I’d rather be in Stalinist Russia, drinking human blood at Satan’s ball than be in Obama’s shoes. It’s been a year and a half since he inherited an America that is only turned on by extremes, sensationalism and exaggeration, along with a people crippled by fear and impatience. Even I, one of his most ardent fans, found myself screaming at the radio during his Oval Office address on the oil spill.

“Say it!” I shouted, “Say it!” I wanted a bold retraction of his previously announced (and obviously dunderheaded) plan to open some offshore waters to oil drilling. I was so disappointed. And then the next day, I heard someone on NPR saying that Obama’s six-month moratorium on deep water drilling was affecting some 50,000 people’s jobs in the already devastated Gulf. Pass the blood, please.

According to the polls, the prez is as popular as IRS agents investigating low income people and parking meter attendants. No one invites him to their parties, and all the girls say he has a small dick. I did my own poll a couple of weeks ago. Four liberals sitting around on my back deck gave him two Cs, one C+ and one B- (he owes me for that B-). No need to ask any conservatives. They decided he was an utter failure when he won the election. They say Independents are leaning toward a D-.

I admit to being very upset with Obama for not performing exactly as I wish on a whole host of issues—kind of like when I wanted him to bring his baseball bat and beat John McCain senseless on live television during the debates—but I’m still giving him his four years. I continue to pay through the nose for bullshit insurance coverage and medical care; however, I love, love, love him for banishing the shameful and disgraceful insurance industry practices known as “pre-existing conditions” and policy cancellations of sick people. This was only the first step, people. We had to start somewhere! Did we think doctors, hospitals, insurers and Americans were going to magically decide that healthcare should not be driven by profits? Before you go calling me a Communist, I believe in profit wholeheartedly, just not as a religion.

Healthcare reform is but one mind-numbing problem on the nefarious laundry list of ills plaguing this country and this administration; and although I confess to wanting to kick some Taliban ass in a baad way; Afghanistan is another. No need to inventory all the issues Obama has willingly taken on to mixed reviews. Who knows why Obama thinks and acts the way he does? Composed, slow-moving and thoughtful as opposed to bold and dramatic, when the times seem to be begging for both; I certainly don’t know, but I call for giving him a break even as we continue to voice our views and objections on the issues we care about. He may not always do what I want but he’s done plenty that I like a lot. He may not be warm and cuddly or stupid (apparently a huge issue for the masses), but if a president’s success is measured, in part, by whether or not people feel like they want to hang with him, having beers at a bar, let me say it loud and clear to the really, really smart guy in the White House, What do you say to an ice cold, extra dry martini, straight up?

From “Bigotgate” to shades of Kennedy/Nixon, Christie Healey gives the play-by-play on the recent UK elections

As I sat eating my breakfast this morning, I thought of Mr. Brown. Gordon Brown, a man whose brilliant background in accountancy could not save him from miscalculation of the odds. I imagined him at the 10 Downing Street breakfast table last Friday, the eviction notice hovering in his mind. He must have thought, “Where did I go wrong? He waited years for this gig, suffering in silence while Tony bounced all over the world like Tigger only to be given the old heave ho at the first opportunity.

The last two weeks of the adorably short UK general election campaign have been nothing less than stunning. The changes for Mr. Brown were foretold upon England’s foray into that most American of primetime shows, “The Debates”. Our brusque-toned dour Scot was pitted against the Liberal Democrats’ youthful and articulate leader, Nick Clegg, who puffed deep breaths of fresh air into the stale clichés of British politics. Even the Conservatives’ front man, an urbane and typically toffee-nosed type, managed to look like one of the stars of Mad Men compared to the rumpled, haggard Mr. B.

More modern communication curses were heaped upon Brown’s brow when he learned first hand that an open mic is also deadly weapon. The press-op teatime with Mrs. Duffy, loyal Labour Party housewife, seemed to start out pleasantly, but seizing her righteous 15 minutes she launched into a racist rant against immigrants. Mr. B tried to soothe her with mumbled purrs of campaign speak. On the way back to the car, the real Gordy emerged and he entered into a rant of his own, calling Mrs. Duffy a bigoted woman and heaping scorn upon his handlers, with the mic still clipped to his lapel in the “on” position. The listening press corps experienced mass spontaneous orgasm over “Bigotgate”.

The election resulted in a hung parliament because the magic number of seats that any party has to attain is 326. Despite the expected resurgence of the Conservatives they only got 306, Labour squeaked out 258, the LibDems have 57. Which means that Labour and the Conservatives must woo the LibDems to reach the winning number. Whoever gets to first base with Nick Clegg will be Prime Minister in a coalition government. The LibDems are usually more attracted to the brawny workers of the Labour Party, but that cunning little minx leader of theirs decided to go all the way with Conservative David Cameron who has just become England’s youngest Prime Minister. This is getting more and more like an episode of Mad Men!

In England we say we elect the party, not the person. If you believe that, then I have some amazing old Houses on the banks of the Thames to sell you. Judging from the press reports, no one was prepared for how Kennedy/Nixon the debates were destined to become. Obviously, we do now care very much about the person. Not that an Armani suit, a good haircut and some subtle face-lifting would have saved our single-malt Scot. His fate was sealed with his belief that he was entitled to the job. Note to John McCain: call Gordon, he needs you.

Britain has turned a corner in its political history. There may even be a change in the “first past the post” system to proportional representation. But, if the British political movie-of-the-week becomes an American long-running series, the British public may demand cancellation of the show. By the way, the election may have to be held again later this year and I can’t wait for the new season of Britain’s Got Political Talent. Maybe Simon Cowell will preside over the contestants as they primp and charm their way to victory and who knows, the Labour Party version of Susan Boyle may appear on our screens.

Follow the adventures of Connie Stetson, candidate’s wife, as she heads out on the campaign trail, once again…

Hi there. The lovely Mrs. Stetson here, and just returned from an event in one of our more charming off-the-beaten-path communities, El Portal. It was the annual Spring Fling in EP. A day of music, BBQ, beer, crafts, flea market, activists of all stripes, (GO No-Way Subway!!!), and the usual round-up of old friends, neighbors, conservationists, kids and dogs, and of course, the opportunity for a little campaigning, glad-handing, and baby kissing. Yes, dear readers, Lee is running for office again and I just can’t wait to dust off my pillbox hat and pearl button gloves.

A couple of weeks ago we had the dubious honor of attending the Republican Central Committee’s “Meet the Candidate Night” where we were regaled with each conservative candidate’s personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Why bother to call yourselves Republicans anymore? How about re-branding you as Christi-cans, or Republica-mentalists? It was fascinating, in a “can’t take your eyes off a train wreck” sort of way, to watch as each candidate for the Republican nomination for the 19th congressional seat vied for the title of the most conservative conservative, or the original conservative, or the most racist conservative, or the biggest sexual deviant freak conservative.

Why, I could have listened for hours, if only I didn’t have to heave up my rubber chicken dinner. No one talked about any real issues, or discussed real solutions to our state and national challenges, save for the one guy who said about health care, “Repeal it, repeal it, repeal it, shoot it, and repeal it again.” But Jesus was in the house, so let Him handle the issues.

Lee and the lovely Mrs. were also seen attending the Democratic Club’s gala Jefferson Dinner where thankfully no one prayed but someone definitely farted, loudly, and in the middle of a passionate speech by a labor union activist. I can’t prove it, but I believe it was an undercover conservative trying to be “silent-but-deadly”, and failing.

Today we’ll doll up and trot over to our wonderful neighbors, George and Angie, who are generously hosting a fundraiser afternoon tea, they are NOT tea-baggers, mind you, and Angela is a BRIT, OK? This I’m very much looking forward to, because we love them, they’re right up the street, and Angie knows me well enough to pour scotch into that Spode. It should be a delightful soiree.

The upcoming calendar is a mixed bag of campaigning opportunities. A cocktail party, a debate night, and a get-out-the-vote push, these are all chances for the candidate to get out there and mingle, listen, and share ideas about the issues that most concern the folks who live and work in this incredible, unique place we call home.

I am proud of my husband for being willing to take on local politics, “pothole politics” if you will—but remember the adage that all politics is local. So the next time you’re at a political fundraiser and see a lovely woman standing aside, smiling and nodding, who’s eyes appear glazed over, don’t just stand there and pity her. Offer her a drink, for Christ sake, and write her husband a check. Her feet hurt. She’d like to go home and wash her face, brush her teeth, put on her jammies, get into bed, and watch Dancing With the Stars.

Thank you for your support,

The Lovely Mrs. Stetson

The above post is solely the opinion of its writer and is not endorsed by any political party or candidate on any planet in the known or unknown universe.

For Cathy Fischer, rudeness rears its ugly head and in some of the most unlikely places

Have you noticed lately that rude behavior has reached epic proportions? While Dear Abby and Miss Manners may have upped their game (they’re online after all), rudeness is still rampant. In twenty-first century America, hectic lifestyles, fractured families and ever-present technologies have enabled abundant opportunity for unconscious behavior, and frankly, I’m sick of it!

Case in point: The other day I was coming home from a lovely walk. Tra la la, it’s spring and I am in a good mood! As I approach my building, I see “him”—let’s call him Nathan (because, that’s his name). Nathan is a skinny, pasty, nerdy guy, around 40-ish. His social skills are lacking. That doesn’t bother me, what does is that Nathan has BAD MANNERS, as illustrated by his next move. He steps up the pace and makes a beeline for the front door. I know he’s seen me, but he doesn’t acknowledge that, and he most certainly does not hold open the door; and then, like a mangy little squirrel, he scampers to the elevator, jumps in the moment it arrives, and makes sure the doors close before I can possibly stop him. His strategy works, and I am left in the dust of his scampering nerdiness. I am aghast!

Yo Nate! Did your mother raise you that way?

Nathan’s is just one of the many examples of selfish behavior that’s wreaking havoc in America today. From loud cell phone talkers to inconsiderate drivers, teenagers texting at the dinner table to spoiled whining kids… I could go on and on.

The worst culprits of rudeness, however, are adults behaving badly. Take politicians, for example. Are they not supposed to be shining examples of decorum and proper behavior? So what’s up with those Tourette’s-like outbursts? And in the hallowed halls of Congress no less. “You lie!” (Rep. Joe Wilson). “Baby-killer!” (Rep. Randy Neugebauer). They leave me shaking my head in disbelief. Then there’s the tantrum throwing. I can just imagine it: John McCain, red faced, arms crossed, lips pursed, “There will be no cooperation for the rest of the year!” He stomps his foot and grabs his big bouncy ball. He’s going home! So there!!

Yo politicians! Did your mothers raise you that way?

Here’s what Miss Manners has to say about people behaving badly: “Etiquette doesn’t have the great sanctions that the law has. But the main sanction we do have is in not dealing with these people and isolating them because their behavior is unbearable.” Ahh yes, if only we could isolate those “unbearable” men and women, those politicians who masquerade as “compassionate adults” and under the guise of civil service.

Granted, I’m no Ms. Manners myself. I’ve been known to talk with my mouth full or interrupt conversation (a cultural specialty), but… when it comes to my fellow beings, humans and animals alike, I believe that small kindnesses go a long way. It is civility that keeps humans connected, linked to one another by common decency and respect. Acts of kindness make us better people. Remember the high school drivers’ education class motto, “Courtesy is contagious”? It’s true! I’ve experienced it time and time again. So Nathan, Joe, Randy and John, listen up, Courtesy is contagious! Put it into action. Make your mothers (and others) proud.

Its Saturday morning and the winter is coming to an end. Although here on the tundra we are wary of any irrational exuberance until May. The phone rang and I heard Heidi’s voice say, “Want to go for a walk?” I cannot think of anything I would rather do at this moment than join her and her beautiful sad-eyed dog Sara on a stroll around the Lake Como in the crystal sunshine.

My mum and dad would take a walk every Sunday afternoon. They talked quietly while my sister and I wandered along with them, playing make-believe games and seeing who could run the fastest. In the past few years I have become a walker again. There is singular joy in strolling along talking to my companions or, when I am alone, talking to myself. It seems as if walking frees the tongue and the mind. Difficult topics can be broached more easily; old hurts can be mended, secrets may be revealed, sadness might suddenly find release, and laughter often comes unexpectedly.

You see and experience more when walking. Recently I was in Hawaii visiting my son. We took a long walk to a remote beach. Kerri, Fred’s partner, spotted the whales just off shore. We saw great splashes and spouts as they breached and slammed their flukes, two different worlds in joyful harmony.

Walking with Cathy once, we passed a man in obvious physical distress; he said his name was Charlie. Cathy called for help and we stayed with him until he assured us and the emergency personnel he was okay. As we continued on our walk Cathy said, laughing, “We’re Charlie’s Angels.” The next day we went for a long hike on the Northern California coast. Late in the afternoon we walked down a hill confident that we would see her car at the bottom. We must have been distracted by our conversation because when we reached the road we realized we had taken the wrong path and were a few miles from the car. Two young men stopped and asked if everything was okay. We told them the problem and they offered to drive us to the car. We dithered a bit because one should be cautious, but something in our senses, an echo perhaps from the previous day when we had offered assistance to a stranger, told us to accept the offer. One wrong turn becomes a good turn, and we know what a good turn deserves.

I wonder if the humans were nicer creatures when we walked more. The wanderer on foot has not always been seen as a threat. The great traditions of hospitality grew out of the possibility of the news and stories that would be imparted when a walker entered the camp. There was honor in sharing one’s food and water with travelers. My mum called tramps “Gentlemen of the Road.”

It is possible that if President Obama had taken all the politicians on a strenuous hike the other day instead of sitting in a room in Blair House for eight hours, we might have seen a different, more positive outcome. It is difficult to walk and pontificate at the same time. There is a risk of stumbling on. On the other hand one might just forget the path one was supposed to take and find something different works just as well. Should we demand that Congress walk first and pass laws second? Come on Washington, get out of those buildings and Nike-up. You’ll be amazed what you’ll see and learn.

Teddy, Bobby and John Kennedy, 1962

Connie Stetson reflects on what shaped her views of democracy and what fuels her hope today.

With the passing of Teddy Kennedy, aside from feeling real grief at his loss, I am feeling, profoundly, the weight of my age. Not my chronological age, I just turned 58, but the age that has shaped my sensibilities, the age I am passing through. As I write this I feel like a trauma survivor, as though I’m watching my life pass before my eyes.

The year of my birth, 1951, Harry S. Truman was president, and then Dwight D. Eisenhower was elected in 1956. The first presidential election I can remember was between Richard M. Nixon and John F. Kennedy. It was as hotly contested in our family as it was in the nation. My grandparents were staunch Republicans, supporting Nixon, and my mother was a Democrat, mad about Kennedy.

That first televised debate, Sept. 26th, 1960, at nine years old, made me a life-long Democrat. Those impossibly handsome brothers, Jack, Bobby and Teddy, whose passions fueled the passion of a generation, were the real standard bearers of hope and change, the very words I am sick to death of hearing politicians spew now.

It was late November in 1963, I was in my Home Ec. class (which was mandatory for girls then), anticipating the Thanksgiving holiday long weekend, when our school principal announced that Kennedy had been shot in a motorcade in Dallas. All of us in that generation remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we heard that horrifying announcement. Time stood still. As I look back, I see that that moment was the harbinger of worse to come, ushering in a decade of grief, loss, pain, and wrenching social change.

Less than five years later on April 4th, 1968, Martin Luther King was wrenched, terribly, out of this world on that balcony in Memphis, and two months later, as I sat up with my mom a little after midnight, to watch on TV Bobby’s victory speech at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, we witnessed in shock and horror, in tears and disbelief, our hope and energy and optimism, murdered along with Robert Kennedy. And in 1969, just a little more than a year after his brother was assassinated, Teddy Kennedy drove his car off that bridge on Chappaquiddick Island, killing Mary Jo Kopechne, and ending any possibility that “Camelot” could ever be reclaimed.

I feel it bearing down, the weight of my age, all of it—Viet Nam, women’s equality (gee—will I live to see that happen?), the civil rights movement, in which we are still engaged with gay and lesbian rights at the forefront, health care for all of us, and not just for those who can pay, 9/11, wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the purposeful degrading of our environment, the conscious undoing of our economy, our deep racist bent, world poverty and hunger, AIDS, cynicism, and worst of all, the irretrievable corporate corruption of our political system. I feel like such a fucking sell-out.

Meanwhile, I have mustered up some optimism for our current president. Barack Obama is, after all, living proof that we can evolve, fix what is broken, and stand for what is right. It has never been more critical for our country to regain its courage, its self-respect, and its desire to never lose heart. Life is long and we ain’t dead yet, right?

I do hope with all my heart that at the end of his life, with the entire good that Senator Ted Kennedy accomplished, that he felt balanced out. That the weight of his age tipped the scales towards what he accomplished in his whole lifetime, and not towards what he may have had to live down in that one awful moment. I hope that that is true for us all.

Poster by James Montgomery Flagg, 1917

Carine Fabius is making a dramatic change, a new affiliation that speaks to her head and heart.

That’s it. After being a lifelong Democrat, I am officially changing my party affiliation to Independent.

I like the ring of that word. One of its dictionary definitions is “capable of thinking or acting for oneself.” That’s a pretty accurate description of me. I wish I could be independent of any political party but I wouldn’t be able to vote in primaries; so if affiliation I must have, then I choose to belong to the American Independent Party.

But, Carine, that’s like throwing away your vote! If you’re thinking that, think again. I am not planning on voting Independent for any presidential candidate anytime soon because that would be a waste. For now. A president can only do so much alone, though; that’s how our system is set up. Without the lawmakers, it’s stagnation time. But the only time lawmakers pay attention to constituents is when they fear being kicked out of office. That point was driven home to me while visiting with my pro-Bush father recently when he kept asking me, But why do the people in Obama’s own party keep fighting him? Good question!

The answer is that only by voting in senators and representatives that stand up for our issues can we affect national politics. Party be damned. And the sooner we send that message the better.

On that note, if we consider ourselves to be conscious beings, trying to make our way toward the light during our time here on this physical earthly plane, then we cannot continue to hold our collective noses while voting for people we don’t believe in. Energetically, this is dishonest. So, I’ll be looking real hard at the politicians running for office from now on—both at the local and national level—no matter from what party they hail. I doubt I’ll be voting Republican, since one thing I know is they for sure don’t represent my views. But I’ve always liked the color Green; and how about The Peace and Freedom Party? Absolutely adore the way that sounds!

Politicians are so good at taking lovely words like liberal and conservative and turning them into ideologies people want to run away from. I know that the Jerk of all jerks, Joe Lieberman, belongs to the Independent party; and even though I’d rather feed my right arm to that albino alligator over at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco rather than be in any club that guy belongs to, I’m going Independent. (I’m betting The Jerk will be changing the letter next to his name from “I” to “R” pretty soon anyway.) Independent is another one of those nice words that got hijacked by politics, but think about it: free to make up your own mind. Doesn’t that make you feel good all over?

Let’s face it, the Democratic Party sucks. For years now I’ve been saying that Democrats make me gag just a tiny bit less than Republicans. Why stay? This is a call to action. You don’t have to be affiliated with the spineless, drowning-in-special-interest-money, chicken shit party anymore. Let them know you mean it by voting for the politician that makes the most sense. Party be damned. Yeah, yeah, yeah!