A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Stop Pulling The Lemongrass Brocade Over Our Eyes

Dear fashion world at large,

I wondered how you were going to play it.  I wondered if you were going to be drinking deep from the fabled river in Egypt when it came to Michelle Obama's inauguration dress, or if you were actually going to call it as your eyes saw it-- which is to say, unflatteringly draped on the body of a woman who deserved to look better on her first day on the job.

Robin Givhan in particular gave us a saccharine whopper, confusing the importance of the husband's moment with the relevance of a dress that made his wife look big, bulky, dowdy, and --yes, I will say it-- FRUMPY.

(sorry-- WaPo online is subscription, but it's worth it)

(And P.S. to Ms. Givhan: most women LIKE looking pretty.  Next thing we know, you'll be writing about how lukewarm water is made by mixing hot and cold water.  Earth-shattering, I know.  Please credit me as a source if you go with that lead.)

___________

Michelle Obama has shown us a few things about herself in these whirlwind months:

1. She has a nice, healthy-looking body and buff arms;

2. She's taller than her husband, at least in moderate heels;

3. She can look quite good in her clothes;

4. But every once in a while she can pick some sublimely, unflatteringly ugly dresses (see her horrid Black Widow Spider fiasco that she wore the night Obama won the election).

So let's get one thing out of the way: I bear no ill-will against Michelle Obama as a possible fashion icon.  I think she brings new blood to the office of First Lady, and I look forward to seeing her style develop as she becomes more comfortable in her role. 

Let's get another thing out of the way as well: one man's bane is another man's blessing.  In other words, what some may think is ugly or unflattering, others may find beautiful, harmonious and complimentary.  This is why art --and make no mistake, that fashion is a big part of art-- is so subjective and hard to categorize. 

But there are a few things most people can agree upon.  I will also list these:

a. Fit is an essential part of any outfit.  Bad fit= bad outfit, regardless of how pretty the materials or the colors may be.

b. Certain colors look better on people, more so than others.  This is known as the Color Me Beautiful principle.  Some may deride it, but people who look good in jewel tones should not try to go with drab colors, and vice versa, and that is a fact.  Yes.  I said "fact."

c. A person who normally looks good in clothes but suddenly looks dumpy in her clothes should blame the clothes and not herself.  She should also stay away from those kinds of clothes (paging Isabel Toledo and issuing her a restraining order against her sewing machine).

___________

So back to Michelle Obama emerging from the Capitol yesterday:

I was disappointed.

I could definitely see the merits of wanting to wear a cheerful shade of lemongrassy yellow on a cold winter's day; however, there are several points wrong with her choice, the first of which was that the color DID NOT LOOK GOOD ON HER.

It was a shade that was neither here nor there-- neither really yellow nor really gold, and definitely not green enough. Certainly not even in the ballpark of Pantone's color of the year --mimosa yellow, and possibly a much better choice of a bright, delightful yellow for our new First Lady. The diamanté collar ornament thingy was a bit over the top for morning, but it was kind of cute and did not bug me.  What bugged me was that HER OUTFIT MADE HER LOOK FAT.

Fat.  Bulky.  Dumpy.  Like the Michelle-in woman.  Padded.  Oversized.  Possibly warm, thank goodness, because it was cold yesterday.  But yeah-- I said it: she looked BIG.

Michelle Obama is a brickhouse to begin with: she is not a petite Laura Bush type, who in my opinion looked elegant and understated  in a lovely shade of gray (which I'm sure many people found boring).  She can and should wear tailored outfits that show off her shape, but without dipping into no-pantyhose, skirt-way-too-high, and boots-way-too-young-for-her Jill Biden territory.  But her dress made her look like she had been padded, and not just for warmth.  Add to this her impressive height, and you have something in which she would and did look uncomfortable for a good part of the day.  You don't need to be a body language expert to see that in many of the official pictures of the day, Mrs. Obama is seem trying to blend into the background and diminish her shape-- something she was not trying to do with her far-prettier inaugural ball dress.

So, no.  Please don't try to sell to people with eyes that Mrs. Obama looked awesome while holding that Lincoln Bible: it's unfair to her, and to the many sartorial possibilities yet to happen through her.

She can look better than that, and I hope she does, because fashion is supposed to be fun and because being about ten years younger than the outgoing First Lady and much more statuesque than, say, Mrs. Clinton (not to mention less padded in the saddlebag area) gives her a great advantage and plenty of unexplored places to go, fashion-wise.

Just, please-- let us all stay away from the Nile.

Bounty

Bounty, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

We're in cautious economic times. People are getting laid off; savings have been cut back dramatically, some to the point of nonexistence, because the financial markets have taken such a blindsided, downward tumble.

The Christmas/holiday season did not see as aggressive a crowd buying everything their grubby, greedy hands could get ahold of, and this past year saw the demise of those delightful doppelganger stores such as Linens 'N' Things and the Sharper Image (doubles of Bed, Bath and Beyond and Hammacher Schlemmer, or perhaps Brookstone-- oh-oh).

And yet, for all the paucity and feeling of recession, there is nothing quite like seeing the impressive display of a supermarket's produce bay.

To me, there is nothing quite as awe-inspiring yet unsettling to walk through a supermarket and see the solid walls and mountains of apples and oranges and onions and potatoes and all manner of edibles-- all of them fresh, or else. All of them available for pennies on the dollar, enticing with their colorful displays and their promises of bounty and health.

All that produce, grown in all those fields, crowding all those supermarkets all over the town. All over the area.

All over the state, and the country.

To focus merely on the negative economy when one is shopping for produce seems dangerously ungrateful; filled with hubris, even.

So my little weird piece of advice to you is this: if you're feeling down on your luck and poor, go buy yourself some produce and rejoice that we live in these modern times where there is an oasis of plenty, ready when you are, around the corner from where you live.

Meta-Meta

Isn't it lucky that we have the Greek language as this pseudo-parent language that can give us mysterious words that somehow happen to lend an aura of cool, awesome, or just pragmatic to the world?

Like, you know, meta?

(The phone just rang.  It was this rather odious doctor office manager who seems to speak as if on seven second delay, and somehow I found myself being extra chipper and acid-tongued just for her.  I don't quite know what's wrong with me, but that woman's demeanor over the phone --her decided lack of caring for her job coupled with a resolute lack of caring for whatever I may say-- make me want to crawl through the cord and strangle her.  I'm going to blame that last statement on the hormones).

________

As humans, we have this fascination with sharing ourselves and our stories and our thought processes.  And as humans, we also have the compulsion to want to absorb those details with and from other people.  We blog, we overshare, we Tweet and we Facebook-status-update throughout the day and make people privy to our day-to-day movings, shakings and machinations.

Sometimes it's amusing.  Most of the time, as a matter of fact, it's kind of fun.  We revel in it and we overshare with gusto.

But sometimes that oversharing becomes .... meta.

Meta-banal.  Meta-meta.

________

I am not sure just how much is too much.  We want to know about other people's lives, but just how much?  I remember not too long ago, when Facebook was having trouble with some of its partners because stories that people didn't want published, such as the purchase of an engagement ring or other more personal things made it into the Friend Feed without the knowledge of the person.  Next thing you knew, ninety-nine of your closest and dearest knew that you were, say, buying something for $10,000 and planning on going to see "27 Dresses" by yourself.

Bad, nosey Facebook, right?  No cookie (ha).

But things have not changed much, thanks to the fact that people want to overshare.

Going to the doctor?  Grabbing some milk?  Making dinner?  Doing actual boring work stuff while Facebooking? Justifying your life's choices unprompted?

Check, check, check, check, and check.  Facebook and/or Twitter leave no room for introspection or hyperbole if you don't want them to do so.  And if you need to explain WHY you're going to the doctor or what you're making for dinner, there is always your blog, ever ready to disclose in essay form the banality of your banal thoughts.

Sometimes it's gold-- especially if you're funny.  Sometimes, it's just creepy-- especially if it's not funny.  A little mystery and a little withholding never hurt anyone, but an overly liberal policy on disclosing who you are and what you do or don't do could be a recipe for true disaster.  Or at least a very good substitute for Valium (especially if you're not funny).

_________

And I wonder where this entry ranks in the way-too-much-information-of-the-boring-kind scale, if I'm being fully honest (disclosing the inner workings of MY mind).

Maybe this is just not funny.

Opening Doors, Elbowing Ribcages, Since 1976

One of the more useful signs I've ever seen was at the Phoenix International Airport.

By the way,the airport's lofty little name, Sky Harbor, makes it sound more like you're flying into some sort of futuristic town where the denizens float away in soaring, airborne jet skis instead of being greeted by ten months of wilting heat.  I find it both lovely and alluring, and totally stupid to be honest. 

I mean, Sky Harbor?  Cheesy.

But I digress.

The sign was posted above the automatic pedestrian walks that speed up movement for (some of) the once and future passengers.  It actually appeared more than once  --that is to say, it figured prominently along all the pedestrian ramps through which I walked and happened to look up-- and it was clear and legible to those who are readers of English (and really, with a domestic 99% literacy rate, almost no United States citizen should have a problem with that).

It said simply, "Walk on left-- Stand on right."  And it was beautiful.

__________

Every day, thousands of clueless Americans (and others from abroad) flood tourist spots far and wide such as the nation's capital.  And every day, the locals groan, bitch, and passively-aggressively resort to vicious muttering and elbowing because that über-nincompoop turd-for-brains dared STAND on the left side of the escalator and now you have to wait six minutes until the next train.

But tell me: where has WMATA helpfully placed the sign above the escalator, instructing the populace to stand on the right side and let the Speedy McSpeedersons trot on the left?

Yeah.  Nowhere.

Instead, the closest instruction is to be found snarkily displayed as a pseudo dictionary entry bearing the moniker, "Escalefter" within the actual train cars-- the one place where it's guaranteed not to be seen by those who need it most.

Yes, Escalefter is totally cute and definitely hip, but do you really think the tourist brood of eight that is busily folding the Smithsonian pamphlet while nearly running over your foot with the DuoGlider that was being pushed by the eight-year old (who incidentally was the only one not crying) is going to notice that? 

Or do you think that said brood will, say,  stop to read the tiny print that tells you that you should not expect the ticket to pop out the top of the turnstile thingy but back through the same slot you just pushed it through when you're going through the handicapped turnstile (naturally, the only one that's wide enough to accomodate the aforementioned Strollerzilla)?

NO.

(Incidentally, the same goes for the gaggle of teenagers and the coven of camera fiends who shoot everywhere with the flash on and the rather large family who's trying to figure out which way is the White House.  The answer is always NO when you're dealing with tourists.)
________

So you see, tourists are annoying and that is a fact that cannot be denied.  As a matter of fact, tourists --especially the more clueless among them-- should be giggled about and ridiculed sotto voce often and with gusto. 

But it's also a good thing to realize that there are less subtle ways to help these poor souls who've checked their brains in with at the airport and they never submitted a lost luggage claim form upon arrival: there are nice, crisp, clear signs that could be posted everywhere so as to make it even easier to loudly, passively-aggressively point out that, HELLO?  CAN'T SOME PEOPLE READ A GODDAMN SIGN AROUND HERE?!

You're welcome.

And I'm Curling up With a Good, Non-Partisan Book

Tonight there will be another Presidential debate.

The cameras will be trained on both hopefuls and the world --like it or not-- will be watching.  Maybe it will not be as high-profile an affair as the Vice-Presidential debate was. where so many people were watching in glee hoping she'd make an idiot of herself (because schadenfreude drives ratings up, don't you know?).

But people will watch.  They will watch and they will discuss and they will argue and they will cast aspersions on the candidate they do not favor.  They will liveblog and dissect possible blunders.  They will declare their favorite the winner, casting the opposite side as a horrible mockery of politics; the democratic process gone awfully wrong.

Pundits will talk until they look purple and sweaty and fleshy-- that is to say, they will do what they usually do, in their expensively-cut suits and perfectly shellacked hairdos.

And armchair pundits will enjoy the sound their words make.  "Why can't the rest of America listen to me and believe what I believe?" they may ask themselves.  They will remember statistics and details to share at the water cooler.  They will store mispronunciations and possibly lavish much attention upon perceived malapropisms.

Tonight, America will sit divided, watching one of the climaxes of this poorly-run and particularly pathetic Presidential race which would have been swept under the rug if it were not because it's the acid test for the nation: Are you racist or are you sexist?  Or perhaps, both.

Amazingly enough, it is less about the issues and less about the health care plans and less about gay marriage (because did anyone truly realize that neither candidate actually endorses the term "gay marriage"?).  It is less about the economic crisis-- a fact that baffles economists on both sides of the party lines, and whose full effects will not be fully known for decades. 

It is less about whether these people --all of them good and worthy people who've made their careers along different paths but whose original wish was to serve their country by running for political office and by making their voices heard-- are willing to perform a hard job which is exactly ONE THIRD of the power that controls this country.  About whether they are willing to undertake a thankless and hard job that ages you horribly and takes years from your lifespan, and more whether they are more or less like you or me or whether they are more or less educated or whether their pasts include marital infidelities or politically radical friendships.

All both sides of the major political parties can do is sling crap in both directions at these people and be truly, astoundingly vicious.

Tonight I refuse to be part of the machine.  I am not watching the debate.  I don't want to be mad and I don't want to watch what will be dissected.  I will make up my own mind in the privacy thereof; I will educate myself in as non-partisan a way as I can possibly find and I just don't want to hear or read about the nastiness anymore.

And I am still exercising my right to vote, but this is the last you'll hear about it in this blog.

______________

(Maybe)

Morally Scrutinizing, So You Don't Have To Be

Being a natural-born coward, I've been turning this little issue that has had me bothered for a couple of days in my head. 

You see, I don't like confrontation --it's anathema to my little ivory-tower living and to the privacy and retreat I seek in my days.  But deep inside me lives a very loud social malcontent; the kind of charming, House M.D.-like imp who is not afraid of confrontation and who thrives in pointing out people's foibles, rudenesses, stupidity paradoxes and other sundry unmentionables in polite society.

To say that sometimes I wish I had the balls and the high doses of Valium pent up inside me to live as boldly as House does is rather the understatement.  But I digress.

In short, someone in my superfluous layer of acquaintance completely embarrassed his/her child in front of me and at least five others in a manner that this person thought was possibly deft and charming, but which truly was daft and most certainly punk (meaning 3b).

This person thought it was perfectly normal to discuss toilet training minutiae in an embarrassing form in front of the child's peers and this person's own peers, without stopping to think several things:

1. Two- and three-year olds understand far more than we think they do.  They may have not started the full-on teasing everywhere, but they are only a few pointed sentences away from it and don't you doubt it for a minute,
2. Other parents do, and will, judge you no matter how much we're all told that it is wrong or impolite so to do --and incidentally, we will think not that you may suck as a toilet trainer but that you're a cruel and thoughtless person (this blog is exhibit A) and,
3.  Would you as a person like other strangers and peers to know personal and hurtful information about something that already causes so much grief and stigma as does the development of trust and confidence that is going to the bathroom?

We all have hardships, as parents and as people in general.  Life is hard enough as it is when you're small and the world is telling you what to do and what not to do without your consent or input.  Toilet training is no small feat and setbacks are not only normal but expected, as little as they are convenient. 

If your kid is going through a tough phase, announcing it to everyone in an attention-grabbing snarky monologue directed at that little person is not the way to solve things unless you yearn to duke it out with your grown child in some tasteless reality television program some years later

And incidentally, diarrhea of the mouth points to the fact that you, dear sir or madam, need some toilet training yourself, of the shutthefuckup variety.

Fierceness Is Genetic, Too

There is very little about women, other than the pantomimes we've sold to men, that really recalls the whole lie about our being the "fair sex."

We're not fair, and contrary to the lies we tell ourselves, we love to tear each other down.  It's like a drug.

If you doubt any of this, you need only look at all the cruel things that have been said about Hillary Clinton and now about Sarah Palin and her pregnant daughter.  No matter which end of the political spectrum you stand on, you know that there have been horribly nasty, catty things said about these women merely because they are women aspiring to a position of power.

It's not new.  And the worst things are said by women, usually. 

We're good at the duplicitous bitch crap.  It's genetic.

Which is why I am so very happy to sit in front of the television with a giddy, glazed look upon my face and behold the unadulterated, cleanly distilled essence of female cattiness with no disguises and no pretenses that it's anything but that: a bevy of women competing in the way that is socially accepted and expected of us: by trading petty insults and undercutting each other's value in a competition that is geared toward judging them solely for their looks and their ability to smile in a bikini while it's 50 degrees outside.

If I have said before that I love America's Next Top Model, I will say it again: I love it.

And chiefly, I love it because it's not pretending to be anything but what it is: a celebration of unabashed, making-money, tacky-as-all-getout, catty, gorgeous-and-not-so-gorgeous womanhood (and featuring a transgendered womanhood from PG county this cycle!). 

There is no glass-ceilinged pretense that this is a contest where women's brains will be appreciated or will be required to do things that might make men uncomfortable --such as running for public office or trying to legislate things having to do with those pesky, deceptive words like "equality."

Apparently, making men uncomfortable is genetic, too.

Contrary to MTV, However, a Car at 16 is NOT a Birthright

About a week ago, I took Herr Meow to the doctor for a routine filling-out-of-the-paperwork visit. If I told you that it took effing FOREVER to see the pediatrician, I'd be a very truthful person.

But I would also be kidding myself if I told you that was the most obnoxious thing about the morning.

_________

Where I go to the doctor --which happens to be in a military base, and I bet you might not have seen that one coming-- there is always a dense population of children milling about, both as extra appendages and there for well visits and sick visits. It's one of those things about the military, I suppose: they encourage patriotism and reproduction because I guess that's part of the American way.

And you may not know this, but the military doctors are also very big advocates of what might be considered the "crunchy hippie agenda": they advocate natural birth and they have midwifes on staff; they are more open to alternative routes aiding in delivery such as the use of forceps and ventouse rather than opting right away for a caesarean section; they encourage and are sometimes militant (ha!) about lactation and about breastfeeding your child exclusively for at least the first six months, if not the whole first year of life; and they are generally very accommodating with a mother's birth "plan".

When I say that they are militant about lactation, I am mostly drawing from my own experience --we were not allowed to leave the hospital until the baby demonstrated he could draw milk successfully from me (breastfeeding bootcamp?!)-- but I think that there are some generalized practices that would not change from base to base, the encouragement of breastfeeding chief among them. If you're bringing a child into the military family, you WILL be encouraged to breastfeed: you can say it's a bane, or you can say it's one of the perks, along with free medical care.

(Snarky aside: Of course, it's mighty hypocritical of them to send every new mother who's been instructed on breastfeeding with not one but TWO huge swag bags, courtesy of Enfamil AND Similac. But I digress.)

_________

So I know that when I see new mothers waiting patiently with their little babies at the doctor's office, I am pretty sure that they have all gotten a version of the same spiel with which I was indoctrinated and for which I am also grateful, as Herr Meow and I were lucky enough to have a good, two-year breastfeeding relationship. And I know that some will buy the party line, so to speak, and do what's better for their child which is breastfeeding; and I know that some will not.

Now I realize that there is such a thing as not being able to produce enough milk, and traumatizing circumstances that make breastfeeding difficult if not altogether impossible; there is also a lack of information and/or role models to encourage breastfeeding, particularly in low-income urban areas. I may be a breastfeeding advocate, but I am not unaware of those facts. As a matter of fact, a good friend of mine had such a hard time getting her body to produce any milk --despite domperidone and fenugreek up the wazoo-- that she had to give up lest she go insane.

But here was this mother --young, possibly more educated than her peers, very healthy-looking-- who was just going ahead and giving her kid formula with a big smile. Someone who --pardon the classicism-- was in my peer group and from whom I expected compliance with not just the milieu in which she birthed but with what I felt were similar norms in our respective environs.

And yet, there she was, bottlefeeding her very small baby. And anger roiled inside of me like it hadn't since those early days where I perceived I was sticking with something that was much harder than reaching for a bottle while those who turned to formula seemed to have lovely sleep while keeping their shirts on (and yes, I know-- formula-feeding is not much easier on occasion either).

__________

Maybe this is not the most shining endorsement, because no one wants to listen to a judgmental, hormonal crazy lady who writes to vent about her anger at an unknown person. But please, if you are pregnant or planning on becoming pregnant, I urge you to read up on breastfeeding and strongly consider it. It's what is best for you as a woman --from safer long-term weight loss postpartum to reduced risk of breast cancer and osteoporosis, it's good-- and what's best for your child.

World breastfeeding week is from August first through the seventh. Help bring awareness to the fact that breastfeeding is not a weird atavistic behavior, but truly a child's brithright.

And in Twenty Years, She'll Be Known as the "Plant Psychopath"

Lunch Al Fresco
Originally uploaded by Madame Meow

These are sawfly larvae. We came across them on a Sunday stroll at the Arboretum and I was so distracted by what they could be --moths? butterflies? disgusting things from outer space?-- that I didn't even bother to notice what kind of leaf they were supping on (for ID purposes).

I came to find out what kind of larvae these were by submitting this picture to a bug identification site called bugguide.net --a site I highly recommend if you need some sort of bug identified.

I'm not sure what I want to accomplish here. I had very definite plans to write about keeping an open mind about the natural world, and about how being green is not so much about the items that you can buy to make yourself greener, but to realize what the impact of your actions is on your immediate environment; for instance, there was a daddy with his little girl at the Arboretum as well, and her daddy was just letting her rip and destroy all the beautiful foliage.

There they were, surrounded by these lovely breezes under a pergola, and there went the little girl, first shaking a long limb of a wisteria and then randomly ripping the flowering heads off nearby plants. The dad just sat around pretending to care to listen to the answer of his "What are you doing, sweetie?" but largely ignoring the botanic carnage that lay all about him.

You may be shrugging and not interested in this story, except that if some three-year-old girl is not taught by her father that these plants and this Arboretum are things to be respected and treasured because they teach us about plants and our relationship with them and about the future; but instead does more damage to a bush than all the sawfly larvae money could never buy, then how is she expected to understand or care whether growing a Victory garden or installing solar panels in her house or how installing a compact fluorescent lightbulb will save her money and make her feel good inside and feel like she is part of the solution?

I don't know and I don't have a solution, myself. But if that little girl EVER gets within an inch of any of my plants, she'd better be wearing head-to-toe armor.

In Which She Mixes up Polis, Oikos, and IKEA

I'm starting to feel a little burnt out on writing about food.

It's not that there is no inspiration left, because for one, if you're writing and you like it you can definitely come up with pretty much anything and Frankenstein it up till you're blue in the face.  Also, it's food: certainly there is no dearth of food in the world to be  writing about, right?

Scratch that: apparently people living in famine-affected areas and anorexics would have a problem with that statement.

But well, food is just not that exciting a topic.  Or at least it's just not doing it for me.  Maybe if I were the recipe kind of person I would share a recipe a day and you'd all coo and ooh and ahh and squeal with my recipes.  Or alternately you would blame me because the recipe should have called for coarse salt or more vinegar or less flour and ew!  You put raisins in that?

Basically, you would do the same thing I do with every recipe I come across.  Try it; tweak it; proclaim your Frankenstein to be better than the original.

Anyway, I guess it just feels a little more like homework than usual around here to do ye olde NaBlo this month.  And you may be saying to yourself, "Well, you do have free will, you know.  Why don't you just stop?"

I guess I could.  I could do many things, including stopping the NaBlo'ing this month.  Except that it's already July 23rd and I can definitely tough it out for another eight entries.  But I just felt I owed it to those of you who stop by every day and might have been wondering just how much lamer some of these entries can get to write something like this by way of... um... apology or explanation, I suppose.

For the record, and just so I can get my food in anyway, IKEA's Swedish meatballs are truly, delightfully, evilly good. Eating them with the sauce and the mashed potatoes and a generous helping of lingonberry jam while staring at a lovely blue wall with pretty, bold patterned accents almost makes me forget that this is a place that masquerades as the ideal basic unit in ancient Greece-- the Oikos-- but then dumps you in the cold, overwhelming marketplace and entices you into buying lots of cheap stuff which you suddenly think you need.

IKEA is like a politician's promise-- sounds good and makes you feel better while you're there, but as you walk away you realize there is very little of it that is truly useful to your everyday life, despite all the assurances to the contrary.  And sometimes that which is most useful only ends up being useful for a short period of time before it breaks down into its separate and cheapie particle-board components, leaving you high and dry.

__________

I know I don't often get political in here.  In fact, I never get political in here because it makes me uncomfortable.  I consider myself a social liberal with a fiscally conservative viewpoint, and with some (dare I say it?) libertarian tendencies.  As in, I believe very much in free will and personal responsibility and resent much government control/glorified babysitting-- I DO NOT want to be holed up somewhere in Montana with a giant cache of guns because I believe that strongly in my second amendment right.  I don't think that there is one party label that fits me, consequently, and I resent politics for that very reason.

Hmm... come to think of it, that's also the reason I don't get political in here.  It's an awkward conversation, because although you would think it's about the facts, it always ends up being about feelings and about taunts and about alliances-- regardless of who is truly affected by the outcomes of political discourse.  It is, I guess, truly about the polis, the city-state, and less about the people themselves.  Incidentally, as with in modern society, the interests of the oikos and of the polis are directly at odds most of the time-- it's the stuff of Greek tragedy.

But although there is change coming --and don't you believe otherwise, because we need it and because it's time-- there is still frustration in me and in many.  There is frustration in me about the public eating blindly what they are fed, and neglecting to realize that in the end we are the ones who are affected by the decisions of those few in power.

I will stop for now-- I am afraid I may have alienated some of you and baffled the rest.  Keep calm and carry on.  I know I will.

Oo look!  Dancing!