Alone All By Myself

I hate going on dates. I hate hate hate going on dates. I'd rather sweeten my tea with pulverized glass than go on one more awful date. The idea of even attempting to have one more one-sided "conversation" with one more one-word-answer manbot is so excruciating to me that I suddenly understand the logic behind that show Snapped on Oxygen. Here's an example of a somewhat recent exchange I had during one of my more painful dates:

ME: So, then you like what you do?
HIM: Yeah.
(Silence.)
ME: Great. So, what inspired you to go into that industry in the first place?
(More Silence.)
ME: Did someone encourage you to go into that field?
HIM: Dad.
ME: Your dad?
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Great. That's great. So, do you and your dad work together?
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Really? Oh, that's nice.
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Do you like working with him?
(Again, Silence.)
HIM: Sometimes.
ME: Sometimes? Why's that?
HIM: (shrug)

Anyway, the date wound down with this:

ME: Yeah, I don't think this is going to work out.
HIM: No?
ME: No. I actually feel like I'm alone on this date. And, to be quite honest with you, ______, I don't really need to date you to be alone. I can be alone all by myself.
HIM: Okay.
ME: Yeah, I actually prefer being alone all by myself.
HIM: (shrug)

I am 33 and single, and, frankly, the only times I wish I had a man in my life are a) when I'm having car trouble b) when I have a lot of parcels and/or bags to carry while I'm shopping and c) when I see men walking around with their kids hoisted up on their shoulders. Were it not for these three disparate moments in time, I'd be fine. I'd scarcely consider pairing up. The problem is a) lately my car has been having quite a bit of trouble b) I always seem to have a shitload to carry, and, c) to make matters worse, I work with kids, so I see lots of men carrying their kids up on their goddamn shoulders.

I don't like to gripe about men because it's basically been done a gazillion times over by many other women who do it so much better than I ever could but, seriously, what the hell?

If the men I date aren't legally mute, they're talking non-stop...about sex. In odious detail. They don't even know my last name, but they want to know what color my underwear is. So, when they ask, I tell them.

"It's black," I say.
"Ooooo, black, sexy," the horny bastards reply.
"Yeah, and guess what?" I say. "You're never going to see it."

Not unless I also tell them the style, the designer, and the size of my underwear so they can then go and peruse the lingerie section of Bloomingdales on their own...the pervs that they are.

Now, I cannot speak for all women on this subject, but I can speak for myself. The sex talk does not work. The no talk does not work. Why can't the interest a man expresses in a woman be, I don't know, sweet? A respectful, yet charmingly playful, effort toward genuinely getting to know the woman because he genuinely likes the woman. You don't want to hold her hand unless it's immediately going to lead to nakedness? Somehow that just doesn't seem right to me. If it really is only about sex across the board then, really, I'm in trouble. One guy proudly told me that he doesn't know if he loves a woman until he has sex with her. In my mind, love should develop first. Sex should be an expression of that love.

But, apparently, I'm alone on that one.

Single Turkeys (Put A Wing On It)

All my single turkeys
(All my single turkeys)

All my single turkeys
(All my single turkeys)

All my single turkeys
(All my single turkeys)

Put your wings up...

Listen to us
you're not gonna stuff
any of that mush
in our guts

We've had enough
of the buttery brush
Your drumsticks were our
legs and butts

Pay us attention
Did we mention,
beef and pork are very
deliiiicious?

We buzzards are tough
Yes, ugly and such,
but come and touch us and you'll suff-er

Try and catch us cuz we're gonna put a wing on it
Barely fly, but we're gonna put a wing on it
Baked and sliced, bitches, we can put a wing on it

gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gobble

gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gobble

Your oven is hot
and you think you've got
a holiday meal to hit the spot

But we think not
We're hiding your pots
and pans out in the garage

Pay us attention
Did we mention,
fish and duck are very
deliiiicious?

Want to carve and cut
us birds into what
you'll just serve tomorrow for lunch

Try and catch us cuz we're gonna put a wing on it
Barely fly, but we're gonna put a wing on it
Baked and sliced, bitches, we can put a wing on it

gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gobble

gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gobble...

So
many pilgrims served
It's worse than what you've heard;
it's so absurd
Thanksgiving and Christmas,
both traditions
to uplift us,
not kill us,
slit our throats...
Drown us with gravy boats
See this is what we know
Atop a stove, a Macy's float,
cartoonish oaf
about to roast

All my single turkeys
(All my single turkeys)

All my single turkeys
(All my single turkeys)

All my single turkeys
(All my single turkeys)

Put your wings up...

gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gobble

gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gob, gob, gob
gobble...

Have a Heart

You know when you're walking along somewhere and you happen to notice a fellow human being who is in distress, but you keep walking along, pretending not to notice so that you can get away with doing nothing to help? Yeah, me neither. I personally always try to do something to help. Even if I don't necessarily think I'd be much of a help, I still offer my assistance. And I've always been this way. The steady threat of ABC's "What Would You Do?" hidden cameras has not suddenly made me a decent person. I, like most of you, tend to do the right thing. However, if you are one of those people who pretends to not notice that your help is needed, and just go along on your merry little way without stopping to offer someone a hand when a hand would obviously be appreciated, I'd like to think that you, at the very least, would be both artful and considerate enough to never ever mention to the very person you failed to help, how you saw him or her in distress, but did nothing about it. I mean, surely there cannot exist the type of person who would offhandedly remark, "I saw you. I saw you slip and fall on the ice. I saw you struggling and everything to pull yourself up...but I didn't help you."

Surely not. Not unless you are one of the women I happen to work with.

You see, a colleague of mine actually said that very thing to me the other day. My hard fall onto the ice was, at least, two weeks in the past and no one was talking about it anymore. And yet, there she was, admitting to me that she had seen me struggling and didn't help me...because she didn't want to bother me. Did you catch that? She didn't want to bother me. She hadn't even offered an empty, "Are you okay?" I was so stunned that I could do nothing but listen as she rambled on. Was she kidding me? Who would be dense enough to admit this sort of thing? Then I sarcastically told her that it was probably a good thing that she didn't help me because she probably would have also slipped on the ice and then fallen on top of me, making it much worse. But as I tiptoed away from this morally questionable space cadet, I couldn't help but remember all the times I helped other people out, strangers included, and how good it made me feel to do something.

Perhaps, had she done something to help, she might have felt the way my sisters and I felt on a super sunny spring afternoon at the local Dairy Queen, back when I was eighteen years old. This specific DQ is no longer standing because word eventually got out that the teenage boys who were working there were, um, how do I say this? Squirting themselves into the soft serve vat of cream? Oh my God, I'm gagging. Anyway, who knows if it's even true, but that was the rumor.

Anyway, this rumor was a good two years away as we sat in my sister's Volvo eating our ice cream. Then, as if on cue, we all looked up from our treats at the same time to notice a thin, disheveled-looking elderly man. This probably wouldn't have kept our gaze had he not also appeared to be both alone and mentally retarded. Eating his vanilla cone in front of the DQ, he wore a pained expression on his face. He seemed confused, lost, scared even. As he licked his ice cream, he squinted and pressed one hand to his forehead with such pressure that it looked like he was pushing his loose forehead skin into his eyebrows in the hopes of pushing them all the way down and off his face. "What's wrong with that guy?" my little sister, who was nine at the time, asked from the backseat. But, before I even had a micro chance to try to answer her question, I heard it. The sniffling.

My older sister, who was twenty-two at the time, had already begun to bawl. The napkin that had been wrapped around her cone to absorb any dripping ice cream was now suddenly working overtime as it wiped away her tears. The thing is, my sister, a.k.a. Tenderheart, always cries when she catches even the most fleeting glimpse of mentally retarded, or physically disabled people. And she always utters the same 9 words once the floodgates open. "WHY do I always have to SEE these things?" she laments. And our response to my sister's wounded soul is always the same: we laugh. At her. Not at who she is crying for, just at her. And through our laughter we always ask, "But why are you crying?" As she fights to catch her breath, she usually replies, "It's so saaaaaaaaaaaad." And then she adds, "I don't know WHY I always have to SEE these things. WHY do I always have to SEE these things?"

But I will be honest with you, okay? The sight of this particular man in front of DQ, on this particular day, in this particular moment, tugged pretty aggressively at my own heart strings. Seeing this elderly, mentally retarded, and, likely, lost man was like stumbling upon the tearjerker trifecta. Within seconds of my older sister's initial sobs, my little sister and I joined in with our own. Oh how we blubbered. It was worse than when we watched The Champ.

"You should go see if he needs help," I finally sniffed to my older sister as I wiped my nose. But by now she was wailing. She couldn't do it and, well, my other sister was technically still a child. And apparently children aren't supposed to talk to strangers or something, so I couldn't really instruct her to do anything about it. Plus, she, too, was still a weepy mess. So, with no other choice than to forge forth on my own, I pulled myself together and got out of the car to see if I could do something for this man who appeared to be in need of some assistance.

Hunching my shoulders slightly and bowing my head a bit, I approached him. I don't remember him as being shorter than I was, but for some reason, I always hunch my shoulders slightly and bow my head a bit when I say, "Excuse me..." to anyone. Maybe a body language expert or psychologist could help me out with this one but, I'm guessing that this is my way of presenting myself as somewhat submissive. A non-threat. Like, "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you. Look at my lousy posture. I'm probably brittle and weak. If you had to, you'd be able to run away from me easily." Anyway, I asked him if he needed help and he said that he did. I couldn't completely understand what he was saying, but somehow I caught that he had gotten on the wrong bus and needed to get home because his wife would be worried. I hadn't been talking to him for more than a minute when my sisters suddenly crept onto the scene like the Munchkins coming out, coming out, from wherever they were...which, in this case, was the tear-soaked interior of my sister's Volvo.

Now, this was before the days of everyone having a cell phone, so we asked the teenage DQ dummies who had been watching this scene unfold from behind their sliding glass windows, if this gentleman could use their phone to call his wife. Before they could say yes, the man we were trying to help added this heartbreaking detail about his wife: She wouldn't hear the phone. She was deaf. To my right, once again, I could hear the sniffling begin, but then it abruptly stopped. My sister had a plan.

We made the DQ dummies call the guy a cab. When the man started crying that he couldn't pay for a cab because he had no money, my sister announced that we would pay his cab fare. When the cabby arrived, we handed him fifty dollars and told him to give the gentleman any money that was left over after he dropped him off. We also told him to make sure he got into his apartment safely. The cabby couldn't have been any nicer, or more pleasantly surprised by how much kindness we were showing this stranger.

Then, as the cabby drove off with our new friend in the backseat, the three of us smiled broadly at each other. We didn't say it, but we were all quite proud of ourselves. We almost joined hands and did a Ring-Around-the-Rosey dance right there in the parking lot to celebrate our inspiring wonderfulness. And then some smartypants asshole guy who had been watching, but doing nothing but eating his ice cream on the sidelines the whole time called out, "That cabdriver ain't gonna give him that money." Whatever. We ignored the smartypants asshole...because we knew the cabby would follow our instructions. We just knew. And then it happened. A burst bubble. My older sister realized that we hadn't given the cabby a tip. She started to panic. I could see it in her eyes. This good deed was now completely undone. "Why didn't you remind me about the tip?" she snipped. "We didn't thank the cabdriver!"

No matter. She would figure it out. The next day my older sister brought a generous tip to the cab company to thank the cabby for doing his part. When she walked in, all the drivers already knew the story. They were impressed and moved by what we had done and talked about how our particular cabby was just the guy for such occasions. As it turned out, he was the male equivalent to my older sister. He would have done the same thing we had done. You, likely, would have done the same thing we had done. Had you known you had fifty dollars on you when you encountered a lost, elderly, mentally retarded man with no money and a deaf wife at home, you would have used that money to get him home, too.

Unless, of course, you're the type of person who wouldn't want to bother him.

Breaking the Routine

Last week I happened to catch a rerun of Jimmy Kimmel Live. The episode had originally aired in November and featured Reese Witherspoon, Scott Weiland, and the Pumphrey brothers. If you are like me, you haven't the slightest idea as to who the Pumphrey brothers are. The truth is, not only did I not know who they were, I had zero interest in finding out. And so, after the Witherspoon interview, in anticipation of Weiland's gangly, teetering, guyliner smeared performance, I turned the volume way down and diverted my attention toward writing out a very short list of my new year's resolutions...in pencil.

Then, just as Kimmel's two relatively unknown guests were walking out to their seats to chat, I glanced at the T.V. Now, much as I hate to admit this, it was what these two casually attired guys looked like that made me immediately dig the remote out of the couch and adjust the volume. Could it really be? Actual men? You see, the Pumphrey brothers, stars of a new reality show called Human Wrecking Balls on G4, are both impossibly tall, and brawny in a way that suggests strength, not preening. Both in their thirties, peroxide blonde Craig and brunette Paul are apparently, and each in their own right, highly regarded and accomplished martial artists who hold world records in God-knows-how-many feats of strength. Thus, after a brief, genial conversation, Kimmel challenged the brothers to demolish a vending machine with their bare hands. And so, in less than 2 minutes, that's precisely what they did. Have you managed to guess the premise of their show yet?

Human Wrecking Balls, on every Wednesday night at 10 PM, is a show about the science of breaking stuff with human force alone. The tagline is: Man vs. Man-Made. After I watched the brothers annihilate the vending machine on JKL, I nearly cried for all the lost treats that were so mercilessly strewn about the studio stage. I felt sorry for the vending machine, and yet, I could not help but be impressed by how precise and methodical the destruction had been. Effortless, even. Without a hint of chemical support, or pent-up aggression. This was not two jackasses trying to hurt themselves for cheap laughs. Too bad I'll never see the show, I thought to myself, knowing that I don't have TiVo and, therefore, due to my Wednesday-night-at-10 PM addiction to Bravo's Top Chef, would be unable to see the show for myself. And then, this past Sunday afternoon, while I was channel surfing, wouldn't you know it, I stumbled upon a Human Wrecking Balls marathon.

The show features the aforementioned Pumphrey brothers, an engineer/science guy, and a pretty, albeit, pretty pointless nurse on the sidelines who basically cleans out wounds and snoozingly tells the guys things like, "It's a good thing this or that didn't happen because I wouldn't have been able to do anything for you and the hospital is really far away." Great. What the hell are you doing there then? Couldn't someone like, oh I don't know, the Food Network's Paula Deen stretch Band-Aids across their scrapes and scratches? I'd rather see her and her motherly Southern comfort in the nurse role. An expressive, "Aww baby, what'd you do now? Come 'ere and let me fix that up for you," would make much more sense in this context. Never mind the fact that the brothers are from Indiana, not Georgia.

Anyway, where the stuntmen programming of late seems to revel in recklessness, this show focuses, instead, on the science of breaking things. Getting hurt is not their intention, even if it is their reality. They ask questions of the engineer/science guy or expert on site if what they are doing does not work. In other words, there is method here, not madness. There is an effort being made to educate the audience about what they are seeing. And I, a person who is not generally interested in examples of brute force or physical science, was awed by the art of it all. When Paul Pumphrey is commenting on his brother's performance of a specific task, for example, he'll often refer to how Craig looked while he was doing something. "It looked pretty," he might say. Or, "It looked cool." And it does. Especially when the slow-mo happens. You can appreciate the art when you can see the minutia of the execution. The height the jumps reach, the full extension of arms and legs, the glass crashing outward, seeming to splash...it isn't just breaking shit; it's physics by way of martial arts, and years and years of training. There is a sort of beauty here.

So then what is in the destruction? More art, or just a mess? I would argue that, in the destruction, you will find the science. There is a sort of wisdom here. Hence, the show's production team smartly uses these opportunities to flash digital science lessons and fun facts up on the screen to explain what is happening to the objects and why. There are blueprint sketches that simplify the scientific explanations for viewers. And in the brothers themselves? What do we find there? Well, there you will find the heart of the show. When the camera catches genuine looks and queries of concern exchanged between the brothers Pumphrey, you realize, as a viewer, that, yes, there is real risk involved, and, yes, they are real brothers.

The genuine affection and friendly rivalry they seem to enjoy supports the format, which is as follows: Craig comes up with a scripted "hair-brained" idea and tells Paul, "Hey, it'd be awesome if you did it." Paul is unwilling and tries to deflect the challenge onto his brother. How to solve this? Well, prior to any joint BIG challenge (i.e. destroying a Cessna airplane, office space, sailboat, car, manufactured home, and so on) the brothers compete in a mini challenge to determine who will have to do the extra tricky part per Craig's suggestion. For example, who will not have to run through a glass wall in an office? Whoever will most thoroughly destroy a Xerox machine with his bare hands in the allotted time, of course.

The engineer/science guy on hand is a little bland, but he knows his stuff. Unfortunately, he is also on hand to discourage results and lower expectations. He is, for lack of a better term, the resident naysayer. "You've got your work cut out for you with this one," he'll drone. His lines are stagey and manipulative at times, but they may just be intended to voice the thoughts of doubters who are sitting at home...or so I'm guessing. Who knows. Maybe the guy's just a downer.

The brothers themselves, however, are very likable, even when they are delivering corny lines. Craig, the younger, but bigger brother, can roll up a frying pan in his bare hands with about as much effort as it would take the average person to roll up a single sheet of oak tag. He seems to be the more natural athlete, and yet, Paul, who can hurl a round tabletop out a window like it's a Frisbee, seems to be the more disciplined and committed of the two. In other words, they are super strong, and don't seem to get drained of their strength.

Unfortunately, when I mention the strength of these two brothers to a strong man I know, he immediately dismisses them and brings up the steroid angle. And why wouldn't he, after all? I'm convinced that strength is to men what beauty is to women. Tell a strong man another man is stronger and he'll muscle through with a steroid accusation; tell a beautiful woman that another woman is more beautiful and listen while she brings up the likelihood of plastic surgery. Anyway, the steroid possibility hadn't crossed my mind before the strong guy I know mentioned it. Is it possible? Sure. Baseball and Andy (holy roller, my ass) Pettitte taught us that. But I kind of doubt it. Or, rather, I'd like to doubt it, because I like the show. And I think you'll like it, too. Who knows, this Wednesday night I may just break my routine and watch Human Wrecking Balls instead of Top Chef. See? I, too, can break something.

'Twas Two Nights Before Christmas Eve

'Twas two nights before Christmas Eve, and all through my veins
anxiety was coursing like a train on cocaine
I, in high-heeled boots, had gone shopping for gifts,
slipping through the icy parking lot 10,000 plows missed

Bundled in my black coat, the one with the hood,
I'd just exited Bloomingdales, feeling cold, but pretty good
For I had accomplished a task most could not:
I had finished my Christmas shopping, all in one shot

When, what to my narrowing eyes should appear?
Why, an SUV tailing cautious steps at my rear
His headlights were blazing, as he loomed close and large
Surely he'd follow me till he'd find where I'd parked

Thinking his spying me rendered other drivers thwarted,
this guy didn't realize the journey he'd started
See, I'd driven my mother's car (mine died last week, damnit!),
and yet I traipsed searching for my car out of habit

Around and around I walked, packaged arms breaking, achingly
The SUV stalker wondering, "Where the hell is she taking me?"
I slipped and I sniffed until I spotted, as horns blew,
my mother's car and wondered, "She came shopping here, too?"

When finally my senses returned to my thoughts
I scurried, best I could, to recover time lost
With the key in the keyhole to open the trunk,
I wobbled on the ice like a Christmas punch drunk

Surprise, surprise, FROZEN! The lock I'd dared turn
So I went 'round the backseat with a look of concern
Worrying that not all the parcels would fit,
squishing and pushing until all of them did

Now, trying to compose myself and shake off the worst
I started the car and put it in reverse
But, no, no, not so fast, all the windows were frosted
Now, cursing and frazzled, I totally lost it

Defrost time, I had none, the mood nearly manic
For the SUV waiting had caused major traffic
There, inside my mother's car, I cowered, just listening
to the cacophony of beeping, headlights on me, blistering

I dashed out the vehicle and into the backseat
that immediately spit every package back at me
Desperate, I grabbed the inspirational pillow,
that sat on display, cozy in the back window

"Behind every great woman is herself," it reads
Thus, I used its embroidered face to wipe the windows clean
Then, finally, having packed up the car once again,
I got in the driver's seat, and out the space I went

Saying to myself, jingley, as I slid out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all...WATCH THE ICE!"

In Want of a Need for Christmas

Forgive me if I fail to allow the holiday spirit to tip-toe in here with its red-stockinged feet and the promise of merrymaking, but I'm just not in the mood. I could lie and say that, in fact, it's just this year that I feel kind of bothered by the whole holiday thing but, gingerbread man-oh-man, it's every year for me. I hate Christmas. I'm sorry, but I do. And I think I always have.

Right after Halloween, I just tuck my chin into my chest, avoid eye contact at all costs, and barrel through the turkey targeted season until it's officially over. Once the red paper cups come out at Starbucks, I know that I need to keep my sunglasses on even after the sun goes down. Why? Well, isn't it obvious? To further protect my eyes from the impending glare of all those little lights that will soon be strung up on houses that, who are we kidding, are already the most unsightly ones on the block. Why would you want to draw more attention to your home's shortcomings? When neighbors go caroling door to door, voicing neither an energy concern, nor a safety concern about many of these electrically molested houses that appear to be one short away from a fireball existence, I wonder about the human camaraderie of it all. I don't care if your house explodes. May your days be merry and BRIGHT!

As if going blind weren't enough, I also, miraculously, go blank once Christmas approaches. I never need anything once people start asking me about potential presents that could be bought for me. All year long I say to myself, I could really use a..., I wish someone would get me a ..., You know what I need? A ... Then, "Hey, Sandra, what can I get you for Christmas?" Um, nothing. Let's not exchange this year. Of course, no matter how many times I instruct people not to get me anything, there are always boxes under the tree with my name on them. And damnit if I don't have to then make a mad dash to the mall. For the record, you always spend more money when you do all your Christmas shopping in two hours.

Because it has become somewhat of a Christmas tradition of mine to forget that I need anything worth asking for, not many of the gifts bought for me over the years have been especially thoughtful. Some of them have been nice gestures that do not go to waste, but some of them couldn't have been more off-base or generic. And yet, they are always fun to receive and then survey on the whole. In fact, on Christmas mornings of late, I have adopted a new tradition for myself that I highly recommend. You see, after I tear through my presents, one after another, I like to lay all my newly acquired booty on my bed and look at it, like I'm trying to piece the puzzle of perception together. There are scarves, gloves, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Staples, & Starbucks gift cards. There are big black purses, and big black pairs of sunglasses. So, this is who people think I am, I say to myself, the chilly woman behind her dark sunglasses, with her designer bag slung over her shoulder as she carries a latte in one hand and a book and a pen in the other. My God, I say to myself, people think I'm a pretentious asshole, don't they?

And they do. But not my mother. No. I can tell by my mother's ghastly gifts to me every year that she has no idea who I am. Last year I got something so spectacularly awful, I am having trouble typing this right now because, as I am recalling it, I am teetering off my chair in a fit a giggles. Yes, last year my mother gave me a reversible electric blanket/poncho. You could either wear it so that the beige plastic slicker side was showing, or, if you sought further humiliation, you could turn it inside out and reveal its forest green Scotch Tape-print wool to the world. Why the woman on the package was smiling as she modeled this botched abortion, I have no idea. It just doesn't make any sense. Am I supposed to wear it out in the cold rain? An ELECTRIC blanket/poncho with a WOOL underside is water-friendly? Since when? Needless to say, right after I opened this present, I slid it right back over to my mother who is so used to my giving back her gifts, I can't believe she still has the nerve to be offended by my lack of gratitude. And yet, every Christmas morning, that's precisely what she is, offended by my lack of gratitude.

It seems that, despite my greatest efforts, I just can't pretend to appreciate something when I don't appreciate it. I want to, but I can't. If you must know, the notion itself makes me bristle. Therefore, Christmas doesn't suit me or my needs. It's either beyond me, or beneath me...the pretentious asshole that I am.

The President-Eject & The President-Elect

There are two kinds of ignorance. Neither of them bliss. There is the forgivable kind, the kind of ignorance that is smart enough to recognize itself, and ambitious enough to seek the remedy of counsel and education. And then there is that other kind of ignorance. This is the kind of ignorance that is so convinced of its inherent wisdom, it borders on religion because, in spite of any tangible proof, it remains devoted to itself. Sometimes this ignorance looks a lot like stubbornness and arrogance. This is the ignorance that fails to notice the fact that even the stupid people in the room think it's hopelessly stupid.

Granted, we are all ignorant to a certain degree. As it has been said, none of us will ever know all of the things we will never know. And yet, after eight years of cringing while I watched presidential press conferences and interviews through my fingers, I know that the person in charge come January 2009 will be (sigh of relief) intelligent. I don't know what Barack Obama's term as president will bring, but I am hopeful, and I am listening, and what I am hearing sounds like English...and a plan.

Now, just to be clear, I have never thought President George W. Bush to be an evil man. I still don't. When people compare him to Hitler I am as equally put off by their ignorance as I have been by his. However, what I do think is that our current president, #43, has never been the right person for the office he was sworn into because, frankly, he does not have the God-given mental capacity to best fulfill his duties. He does not even have the capacity to want to learn how.

For some reason, President Bush just doesn't get it. Nothing seems like that much of a big deal to him. He is the Whatever president. In fact, I suspect that's what the W. really stands for. After all, according to most accounts, G.W.B. wanted to be the commissioner of baseball. That was his dream. He didn't want to be president. Those who have really been running his administration wanted the poor sucker to be "president". And we know who those oily folks are, don't we? And we know why, don't we? Even his parents were stunned by the turn of events. They thought it'd be their prized Jeb who'd follow in George H.W.'s footsteps, not slaphappy, good time W. who, with his propensity of mooning people and flipping them the bird, nursed a keg of beer until he was forty.

The thing is, despite his tragic presidency, I predict that, someday, George W. Bush will be the commissioner of baseball. And I think he'll be very good at it. It suits him. For that job, yes, he has what it takes. For the job of president of the United States of America? Well, this time we finally (and thankfully) chose the best candidate. No, not the black man with a dream...the smart American with a brain.