hobbies

When does a hobby become an obsessive compulsive disorder?

I believe there is a clear line between the two, and that I have found it.

Earlier this year, I rediscovered the Grateful Dead. To my sober ears, they sound better than ever. And I was thrilled to discover that there are thousands of high-quality live recordings free for the taking on the Internet. All you need is a little patience, some online hunting skills and a lot of hard drive space.

At first, I was pretty picky. I'd only keep the parts of the shows that were really unique, the long jams and such. But I found that it was kind of nice to listen to entire shows as I did chores or read in my favorite chair in the living room. So I started downloading and saving entire shows.

Then I noticed the subtle difference between the shows on successive nights. It was kind of neat to imagine that I had tickets to entire runs of shows at, say, the Fillmore East in New York, and to compare the setlists from night to night. So I started collecting runs of shows.

Then I saw that each tour had its own unique vibe and story line, so now I'm starting to piece together entire tours. Last week, for instance, I completed an entire collection of the band's concerts in 1974. It was an especially good year -- and one with a lot fewer concerts than other years.

Now I'm trying to complete the Dead's tour of Europe in 1972, which a lot of fans say is the best they ever had. And it's here where I might the crossroads between hobbyist and obsessive. I've found and down loaded all but one of the concerts. And all but one are high quality recordings straight from the sound board. The last one was recorded by some bloke in the audience. And while some audience recordings can be quite good. This one... well, give it a listen yourself.



So now you see my dilemma. Do I download this godawful piece of crap, and complete the tour? I want to say I've got a full set. But I want to maintain my dignity as well.

beard: week 2

funkytown

For those of you who are eagerly awaiting my tell-all book about city hall, quit holding your breath. I talked with Agent Lydia on Thursday, and she said my latest proposal was heading in the wrong direction. She said that right now all the publishers are looking for BIG BOOKS. And the Funkhouser story is too small.

More significantly, she could tell my heart wasn't in it. Though it was well written, it betrayed ambivalence. "You have no poker face," she said.

It's true. I was throwing it out there in hopes of a payday. Much the way I'd send a resume around.

Didn't get me too down, though. It helped that on that very evening I gave a reading at Brown v. Board of Education National Historic Site. What an honor! There was a good crowd there, and we had a lively conversation about education, race and power.

And Agent Lydia doesn't want to dump me. She told me to "keep noodling." For now, that means turning the two Funkytown proposals into an essay for my class. Maybe I can get a magazine article out of it. She wasn't worried. I'll find a book. And she'll sell it.

But for those of you in KC, I guess you'll have to wait for Gloria's book to come out. Before I left, Funk was telling everyone it'll be called C'Mon Funk! Move Yer Ass! - Gloria Squitiro and the New Politics.

I guess it's good thing I won't be writing a book about this whole weird experience. How could I compete with that?

beard: week 1

do i have to report it to unemployment?

I got a call today from Arbitron. I told them I don't listen to the radio. But they still want me to participate in their sweep of the KC market.

So I decided to do it. After all, there's compensation involved. The lady on the phone told me I'd get a small cash stipend.

"It's not a lot," she said. "But it's enough to go out and have a cup of coffee or a donut."

Not and. Or.

howard hughes

I've grown a beard. I'd been trimming it, but I decided this week to let it grow for a while, just to see what it's like.

This morning I stood in the kitchen negotiating with Allie a time limit for my experiment. We hadn't had coffee yet and I looked like shit. I was in my Crocs slippers and a pair of sweats with paint stains on them. My hair was going every which way.

Allie burst out laughing. She imagined me with a big bushy beard going to City Hall dressed just exactly the same and asking to look through my old desk for a piece of paper or something. Or better yet, telling them I have a brilliant idea to save the city.

Sounds like a plan to me.

neko's new one

I think I'm partial to live music. I'm not as crazy about Neko Case's new album, Middle Cyclone, as I am about her live recordings.

That's not a knock on the new release. It's good. It just doesn't fill me with waves of ecstasy the way the concert discs do.

I picked it up yesterday at an independent shop in downtown Lawrence, after I got out of class. I felt all college kid, buying a record on the first day of release. Listened to it on the drive home and had to force myself not to push the forward button on some of the songs.

But then, I put it on the home player while we ate dinner and I loved every note of it. It was perfect -- even the 30 minutes of nighttime country sounds that close it out.

Neko is one of the best artists going these days, and I think a lot of you dear readers would like her. She even draws the cool pictures on her album cover. Hope she plays KC this summer.

holy blog

Got a note from a friend today saying she'd mistyped the url to this blog and wound up here. What's up with that?

Gives me an excuse to post. Sorry I've been remiss. Been working on my proposal, and I finally finished what seems a decent draft. Also going to school and trying to figure out how to earn money.

I understand the President was in my hometown the other day. Too bad my grandpa isn't still editing the paper. He woulda liked that, I think.

a mammoth proposal

There is no worse writing assignment than a book proposal. They're not only tough to write, what with having to cram 300 pages worth of story and concept into a breezy 20-page essay, but they carry huge consequences. As in, if I nail this thing, I don't really have to worry about money for three years.

The only way into it, for me, is to trick myself into it. Lately that means setting aside 20 or thirty minutes, roughly the time it takes to stream a 1973 version of "Dark Star" on the Internet, to write a single sentence. Of course, the sentence comes out about 10 minutes in, and by then I'm into the song, so I keep going, just to have an excuse to listen. By the end, I usually have one paragraph and a first sentence for another.

Proceeding in this fashion, I've managed to amass five pages over the last two weeks. And today, after cobbling together a graph, I glimpsed a link to some stuff I'd written in an earlier draft -- several good, well-polished paragraphs. So I hunted them down and I cut and pasted them in. Now, I think, I am just days away from having a complete introduction. And once that's done, if past experience is any indication, the rest should just sort of fall together.

Until the close. That will be a fresh variety of hell.

reading missouri

I was surprised and happy to learn last night that my book was selected as one of the recommended books for the Kansas City Public Library's adult winter reading program, Reading Missouri.

Looks like a neat program. Read five books off the list and you get a prize package and invitation to a part in March.

praise for the day

This morning Allie said she hadn't heard any pundits say that it was the blackest presidential inauguration in history.

"They had a token white guy," she said, "instead of a token black guy."

It's true, though.

Aretha Franklin with her spectacular, COGIC-style hat.

Elizabeth Alexander's tight "Praise for the Day" that plainly said, "Say it plain, that many have died for this day."

And Rev. Joseph Lowery going a little street at the end, old-man street, when he asked God to bring the day when "black will not be asked to get in back. When brown can stick around. When yellow will be mellow. When the red man can get ahead, man. And when white will embrace what is right."

And, of course, the call and response, to end it all:

"That all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen."

Amen.

"Say Amen."

Amen.

"And Amen."

Amen.

memories

I don't know what's harder to believe -- that I was once 19, or that I'm not still.

19

The weirdest thing about finding all these Grateful Dead shows online is how I can feel the same obsession I felt when I was 19. A touch of it. Like when I scroll through the list of shows in 1988, the venues and the towns seem like exotic places, and the notion that the dead would be playing there makes them seem more exotic still.

When I look through the set lists, though, it seems so silly. They're all basically the same. Yet I just had to get to as many shows as I could.

Yesterday I went through and bookmarked all the shows I've been to. And over the next couple of weeks I plan to listen to them. When I look at them all lined up in order in my favorites folder, the Irvine Meadows shows stand out for some reason. Just the name. Irvine Meadows. Even now it seems enchanting.

Irvine Meadows is in Orange County. I drove past it a couple of years ago when I was on my book tour. It's a cookie-cutter amphitheater, exactly like Fiddlers Green in Denver or Sandstone here in KC. But in '88, it was my destiny.

To get there, for the three shows the Dead had scheduled there in late April of that year, and to two more a week later in Palo Alto, I took my exams early and persuaded the head cook in the dorm cafeteria to give me a box of food -- apples, bread, peanut butter, stuff like that. I needed the food because I only had $50 in my pocket, for a 10-day trip.

As soon as I hit Shakedown Street, I spent almost all my money on some dry goods that are typically not eaten. Seven days later, I was stranded in Palo Alto with no money, no ride home and a new pair of glasses. The latter I picked up (along with a weak prescription courtesy of $20-bucks-a-no-appointment-visit Dr. Huang) in San Bernadino after I'd lost mine in Joshua Tree. Grandma had saved me by calling in her credit card number. And mom saved me from having to sell myself on the streets of San Fran by wiring me some cash.

She sent enough for a bus ticket, and a little extra for food. Except, right before I bought the ticket, I spotted some other Dead Heads and we ducked into an ally and got stoned. And I was so stoned I left my wallet on the counter after I purchased the ticket. By the time I came down enough to realize where my wallet was -- ten paces across the room, laying there in plain site -- it had been liberated of all my remaining cash.

So there I was with a wicked case of the munchies, facing the prospect of a 26-hour bus trip with the one or two oranges I still had left from my box of food, and not a dime for a bite more.

I had an overnight layover in Salt Lake City. The bus stop was right across from the Mormon Tabernacle, so I decided to go over there and check it out. My hair was all mussed up and my clothes were filthy. I don't think I even had a backpack. I recall carrying in my arms my tent and mangy sleeping bag and whatever bag I was carrying my clothes in. I'm not sure exactly, but I certainly stood in contrast to the clean polo-shirted Mormons who were milling around. It was a sunny day and there were tulips bursting from every corner of the compound.

I noticed this guy eying me. After a while he comes up and says, "You look mighty forlorn." I gave him my sad story and he gave me 20 bucks. I raced across the street to an all-you-can-eat place and stuffed myself for at least two hours.

Properly nourished, I found a corner of the bus station to spread out my sleeping bag and managed to drift into sleep. Suddenly, I awoke to the scene of a couple of cops arresting somebody -- right on top of me. They had chased him to my corner, where they slapped cuffs on him, right after confiscating his gun.

All that for what?

Nothing in the set lists appears to have been worth that ordeal. The last shows in Palo Alto had some surprising twists, I suppose, but nothing monumental. The only vivid memory I have of any of the shows was the last one, where they played "Stuck Inside a Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again," in which Bob Weir screamed, mockingly, it seemed: "Oh! Mama! Can this reeeeeeeeally be the end?!?!"

But then, we did drive up the Pacific Coast Highway. I haven't done that since. And I visited Joshua Tree, too. That's a lovely place. What I saw of it before I lost my glasses.

first show

I'm years and years behind the times on this one. This week I discovered The Internet Archive, where you can listen to a CD quality recording of just about every concert the Grateful Dead ever gave. So of course I go right to the ones I attended, all of which are right there for the listening.

If you click play on the doohicky above you can listen to the first show I attended, at the Henry J. Kaiser Convention Center, Oakland, California, December 27, 1986. It's actually a pretty good show. And, as you can imagine, it's got a doozy of a story to go along with it, some of which might well be fiction. Science fiction. But I'm reluctant to share it here, what with grandmas, moms and in-laws reading it and all. But hey, I was 18.

year of the dog

Allie and I watched Year of the Dog on Saturday. The DVD box said it would be funny and uplifting. But at a couple of points we wondered if maybe the person who wrote the box copy was on crack.

The plot offers some big bummers as it unfolds. But they're crucial to the story, and we were feeling good by the time it ended.

It wasn't your typical Hollywood fair. It was structured more like a really good short story. And Molly Shannon's acting was top of the line.

power broker

I've been reading The Power Broker since before Christmas, and I'll probably still be reading it when it's time to pick tomatoes. It's massive.

The part I read last night astonished me.

With a single sentence in an amendment to a state law, Robert Moses created a little kingdom within United States territory and made it so he could be its king for his entire life.

He was head of an authority that oversaw the construction of the Triborough Bridge. By law, that authority could only remain in existence until the bonds that paid for its construction were retired. But the bridge was enormously successful, pulling in far more in toll receipts than was expected, and those bonds were due to be paid off in a hurry. Once that happened, Moses would lose his power.

At the time, there were plenty of people who would like to see him lose that power, including the mayor, governor, a slew of state reps and no less than President Roosevelt. Moses knew he had no chance of striking the part of the law that forced the authority to be shut down. So he made that part meaningless with this sentence:

The authority shall have the power from time to time to refund any bonds by the issuance of new bonds, whether the bonds to be refunded have or have not matured, and may issue bonds partly to refund bonds then outstanding and partly for any other corporate purpose.

I had to read it twice. It means that although the authority must cease to exist once its bonds are paid off, it can issue bonds as often as it wants.

And with bonds, it could, because of other vague language in the law, raise hundreds of millions of dollars to build stuff all over the place -- roads all over the New York metro area, parks, even housing. And it had power of eminent domain. And it didn't have to have public hearings. Nor any deference to the democratic process.

It was nothing short of an invasion and take over of part of this country.

With one cryptic sentence buried in the middle of a bill.

Amazing.

bass ackward

I've been trying to understand the point of twitter. I'm not alone in this.

I really want to love it. For it to make me happy.

But now it seems that happiness is the key to twitter.

mayoral freaks

Another good one from 100-Year-Old Weblog.

"Phil" Murphy is the police officer who has been detailed to the offices of the mayor in the city hall to deal with cranks and obstreperous callers. He has been connected with the police department for several years, and has served at the depot and other public places in handling crowds.

"How do you propose to deal with the cranks when they annoy the mayor?" Murphy was asked yesterday.

"Jolly 'em, jolly 'em," replied Murphy. "There's only one way to handle a crank. Fawn him, play on his vanity and get him to believe that his bug is all right. Get his confidence, humor him and feed him taffy and mentally blindfold him. When you have him in this condition there is not trouble in taking care of him."

I wonder if Jerry and Mark, the guards on the 29th floor of City Hall, read this blog.

character

This book I'm reading has me doing character studies. So I headed off for the library yesterday, to watch people and take notes.

I focused on one of the librarians. I liked the way her shoulders seemed to fold inward just a bit and her bangs dropped down over her face when she worked on the computer. Her skin was very white. I thought maybe she spends too much time reading to get any sun.

I already had a story in mind. I've been thinking of a man about 20 or 21 who meets a woman in a mid-sized Midwestern town and persuades her to take off for Oregon with him. It's 1970. If one of the patrons were to hit on this librarian, I imagined, she wouldn't believe it at first. Even as she packed her things to go she'd be trying to figure out what book the guy was trying to find. It would be such an adventure.

I listened carefully as she helped customers. Her voice was sharp, with a pinch of south in it, and it carried across the library. I squinted as I stared at her, trying to discern the angle of her nose. Yes, it pointed upward. She caught me looking. Twice, maybe three times during the hour I spent studying her. Definitely three, at least three.

When I went to the counter to check out some books, I stole another peek, glancing sideways. I hadn't been able to really see her eyelashes before. They seemed to make a difference somehow, I'm still not sure why. And she caught me again, and she didn't seem the least bit shy. Her brow bunched up as she locked in on my eyes, and she was not smiling. No, this character would definitely know if she were being hit on. I didn't dare look again.

public service

This, from a fun local blog, reminds me of my most recent job:

"Every day in the week," continued the mayor, "I have from fifty to 100 callers and I have to listen to them. Eighty per cent of my visitors have to be directed to the heads of other departments, and the other 20 per cent are politicians with an ax to grind, job hunters and cranks.

"Then you do have visits from cranks?"

"Yes, a great many and they are extremely annoying. It was not so very long ago that a fellow called upon me, and insisted that I, and only I, could remove a hypnotic spell that was upon him. I jollied him until I could summon an officer from headquarters, and I never passed a more unpleasant ten minutes waiting for the officer to report. The fellow was put under restraint, and to pacify him I underwent a sham performance as if removing the hypnotic spell. I don't know as I succeeded, but I have since learned that the fellow is now a raving maniac.

We had a few, too.

KC SOIL EXCLUSIVE!!! ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS EAT YUPPY BREAD!!!!!!

Times are really tough right now... As a white liberal, I NEED my overpriced European bread. But being unemployed and dangling by the mere threads of my trust-fund safety net, I'm forced to settle for just one loaf of Pain de Campagne and forgo the cranberry-almond. DEAR GOD WHEN WILL THIS RECESSION END?!?!?!

Anyhoo... I'm over on the Westside, feeling good to be back near the birthplace of the Orange Revolution, and I crowd into the little bakery with all the other yuppy hipster D-bags when a couple of tall, dark men come in behind me (no homo!). I spy them from out of the corner of my eye and I'm thinking they look kind of brown. And just as I check to see if my wallet is still there...

THEY START SPEAKING SPANISH!!!

That's right! ILLEGAL ALIENS ON THE WESTSIDE! And they're shelling out the big bucks for elitist bread!! Next thing you know, they'll be buying SUSHI!!!

I didn't know whether to call La Migra (got 'em on speed dial, natch!) or shout Si se puede!

I thought the only "diversity" left on the Westside is basement-dwellers and washed-up Brown Berets. Why didn't my realtor tell me about this before I decided on the Northeast?!?! Maybe I could've afforded it after all.

Very important super-secret tipsters who know everything tell me that this is a result of Mayor Funky's catastrophic failure! And a biproduct of the co-mayor's naked toes!! (Eww!) I can't confirm it yet, but people who are a lot smarter than me (and that's pretty much everyone) believe that the shear force of Funky's downward spiral is sucking (no homo!) Kansas City into a time warp and simple-minded stereotypes are being turned inside out!! Next thing you know, white liberals like me will be listening to the Gap Band and shopping at Apple Market.

Developing...



*Note to Grandma and other readers who are no doubt puzzled: This is a spoof of Kansas City's most popular blog.

bolt

I got really, really sick of Michael Phelps during the Olympics. He seems to me like the kind of guy I would've hated in the 1980s. Frankly, I was hoping he'd lose at least one race.

Now he's on Entourage and stuff like that. But he's not the biggest Olympian star in the world. That honor goes to Usain Bolt, the Jamaican who pulled back and jogged the last few yards of his races and still obliterated world records.

dead again

For about three years in my late teens, I was a Dead Head. I even traveled to California on several occasions to see them in concert -- including one that my mother will never forget, in which I tried to do California for ten days on $50. That one ended with me stranded in Palo Alto calling mom collect and thanking God for Western Union.

I quit drugs pretty soon after that and traded the Dead in for Nirvana. But the other day I got a wild hair and went looking for them online. The band's official site offers live tapes from their vault. I've been listening to them for the last day or so. I'm surprised how much I love them.

It's weird, but as I listen and get lost in the music, especially the long jam sessions on Dark Star and The Other One, I feel like I'm 19 again, stupidly happy with a brain full of wake-and-bake, or mellow and pensive in the wee-morning hours of an acid trip.

Except I'm not. Like, I can actually think and do stuff.

good things in the northeast

My neighborhood newspaper has been running some terrific cartoons by a local artist.

Also, they've been adding some nifty stuff to their website: a newsy blog, written by a dog; and a page where folks can post pictures of the neighborhood.

daily medicine

This is not this.

resolutions

1. Sell a book.
2. Run injury free.
3. Do The Weekend Novelist.
4. Make this blog worthy of a top ten list.

Or at least those are the ones I'm willing to share.

2009 will be fine

Right around this time last year, I said to one of my co-workers, "Two thousand eight. It's gonna be great!" And I meant it.

Obviously, in the context of the office in which it was said, I was dead wrong.

Now I'm unemployed, going broke and best suited for a job in a field where there are none.

Yet I feel really happy this morning. I went grocery shopping first thing, and I tallied each item on my cell phone calculator as I set it in the cart, the way I have for a couple of months now. I didn't make a single impulse buy. I don't have it bad. Not even close.

In the Great Depression, people sifted through garbage piles for food. Ivy League lawyers stood in soup lines.

Even that, I think I could handle.

But I have a hunch it won't come to that. This guy doesn't either.

Either way -- new job, or trash-can meals -- 2009 will be just fine.

diversity

Yesterday, as I headed out for a midday run, I spotted my neighbor, who is black, in white face. She was washing her car.

As I passed, I said hello and then asked, "Are you a mime?" It seemed plausible because she was also wearing black tights.

She smiled and shook her head. And I continued on my run.

outliers

Just finished Malcolm Gladwell's new book, Outliers. As always, his writing is beautifully simple and compelling. And, as with the two other books of his that I've read, this one will shape my thinking for years to come. Gladwell is a master at framing big ideas in ways that really stick with you.

His basic point is that there are no super humans. Chart-breaking success is the result of hard work and the opportunity to work hard. And it's the result of unfair advantages and disadvantages.

This book has a major flaw, though. There aren't really any women in it.

At the end, he shares the story of a 12-year-old girl at a school in the Bronx, and the story of his grandmother. But none of the chart-topping success stories are of women.

I frankly can't believe that he and his editors let this omission slide. From a writer's perspective, it seems an enormous screw up, one that unnecessarily mars an otherwise terrific book.

stop the presses

In my world, this seems like BIG news. But I found it buried in a blog on Runner's World's site, a week after the fact. No mention on NPR, Fox, Rachel Maddow, nothin'. What gives?

[Not that it matters to me anyway. After the ban, I gave up on running with headphones and fell in love with the quiet.]

the boss's wife

When I was at the Pitch, we used to read Rhonda Chriss Lokeman's columns out loud to one another and laugh. We couldn't believe that a major paper give one of its top Sunday op-ed column spot to such a bad writer.

But then, she was the editor's wife.

Now she's the publisher's wife, and the two are doing cartwheels to prove she doesn't work for the paper anymore, even though her column still runs in the same spot every week.

As with most newspapers, the Star claims that it's opinion side is separate from its news side. So when Lokeman's husband, Mark Zieman, was editor, there was supposedly no conflict. But when he became publisher he also became boss of the opinion staff. As a result, Lokeman says, "I left behind a good salary at The Star in order to remain ethical, avoid any conflicts which might arise from my provocative writing style and subjects." Now she's supposedly a syndicated columnist, though neither she nor her syndicate will say what papers, besides the Star, carry her column.

But wait a minute. The Star announced Zieman as its new publisher on March 6. Then, on April 13, Lokeman filed a blistering screed about Kansas City's mayor. Not a column like the stories that ran in the Wall Street Journal and Associated Press recently, one intended for a national audience that's unfamiliar with the ins and outs here. This was a locals-only column about a state investigation of Funk's campaign finances.

Maybe that's why she doesn't have many national customers -- too local on her debut.

black and white and white all over

But still, he has a point.

The recent article in the Star about my neighborhood was ridiculously white. They missed a truer, far more interesting story about how immigration is the best hope for our dying city. For all dying American cities, frankly.

During the second half of the last century, all cities suffered from white flight. Most, like KC, are still suffering, with miles and miles of virtually abandoned urban core. But some -- New York, LA, Chicago, for example -- are comparatively robust. That's because they have huge immigrant populations and local governments that embrace them.

It makes sense. It's immigrants who made the cities in the first place. They all grew exponentially in the late 19th and early 20th century, when millions of Europeans fled to America in search of opportunity.

Not coincidentally, that's when the United States emerged as the world's super power.

tipping point

Former Bush aides are pointing to Katrina as the event that undid his presidency. It's a fascinating perspective that I hadn't considered. True or not, it makes sense. And it reminds me of my recent foray into politics, and the folks I left behind.

"illegals"

When Allie and I bought our house five years ago, the old storefront across the street was abandoned. Then one day we noticed someone had fixed it up a little. The next day It was fixed up a little more, and then some more the day after that. Pretty soon it had a sign out front: Carneceria El Torito.

It was an immediate blessing. We could run over there any time we wanted a jug of Coke or whatever. And it got better a year or so later when they opened Taqueria El Torito in the space next door. At lease once a month I load up on real tacos and tortas.

The only complaint I have about the place is that it's almost too successful. Just about every time I go there for something they've got a line clear to the back. And talk about a good neighbor. We've seen the owner out before dawn on winter mornings scrubbing the sidewalk. In a neighborhood where litter and graffiti is everywhere, his place is spotless.

Whenever I go in everyone is speaking Spanish, which is cool, because I speak a little too (though I'm sort of a Gringo version of Borat). But I never took that to mean that they're illegal immigrants. Maybe some are, but I'd bet most are in America legally -- especially the owners. In fact, I'm so sure of it that I wouldn't even ask for fear of offending them.

I mean, for god sakes, they've got health licenses prominantly displayed. That alone suggests that the proprieters are law abiding.

So it's a little disturbing when I see people cling to racist assumptions.

It's this kind of stereotyping that blinds us to the benefits of immigration. Were it not for our neighborhood entrepreneurs from Jalisco, we'd have a boarded-up eyesore, most likely covered with graffiti. Instead, we've got some mighty fine eco devo.

you never know

Allie waited in the car while I ducked into the Walgreens to pick something up real quick. The line was long when I walked in, and it hadn't appeared to have moved by the time I'd snatched up my goods and took my place at the end of it.

But just then a woman took her place behind the photo counter and said, "I can help whoever's next." And I was right there; just two steps away. That never happens to me. I always intuitively pick the slowest line.

As I placed my stuff on the counter, I noticed a man approaching with a scowl. He'd gotten there before me, so I'd basically stolen his place. He was a tough looking black guy, with a nylon skull cap. He was big, and I think he might have had a gold tooth or two.

Rationally, I didn't think he would hurt me. But a nexus of white-man fear nexus in the inner core of my reptilian brain stem went into alert. I dared not look him in the eye.

The clerk took my money and handed me my change. As I scooped up my goods, I watched him set his items down. First, with an emphatic clunk, a tall can of high-energy drink. Then, with a quiet slide, a box of tampons.

new traditions

On Christmas Eve, we hung ornaments on the tree. 

There were all different kinds, some shaped like cows and dogs and even an octopus, crystal balls and shiny stars, and others made of cloth, bunnies, tiny teddy bears and an enormously fat cow.

Dozens of them, store bought, hand made. Each, it seemed, with it's own story. 

Like the otter on its back, acquired because Allie looked like an otter when she was a baby in the bath. And the abundance of frogs because Sylvia loves frogs. Every year they pick up a few more. 

On the big day, gathered around the tree and dug into our stockings. And into our stocking overflow bags. 

Every year, the Johnsons stuff each other's stockings with neat little nicknacks and treats. They even wrap them, so you find yourself unwrapping a whole lot of presents. It feels kind of like being a spoiled little kid.

I got some carrot-flavored lip balm, philosophical post-its, gourmet dark chocolate, a kangol hat, fleese gloves, herbed barbecue skewers and a lot of other little luxury items I probably wouldn't buy but am glad I now have. 

I got Allie a couple of pairs of earrings that she loves.

acquired memories

One of the best parts of being married is visiting her family and hearing their stories about her. Like the punched hole in the wall and the guinea pig essay (which I've read; it's fantastic) and the crush on the mulleted heart throb. She's so embarrassed but I adore her all the more and feel lucky.

I tell them my favorite picture is the one with her in the new suit of clothes, all bright colored, even the socks. And she's posed just so and smiling, proud as can be. She can't stand it, of course. Wouldn't be caught dead in the get-up today, much less the hair, but it makes me so proud of her.

And lastly, there's her senior picture in the room where we're sleeping. She has the quintessential 90s hair, straight bangs and long flowing perm, but not super puffed out like in the 80s. She's so beautiful and I'm amazed because there's no way she would've been with me the way I was back then. But times change and it's so good they do.

social apps

There was a time when I was ahead of most trends. Just ahead. Not a trendsetter.

But now I'm older and more sluggish and I'm stuck in the middle.

Lately, we lemmings have been swarming the social apps. I've tried a bunch but have settled on three -- Facebook, last.fm and Twitter.

On Facebook, I have befriended 72 Joe Millers from around the world. It's pleasantly strange to see my name beside pictures of men who bear no resemblance to me, who post status updates like "Joe Miller was riding shotgun in Daryl's car, and is still cleaning his underpants..." and "Joseph Miller is like yes..roommate is gone..got da dorm myself..and aint got a final till thursday.YESSIR."

last.fm is self-explanatory and obviously awesome.

And twitter is completely baffling. It seems absolutely worthless. But I keep going back to it as if I'll find the answer there.

Anyway, I'm going to twitter -- or tweet, as they say -- our holiday trip. I'll post short dispatches and photos via phone. I'd do it on this blog, but my phone is not compatible.

You're welcome to follow, if you like.

best story

Last summer, Allie and I went to Lucas, Kansas, to celebrate my birthday. I'd first visited the town in the mid-1990s, after I graduated from college, on a road trip with my buddy Roger. Back then, the only attraction was The Garden of Eden and the bologna shop. Since then, it's become a grassroots art Mecca. For years I've wanted to go back.

While we were there, the Grassroots Art Center was hosting an art contest and we decided to enter. We spent a lot of the weekend working on our art, and we had a blast doing it.

And we'd pretty much forgotten about it until yesterday when we received in the mail two awards for "Best Story."

From kansas city soil

Their made from TP rolls!

And we also got certificates granting us lifetime privileges at Bowl Plaza:

From kansas city soil

Our entry, The Real Original Sin (scroll down and check out #5), got $40 at the silent auction, with proceeds going toward the previously mentioned civic amenity.

To say we're proud would be an understatement!

wwmxd?

I took my first grad school class this semester, a lit class about life writing, or autobiography. Right now I'm procrastinating my final paper, which is about The Autobiography of Malcolm X.

I first read that book in college, almost 20 years ago, and it had a profound impact on me. It gave me a completely new perspective on America, one that turned this nation's values upside down, revealing their hypocrisies and hidden injustices.

But more than that, it provided a model for how one ought to live.

Malcolm was one who strove to be the very best at everything he did -- whether he was a street hustler or a minister in the Nation of Islam. And he was one of those rare geniuses who was able to achieve the pinnacle of success in every endeavor.

But what most impressed and inspired me was the way he embraced change. At several points in his book he describes his life as a series of changes. And when he changed, he went all out.

As a kid, he put everything he had into his school work, earning his way to the top of the class. But when a teacher told him he should lay aside his dreams of being a lawyer because he's black, he chucked his whole good-student life and through himself headlong into being a street hustler.

In Boston and Harlem, he was known by one and all as Detroit Red. All the big band stars knew him, and he was raking in the dough and walking around town with a beautiful white woman on his arm -- what was for him, at that point in his life, the ultimate prize.

In jail, he embraced religion and devoured books, building his vocabulary by meticulously copying down every word in a dictionary. Upon release, he devoted every waking minute to preaching the message of Elijah Mohammad.

Then he discovered that the man that he literally worshiped was not only an adulterer but one who would destroy the lives of the women he knocked up in order to maintain his own image. For a while, he tried to rationalize, to scheme ways to protect his leader. But eventually he severed ties, knowing it would mean his life.

I decided to focus on Malcolm X for my final project after I read an essay comparing his autobiography to that of Benjamin Franklin. Franklin's is a cornerstone of the genre. Whereas before the bulk of autobiographies were about spiritual awakenings, his was the first story of the self-made man, the remarkable tale of a remarkable man. It was meant, quite literally, as a story to live by. It was something everyday schlubs like me to could aspire to and look up to.

Franklin's was also the story of a young nation coming of age told through the story of one of its greatest men coming of age. It was also totally propagandistic. It contained nothing of Franklin's philandering, his Machiavelian politics, the way he could stab a rival in the back. Instead, it offered a step-by-step plan to acheiving perfection. I detested every word of it.

Malcolm is the anti-Franklin. His is the portrait of an opressive nation (world) at a time when revolution was in the air told through the story of one of its oppressed who was fanning the flames of revolution.

But at the same time, Malcolm is a lot like Franklin. He advises every step of the way, and much of his advice is very conservative. Always wear a watch and be on time. Don't take drugs. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Pursue knowledge relentlessly. Respect women. Don't fornicate. Tell the truth. And, ultimately, don't judge anyone solely by the color of their skin (event whites).

It was interesting reading the book a second time, a decade or so and lots of life experience down the road. And as a writer and a student of literature. What I most appreciated was Alex Haley's epilogue, because it exposed some of Malcolm's self-creation and propoganda. As a college kid, I naively looked up to Malcolm as a saint, unfallable, incapable of distorting his own story. I mjust have skimmed Haley's account, because he lifts the curtain a bit.

Still, it's refreshing to go back and find that one of my heroes remains much the way I first experienced him, as a model I could never live up to, but one that could make me a little better person if I tried.

edelweiss

When Allie and I went to the open mic at a coffee shop on Troost last night we expected a cool, inner-city black-white thing. After all, Troost is the racial dividing line in this city.

But when we arrived, a group called the Sugar Plums was singing a folk song.

We bought our hot beverages and found a couple of seats in the back. There were dozens of people there, only one of whom was black. Just then, one of the Sugar Plums took the mic and said she was going to sing Edelweiss. Allie said, "Oh my god. Can you get any whiter?"

While the woman sang the song, and as others lifted their coffee cups and sang along, we tried hard not to stare at the black man. Sitting alone, he smiled, though not broadly, and we imagined that he was, with great effort, suppressing laughter, and wondering how on earth he wound up in this place on a Friday night.

But who knows? Maybe he was digging the hell out of it.

We quietly left after the song ended and went to Chipotle for McMexican.

spreading the word

This morning, Allie got an e-mail from her dad saying this story ran in today's Jamestown Post-Journal. They were surprised -- and thrilled, because they know a lot of the inside story. 

Jamestown, New York. 

Word sure does get around.

crash

I was away from my desk for about two minutes -- enough time for Scamp to knock a full water bottle over onto my laptiop. Completely fried.

I'm surprised it didn't happen earlier. I've had the thing for almost five years, and Scamp has been knocking over water vessels for at least ten.

Here's the good news. Just last week, after four years of procrastination, I finally signed up for an online backup service. So my most important stuff -- like my book proposal and book materials -- is safe.

I feel a little down, but actually in a good sort of way. A shade better than melancholy.

At first I was shocked. I sat there staring at a pile of stuff on my desk. Then, in my head, I started hearing that old Peter Tosh song where he goes, And I pick myself up, dust myself off, start all over. Corny, I know. But I just started attacking my to-do list and adding more items to cross off.

Now I actually feel kind of good to have the stupid thing gone. It's a little liberating. I'm not going to rush out to buy a new one.

squeek goes home!

From squeek

Our little kitten has found a permanent home with a KU grad student named Patrick!

It's bittersweet, of course. It's always nice to have a kitten around. But the little fella will be a lot happier with a young voracious reader than in this brutal jungle we have here.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was too hungry to photodocument. So there are no photos of the beautiful, delicious food. Except of the pie.

writing

I've been writing again. Real writing, the kind that's miserable. It's been awhile.

This will no doubt change, but for now the routine goes like this:

I get up and feed the dogs, wash the dishes, shower, make breakfast and coffee and then surf the Internet for what seems like hours as I sip coffee and eat, all the while feeling more and more lousy because I'm not writing but, at the same time, being absolutely, 100 percent averse to writing, as if it were the most wretched medicine on earth, and I have to drink a pint of it.

Finally, I set an egg timer for 20 minutes and stare at my screen while the seconds tick away. Five minutes later, after several false starts, I have a somewhat acceptable clause. Three minutes later it's sentence. Twelve minutes in I have two sentences down. And with five minutes to go in my alloted 20, I'm typing furiously. The timer goes off, but I have to keep going, to at least finish the paragraph. Once that's done, I usually have enough ideas and energy to keep going for another half paragraph, at which point I either run out of steam or a gasket pops in my brain, causing me to abruptly stop.

If I'm lucky, I can then go through the same process at least once before lunch, complete with net surfing and guilt-ridden procrastination. And if I'm super, super lucky, I can go it again after lunch. But some days that's all I get -- a paragraph and a half. 

The actual writing isn't miserable. Those 2o to 40 minutes when the words are flowing is actually quite wonderful. It's all the rest of the time that totally sucks. I once heard Joyce Carol Oates describe it as like having a vice clamped on your head all the time. You get some relief when you're writing, and quite a bit more when you finish writing something. And the relief, compared to the pain, is so great that it feels like an exquisite high, even though it's just normal life with out a vice crushing your skull. 

squeek scare

Last night, Allie went downstairs to check in on Squeek. A second later she came running up the stairs. "Squeek's just laying in his crate, not moving, I don't know what's wrong."

I followed her down into the basement, reached in and fished him out. He meowed.

"Oh good," Allie said. "He's OK."

"No he's not," I said, noticing something wrong. I tried to set him on the floor and he crumpled down, unable to use his legs.

We went into a panic. What to do. Get the crate! Get the keys! Get your wallet! Go! Go! Go!!

We raced over to the neighborhood pet clinic. They were just closing but they let us in.

The vet examined him on one of those tall metal tables. He said he thought maybe Squeek had fallen and broken his neck or damaged his brain. I started seething with guilt and shame. I was the one who had set up his enclosure. I saw him trying to jump out and escape. I hadn't done anything about it. And how long had he been lying down there like that? My God, what have I done.

The vet took Squeek's temperature but he was so cold he didn't register anything on the thermometer. 

"That's not good," he said. "I don't think he's going to make it."

My breath caught. I started pacing. The vet told us to take him to an emergency clinic, 15 or so miles away in Lee's Summit. We tore out onto the highway, and promptly got stuck in a traffic jam. Squeek stopped meowing. "Touch him to see if he's OK," I said to Allie.

"I can't," she said.

So drove all the way there both certain that he had died right there in our car and that it was both of our faults.

But when I picked him up to take him into the clinic he let out a wail. Allie felt instantly relieved. I was still freaking out. The nurse took him into the back room and left us with a form to fill out. And then we waited. And waited. And they took us into another room and we waited and waited some more. Finally, when the nurse came in I barked, "Can't you tell us what's going on!"

Allie scolded me, but My God! Were they trying to torture us?! This little, tiny, adorable creature is dying and it's all our fault and they're acting like we're just waiting for an insurance quote or something!

Finally the doctor came in and she was real sweet and nice. She said Squeek was low on sugar and red blood cells and badly dehydrated. He had fleas and most likely worms and they were depriving him of nutrients. He's just so teensy he couldn't take it anymore and he just shut down.

She went back to work on him some more. When she came back, she said he was up and moving. 

"Is he going to make it?" I asked, and she gave one of those long, noncommittal medical answers. Finally, Allie asked, "If you were going to give a percentage, what would it be?"

"I'd say 80 percent."

Instant relief. 

Looked like he was going to live. And it wasn't our fault. 

Right before we were ready to go home, and leave him there for a night of intensive care, the vet brought him in for us to see. I snapped a couple of pictures.

From kansas city soil

From kansas city soil

So we went home feeling pretty good things would be alright. About 10 o'clock, the vet called to tell us he was doing great. Acting like a regular kitten.

This morning, we went to pick him up. He was looking good.

From kansas city soil

We took him to his regular vet, where he's been all day. In a little bit, we'll go pick him up. He'll be under our care for the weekend, and hopefully until he find him a good home. 

Whew! What a night!

national news

The much-anticipated Wall Street Journal article about my former boss and his wife came out today. I'll refrain from editorial comment here, except to say, for the record, that the poodle video and "We want the Funk!" commercial were my ideas. 

john mcenroe

It's that time again. Time to lavish praise on my old buddy John McEnroe has completed another major public art piece in Denver: National Velvet.

It towers above the highway near Downtown and it glows at night!

I talked with John briefly the other day. He was on his way to the dedication ceremony, at which Mayor Hickenlooper made an appearance, and he said the piece had raised some controversy. Apparently some folks on a website out there were bitching about it, and he dared them to fight to have the thing removed. "Which would be the best possible thing that could happen," he told me. (Took me a second to figure out why, but then I realized, yeah, that would be pretty awesome for John.)

I couldn't find the online complaints. But I did find an item from Westword, in which they rename the sculpture "Saggy-Boob Electric Penis." And a video interview with John, in which he's being his usual smart-ass self, albeit in a very gentle-voiced, friendly way. When the reporter asks him about the name, he says that "Velvet" connotes tactile pleasure and "National speaks for itself."

Um. Not when it refers to a giant pile of red blobs, it doesn't.

But that's part of what makes John great, that smart-assed-ness.

Here's an online portfolio of his work.

the awful truth

Allie and I watched The Awful Truth last night. Wonderful movie.

It's about this perfect couple that gets suspicious of one another and hastily files for divorce. The break up begins to fall apart over the issue of who keeps the dog, Mr. Smith, or Smitty, who delivers an Oscar-worthy performance.

Needless to say, it was the perfect movie for a couple of dog-loving freaks like us.

We both long to take a vacation to the 1930s and 40s, at least to the world as it existed in those movies. Everyone was so stylish! Irene Dunne would just lounge around in spectacular sequin dresses, and Cary Grant with a scarf and a silk robe, or a tuxedo with long tails. And all the men wore hats. I'd love to wear hats -- other than ball caps. But I couldn't get away with it in this day and age. I'm not old and I'm not black. Being neither, a fedora would be purely pretentious on my head.

trailers

Found some trailers to some of my favorite movies. (Kind of goofing around here a little bit lately.)

I totally love this one:

It's so cheezy. But so cool, too.

This is one of my all-time favorites:


Best J-film ever.

encouraging news

The NYT had an interesting article yesterday about nonprofit websites that are providing in-depth, investigative journalism in cities. It focused mainly on The Voice of San Diego. But it also mentioned The St. Louis Beacon, MinnPost and the New Haven Independent. They're all really attractive sites, all apparently full of good meat.

It makes me wish I could find a sugar daddy (or mama) who would bankroll one here in KC. I'd love to do something like this. And since McClatchy has been forcing the Star to kill its own, there are probably a few other folks who could join in.

We do have a couple sites like this -- KC Tribune and eKC -- both of which have had some good stuff but which appear to lack the capital that those other sites have.

Meanwhile, across the US, I've noticed that my buddy Joel has rebooted his old blog, Cup of Joel, with a partisan national politics flavor. Here's hoping that one takes off.

wedding pix

wedding

wet squeek

Allie gave the poor little freak a bath. He's still looking for a home.

squeek

This the little creature I saved yesterday. He's is looking for a home.

kitten

I was driving along, about a mile from home, when I spotted a light brown critter scampering out onto the road and pulling up short just before getting smooshed by the car in front of me. At first I thought it was a prairie dog runt. But as I got closer, I noticed it was a kitten. I hit the brakes.

Through the rearview mirror I could see the woman in the car behind me cursing, but I got out anyway. By the time I got around to the side of my car and reached down to scoop the little fur ball up, she was smiling. She approved of what I was doing. She had several teeth missing in the front.

I cupped to kitten to my chest, got in my car, turned around and raced home. I couldn't wait to show it to Allie.

She approved too. But she was a bit worried. The thing was so darned small, she wondered if it could even eat.

I went to the pet store and got some good kitten chow. The kind in a can. Kitty loved that. Just scarfed it down. Though it kept kind of bite/sucking it, like it was a teet. I think it was the first time it had ever had chewable food.

So now we've got another stray to adopt. This one should be easy, though. It's no bigger than my hand. And just squeeky cute.

Anybody want a kitten?

funny keith

Get the latest news satire and funny videos at 236.com.

'Bout sums it up.

extreme activities

This is the greatest film ever made.

giraffes!

Finally! This is available online!!

new media

Washington Post has some good stuff about Obama and new media. This article says he's going to beef up the communication's staff to marshall in a stronger web presence. And this one talks about the tension between the President-Elect and the press.

The first one is promising, so long as it isn't just propaganda. If his administration puts actual work product out with the polished press releases, policy papers and speeches and such, I think this could be really valuable for people who want to engage the system. I hope they put out some real substantive stuff -- source documents, studies, etc. It doesn't cost anything to put that stuff out there, and most folks won't read it, but it gives those of us who would the option of studying issues and initiatives in depth.

Or, from a more selfish perspective, it could give a journalist from the fly-over land a way to build a little beat circuit in the White House and look for stories or even a book. There are obviously going to be tons of books about this presidency, and I'd like to keep the option open to write one of them.

I checked out his transition website. Not a lot there. I went ahead and applied for a job. Why not? At some point, I'll probably share my story and vision for the country.

On the press side, my perspective on this is quite a bit different now that I've done a short stint in an elected office. I have to say, I sympathize with Obama's position. On the other hand, he needs to get over it. The press has always been at odds with people in power, and it always will be. Bottom line: Reporters are out to score points and draw eyeballs. Conflict drives everything. And conformity and group think are all pervasive. But, as one of the best journalists said, "That's the way it is." And the media is, for the most part, the conduit to the people, the means by which to inform of progress, or lack there of.

Ramble, ramble. Obviously, this idea's not fully baked yet. More later, maybe...

Meantime, here's a collection of hypoallergenic dogs.

news, pets and flix

In case you haven't heard, I quit my job.

The official announcement came in the middle of a big news day -- complete with a highly unusual action taken by the Star's editorial board.

In other news, the LA Times has a great photo gallery of presidential pets. Can't beat Harrison's goat!

And Allie and I are going to the movie tonight. Which should we see? This one? Or this?

odds and ends

I've been thinking of writing a post about why I like marathons so much. Haven't gotten around to it yet, obviously, so here's this, from the author of a new book about the NYC marathon, in the meantime:

I’ve covered the NBA, U.S. Open tennis and the Olympics, and I don’t think any one event captures the scale of humanity like the marathon.

...

One of my favorite artists is William Eggleston. And this is one of my favorite pictures by him:



...

Want to know more about the new second most powerful man in the world? This article is quite informative.

I read portions of it aloud to Allie last night, and she said he sounds like a dick.

Having worked in an executive office for a year and a half, my sense is that this is the right choice. He apparently knows everyone and everything. He's a proven political winner. He's a ball buster. And -- most important -- he appears to be a very close ally, someone Obama will be able to trust.

Here is another.

the moment

Annie Mae Rosemond, 105, in Greenville, South Carolina


Smut Eye, Alabama

Allie and I went to the Midland Theatre for the Missouri Democrats' watch party. Beautiful place. The place was jam-packed with just about every noteworthy Dem in KC. A giant screen above the stage was set on CNN.

When Ohio went to Obama, I knew it was over. Every projection had him in solid control of 84 electoral votes on the West Coast. Ohio took him to 200. Game over. When the Magic Screen Guy on CNN pointed this out, saying, "I can't really see any path to victory for McCain," a big cheer went up.

Then Virginia went blue, and everyone knew it was done deal. We counted off the seconds to the California polls' closing time and Barack's face filled the screen. The place just went nuts.

Then some pasty white dude took the stage and said he was head of the local Democrats and he started going off on, "We're right and they're wrong!" You know, We're right on health care, they're wrong! Bla bla bla.

And I was like YOU are wrong on the spirit of this moment.

Midway through the third obnoxious speech by a local Democratic hack, I turned to Allie and said, "Let's get out of here."

Out on the streets downtown you could hear cars honking everywhere, as if the Chiefs had won the Super Bowl. My cell phone rang, and it was Ebony hollering into the receiver as he and his friends were dancing their way through the streets of Louisville.

On the ride home we listened to McCain's consolation speech, and we were impressed. When we got home, we watched Obama's speech. I was really moved by his story of the 106-year-old woman who voted earlier that day, the way he worked through the events of America in the long span of her life, broken up with the refrain: Yes we can.

Today I had lunch with a friend of mine who I have long admired, a local community activist who happens to be black. He was at the Midland celebration, too, but I hadn't seen him there. Like me, and everyone else in the place, he was elated when CNN made the call. It had been a day like no other, starting when he showed up at the polling place and saw a line snaking far around the block, and ending at that same location with a DJ camped outside and a line of people cheering on everyone who passed by: Go voter! Go voter!

But te had the same reaction I did to the speeches afterward. He had to get out of there. He said even Obama's speech left him feeling a little flat.

It wasn't until earlier today, when he went to a local school, where the teachers and students of all grades, K through 12, were having a celebration rally. He said that every time someone said Obama's name into the PA system, the kids all jumped up and cheered. A vice principal showed a slide show he'd put together. It started with pictures of Barack, then him with his wife, then the whole family together. Then there were pictures of him with other kids. Lots of pictures, some taken from over Obama's shoulder so you could see the look on the kids' faces of awe and pride. Then there were pictures of Barack with crowds of people, growing ever larger.

And suddenly, there appeared an image of a slave ship, the famous one with all the bodies laid side-by-side across the cargo area floor.

"It was like this sudden shock," my friend said. "Then they showed a picture of Barack and everyone cheered."

Next appeared an image of people being blasted by water cannons, and then another of folks attacked by dogs, then a gruesome shot of lynching -- each one separated by President-Elect Obama. And with each flash on the screen, the kids cheered louder until the whole place was going wild.

My friend had finally found something that began to match the way he felt inside.

"Today, when people ask me how it feels, I honestly don't know what to tell them, because there's never been anything like it before," he said. "I just tell them, 'It feels new.'"

i voted

Allie and I got up at 5:30 and walked hand-in-hand to the polling place, arriving a little after six. The line stretched around the block. I was smiling widely as I passed all the people to find my place at the end.

As the line inched its way forward, more and more people came. A guy behind us looked around and groused, "Where is that kid? I hope he's not out smoking something. I don't trust him."

Just then a tall teen in a hooded sweatshirt crossed the street, his posture a little slumped.

"There he is!" the man said.

"Welcome to American democracy!" He said to the kid, and then to the crowd: "This is his first time voting. He's 18. Still in high school. Can you believe that?"

Everyone in line kept saying they'd never waited in line to vote before. I said to Allie, "I hate waiting in lines. But this is one line I'm glad is long."

I have a pretty strong hunch Obama is going to win in Missouri, and by a decent margin (by Missouri standards), despite the closeness of the polls. Turn out in Kansas City and St. Louis is going to be monumental. This will tip the balance in a state that is always close.

Remember, we elected a Democrat to the Senate two years ago. I didn't wait in no line on that election day.

I can get pretty cranky about humanity sometimes. But this really lifts my spirits. It is so awesome to see so many people out exercising their power as citizens -- the majority of them driven to action by a common desire for change and for a politics that transcends division. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing.

mclame

Meanwhile, over at McCain headquarters...

It's tough to win if you don't get out the vote.

countdown

I don't know if many of you watch Keith Oberman, but Allie and I have been of late. This is a pretty good sppof of it.

obamania 2

I rode my bike to Midtown today to meet a friend for coffee. On the way home, I decided to detour by the Obama office to see if I could sign in and help out for an hour or so.

I got to the door just as a woman and her two daughters were showing up, so I held it open for them. Then I glanced to my right and noticed that Senator Claire McCaskill was coming in right behind them.

McCaskill was there for a pep talk for the troops, and the local TV crews were all inside waiting for her.

The volunteers gathered around, looked to be at least fifty or so, while she delivered an impromptu stump speech. She said she'd been through many campaigns in "Missour-uh" and she'd never seen anything like this one.

"Usually when I show up at a campaign office this close to an election, I already know everybody," she said. "Here, most of you are strangers. How many of you are working on your first campaign."

Most of the hands shot up.

When I went to the counter to get my assignment, the woman handed me a map of a six-block area around Prospect. I told them I was on my bike, and I didn't have a backpack, so I couldn't really do it. I agreed to come back tomorrow. As if for consolation, she handed me a flyer for Joe Biden's appearance tomorrow in Lee's Summit. Everyone is so happy and friendly at the field office.

As I rode home through the Eastside, noticing the vacant storefronts and weedy lots, I thought about all the people out fanning the city, making sure everyone knows where to vote and has a ride to the polls. I wished I could be out knocking on doors along Prospect. A friend of mine on Facebook said she was out there yesterday. She's white. I thought it kind of neat to think of all these white people walking in black neighborhoods, not only not scared but actually grateful to not be in a white neighborhood, where the chances of running into a cranky McCain-Palin supporter would be much greater.

This seems to me to be a good thing.

Then I rode by the projects where a bunch of kids were out playing in the courtyard. Judging by the size of them, I'd guess the only president they've ever known is Bush. And now we're about to elect the first black president.

Some of the kids I know from Central are going to vote for the first time in their lives, and they're about to elect the first black president.

There was a poll released today that explains the blissful formlessness of this post. It was a dazzling autumn day, 70 degrees. Perfect.

obamania

Allie and I volunteered for Obama today.

We showed up at the Kansas City campaign headquarters in the early afternoon. It's a dazzling autumn day here today. The field office is in a little upscale strip mall a mile or so south of downtown. I'd guess it's 2,000 square feet, with storefront windows all around. The place is hopping. People are moving every which way, all with all kinds of Obama T-shirts and hats and stickers with their names on them and things like "I'm from Texas" and "of California" (on my first visit to the place a few weeks ago, I was greeted by a fellow from San Fran who had moved out here for a month just to turn our red state blue).

There are folks typing into computers, folks working phone, carrying clipboards, working the counter, handing out water bottles, blacks, whites, old folks, little kids, union guys with great big beards. When we we're standing in line to check in, a woman asks us if we could carry some stuff in from a truck out in the parking lot. We run out and grab great big bags of barbecue from KC Masterpiece and bring them into the inner sanctum where there is already a ton of food.

Today our job is canvassing. We're given a list of addresses in a nearby neighborhood, and off we go to knock on doors. The neighborhood is mostly apartment buildings -- the city kind that are several stories high with locked front doors. But we manage to find a few people. They're all voting for Obama. One guy even signs up to volunteer.

Back at HQ to turn in our sheets a couple of hours later, the place is even busier than before. There's a new spread of barbecue, this one from Gates, and across the room there's a great big table full of baked goods that folks have been bringing in all day. I look around to soak it all in. It's kind of like how it was during the mayoral campaign, at the doublewide, only much, much bigger and backed by a totally professional, well-funded operation. And this is just one city in a state that's gone Republican the last couple of times.

On the way there I said to Allie I'd never seen anything like this. I thought that maybe the Carter campaign was exciting. I couldn't tell if that was just because it was the first one I was really aware of, or if it were one of those big moments in American politics. It seems to me there was a lot of grassroots excitement, what with all the peanut stuff and the Billy Beer.

But this. This is something else.

Allie and I went to the rally in KC a couple of weeks ago, and we'd never seen anything like it. 70,000 people for a short political speech. The line was three to five people wide, and it snaked around the entire Liberty Memorial -- more than a mile long. We've both been in Missouri for two campaigns, and never have we seen this kind of excitement.

I talked with my uncle earlier today, and he said he worries a little bit about the inevitable disappointment. No doubt that, if elected, Barack is going to screw up here and there. He's inheriting some huge challenges, and he's going to lose at least a couple of political battles. There'll be times when he'll be a politician and piss us all off.

But even if he's a complete failure, I think all this is worth it.

What an incredible moment of hope and excitement in our nation. To have all these people from all these different backgrounds coming out everyday all across the country to work together to get this guy elected, it's just...

I'd almost say un-American if I weren't feeling so proud to be one.

funny video

joe the plumber

I wish I worked for Saturday Night Live this week. They're job was made very easy last night when both candidates tried to outdo one another in the race to help Joe the Plumber.

If you've got a minute, do a Google news search on "Joe the Plumber" and just read the headlines.

Also, I wonder if these guys are going to get a spike in business. Or if they'll sue.