What Do I Know?

Off to Write in Wight

I'm leaving in the morning for the Isle of Wight, renamed the Isle of Write in honor of the writing retreat my writers' group is having there, at an undisclosed location overlooking the sea.

We're taking the ferry, across what promises to be a choppy channel. Then we're spending the weekend writing, and eating, and hiking.

If you're wondering why I haven't been posting any recipes here, it's not because I've stopped eating; it's because I moved my recipes to Wednesday Food Blogging.

Stop by and catch up on all you've missed.

When this election is over, I intend to devote more time to writing, and cooking. My two favorite past times.

Dog Whistling Past the Primaries

(Note: I wrote this last week, in the midst of misunderstandings, but decided to let it stew while I focussed on the horse race. Because there are only so many mammal-based political analogies one can deal with.)

The term "dog whistle politics" was coined a few years ago during the UK parliamentary races, and it's become the leitmotif of politics ever since. It means that a candidate is speaking in a way that appeals to a certain type of voter, possibly a racist, while using language that otherwise appears innocuous.

In the current primary races in the US, I'm not sure if there's any dog whistling going on or not. I can only conclude that either Barack Obama has been whistling a tune only I, and his other supporters can hear (a tune that goes something like "Liberal! Liberal! Lookie here, I'm a liberal!"), or else he's whistling a tune that only his detractors can hear (Lookie here, I'm Ronald Reagan's secret love child, and I want to take away every government program you ever loved!). It gets even more confusing when his appeal to Republicans and Independents is part of the picture. As a staunch liberal, I'm at a loss to explain why people who hate the government want to elect Barack Obama. Either their dog whistles are out of tune, or, like Reagan Democrats, they're ready to vote against their core beliefs and their well-lined pocketbooks, because the siren song of his dog whistle is too compelling to ignore.

But forget dog whistles; who actually uses them anyway?

If there's one thing I do know, it's dogs, and how they communicate and understand our language. Turns out they don't do a lot of whistling.

Vote from Abroad - Register Now!

Tomorrow (January 31) is the last day to join Democrats Abroad and participate in the Global Primary on February 5. You may also show up on the 5th at your voting location and join then, but if you want to vote by mail or online, you must register as a member by the 31st.

To join, go here.

For information about the Global Primary on February 5, go here.

Interestingly, the first country to vote (longitudinally) will be Indonesia, where Barack Obama lived for several years as a child.

(Keeping this up top for another day.)

French Beds and Fantasies

I was off spending my stimulus today. At the antique fair in Kempton I bought a French bed, walnut with curly wood carvings. (For some reason, all the antique beds here are French; never English. I think it speaks somewhat to the French reputation.)

And more importantly, I found a map that my instructor mentioned in class last week, a 1745 map of London by John Rocque (on which he incorrectly and presciently included Westminster Bridge). I was especially interested at the time, since I'm still writing that paper on 18th century London. In fact, I briefly fantasized about getting my hands on a copy of Rocque's map.

So when I saw a mappist (isn't that what map dealers are called?) at the fair I hurried over, and saw a huge framed map of London, with the date 1745. I knew immediately it had to be Rocque's! I asked about it, and discovered the dealer actually made copies of maps (the real thing would have set me back a year's worth of college tuition) on fine archival paper, and he had one of Rocque's maps, unframed.

So for only £50 I was able to procure the object of my fantasy!

And I'm not talking about the bed.

Here's the website, if you're interested in fulfilling your own mappist fantasies.

Irony Alert

As I watched the Kennedy endorsement speech on Fox (which we get courtesy of Sky satellite) the idealist in me couldn't stop smiling.

But the cynic in me was smiling also: Hillary Clinton, as a young Goldwater Girl, tried to get the 1960 election in Illinois overturned. The close election that resulted in, you remember, John F. Kennedy being elected.

Admittedly, she was about 15 at the time, and probably didn't know better. But still. Imagine if she and her fellow Republicans had overturned the election, and we'd never had Camelot.

Ted Kennedy's endorsement probably wouldn't have meant quite so much to Barack Obama's candidacy.

Does Money Talk? If So, How Loud?

Imagine you're running for governor of a small state. You've raised a good bit of money, but you need more. (You always need more, right?)

Then one day, you get a phone call. "It's Bill Clinton! He wants to hold a fundraiser for you in New York!"

Sweet! You hurriedly pack your bags, borrow a jet, and fly to the Big Apple, almost blinded by those cartoon dollar signs embedded in your eyeballs.

Once there, you're the star of the show—at least, until Big Bill (the other one) himself walks in. Suddenly, you're in the presence of a Democratic force of will like nothing you've ever encountered, outside your own company, that is. And all that will is directed at you, as he sings your praises to all his rich friends. You're very glad your state has no contribution limits, so you accept all the cash you can carry. Fortunately, you brought an extra suitcase for all those heavy checks.

Laden with cash, and names of potential donors, you go back home, still basking in the glow that surrounded you in New York. You win your race handily, and four years later, you're re-elected.

Then one day, your phone rings again. "It's Bill Clinton. His wife's running for Prez. He wants your endorsement."

Question: what do you do?

Update: To make it even more interesting.

Why Caroline Kennedy's Endorsement Matters

Not because she's the daughter of a famous president.

But because she's the mother of three teenagers:

I have spent the past five years working in the New York City public schools and have three teenage children of my own. There is a generation coming of age that is hopeful, hard-working, innovative and imaginative. But too many of them are also hopeless, defeated and disengaged. As parents, we have a responsibility to help our children to believe in themselves and in their power to shape their future. Senator Obama is inspiring my children, my parents’ grandchildren, with that sense of possibility.

Pollsters would like to shove us into the proper demographic, but they overlook factors that outweigh our gender and other identifying checkboxes. Caroline Kennedy and I are in the same age group, an age group of white women who, according to the pollsters, should be supporting Hillary Clinton.

But we're also women with children, children old enough to vote and participate in campaigns. I want them to be inspired, more than I want to vote for a candidate without a Y chromosome.

The Negatives of Negativity

My thoughts exactly:

Still, it’s legitimate to ask, given the destructive developments of the last few weeks, whether the Clintons are capable of being anything but divisive. The electorate seems more polarized now than it was just a few weeks ago, and the Clintons have seemed positively gleeful in that atmosphere.

It makes one wonder whether they have any understanding or regard for the corrosive long-term effects — on their party and the nation — of pitting people bitterly and unnecessarily against one another.

That was Bob Herbert in the NY Times, but he speaks for me, and many others. Until a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have been terribly upset with a Clinton II presidency. Now, I doubt seriously that we'll ever see it, much less wonder whether or not a Clinton II administration would reflect the divisive tactics of the campaign.

I hear a lot of grudging approval of Hillary's willingness to fight, a fighting spirit that seems lacking in Democrats lately.

Aside from the fact we've never seen this fighting spirit during Hillary Clinton's Senate years, when a little fight back against the assumptions that led us into the Iraq war would have been enormously helpful, I question whether winning the nomination by using deceitful campaign tactics is something we want to encourage.

By falsely accusing her opponent, Hillary Clinton is muddying the waters for primary voters, who are now probably convinced that Barack Obama is just itching to Reagan us up, and that he cavorts with sleazy developers when he's not busy voting present, or against abortion rights. None of that is true, but the voters who believe that may vote against the better candidate, falsely believing such lies.

And what we end up with is the worst candidate.

Is it debatable that Barack Obama is the best candidate, and Hillary Clinton the worst? Of course, but we're not having that debate, are we? What we're instead having is a muddy horse race to determine who the Democratic nominee will be. The mud, unfortunately, has obscured most voters' vision, making it impossible for them to determine who the best horse might be.

An argument might be made that using such tactics is still a good thing in the general election, that slinging falsehoods against a Republican candidate is payback for all the dirt that's been slung at Dems. But I really can't buy that. Winning on the backs of such lies won't make governing any easier. It won't help a president get a decent health care bill passed. It won't give him or her the authority to send America's troops on a moral mission to prevent ethnic cleansing. It won't provide a mandate for meaningful limits on carbon emissions.

Think carefully before you go there.

Friday Cow Blogging

Overheard in the pasture:

"Dogs are weird."

"Why do they roll in our shit?"

"Same reason humans spread it on their crops."

"It's a valuable commodity."

"Moo. No wonder the markets tanked this week."

Democrats Abroad Can Vote on February 5

Are you an American living abroad? If so, you can vote from abroad in the Democrats Abroad Global Primary. From February 5-12 we'll be electing 22 delegates to the national convention—we're considered a state for delegate selection purposes. What's more, on a per person basis, your vote may actually count more than if you vote from your home state. 

All you have to do is join Democrats Abroad by January 31 in order to vote online or by mail. Alternately, you can show up at your country caucus on February 5 (dates may vary from location to location) and join Democrats Abroad at that time, and cast your vote in person.

Here in London the caucus in February 5 at Porchester Hall, from 6 p.m. There's a caucus in Oxford the next day, February 6, from 1:00 - 5:30 p.m. at the Rothermore American Institute. You'll need your passport or proof of citizenship to participate. More info here.

If you live in another country (even a country without a Dems Abroad chapter), you can still vote, in person if your country is holding caucuses, or online or by mail. Find out more here.

For Americans living in remote locations, this is the easiest way to vote. Even for me, voting absentee in my home state—New Mexico—is difficult, due to the sluggishness of the state voting officials. I'll be at the London caucus on February 5, cheering on my candidate.

Look for me there!

Note: I'm keeping this post up top for a while, to give everyone a chance to see it. Peek below for more recent updates.

Blogiversary

It just occurred to me that I've been blogging three years now. I thought it was today, but actually my blogiversary was two days ago.

I'll spare you all the navel gazing, the ruminations on whether or not I should give up this gig. I actually have that argument with myself quite often, but I always discover something else to say.

Today, though, I am unremarkably wordless.

Cliveden: Where the Profumo Affair Began

Cliveden, once home to the Astor family, now an exclusive hotel.

For fans of political scandal, there is no hotter spot than Cliveden, the country estate once owned by the Astor family and now owned by the National Trust.

It was at Cliveden that the Profumo Affair came to a head in the early 1960s. John Profumo, a cabinet minister, had an affair with showgirl Christine Keeler, who was also seeing a Soviet spy. The scandal rocked the political world. He resigned, and eventually the Prime Minister resigned, following the affair.

Profumo first met Keeler when she ran from the swimming pool, naked.

Where the whole thing started.

From there the affair took off, and the rest is history, and a few films, including the 1989 film Scandal starring John Hurt.

Cliveden is also remembered as the locale of the "Cliveden Set", the group of Nazi appeasers who met there, led by Lady Nancy Astor, Member of Parliament and American ex-pat.

These days, it's an exclusive hotel, with dusty photographs and whispered memories of the famous—and infamous—guests.

The bells in the servants' quarters.

Today I enjoyed tea at Cliveden, and while I did smell some old cigar smoke clinging to the tapestries, I didn't even catch a whiff of scandal. Too bad.

When It Rains, It Pours

The flooded Thames, taken on Wednesday, the last day we saw the sun around here.

The bad news: Parts of England are flooding again.

The good news: The gov't and rescue agencies learned so much from the last two major floods this year that they're on top of things. No worries.

The bad news: The Footsie (that's FTSE to you) dropped 5 1/2 % today, the biggest drop since Sept. 11, 2001.

The good news: Markets in America were closed today for MLK day.

The bad news: Temperatures in Hell are higher than ever.

The good news: Handbasket shares were up.

It's just been one of those days.

My Love Affair with Bill Clinton

Ten years after his famous affair with another young woman was exposed, I've decided to go public with my own love affair with Bill Clinton. It's a tale of love betrayed, of impotence, of passion—a romance worthy of Elvis himself.

It started one night in 1992. My family and I were en route from Ohio to Madison, Wisconsin, where we were relocating. With our move, I hadn't paid much attention to the Democratic primary. None of the candidates had made my heart go pitter patter, though Paul Tsongas had made me feel mildly flirtatious. As we drove into Madison, hitting the Beltway just as dark set in, we tuned into the Democratic convention on the radio, just in time to hear Mario Cuomo. His eloquence moved me—what a way with words this man has, I thought! I felt the first stirrings of emotion, a passion I'd not felt since Jimmy Carter inflamed my adolescent heart in 1976.

But Mario Cuomo? How could a guy with a name like Mario Cuomo ever win an election? My brain beat back my heart on that round, though the name Mario still makes me a little weak in the knees.

A couple nights later I watched Bill Clinton accept the nomination of his party, to thunderous applause. I was seduced, by his platform, his eloquence, his youth and vigor. As the balloons were released into the air of the convention center, my previously reined-in passion soared as well. This man might be it! Head and heart were in agreement, at last. My love, so often squandered, was complete.

Bill and his cute running mate Al began an excellent bus adventure a few days later, through the Midwest via the Mississippi River. When I heard they were coming to LaCrosse, I packed my family in our Toyota and with a lascivious heart, set off across the hills of Wisconsin. There, under some high school bleachers, we joined the cheering throng, and then, caught up in the moment, we followed that big white bus to the next stop.

When I got home, I called the campaign office to volunteer—a political virgin, I'd never actually worked on a campaign before. I arrived at headquarters, surprised to see it filled with older, similarly smitten women, one of whom handed me a stack of flyers and directions to the lit drop.

Days melted into weeks, as I canvassed, phonebanked, and lit dropped, my young children forgotten in my mad lust for political passion. Poll after poll showed Bill Clinton beating George H. W. Bush, and this only fanned my enthusiasm for this new man in my life. So handsome, young, articulate! So electable!

There were signs, ominous signs, that the man of my dreams might not be all he seemed, but, caught up in the wild yearnings of my new Democratic love, I ignored them.

And then, the climax: election night brought paroxysms of joy, as I watched my man—oh, men, now there are two of them!—Al Gore and Bill Clinton, both virile and strong, right there on the stage, holding hands high in the air to punctuate the victory—my love for him, vindicated at last as the whole country joined in my elation.

Ah, satisfaction was so, so sweet.

Again, I ignored the niggling naysayers—he'd won without a mandate, they said, and I figured they were jealous. The whole country shared my love, didn't they? It wasn't just the economy, stupid—this was the real thing, a long term stimulus to my bleeding liberal heart. Together, we'd take care of the children, feed the homeless, right the wrongs of the Reagan administration. Our gift registry was long and filled with goodies I'd only dreamed of during our mad, passionate election.

All during the transition, I eagerly anticipated the triumphant return of the Democrats, led by my man Bill, to Washington. And then came the inauguration--I still remember how I felt, my passion soaring once again as he uttered his oath. I swooned: "A spring reborn in the world's oldest democracy." Yes, yes, I was so ready for a "new season of American renewal."

But suddenly, with the stroke of a pen, I was scorned, left yearning for the promised bliss. Yes, dear readers, Bill Clinton, embodiment of my hopes and dreams, could not sustain even one tiny dream. After confidently lifting his pen to sign a bill proclaiming that gays and lesbians could openly serve in the military, he faltered. Desperate at first to go through with the act, he finally conceded defeat at the hands of the Republicans, including the very virile Colin Powell, and some conservative Democrats determined to stymie this young upstart from Arkansas.

Watching the coverage, I cried. My love, and all its hopes for a new "season of renewal", I now knew was doomed. They—the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy—were too strong. And Bill—or "Elvis" as some were now calling him—despite his throatily whispered campaign promises, could not, would not, stand up to them.

The months dragged on, and soon my love was nothing but a sad remnant of its former glory. Season of renewal turned into Contract with America; Newt Gingrich, who made no one's heart beat faster, caused the once bold Bill Clinton to triangulate and obfuscate. Thousands died in Africa when Clinton dodged Republican bullets. Thousands more died in Bosnia while Clinton held his finger to the wind.

Fools rushed in, and the Lincoln Bedroom, which suddenly seemed to be for rent, turned into Heartbreak Hotel. Bill Clinton had been nothing but a hound dog all along.

Welfare reform was the last straw, snuffing the embers of my dying passion. By 1996, I couldn't even bring myself to vote for the man who'd once made my heart soar. I sadly fixed a Nader bumper sticker to my car, wishing desperately I could find a politician who could fill me with passion again.

Over the years, I tried to defend Bill from attacks from the right, but my heart just wasn't in it. Not even the impeachment fiasco could muster up those old flames. My heart had, mercifully, become detached.

Now, as I watch the man my former love has become, bitter and broken now on the campaign trail, I am ashamed to admit I once loved him, once invested all my liberal hopes and dreams in this shell of a man, who can no longer remember where he stood on the most important issue of my lifetime, the invasion of Iraq. He lashes out like a wounded tiger on the trail, not the Comeback Kid but the Clueless Hack.

I hate that it's come to this. But I've got a new love in my life, one whose background and voting record is much more constant, giving me more hope than the man from Hope ever did.

It's over, Bill. I was done with you, even before you pondered the meaning of "is." Your autobiography sits unread on my shelf, next to my copy of Wordsworth. For unlike Nature, you betrayed the heart that loved you.

Friday Cow Blogging

It's nice to have a reminder, on a dreary rainy Friday, of how blue the sky was on Wednesday during our hike. These cows gathered to greet us as we crossed into another pasture. Cows are curious creatures, who think humans mean them no harm.

Notice the bird in the sky. Not sure if it was a hawk, or a kite, which are common in the Chilterns.

This is the same pasture where I took these photos (and this one) last year. Every year, I see the prettiest cows in this spot, but I've realized they're all steers, most likely waiting to be slaughtered.

Here's another photo, which didn't come out so good, despite some fiddling around with iPhoto adjustments. It was taken from the other side, into the sun, and you could see how their breath was coming from their nostrils in puffs of feathery smoke.

Empty House

The house is empty again. Daughter Number Two left for college this morning, after almost a month at home. There's an ache in my throat, that sharp pang that arises at the sight of suitcases packed and ready to go. It's hard to be the mother left behind, especially when a whole ocean separates me from my girls.

They're in the part of their lives now that I can't participate in. That's the way it should be, but it's hard to watch them grow from the sidelines.

Daughter Number Two turned 19 while she was away. She also gained a silver tongue stud, a symbol of a rebellious streak she rarely displays. But as her mom, a veteran of epic toddler temper tantrums, I know that under her calm, easygoing exterior, she still longs to kick and scream and buck the occasional authority.

Yet Daughter Number Two is also a cautious, thoughtful soul: before I could even comment on her new accoutrement, she hastily assured me that the tongue-piercing parlor had the best safety record in the state, and with a note of frugal pride, she added that the procedure was also half-off.

The ickiness factor thus successfully addressed, I noted further changes in my daughter, who'd lived in a weird bubble during the last few years. We live on the edge of a major metropolitan area, one she's been free to explore, sans parents, from the time she was fifteen. Yet, except for a brief visit to friends in the States last year, she'd never been in a car without an adult present.

I admit to worrying, when she left for college, if she could handle the social life. She makes friends easily, yet she's never been in such a friend-friendly environment as a house with eighty other students. Would she OD on late night parties? Would she need a reminder to study? Would she remember to dress warmly?

My fears seem to have been groundless, except for the last one: She really wasn't prepared for the snow of Western Massachusetts. So for Christmas, we gave her cold weather gear. Santa Claus has become a practical old frump.

It's a sort of ritual, when recent high school graduates come home for their first semester break, for them to visit their former teachers. I took her twice to visit them (they've all moved on to other teaching jobs around England). As I listened to her talking to one former teacher, as an equal now instead of a student, I realized how much she'd grown up, this youngest daughter of mine. The tantrum-tossing two-year-old only lives in my memory now.

The pang in my throat is still there; it always will be, I suspect, as I watch my daughters leave. It doesn't really seem fair: they are finally the interesting, funny, smart, grown-up women we've raised them to be, a companion rather than a child. Yet we can only enjoy them for these too-brief breaks.

After the Rain, Expect Floods

The dog checks out the situation on the Thames path.

During our walk yesterday around Medmenham, we were forced to take a detour when the path along the Thames was flooded. We've had a lot of rain lately, in fact, Tuesday night my drive home from the Midlands was one of the most harrowing of my life. With the rain pelting through the dark night, and the motorways full of lorries, I felt like a pinball in my little red car, tossed around from side to side, unable to see the lane markers. At one point the lorry I was following, in a desperate attempt to stay inside a lane, veered off the M25 to head up the M1, and I unwittingly followed. I found myself caught up in the infamous M1 roadworks, then hurtling toward Hemel Hempstead as I took the first exit I found.

So I should have been prepared for unexpected detours the next morning, but even after a fellow hiker called and wondered if flooding would be a problem, I shrugged off the possibility.

I figured I'd have heard about it if the Thames was flooded, right? But of course floods have nothing to do with Princess Diana's love life, which is the only news gossip being reported these days.

The first part of our hike, over high ground overlooking the Thames, was beautiful. The sun was making up for lost time, baking the pastures we tromped across, the sweet smell of manure tempting the dog.

But then we circled back to walk along the Thames, and there ran into trouble. The river was wider than I'd ever seen it, flowing swiftly toward London. The surrounding fields were filled with brand new lakes, each with a pair of swans taking up temporary residence.

A pair of swans, loving their new digs.

We were forced to cut through the fields to get back to the pub where we'd parked, but fortunately we discovered paved lanes, built for access to electrical stations. Not the most picturesque hike, but better than swimming.

And at least we didn't end up in Hemel Hempstead.

Obama on Animal Rights

Vote for Obooma!

As far as I know, this is the first time any candidate has answered any question about animal rights (other than, possibly, Dennis Kucinich, who is a vegan).

I would probably have asked him this myself, if given a chance, since I'm pretty sure where he stands on other issues, having read his Blueprint for Change. (pdf)

Anyway, here's his answer, and it was a good one:

Obama responded that he cares about animal rights very much, "not only because I have a 9-year-old and 6-year-old who want a dog." He said he sponsored a bill to prevent horse slaughter in the Illinois state Senate and has been repeatedly endorsed by the Humane Society.

"I think how we treat our animals reflects how we treat each other," he said. "And it's very important that we have a president who is mindful of the cruelty that is perpetrated on animals."

It's not like I was impartial before, but I prefer pulling the lever for a candidate who is willing to address issues of animal cruelty, and recognizes the link between our treatment of animals and our treatment of humans.

UPDATE:

Here's something I just read in an excerpt from Obama's book, The Audacity of Hope that gives me hope:

This is not to say that I'm unanchored in my faith. There are some things that I'm absolutely sure about—the Golden Rule, the need to battle cruelty in all its forms, the value of love and charity, humility and grace.

Meanwhile, I think this photo tells us all we need to know about the Republican party's nominee for VP this year.

UPDATE II: The Humane Society of the United States has endorsed Obama.

Vote for Hilzoy

I just read this post in which blogger Hilzoy explains why we shouldn't nominate Hillary Clinton. She says exactly what I've been thinking, but much more comprehensibly than my muddled thoughts.

And having just spent two murderously long hours on rain-soaked, dark motorways, I'm too tired to do anything more than say, go read.

Barack Obama Reads My Blog!

In a Q&A in Nevada, Barack Obama said:

“I don’t want to sound naïve. Will there be some folks who probably don’t vote for me because I am black? Of course. Just like there may be somebody who won’t vote for Hillary because she’s a woman or wouldn’t vote for John Edwards because they don’t like his accent.”

He must have read this, in which I list the ways in which I hate John Edwards' accent:

First, he has the kind of Southern accent I can't stand. He sounds like a mush mouth good ole boy, not so much nails-on-the-chalkboard grating as gum-on-the-sidewalk cloying. Ewww. Not all Southern accents are as annoying, but his is, and if he becomes president, I'd have to listen to it pretty often. Double ewww.

(Did I really say "ewww"?) Of course, regular readers know I have many other, more substantive, reasons for not voting for John Edwards—and it's not his hair, or his 28,000 square foot house—or is it a mill?

No, It's The War, Stupid. Or rather, It's Co-Sponsoring the War Resolution, Stupid. And Voting for All The Other Conservative DLC Bills, Stupid. (With apologies to James Carville.)

Stupid, I know.

Anyway, glad to see you read this, Barack!