry for him. When she helped him to his feet, he could steal a kiss….

So, Margaret had broken the news that Lorraine was "out for the night", and in a none too friendly or informative way. What, like these girls had their own team and we're just the opposition? OK then, game on.

What to do? Hang around like some chump and wait for her to get back? No way! Wasn't he always first one on the ice? First one to grab a beer out of the trunk of Chopper's GTO in the parking lot after the game? First one to talk to any new pretty face at Trio's?

No way he had any problem with that action. Connie the Cheerleader had practically fainted when he asked if she wanted to go to that party (she wasn't much fun anyway, even though she was kinda cute and perky and top-heavy. When she opened up her mouth he just wanted to run and hide).

But this one, Jeezus, she was just so different. He couldn't quite figure out what she was thinking and he kinda liked that; but, damn, that made it almost impossible to figure out just what to do. And he hated that. What was he, succumbing to some sort of abulia, aphasia, apnea, or something?

He knew he'd find the right thing to do. He wanted to be mad at the whole situation, but he just couldn't. Because, well, the thought of her just made him smile.

Lorraine arrived at the rink and looked around for Darnell. She didn’t want to appear too obvious, so she engaged a friend in a forgettable conversation about trivial events while watching out of the corner of her eye for Darnell’s arrival.

There he is, she thought. Darnell was so competent on skates, adroit, even, and Lorraine felt a little self-conscious at her lack of impressive skating skills, although she could move rather nicely to music in a rhythmic sway with a few skipping steps that looked a little like ice dancing. Her competitive streak withered at the notion of facing an actual hockey player – and a college scholarship athe-lete at that. In her pragmatic way, she decided to keep a low profile on the ice and let him show off if he must.

Darnell spotted Lorraine the minute she hit the ice. He watched her get into a groove with the song, bent slightly forward at the waist, her legs moved with a strong, steady pulse as she gracefully avoided slower skaters without missing a beat.

She’s not bad, he thought, but she’s no hockey player. I could skate circles around her…and I think I will!

Darnell sprinted over to Lorraine and shirred a sluice of shimmering ice on her yellow corduroys as he came to a stop.

“Niiiiice.” quipped Lorraine.

“Hey. Where ya been?” smiled Darnell.

Suddenly, their little reverie was interrupted by Bruce, one of the few decent figure skaters in a town of an endangered species of figure skaters, who cut in front of Darnell with a camelopard move and inquired, “Hi Lorraine! Wanna skate?”

Darnell reddened, stood up straight, and began to roister with jealousy.

“Beat it, Homo!” he growled.

1. Michelle Obama probably put the kibosh on that idea long ago with something along the lines of “I’m not lettin’ that woman run my house and I sure don’t want Bubba lurking around!" (Or something worse.)

2. Hill and her ilk have done a lot of damage for the party in the last few months, and nobody has that short a memory.

3. The Dems don’t need her to unify the party. They could win with Alfred E. Newman on the ticket. Which leads me to my new brilliant idea: I think I should be the running mate.

Yes, me.

I would make a great, old-fashioned Vice President, kind of like Dan Quayle, but a better speller. I’m too lazy to want to run the country from Darth Cheney’s (soon to be former) bunker, I’d enjoy travelling, I pack light, I like meeting new people, I have lots of black to wear to funerals, I won’t upstage Mrs. Obama The First Lady, Nathan and Lauren could play with her daughters (they are close in age), perhaps Nathan may even marry one of them someday (which would make a great story), and my position on the ticket would bridge a few gaps. For example:

• The whole “elite” myth would be dispelled, since I am average middle class (and unashamed to reveal my tax returns for the past 20 years). I feed my kids Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and I live on Fritos. I’m a mediocre tennis player. I don’t have an Ivy League education. I don’t have a law degree. My baseball team never won a World Series. Nobody could accuse me of being “elite.”
  
• I come from a Republican city but I worked for the Democratic Party and then became an Independent. All bases covered!
  
• I'm a 3rd and 4th Generation American and my ancestors represent the backbone of our country: entrepreneurs, builders, people who make the factories run, steel processors, etc. We are ‘merkin through and through.
  
• I have a really ethnic name that sounds Hispanic. Most of the people voting won’t know I’m NOT Hispanic. I think the bumper stickers can say, “Obama/Serrano Olé!"
  
• I could attract the single moms, drunks, recovered drunks, addicts and badly married with my interesting history. After these past Republican primaries, nobody with a couple of marriages need worry about running for office.
  
• As a lapsed Catholic, one-time Lutheran, occasional church-attendee, and familiar with Bible verses, I might close the gap on that fringe religious group. I could go to lots of different churches as Veep and explore all the religions of the country and keep a blog.
  
• Speaking of Veep blogs, having been an avid blogger once, I could blog the Vice Presidency! A Virtual Veep!
  
• Since my personal history is already documented on the “Internets,” there will be no skeletons in the closet for Karl Rove to haunt me with. Besides, you know what I’d say to Karl Rove.
  
• They want CHANGE in Washington, new blood, heck, I’ve never even visited the place!

You must agree that my arguments are sound. I think I’ll propose them to David Axelrod.

The following is the first in a series of a fictitous (but somewhat autobiographical) collaborative invention of the imaginary courtship between Darnell and Lorraine; it's a boy-meets-girl story designed to create a history that could not actually exist between a couple that didn't meet until they were in middle age (gah, I hate that term); in other words, an exercise in "what might have been"...

Darnell was but a sophomore, sixteen years old and just starting to wake up to concerns other than homework, hockey practice, and his pride-and-joy '58 Oldsmobile, which he had hopped-up with the help of his good buddy and classmate, Dan.

As usual, after practice he drove over to Dan's and parked on the front lawn so he wouldn't leak oil on the immaculately-kept driveway; either way, Dan's dad was less than thrilled with the arrangement, yet he thought that Darnell was a good influence on Dan (little did he know!), so no real harm done. Darnell and Dan debated the merits of Ram Induction vs. Fuel Injection, Holley 4-barrels vs. 3 dueces, and Rocky River vs. Bay Village girls.

Between stolen sips of their carefully stashed Molson's and wiping the engine grease from their hands off on the driveway bushes, Darnell caught occasional glimpses of Dan's younger sister Lorraine paying absolutely no attention to them whatsoever.

Lorraine, all of thirteen, tanned, kinda cute but really snotty, always had her nose buried in some book. There was something about her...but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darnell’s parents had a ’73 Mercury Cougar (dark brown hard top) that Darnell drove whenever the ’58 Olds was broken down (quite often), if he wasn’t in any hot water with the folks, that is. It wasn’t much of a cruising car, but it got him from Point A to Point B in relative luxury.

During college break in December of ’75, Darnell knew Lorraine was taking Driver’s Ed and was preparing to take the state driver’s test. It was a typical Cleveland winter (before global warming) and the streets were covered in snow. Lorraine complained that her mom’s car, the Ford LTD station wagon with imitation wood paneling on the side, was an unwieldy “boat” and would surely doom her driver’s test, especially in this horrible weather.

Darnell was seized by a flash of afflatus: teach Lorraine to do donuts in the high school parking lot in the Cougar. That would really help her to learn how to control a vehicle in the snow.

He drove to Lorraine’s house and had her get behind the wheel of the Cougar. “Now, this car is a breeze to drive,” he said. “Just take it easy, it has power brakes and power steering, so don’t overcompensate. Just tap the brakes when you feel yourself slipping.”

Lorraine was seriously nervous, and the Old Spice Darnell had slapped on, obviously only minutes before arriving, made her a little queasy.

“Sheesh, Darnell. What’s with the aftershave?”

“Hey,” Darnell pouted, “You told me never to wear that Brut again or you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”

“I don’t much like this stuff, either. All my men wear English Leather or nothing at all.”

“Oh, Turdblossom!!,” mumbled Darnell. “Just drive. Easy. Easy on that brake, Honey.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darnell arrived at Lorraine’s house unannounced one Friday afternoon, after spending over twelve hours hitchhiking from Madison to Cleveland along 400 miles of Interstate 90, waiting at truck stops drinking flat Coke and bad coffee to stay awake between rides. He had to rebuff, in his inimitable, vituperous, hockey-player fashion (by threatening to commit grievous bodily harm), a balding, flatulent trucker who took a shine to him. After the trucker spent an hour ogling Darnell’s fine young form from a corner table, and slurping down a plate of runny eggs and a half pound of bacon, the grease dripping from his chin, he wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy paw and stood up, grinned lasciviously (and partially toothless) at Darnell and asked, “Hey, Sonny, you need a lift someplace?”

Darnell’s foul mood grew even darker when he was told that Lorraine was “out for the evening” by her younger sister, Margaret.

“Where’d she go?” He asked, frowning, impatiently kicking the brick wall of the front porch.

“I dunno,” replied Margaret. “Out with some guy.”

“Hillary Rodham Clinton!”, mumbled Darnell colorfully, as he turned to leave.

Where could she be? he wondered. She didn’t go to the football game, did she? Nahh, she hadn’t been to a football game since she quit that pansy-ass band with all those fairy bandos: clarinet players, sissy trombone players and that nerdy trumpet player, whatshisface, Keith? Guy with a stupid polka-dot hat Lorraine liked for awhile. Not with him, please.

Dark, violent thoughts flashed like small fireworks in Darnell’s exhausted brain. He shrugged and walked to the high school stadium, thinking the worst.

From two blocks away, Darnell could hear the cadence of the snare drums and strains of the band playing a pep song. He remembered his own high school football career and its attendant inanity: goofy parents dressed in puffy down jackets, blank eyed cheerleaders waving pom-poms with smiles like plastic dolls, hormone-surged boys eyeing insipid girls who alternately flirted and snubbed with faux derision. Now, as a sophisticated college boy, the mating game bored him, the band bored him, the game bored him, it all bored him. He needed a beer.

From twenty feet away, he spotted Lorraine in the bleachers. On one side of her was her best friend, Patty, an elfin brunette with thick glasses and a heart-shaped mouth Darnell found slightly appealing, but the attraction was immediately quashed once Patty emitted a giggle that sounded like an animal in a trap. On Lorraine’s left was her presumptive date, a blonde geek named Alex who was captain of the computer club, a guy who carried his IBM punch cards with his latest FORTRAN program in his pocket like a talisman. Darnell recalled Lorraine mentioning that Alex dressed as Captain Kirk for Halloween. Probably wore Star Trek pajamas, too, thought Darnell. What a wuss. What’s she doin’ with him?

She must still be in her techie phase, he thought. She was always curious about technology, God knows why. Strange girl, that one. Audiophile, technophile, clown. He nevertheless was a little relieved, because he knew she would never really like this guy. Probably felt sorry for him and went out with him out of charity. She was sweet like that. She could never, well, probably never really like him, could she?

He stopped short of bounding up the bleachers to surprise her and paused, deliberating whether to alert her to his presence. He looked up again.

Sugar.

She saw him. He was busted.

"I gotta go talk to her," he thought.

Darnell hiked up the bleachers, not making too obvious eye contact, trying to look cool and unhurried (even though his heart was thumping), stopping en route to exchange insults with his goalie who was half watchin the game but more interested in his smuggled-in flask of Jack Daniels.

"Hi Lorraine, how are you?"
"Hi Darnell. Fine, thanks."
"Hey Patty...and Hi, uh, Adam?"
"Alex."
"Sorry, man" Darnell offered Alex a firm and friendly handshake.
"So, Lorraine, I don't mean to interrupt you guys, but I've got a paper coming up in English Lit, on Yeats and Shelley. And your brother told me that you were good with poetry, so I was wondering if you could maybe help me with my paper?"

"I could maybe do that."

"Yeah, I'm not all that well versed in those guys, but I really liked Shelley's wife's "Frankenstein"; and I like Yeats a lot. "Innisfree", right? And he was a poet/revolutionary. Pretty cool, eh?"

"We could talk about it."

"OK, I'll call you. See you guys later."

All he could think was "Damn, she's cute. Looks even better up close. And she's smart...I've had it with those vacuous cheerleaders."

Lorraine mused "Hmmm...he's not so dumb, even for a hockey player."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lorraine watched Darnell descend the bleachers, stifling a laugh at his obvious ploy to talk to her. Poetry paper, indeed, she thought. He didn’t need any help with that; not like he needed help in his art class, since even a stick figure proved too challenging for him. She wondered where he was going and guessed he might linger at the only decent hangout in town, Trio’s pizza joint on Lake Road where the jukebox was pretty decent. She smiled recalling one night she and her friends were in there and Darnell and some of his hockey buddies were trying to commandeer the jukebox. Patty kept playing the insipid Steve Miller song:

Youre the cutest thing
That I ever did see
I really love your peaches
Want to shake your tree

After the song came up the third or fourth time (she lost count), Darnell shouted over to their table, “Holy Mother of Dick Cheney, I hate that song!” Lorraine hated the song, too, so it was a little bonding moment.

But Yeats? Did he really like Yeats? She supposed she could test him with a few references of “no country for old men” or “centres not holding.” He could be paying attention, which would be interesting. And if he liked Dylan Thomas, she might have to reevaluate his candidacy. She tried to push aside thoughts of their first stolen kiss that made Keith Talbot seem like a lipless frog.

Wait. Keith Talbot was a lipless frog.

Her reverie was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder from her sort-of date, Alex.

“Hey, Lorraine. They lost again.”

“Yep. As usual. That team is so bad, the marching band doesn’t even know a victory march, just like when we were in it.”

Alex laughed. “So, where do you want to go, now?”

Lorraine paused, pretending to deliberate.

“I know! Let’s go to Trio’s!”

To be continued...

VIDEO - KSTP - MINNEAPOLIS

Finally, a couple of retired NYC detectives are connecting the dots among some 40-plus "drunken drowning" incidents, many of which we have followed since 2003. I have always suspected (as did other crime story followers) that this rash of coincidences (same modus operandi, same victim type, same improbable deaths) that these drownings were murders.

I'll be eagerly following the investigation.

Hat tip to our old friend, Bexxma in Austin, Texas, for alerting me to this news.

Vance Holmes' excellent chronology can be found here: DROWNING IN COINCIDENCE

A Blast From The Past

Here are some excerpts of entries published on this blog in the past about these cases:

APRIL 15, 2004:

I am extremely skeptical of the freakish number of accidental drownings in LaCrosse and Eau Claire, Wisconsin, regardless of their proximity to the Mississippi River. This conclusion defies statistics, logic, and ignores the fact that hundreds of college towns across the country are located near bodies of water and are populated by young men and women who overindulge on the weekends and don’t wind up disappearing and later floating in the river by the dozens.

On the contrary, I suspect a serial killer is responsible for many of these deaths, and he has returned to his home turf of LaCrosse, where he began his bizarre ritual in 1997 with the first three victims. As profiler John Douglas asserts in his books about serial killers, the perpetrator usually begins his career on familiar territory. If we examine the chronology and circumstances of this string of uncommon drownings, we can see a pattern emerge that includes a signature, specific type of victim, and other similarities that cannot be ignored.

APRIL 19, 2004:

...he fits the profile perfectly, and the modus operendi is beyond coincidental, it’s the killer’s signature: age range, athletic type, good student, a non-resident, and leaving a piece (or more) of the victim’s personal property at the scene.

FROM THE "FISK" ARIL 19, 2004:

From the source cited by the authors above, approximately 600 males between ages 15-24 die of drownings each year. How many of those disappeared from a group of friends and walked into a river? Most drownings occur in swimming pools. Of that same age group, 4,191 deaths per year were homicides. Based on those statistics, Jared and the others were almost seven times more likely to be murdered than to drown. I would venture to guess they were 100 times more likely to be murdered than to drown under these bizarre (and now familiar) circumstances.

No, I cannot see him walking to the river to clear his head or get some fresh air. I can accept him walking up and down the sidewalk, arm in arm with a friend, singing a fight song or stumbling down stairs. I can visualize him ducking into an alley to relieve himself or toss his cookies. I see him praying to the porcelain god in the men’s room and then washing his face with cold water. I even see him getting in the backseat of a casual acquaintance’s car for a lift home. However, I do not imagine him wandering down to the river by himself and tumbling in. I have been around a lot of drunken people in my life, and I have suffered more than my share of self-inflicted hangovers, and the closest I have witnessed to this scenario is someone jumping or being pushed into a swimming pool and requiring rescuing because they are too drunk to swim.

No, it is not “more comforting” to believe that Jared was murdered, or to deny our personal responsibilities regarding the dangers of mind altering substances. Most of us are realistic and accept that there are consequences to risky behavior. Certainly, if every young man in La Crosse quit drinking for the rest of the semester, probably nobody else would drown. But that does not explain the seasonal cycle of these incidents, the uncanny similarities of the victims, the geographical pattern, or the “extremely unlikely explanation” offered by La Crosse educators and law enforcement. Obviously, they have a professional stake in this being an accident and their bias is totally subjective and manipulated to quash the underlying panic and cynicism of the students and citizens.

Only an outsider with no vested interest in the outcome of an investigation can render a fair and critical assessment of these events. Until a retired FBI profiler, a seasoned homicide investigator, or an experienced private detective is hired (or volunteers) to research these cases, Jared’s death, and the now statistically probable future unexplainable deaths, will continue to be deemed “an unfortunate mix of a high level of intoxication and a cold, swift river.” From my vantage, it is more an unfortunate mix of denial by high ranking authorities, and a cold, swift dismissal of the real lack of evidence of accidental drowning.

Back in September, I met a gentleman online who was interested in my essays and stories and we began a mutually amusing correspondence for several months. It turned out that he was a somewhat famous cartoonist who had retired a few years ago after his wife suffered a massive stroke. As a result of her confinement, "Jim" was isolated from many people and hobbies he once enjoyed.

I mentioned to him that I once dabbled in cartooning, mostly sketching little caracitures on cocktail napkins and other amateur folly.

"Once a cartoonist, always a cartoonist," he told me. It's who you are, bad drawings and all. Well, they're not really *that* bad.

One time, years ago (1995, I think), I went to Niagara-on-the-Lake with a woman who was, at the time, a sort of therapist/mother friend. Her brother and his family lived up there. It is a beautiful place. His wife was a gourmet cook and while I knew my way around a Dijon vinaigrette, I learned a few important culinary tips and musts that weekend.

They had a sumptuous dinner party the Saturday evening I was there and some discussion was had over mushrooms. I can't recall now what prompted it, but one of the guests said, "I saw this huge mushroom at the market, you know, really huge. What are they called again?"

"Portobello?" suggested someone. No, that wasn't it. A few other guesses were made. Then I said, in a sort of Science Teacher voice, "Oh, that would be the fungi humongi."

They had all had a few glasses of wine, so it took a second.

As a thank-you gift to my wonderful host and hostess, I composed and drew a comic book called, "The Fungi Humongi" which was about a giant mushroom that attacks bad restaurant cooks all across the globe who use, among other things, Kraft parmesan grated cheese in a can.

It was full of bad puns. The illustrations were crazy enough to be funny. At the end, the Fungi Humongi winds up living in Jamaica (mon) and is worshipped as a god. His apostles snip bits of his fleshy top and brew hallucinogenic tea.

I think I still have a copy around somewhere, and if I ever find it I'll scan it for your amusement.

As a child, I used to write captions and draw little balloon thoughts and mustaches, hair, glasses, whatever, in my Religion Book at Catholic school. I got into a lot of trouble for that, needless to say.

I am surely going to Hell.

Note to the "Anonymous" Obama basher who continues to perpetrate trash on this site - I know who you are and I'm really disappointed that you are choosing to spam my blog. Please stop. None of that spaghetti will stick. It reminds me of the defense case Mark Geragos invented for Scott Peterson: lies, innuendo, unsubstantiated or distorted events and relationships, gypsies, tramps and thieves.

Perhaps you who are so afraid of change or so afraid of a black man being president of this country need to look at yourselves and examine your prejudices, insecurities and belief systems. You may find that the problem is you.

UPDATE: In regard to Obama's middle name, I think the Obama campaign should make a pun of it:

Who's Sayin' Obama? We're Sayin' Obama!

Long time readers know that when I get involved in a cause, I invest fully. For me, it's all or nothing; although in the case of the current (seemingly endless) presidential primary campaign, it was much easier for me to express what I didn't like than what I favored.

Not anymore.

Six months ago, if you had told me that Senator Barack Obama would be the frontrunner or, gasp, even the presumptive Democratic presidential candidate by late February, I would have disregarded your idea as preposterous. I was an unbeliever, disillusioned almost completely that any real change could occur after the Democrats' majority win in November (for which I stayed up watching the returns on television until the wee hours) proved to be impotent and irrelevant. What faith could I have in another Democratic candidate? What faith could I have in the American people after five, six years of their chronic apathy?

Oh, me of little faith.

Obama snuck up on me, slowly winning me over with his idealism, his sincerity, his well-crafted (and often original) speeches delivered in an artful rhythmic cadence that flawlessly lent itself to music, that inspired hope, wonder, optimism; a message that inspired art.

As a writer, he knows words matter. Of course words matter. Wasn't it written "In the beginning was the Word?" We know as students of history that words become actions that change the world. The energy upon which the Obama wave is riding is unstoppable now. Not because it's based on false hope or vainglorious chimera, but because it's based on desire: a nearly universal need for change.

At a Clinton rally in Youngstown recently, one of the union presidents had this to say about the Obama supporters:

"Give me a break! I've got news for all the latte-drinking, Prius- driving, Birkenstock-wearing, trust fund babies crowding in to hear him speak! This guy won't last a round against the Republican attack machine. He's a poet, not a fighter."

Funny thing, I have only ever had a latte twice in my life, and both this month. I enjoyed a cinnamon dulce latte to warm up at lunch during one of the several very cold days we had recently. I prefer my coffee unsweetened and without cream. For the record, I have never owned a pair of Birkenstocks and may not even recognize them if I see them (versus a knockoff), and I am only slightly ashamed (but not terribly) that I know nothing of popular culture beyond Disney, and would not know an American Idol from Billy Idol. I would like to have a hybrid car someday, but I believe it is even more economical to keep the car I own for as long as possible.

I'm sure I share that misfit demographic with many an Obamavangelist, a Clinton supporter or a few million Republicans.

After seven-plus years of bloody war, I guess it never occurred to the Clinton Camp that a poet is just what we need right now. And what good has all this so-called "experience" brought us? How much experience do the current Senators and Congresspersons in Washington collectively claim? What have they accomplished? Frankly, I think most of the "experienced" members of Congress should be fired. Adios. Out of the pool.

Ralph Nader announced his candidacy yesterday like a fallen satellite. Why? Who’s behind this nonsense? I’m the FIRST person in line to promote a third party candidacy, a viable third party or fourth party. I have been a big advocate of multi-parties since I was but a junior political scientist back in 1984. But, now? What good does a third party candidacy, designed to ultimately take votes from the Democrats, serve at this point?.

In some ways, Obama's is a third party. Hillary represents the weak, capitulating, spineless Democrats, McCain the losing Republicans and the Old Guard (good riddance), and Obama the clean slate of a new progressive party.

Can we change Washington? I've been telling you for years that you have all the power. I'm volunteering to get out the vote here in Ohio next week. Do your part.

The first time I went ice-skating I was four years old, wore double-runner white figure skates, and wobbled and slipped on a frozen pond, its texture similar to the surface of the moon. My parents, both superb skaters, knew what they were doing. By putting me on slow, high friction ice dotted with clumps of tall weeds and the occasional stone, they ensured I would develop my skating feet, work the muscle groups a little harder, and avoid falling as often. To introduce a novice skater to the slick, unforgiving finish of an indoor ice rink is akin to pushing a non-swimmer in the deep end of the pool.

On the west side of Cleveland during that era, virtually everyone I knew ice-skated. By age five or six most of us had graduated to standard figure skates and longed for the day when we would receive, either from hand-me-downs or new (gasp), a pair of hockey skates with their supple, saddle leather boots and razor sharp blades. For some unexplained regional prejudice, white figure skates were solely acceptable on girls who were training in figure skating, and were otherwise considered uncouth. Those poor girls who wore them were ridiculed or shunned, and sometimes rudely showered with a cloud of ice from those of us who could raise a wave of it with a “hockey stop.”

Figure skating in general was not very popular at the time, which explains why, although one was fitted for ice skates shortly after booties, there were no champion figure skaters from this area. Hockey was the preferred sport. Most of the regional high schools supported a team, and some of you may recall that Cleveland had an NHL team, the Barons for a few years that has recently resurrected as an AHL team. Since girls were not allowed to play organized hockey, some of us took up speed skating instead. But, getting to meets was extremely inconvenient to most parents with large families, so we had to be content with just knowing how to skate really, really fast and compete in spontaneous private events like drag racing on the crowded rink during public sessions.

The ice rink of our childhood was outdoors with a few hazardous spots in gaps between the wooden corral walls and the ice. Subjected to northern Ohio winter elements, the ice got a little rough rather quickly, which served to make us stronger skaters. Pop music of the time (some of the best skating music ever) was piped from tinny loudspeakers you could hear from 200 yards away as you approached or left the rink. We sang along, skated in rhythm, coupled up, watched for friends to arrive, and occasionally thawed out on wooden benches inside the spartan locker area where the floor was covered with large, rubber tiles that squeaked against your skates. The concession stand was limited to soda, watery hot cocoa and popcorn, but nobody went to the rink to eat. Most of us went to skate…and to meet boys.

Between the months of November and March, the skating rink was the place to find romance. It was better than a sock hop or school function because skating alone was perfectly acceptable, and if you were a competent skater you’d attract a partner during the “couples only” skates. Many relationships blossomed under the glow of multicolored outdoor lights, amid the crackle of the Association’s Never my Love, while holding gloved hands cris-crossed in the traditional style. The litmus test of any new relationship formed in school was observing the courting ritual on the ice rink. If the prospect was faithful and didn’t skate with any other girls, there was a future. If the prospect didn’t skate, that made for a tenuous long distance relationship, since most of us spent 100 days a year at the rink, often staying for both afternoon sessions on Saturdays and Sundays.

Then one year in the early 70s, between spring and autumn, the city razed the beloved outdoor rink, like the Velveteen Rabbit with its warped surface, shabby edges and mounds of packed snow left by the Zambonis that remained long into April, and replaced it with a sparkling new indoor rink where we could skate without hats or coats on fast, wet ice that challenged even the veteran skaters. At first it was a little like a demolition derby until we all adjusted to the glassy surface and warmer temperatures.

Continued...

Please support Congressman Wexler's demands for impeachment hearings:

VIDEO

Coming up soon - "Where Are They Now?" - five years later.

Most of you may remember that story (a good book, bad movie and worse television series) where a school teacher, Johnny Smith, suffers a head injury in a car accident, lapses into a coma for five years, and awakens with clairvoyant powers. One of his visions involves a corrupt politician whom he decides to assassinate rather than risk his prediction of nuclear disaster.

Not that any of the Republican candidates would use a child as a bullet shield like the character in the book (although Giuliani might), but another more bizarre group of caricatures would be hard to gather:

• An aging, forgettable, slothful, dimwitted actor with a trophy wife whose new "role" is as avuncular, compassionate-conservative Reagan for the new millennium.

• The demented military hero who has been Dubya’s sock puppet (despite Karl Rove’s vicious defamation campaign that derailed his candidacy in 2000) and war apologist for the past five years; the only issue on which he has maintained any consistency is what constitutes “torture”, having been a victim of torture himself.

• Then we have the front-running Kennedy-wannabe who essentially threw the conservative platform under the bus when running for governor of Massachusetts, likened his sons’ campaigning for him to serving in Iraq, blends the already blurry line between church and state, and left his poor dog in a carrier on the roof of a car during family vacations.

• Speaking of religion (and how can we not?), there is the crazy preacher who lost 200 pounds or something (gave up Twinkies for God, I guess) who has a checkered history with releasing murderers and claims to have a mandate from God (oh, great, like Dubya) to be president.

• Who could overlook the loose cannon libertarian doctor from Texas who doesn’t believe government should be involved in anything (so why is he in Washington?), who’s got some great ideas and energetic supporters all over the Web, and is by far the most amusing to watch, but he hasn’t a snake’s chance in hell of winning the nomination.

• Then there’s the anti-Christ: thrice-married, dress-wearing, mobbed-up whackjob Ghouliani. If he wins the nomination (which I doubt, but you never know these days) and, heaven help us, the election, I will be on a plane to Costa Rica faster than you can say “Nine Eleven.”

Even Stephen King would have been hard-pressed to come up with this skeleton crew.

Despite the Commander-in-Chief's chronic, blithering incompetency, I believe the CIA knows what color Ahmadinejad's bodyguard's boxers are right now. Hopefully that is not politically incorrect. Not that I really care.

There were other good quotes I noted after listening to the podcast of the debate, including:

MIKE GRAVEL: These brave people in the intelligence community just drop kicked the president...and boxed him in!

BARACK OBAMA: [To the president] Don't let facts get in the way of your ideology!

JOE BIDEN: Iran is not a nuclear threat. This march to war has been going on a long time, ever since the "Axis of Evil" speech. And the Senate did not stop him!

JOE BIDEN: Language matters! This is not a "rush to war," because that implies there is going to be a slow march to war. There should be NO WAR. There is no justification for war!

You go, Joe!

HILLARY CLINTON: They [undocumented workers] probably made some of the beds in our hotel rooms last night!

And here is Lewis Black for some comic relief:

Yes, I now can embed videos on the blob. Yay!

I can see the headlines, now: “Loretta's opponent's campaign discovers that the frontrunner spent the better part of her primary school years in the hallway copying out her spelling words as a punishment for being disruptive in class and defaced her religion book with snarky captions over Lord Jesus' head.” Yes, that would go over really big with the Christian Coalition.

I can't help laughing about Obama’s Kindergarten musings, because one of the funny stories in the family repertoire involves Lauren’s Kindergarten graduation. Each of the graduates in the small, private school of ten students (all girls) was asked what she planned to do when she grew up. One wanted to be a veterinarian, one a doctor, one a firefighter, the usual stuff, and when the teacher asked Lauren, Lauren said, “I want to work at Blockbuster!” When the teacher asked why, Lauren said, “Because then I’d get to watch movies all day!”

Of course we laughed and still laugh about it today. But, if Lauren had said, “I want to be President of the United States!” I would have said, “Yeah, Baby!”

Why can’t my kid say that? Obama’s mama must be so proud. Really.