Popcorn gets probation; Herald misses spell-check

In layman's terms, this here is a damn shame.

Famed Appalachain moonshiner gets 18 months

If you didn't catch it, the Spartanburg Herald-Journal misspelled "Appalachian." In a headline, no less. And in more than one place on the online edition, both on its front page and on the stand-alone story. It's spelled correctly in the Associated Press text. The misspelling might be easier to miss if it wasn't the name of a massive mountain range, and a university, and a walking trail, and used in the names of numerous businesses in the region, and if it wasn't in the headline itself.

But the bigger news is poor ol' Popcorn, and his getting caught again, and getting sentenced again.

Twice in the past week, I've watched ol' Popcorn on public television, making moonshine in a documentary that was aired just last night on SCETV. He's an artist at it, that's for certain, and a scientist of it.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one watching that documentary. Prosecutors used material from it in court against Popcorn.

A federal judge turned aside public pleas for leniency and sentenced famed Appalachian moonshiner Marvin "Popcorn" Sutton to 18 months in prison. The bearded 62-year-old Parrottsville author of the book "Me and My Likker" pleaded guilty in April to two counts charging him with illegally producing distilled spirits and being a felon in possession of a .38-caliber handgun.

U.S. District Judge Ronnie Greer sentenced him on Monday to 18 months on each count, to run concurrently, and ordered him to "self-report" to prison when marshals call.

The Greeneville Sun reported that hundreds of people from North Carolina and Tennessee signed petitions supporting Sutton. "We trust him in any matters of great importance in our everyday lives and would welcome him as a neighbor," the petitions said. But the judge doubted many would think that placing a man convicted five times on probation again would serve their interests. Most would say, "no," he said.

Sutton has been running afoul of the law at least since 1974, when he was charged by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms with multiple violations of liquor tax laws. He was convicted in 1981 and 1985 in Haywood County, N.C., on charges of possessing controlled substances and assault with a deadly weapon.

In 2007, firefighters putting out a fire at his Parrottsville property discovered 650 gallons of untaxed alcohol, leading to a probationary sentence from Cocke County for untaxed liquor. In March 2008, he told an undercover agent he had 500 gallons of moonshine in Tennessee and 400 gallons in Maggie Valley, N.C., ready for sale. Federal authorities arrested him days later, leading to Monday's charges.

Sutton's 1999 book "Me and My Likker: The True Story of a Mountain Moonshiner" tells his life's story and describes his "profession" and personal philosophy.

During Monday's hearing, Assistant U.S. Attorney Robert Reeves played videos showing Sutton surrounded by firearms and demonstrating how to make moonshine whiskey.

He's an honest man -- he told the revenuers just how much he had, and where it was. And he's a learned man, having written a book ten years ago about his life and livelihood. And he's an industrious man; he can't be lazy and make 1,550 gallons of moonshine in the past two years. He is, in fact, just the sort of man our economy needs to get us back on our feet.

Well, maybe after his probation is up, if his health holds out, he can get back to work.

And maybe President Barack Obama will pardon him.

The good, the bad and the interesting in brain research

I foresee a new field of political consultation opening in the next decade, bringing neuroscientists together with political scientists to create "neuropolls," a new kind of polling that relies on brain scans rather than "yes" or "no" answers to polls:

A team of American researchers attracted national attention last year when they announced results of a study that, they said, reveal key factors that will influence how swing voters cast their ballots in the upcoming presidential election. The researchers didn’t gain these miraculous insights by polling their subjects. They scanned their brains. Theirs was just the latest in a lengthening skein of studies that use new brain-scan technology to plumb the mysteries of the American political mind. But politics is just the beginning. It’s hard to pick up a newspaper without reading some newly minted neuroscientific explanation for complex human phenomena, from schizophrenia to substance abuse to ­homosexuality.

Can you imagine the impacts on consumer marketing alone? Forget about the fears that insurance companies can use our DNA in determining whether or not to issue coverage to us. What happens if the local Wal-Mart can do a quick scan of your brain? I don't doubt they've thought of it!

The history of American psychiatry can be divided into three overlapping eras: Asylum Psychiatry, Community Psychiatry, and today’s Corporate Psychiatry. In its improbable odyssey, psychiatry has gone from the back wards of hospitals to the boardrooms of corporations, from invisible to virtually omnipresent. As the psychiatrist and author Jonathan Metzl has pointed out, for its first century at least, psychiatry dealt with what were considered obscure mental processes and was conducted in the shadows. Now it is ­everywhere—­in the movies, in advertisements, on television shows, and, most significantly, in our ­bloodstreams.
...
Two developments were at the heart of the revolution that has brought us the biologically based Corporate ­Psychiatry—­the discovery of drugs that actually work, at least for some people, and the rise of brain ­imaging.
...
The most spectacular technology of all, ­fMRI—­or functional magnetic resonance imaging—­burst on the scene in the early 1990s. Unique in that it is able to provide images of both structure and function, fMRI produces not just slices of the brain but what are, in effect, extremely ­high-­resolution movies of what the brain looks like when it is working. By measuring blood flow, which is an indicator of brain activity, fMRI reveals which parts of the brain are being used most actively during a given task. That permits observation of the brain while it is actually functioning as a ­mind—­thinking, remembering, seeing, hearing, imagining, experiencing pleasure or ­pain.

Unlike earlier technologies, fMRI requires a very short total scan time (one to two minutes), and it is entirely noninvasive and extraordinarily comprehensive: It can measure brain responses at 100,000 locations. Of the wonders of brain imaging, and in particular fMRI, the leading neuropsychologist Steven Pinker has written exuberantly, “Every facet of mind, from mental images to the moral sense, from mundane memories to acts of genius, has been tied to tracts of neural real estate. Using fMRI . . . scientists can tell whether the owner of the brain is imagining a face or a place. They can knock out a gene and prevent a mouse from learning, or insert extra copies and make it learn better.”

Wow. Does that mean these "maps" can show me the memory of my concussion from playing dodgeball in the fourth grade? Or the memory of when my truck was totaled -- with me in it -- on an interstate off-ramp?

I can think of other places to re-explore in the real estate of my brain, too.

Fictional action trumps real impotence

On the front page of CNN.com, I read two headlines this afternoon, in this order: "Paulson braces public for months of tough times" and "Batman dethrones Spidey as superhero king." Without having seen "The Dark Knight" but being reasonably familiar with the characters involved, I believe the two stories are related.

First, I click on the Paulson story and find that the appointed leaders of our corner of the Free World have abdicated their authority to fix our broken system. Paulson is the U.S. Secretary of Treasury but speaks in this report as if he's merely the town cryer, impotent and clueless, able to report what we all see, hear and feel, but incapable of fixing a damn thing. He speaks, and he engenders no confidence whatsoever:

"I think it's going to be months that we're working our way through this period - clearly months," he said.

Paulson said the number of troubled banks will increase as they struggle to cope with big losses on bad mortgages. The government this month took over IndyMac (IDMC) after a run led it to become the largest regulated thrift to fail.

"Of course the list is going to grow longer given the stresses we have in the marketplace, given the housing correction. But again, it's a safe banking system, a sound banking system. Our regulators are on top of it. This is a very manageable situation," he said in broadcast interviews.

He enumerates the nation's economic ills like a trained medic, but the best medicine he offers is a stroke to the forearm:

"We're going through a challenging time with our economy. This is a tough time. The three big issues we're facing right now are, first, the housing correction which is at the heart of the slowdown; secondly, turmoil of the capital markets; and thirdly, the high oil prices, which are going to prolong the slowdown," he said.

"But remember, our economy has got very strong long-term fundamentals, solid fundamentals. And you know, your policy-makers here, regulators, we're being very vigilant."

His activism to correct economic course begins and ends with the advice an old uncle might give to a couple weighing a mortgage:

"Our first priority today is the stability of the capital markets, the stability of the system. And these institutions have investors all around the world ... and those investors need to know that we in the United States of America understand the importance of these institutions to our capital markets and to our economy and to our housing market," he added.

There is no sense of urgency, no commitment to act, not even an indication that he and his orbiters have any idea of what steps are needed to find the Titanic's leaks, marshal the resources necessary to plug them, hoist ballast and pump for dear life. Rather, there's admission of failure, married weakly to admission of incompetence:

Paulson acknowledged the U.S. is continuing to lose jobs, though he said the $168 billion economic relief plan approved this year has created jobs that would not otherwise exist. The plan included tax rebates for people and tax breaks for businesses.

This is not service, not leadership, not action; this is the ghost of a dead ideology, teetering in Purgatory and unsure of which direction to fall.

In case the reader needs further information, CNN kindly includes a link on that story's page to a series of analysis called "Scary economy, real solutions." Following that link leads to a series of briefs with titles like "A looming recession," "Weak dollar," "Falling stock market," "Unemployment anxiety," "Inflation," "Gas prices rising," "Home prices sinking," "Tightening mortgage market." The briefs dispense advice that wasn't fresh when Ben Franklin offered it under the name of Poor Richard: "Beef up emergency savings," one text offers, with nary a glimpse of irony.

It is no wonder, then, that America's moviegoing public has fled the real world where walking apparitions promise volumes of nothing and given a record-breaking opening weekend to a film about one disciplined hero battling one agent of chaos, neither of whom suffers from impotence, incompetence, bureaucratic malaise or a lack of creative ideas to resolve problems. Neither the superhero nor the supervillain are trapped in merely diagnosing and rediagnosing a situation; both see the matter at hand and move, by God, to handle it.

Would that America's leaders had a fraction of the simple gumption necessary to do the same.

An annotated tour of Capitol Hill

Hard to catch up a couple of weeks in a few paragraphs, but here goes: Daisy and I spent a week or so in Charleston with her mom in the hospital, then went to Washington, DC, for a work-related conference, then she came home to the Upstate and sweltered until a broken heat pump was repaired, then we rode back to Charleston for her mom's check-up in the heat and humidity. Daisy's right: It's been a long, hot summer already, and summer's not over.

A couple of interesting things occurred during this time, not counting that I've learned a little bit about kidney stones, E. coli, MRSA and other bacterial infections.

One is that we spent July 4 in the nation's capital but didn't spend it on the crowded National Mall with thousands of others; we watched happily from the air-conditioned comfort of our hotel room. Another is that we scheduled a tour of Capitol Hill through the office of one of our illustrious Senators -- I won't name names but there are only two, and only one of them made his name as a presidential persecutor during the Clinton impeachment trial. And speaking of persecutors, Old Scratch collected on his contract with Jesse Helms, and Daisy and I happened to drive through Raleigh on the very afternoon that the Helms account was closed at Hayes Barton Baptist Church. (Yep, I got pictures, but no, I didn't get inside.)

I'll skip the lessons in bacterial infections and hospital visits, and the various dramas connected thereto, and get straight to Washington. Well, it was hot and the days were long. This was no vacation for either of us, and some of our real goals were accomplished. But at the end of the work, Daisy and I scheduled with that unnamed Senator's office to get a guided tour of Capitol Hill.

In fact, Capitol Hill isn't open to the public as it was before Dubya's and Congress's knee-jerk reactions to the attacks of 2001. Now, law-abiding Americans can only visit the People's House -- as it was called when it was being conceived by Washington, L'Enfant and others in the eighteenth century -- by calling and getting an appointment for a guided tour through a member of Congress.

Because Daisy and I had watched C-SPAN's gorgeous documentary on Capitol Hill on Memorial Day, we actually called to get one of the special tours up into the Rotunda. But we were advised that the rules are different for those tours: Your member of Congress must accompany you, and you have to sign papers declaring your physical fitness for that tour (because it involves climbing a ton of stairs, and it takes a long while), and those tours have to be arranged with the office of the architect of the Capitol. Indeed, our contact advised us, our Senator had never taken that tour himself. (It is more important, after all, to travel the nation in support of John McCain's presidential campaign than to be available to meet the requests of constituents.)

So for these reasons (though we were not only sufficiently physically fit, but excited at the prospect of that behind-the-scenes tour), we didn't get the Rotunda tour. Instead, we got (the names have been changed to protect the uninformed) Bart. Bart would take us and another unsuspecting family on our guided tour. Okeydoke.

So on July 7, Daisy and I parked at Union Station. We tried to park closer to Capitol Hill, but Capitol Police advised us that the closest "citizen parking" was in the pay-by-the-hour parking deck behind Union Station. "Citizen parking," the officer called it. I took it to mean that those hundreds of cars parked behind the martial perimeter around Capitol Hill must be other-than-citizens, either "non-citizens" or "super-citizens." In either case, I'm concerned; the Constitution does not establish any "super-citizenship," and it makes no sense to allow non-citizens to park nearer to the government than citizens themselves are allowed to park. Nevertheless, we parked behind Union Station and called our office contact to ask about the policy on carrying bags and purses.

When we told her we'd parked at Union Station, she blanched (yes, even over the phone, we could tell she blanched) and said that we should park near the elevators and cover anything valuable we might have to leave in the truck. In fact, she told us that it would be safer for Daisy to leave her purse in the Senator's office than in our locked vehicle. It was a confidence booster, since we'd checked out of the hotel already, and everything we'd brought to Washington was in the truck. Mmm, I thought: My tax dollars at work. I gave my little truck a second glance as we rounded the corner to leave the parking deck.

Did you know Union Station was built on bottom land that once was occupied by Irish transients? The shantytown was called Swampoodle and the Irish had to be run out so the land could be filled in and the station could be built. What a fine welcome for the Irish, I thought. Give us your tired, your poor -- but get the hell out of the way now, because progress is coming, and its god is capitalist. Swampoodle.

And did you know that the statues of Roman centurions that ring the upper deck of Union Station were original cast as nude, but shields were cast additionally to cover the nudity in order so as not to offend weaker sensibilities? To which I thought, then why cast the statues at all, and why not just paint murals of Mickey Mouse up there instead? What unnecessary drama.

There are inspiring inscriptions in the station's facade, and we paused long enough to read them. But the heat and the taxi traffic kept us moving toward our Senator's office, a little up Delaware Avenue and on the left.

Though we got there a few minutes early, Bart started our tour fifteen minutes late, there being more important matters to address: checking Facebook pages and whatnot. It was a precursor of things to come.

Bart told us he'd only been with the Senator's office for a few weeks. He may have said, too, that he spent part of the spring as a legislative page, but he mumbled a good bit when he was unsure, so he may have been saying something else entirely. I'm certain that the mumbling is endearing to the co-eds at his college -- which will go unnamed here to protect those who may actually be paying attention to their history professors in Clinton -- as is his fresh-from-North-Myrtle tan and Zoom!-whitening, but it was a bit of an aggravation to someone who'd seen the C-SPAN documentary and who was actually interested in learning more about our Capitol. I can tell you too that those hiking from Union Station on a hot July afternoon were not as charmed by Bart's surreptitious smoothing and primping as were the nubile tour guides with whom we crossed paths. I'm sure that many have swooned upon hearing that he's a business major, with intentions of law school thereafter.

Lucky for Bart that the LSAT doesn't include a section on American history. Or on grammar. "The most funnest part" of the tour for Bart, he told us, was riding the underground trolley that ferries legislators from their office buildings to their respective chambers for votes. "The most funnest" is a direct quote; I have no reason to lie about it.

He took us downstairs to line up for the trolley and explained the little red light on the clocks located throughout the Senate complex. Based upon his mumbling explanation, I still have no understanding of the clock system, but I know the clocks have little red lights on them for some reason. And it's important to members of Congress.

The original statue of the Lady of Freedom, the model for the statue that stands atop the Capitol dome, was encased in plywood because it's being moved to a visitors center. Bart explained that this "15-feet-tall" statue was the tallest in Washington, by law. None can be taller, he said. Having seen the statues of Jefferson and Lincoln, I kept my lip buttoned, for I didn't want to get anyone into trouble.

Stepping up into Statuary Hall, Bart explained that each state has two statues in the Capitol, including South Carolina. (!) Our two are of Wade Hampton and John C. Calhoun, he told us.

Of course, Daisy and I went to marvel at many others we recognized by image or by name. We apparently impeded Bart's tour plan, as we pointed and called out names, and took pictures, amazed at the collective significance of the history in the room. I figured that if Bart were brighter, he likely would have thought, You can take the yokels out of the sticks, but you can't take the sticks out of the yokels. But I rest assured that Bart arrived at no such construction.

As Bart made his way through a halting, embarrassing explanation of Constantine Brumidi's murals in the Rotunda, Daisy and I agreed that he would benefit from watching the C-SPAN documentary, and we noticed too that other tour guides were going into much greater -- and more accurate -- detail than was ours, and that some were referring to a printed script of some sort. Not our Bart.

I have to confess that because our little tour party included another family, a couple with elementary- or middle-school-age kids, I felt compelled to correct some of Bart's more egregious declarations. For example, a bit of the mural in the Rotunda illustrates the Wright brothers' first flight at Kitty Hawk. When Bart said it occurred "sometime in the mid-1900s," I couldn't stop myself from telling the kids, "That happened in 1903."

"You must be a real history buff," said young Bart.

"I was an English major," I replied. What I didn't say, but thought, was: The reason I can recognize these statues and murals, and know the dates of certain important events, and know their significance, is that I paid more attention to what I was being taught in the public schools of eastern North Carolina than to what I'd be doing on Friday nights, and with whom, and where, and what beverages might be available there.

On the other hand, if only I'd paid more attention to primping and tanning and Zoom!-whitening, I might have been working for a Senator too when I was 20. And I might still be there, parking in the "super-citizen" parking areas, much closer to Capitol Hill than Union Station's dark and dangerous parking deck. C'est la vie.

Is it really important, after all, to know that flight began with the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk in 1903, instead of in the mid-1900s? Maybe not.

Is it really important to recognize Po'pay as a leader of the Pueblo tribe in New Mexico? Young Bart informed us that Po'pay -- which he pronounced unmumblingly "Pompeii" -- was a statue of an Indian and had been removed from Statuary Hall "to get a bath or something." He didn't know who Po'pay was, or why Po'pay was significant, only that a statue of an Indian had been removed, maybe for "a bath." In fact, in a chronology of all the statues on Capitol Hill, Po'pay represents the earliest one of a person born on what ultimately became America. Pretty significant, in the scheme of things. And the statue wasn't removed for "a bath," but has been moved to the new Visitors Center behind Capitol Hill. Hm.

Ushering us out of the Rotunda, young Bart took us quickly to and through the old well of the Senate -- which bears a literal resemblance to a well, and might explain why it's called that -- when the young nation's Senate had only 26 members and could be accommodated around a circular bar, overlooking the speaker below (like a medical theater). Daisy and I were fascinated here, standing where America's first few crops of Senators stood.

Then Bart led us hastily through the original Supreme Court's chamber and we took a few photographs of it. It's a tiny, rare space, all the rarer given the importance of what occurred there. And then he led us to the "Crypt," another room that today houses statues but was originally built to be the burial place for a president, Bart told us. "I think it was George Washington," he mumbled.

Pausing to wait in line to get out of the crypt, our tour mates asked Bart where he thought was the best place in town from which to watch the fireworks display on July 4th. He wouldn't know, he said; he'd spent the evening "on a crowded dock on the waterfront," he said. Okeydoke.

It happened that the Senate was in session that day (the House was not), so I asked Bart if we'd be able to visit the Senate gallery. Well, he didn't bring passes, he said. He didn't think we'd be interested in that, he said, because he finds it really boring himself. And he'd never taken a tour group way up there; he'd only been there himself on his own "training" tour with other legislative staff. But if we reeeally wanted to see the Senate gallery, he'd call back and "try to get some" passes. Mm, we definitely felt it might be an uphill climb. But indeed, Daisy and I said, and our tour mates agreed that they'd like to do that, too. So Bart made a call and mumbled that maybe someone could bring us passes as we moved along.

And we moved along, finally, to a momentous spot on the tour. In one smaller chamber off Statuary Hall is another ring of statues, including a massive bronze statue of King Kamehameha of Hawai'i. Bart merely pointed to the statue, standing in a dark corner, and said it was there because it was so heavy and it was moved to a spot where it was supported by a pillar on the floor below. He didn't know who it was, he said, but he told us it was solid gold and it was from Hawai'i. "It's a little ironic," he said, "I just got an email this week saying that Barack Obama's parents were from Hawai'i."

I was instantly embarrassed for Bart, knowing as most of America does that Obama's mother was from Kansas, as landlocked a state as any state can be, and that his father was from Kenya, which isn't even in the Western hemisphere. So I spoke up to divert attention. "It's King Kamehameha," I told our tour mates' kids, "who ruled Hawai'i when it was still a nation, before it was discovered by white people and became our property."

I think Bart was oblivious. He led us into the next little hallway where, he told us, President George W. Bush walks through double doors to deliver his State of the Union Address to Congress. In fact, he said, drawing our attention to a window between statues of Jonathan Trumbull of Connecticut and Father Jacques Marquette of Wisconsin, this is the spot where President George W. Bush knelt and prayed after September 11. "I wasn't here to see it myself, but I've heard it from several people."

Daisy didn't miss a beat: "He ought to be praying now," she said aloud.

I was aghast. Our tour guide, a representive of one of our state's Senators, had just repeated Internet misinformation about Barack Obama, and in the next breath had repeated equally vapid reverence for the least capable president in history, at least the worst one since James Buchanan. If there had been any question before of Bart's ineffectiveness, he had erased it now.

That would have marked the end of the tour, but there was the question of the Senate gallery passes. Bart hadn't gotten a call back yet, and he mumbled about someone bringing passes to us in mid-tour, but no one had come. So he left us alone in one of Brumidi's hallways, pointing to painted birds and lilies on the wall to keep us occupied. A bit later, he returned and turned us around to take a corridor to the Senate gallery.

On the way, we passed a plaque in a stairwell, marking the spot where George Washington himself had laid the original cornerstone of the Capitol. I was struck by this and pointed it out to Daisy, because I've been reading a book called "The Sacred Geometry of Washington, D.C." about Pierre L'Enfant's draft of the city of Washington. It is this point, the cornerstone of the Capitol, that marked L'Enfant's "zero meridian" and from which he marked the various measurements, streets, avenues, circles and squares that were mostly realized as the city was built. As much as anything else we'd seen, seeing this spot sent chills down my spine; this point on a one-time hill overlooking the Potomac River was the origin of so much of the future world capital's history.

Of course, we passed it right by; it didn't register a blip on Bart's radar.

Upstairs, we unloaded all electronics into a plastic bin, which Bart checked into a little office, and filed into the Senate gallery. More chills. At the moment, Sen. Byron Dorgan of North Dakota was orating on the rising costs of oil on the world market and decrying the role of speculators in that increase. Dorgan was alone in the chamber except for his legislative aides and Sen. Jim Webb, sitting on the dais as the presiding officer of that day. That very morning, Webb has issued a statement taking himself out of consideration for the vice presidency on Obama's ticket.

Far from being bored, I was enthralled, studying the busts of the first several presidents of the Senate in little alcoves around the gallery, and catching various details I remembered from the C-SPAN documentary: the Latin inscriptions over the doors, the eagle in the Senate skylight, and others.

Our tour mates had kids with them, so after twenty minutes or so, Daisy tapped Bart on the shoulder and said we were ready to go if he was. He certainly was.

And that was it. Bart led us back to the underground trolley, which carried us backward to the Senate office where we began, and we collected our things to leave. Outside, we paused on a park bench to rest, decompress and reflect on the tour before starting our long drive home.

Back at Union Station, we were thankful to find the truck intact and unmolested. We left Washington and got as far as Raleigh, North Carolina, where we passed the night at a hotel just outside downtown. And the next morning, we decided to spend the day in town. But that's a story for our next note.

Dubya: Master of the obvious

Moments like these make me proud to be an American.

'It's been a difficult time for American families," Bush said at a press conference. "We must ensure we can continue providing credit during this time of stress."

Odd that the solution to our woes is to announce artificial actions that don't solve anyone's problems. Maybe next year we can begin rebuilding.

George Carlin, May 12, 1937 – June 22, 2008

This is a tragedy. One of the few people to consistently tell the truth, tell it clearly, bluntly and entertainingly, is gone. I hope there will be a nationally-televised service for him, as there has been for lesser pooh-bahs in recent years, months and weeks.

"Stay the course and make your mama proud"

Heard an interview with James McMurtry on the Bob Edwards Show on XM NPR this week, and one of McMurtry's tracks inspired me to go buy his latest album, "Just Us Kids." The track is called "Cheney's Toy" and in a perfect world, country music radio stations would serving up double doses of this song every hour. But as we know, it is not a perfect world; someone, somewhere, has not yet learned about life from Kenny Chesney, and about relationships from Carrie Underwood, and about patriotism from Toby Keith. Those are truly lucky people, but so am I, having found the lyrics to McMurtry's songs online. Drink up.

Another unknown soldier
Another lesson learned
Kick the gas can over
Strike a match get back and watch that sucker burn

Keep smiling for the camera
Keep waving to the crowd
Don't let up for an instant
Stay the course and make your mama proud

You're the man
Show'em what you're made of
You're no longer daddy's boy
You're the man
That they're all afraid of
But you're only Cheney's toy

These are only part of the lyrics; the whole song is this good, and the rest of the cd bears hearing too. Buy a copy for your loved ones, and call your congressman.

Obama bags a 'Possum(us)

Oh, good God.

Did anyone check with anyone before releasing a presidential-seal look-alike logo whose legend reads, "Vero Possumus"?

That's "Possumus," folks.

"Possumus."

"Ten signs you're an unquestioning Christian"

Without making a values judgment on the topic -- I continue to hold membership in a Protestant Christian denomination, and matriculated from an institution sponsored by that denomination -- I found this bit of email circulation a clever and intriguing read. It came to me under the subject line, "Ten signs you're an unquestioning Christian," and I offer it to others in the same condition I found it:

10
You vigorously deny the existence of thousands of gods claimed by other religions, but you feel outraged when someone denies the existence of your god.

9
You feel insulted and "dehumanized" when scientists say that people evolved from lesser life forms, but you have no problem with the Biblical claim that your first ancestors were created from dirt.

8
You laugh at polytheists, but you have no problem believing in a Trinity god.

7
You are angered by the "atrocities" attributed to Allah, but you don't flinch when hearing about how God/Jehovah slaughtered all the babies in Egypt in "Exodus" and ordered the elimination of entire ethnic groups in "Joshua" -- including women, children and their animals.

6
You laugh at Hindu beliefs that deify humans, and Greek claims about gods sleeping with woman, but you have no problem believing that the Holy Spirit impregnated Mary, who then gave birth to a man-god who was killed, came back to life and then ascended into the sky.

5
You are willing to spend you life looking for loopholes in he scientifically-established age of the Earth (4.55 billion years), but you find nothing wrong with believing dates recorded by pre-historic tribesmen sitting in their tents and guessing that the Earth is a couple of generations old.

4
You believe that the entire population of the planet, with the exception of those who share your beliefs -- though excluding those in all rival sects -- will spend eternity in an infinite hell of suffering. Yet you considered your religion to be the most "tolerant" and "loving."

3
While modern science, history, geology, biology and physics are insufficient to convince you of facts that are contrary to your beliefs, you find a single person rolling on the floor and "speaking in tongues" to be clear and complete evidence to support those beliefs.

2
You define 0.01 percent as a "high success rate" when it comes to answered prayers, even as evidence that "prayer works." And you believe that the remaining 99.9 percent failure rate of prayer is simply "the will of God."

1
You may know demonstrably less than non-believers and skeptics about the content of the Bible, about Christianity and about the history of your church and denomination, but you call yourself a Christian.

Obama's "hybrid" personality and management style

In catching up on emails and news articles from last week, I learned some things:

Barack Obama's managerial manner bears a striking resemblance to a former Texas governor who aspired to the White House:

Like most presidential candidates, Mr. Obama is developing his executive skills on the fly, and under intense scrutiny. The evolution of his style in recent months suggests he is still finding the right formula as he confronts a challenge that he has not faced in his career: managing a large organization.

The skill will become more important should he win the presidency, and his style is getting added attention as the country absorbs the lessons of President Bush's tenure in the Oval Office. Mr. Bush's critics, including former aides, have portrayed him as too cloistered, too dependent on a small coterie of trusted aides, unable to distinguish between loyalty and competence, and insufficiently willing to adjust course in the face of events that do not unfold the way he expects.

Mr. Obama's style so far is marked by an aversion to leaks and public drama and his selection of a small group of advisers who have exhibited discipline and loyalty in carrying out his priorities. The departure of Mr. Johnson, who was brought in to provide managerial experience to the vice-presidential search, was a rare instance of the campaign's having to oust one of its own in the midst of a messy public crisis.

He reads widely and encourages alternative views in policy-making discussions, but likes to keep the process crisp. He is personally even-keeled, but can be prickly when small things go wrong.

As the chief executive officer of Obama for America, a concern of nearly 1,000 employees and a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars, Mr. Obama is more inclined to focus on the big picture over the day-to-day whirl.

He delegates many decisions, and virtually all tasks, to a core group that oversees a sprawling, yet centralized operation in his Chicago campaign headquarters, which going into the general election season is absorbing many of the political functions of the Democratic National Committee. Mr. Obama stays connected to advisers and friends via a BlackBerry, sending frequent but unsigned messages that are to the point. A discussion that cannot be conducted in a sentence or two is likely to be finished by telephone.

Although it appears Obama works well at night, while Dubya likes to be tucked in by 9.

On the other hand, Obama appears to have a short fuse to a Clintonian temper:

On policy issues, Mr. Obama can have a photographic memory of intricate details, but he often struggled to remember the names of local political supporters he had met. A cool demeanor on primary election nights, even in defeat, can give way to a short temper when a speech text is not on the podium, a loudspeaker crackles or an aide has not brought over a throat-soothing herbal tea.

''Who's handling sound? Who's handling sound?'' he snapped at his staff when a microphone repeatedly went haywire at a campaign event in South Carolina.

But I suppose that's allowed when one reaches the heights where he finds himself today.

One thing I like is that he values order. Does anyone know Obama's Myers-Briggs type? Could we be electing an NTJ?

Most high-level gatherings involving Mr. Obama are held either in his kitchen or at an office away from campaign headquarters, and are expected to unfold in an orderly manner. Written agendas and concise briefings are preferred.

He does not stir dissent simply for dissent's sake, but often employs a Socratic method of discussion, where aides put ideas forward for him to accept or reject. Advisers described his meetings as ''un-Clintonesque,'' a reference to the often meandering, if engrossing, policy discussions Bill Clinton presided over when he was president.

''He doesn't sit there for hours chewing on it and discussing it,'' said Susan Rice, a foreign policy adviser to Mr. Obama who worked in the Clinton administration. ''He's very thorough, yet efficient about it.''

I notice that the quoted advisor didn't call Obama's style as "Dubyesque" either, but it certainly sounds as if there's a similarity.

Isn't it odd that the last three Republican presidents have been hands-off delegators -- think of Dubya, George I and Reagan, all trusting their Star Chamber to get the work done -- while the last two Democratic presidents, Clinton and Carter, have been the polyglots, digging down into the weeds themselves to master the roots of every issue.

Gerald Ford didn't last long enough to leave a real imprint, though he seemed earnestly interested in understanding issues, and Richard Nixon had Bill Clinton's encyclopedic knowledge of policy, while LBJ sensibly relied more on his big-picture mastery of labyrinthine legislative processes than detailed policy points.

More and more, the picture emerging of Obama is a hybrid, leaning toward the Republican penchant for thematic direction and delegation. I wonder if that's what we need. Is it "change"?

Why I should vote Republican in 2008.

This is beautiful.