Amidst the media-driven furore surrounding the rollout of Pres.-Elect Obama's cabinet, and the "One President at a Time" message that has become a press meme over the last weeks of economic consternation in this country, there is a real, no-foolin', honest-to-goodness street fight for the governmental leadership of a major Western power: Canada.
Yup, America's Hat decided that what's good for those of us below the 49th Parallel might make sense for them too.
You might remember (though no one would blame you if you didn't) that Canada held a federal election less than 45 days ago. That election, despite some close polling just days before the election spurred on by the horrendous economic news that hit in October, was won handily by the Conservative Party, and the incumbent Prime Minister, Stephen Harper. There has been, however, no honeymoon period for the new government. As you've no doubt seen from the news in this country, the economic news has gone from "Holy Crap" to "Stockbroker Suicide Watch" to its current state, "China's Redheaded Stepchild" in a matter of what seemed like hours. Leading the charge to ignominy has been the automotive industry, especially General Motors, which has very quietly become one of the most unfathomably awfully run companies in the history of modern economics. Adam Smith himself, were he to come back from the dead, would take a look at GM's books and "future plans" and quietly cry himself to sleep reading a copy of The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money.
Would care to hazard a guess as to what one of Canada's largest employers is?
Anyone?
Yup. General Motors. Ford too, for that matter. Windsor, Ontario - just a Sarah Palin glance away from the rusting former automotive capital of Detroit - became a hub for car production over the last few decades thanks to Canada's national health care scheme, which helped (wait for it...wait for it) shave overhead costs while getting essentially the same quality of work.
Now, back to today's issues for our neighbours to the, uh, Nourth. As Pres.-Elect Obama has already begun tackling the severe economic crisis that he will face as President beginning the 20th of next January by touting his new team of advisers, promoting economic stimulus and infrastructural redevelopment across sectors, so too has Mr. Harper, the Canadian Premier set to work on a new budget that will drastically and directly affect the lives of ordinary Canadians who seek assurances that their government, as ever a world leader in the welfare of its citizens, will once again provide the safety net they need to survive this deep, globally interconnected recession.
So, as Mr. Harper presented his budget to the Parliament last week, what schemes might his Conservative government concoct to see Canada through rough seas? Increased unemployment benefits? Job retraining programs to keep workers at pace with global trends? An Obamaesque commitment to reinvestment in infrastructure?
The answer they got was very simple. Nothing.
The Harper government provided no economic stimulus in the new budget, not even one of his good buddy George W. Bush's ridiculous tax rebate debacles.
And that brings us to the extraordinary situation we see unfolding right above us as we speak. Almost immediately, the opposition parties saw their moment, and thus was born one of the oddest political marriages in Western political history. The three major players in this new arrangement - Canada has never had a formal coalition government since the end of the Dominion - come from very distinct political paths. First, the leader of the opposition, Stephane Dion, leader of the Liberal Party. Quebecois, and with a political mindset forged from the rule of his predecessor, Jean Chretien, Dion led his Liberal Party since defeat in the 2006 election, after the disgraced Paul Martin was forced out by a Conservative non-confidence vote, through this latest round of voting, which saw the worst Liberal defeats in the history of the Party. He was so reviled within his own party that he began the leadership fight to succeed him even before ballots were cast. At this moment, three men are lined up behind him, fighting it out for the position of Liberal leader from May 2009. His political obituary was written, in stone, over the last month, as he seemed bound and determined to leave his party in disarray.
And now, Stephane Dion is the clubhouse leader for Prime Minister in a new government that could be formed within days. Talk about zero to hero...
Also in the mix is the man who has very quietly risen to prominence as one of the most Progressive political leaders in the Western world, Jack Layton. Layton, an Ontarioan and leader of the New Democratic Party has very quickly made himself into a kingmaker of sorts in federal politics. By providing the roadmap back to governance for the Liberal Party, Layton was able to secure six cabinet positions in the proposed new government, as well as a number of lower-level bureaucratic positions of importance for his party. Layton, and the NDP's, influence will thus have much more of a broad impact under this arrangement, particularly given the leadership struggle in what would be the ruling party. Thus, while Layton's gamble does not necessarily cement the NDP as a force to be reckoned with on the federal stage, it does better serve his constituency than Ed Broadbent's fool's errand during the Trudeau period in the 1970s. This, then, is truly the exciting part of the story for progressives on both sides of the border, as Canada looks towards a more progressive stance as America's staunchest ally. Now, that's change you can believe in!
But here's where the story gets really, really (are you even still reading), and I mean, really interesting. Given the disastrous results for the Liberals in the October poll, the combined NDP/Liberal Alliance would represent only 44% of Canadian support and only 114 seats in the Parliament, as opposed to the Conservatives 37% and 143 seats, respectively. So, how do we get this idea off the ground? Mais oui! Le Bloc!
The Bloc Quebecois' 50 seats, and 10% of federal support would push the coalition government to a majority government, of sorts. So, done deal, right? Well...geh...okay, does anyone know the Bloc's single, solitary issue?
Health care? No. The economy? No.
Reinstituting the Quebec Nordiques' hockey franchise? No...well, okay, maybe that too?
Yeah, Le Bloc is the separatist party of Quebec. So now, this coalition Canadian government will be held up by a party whose sole purpose is to work for the "rightful" independence of one of its provinces. However, of all three men who entered into this compact in Ottawa this morning, Gilles Duceppe may be the one who made the critical misstep. First of all, he is now going to have problems at home with the hardcore separatists who will only see him ganging up with a Federalist Quebecois and the Anti-Conservative (BQ voters tend to be issue matched with the Conservative Party) Layton. And second, perhaps more critically, Duceppe has promised to not push a non-confidence motion of his own for eighteen months, effectively declawing Duceppe to hold his former rivals to the fire on issues of import to Quebecois voters. At the first sign of trouble, he should expect a leadership fight bubbling up from the PQ (the provincial wing of the party), especially given Duceppe's own inability to secure more seats in the Federal Parliament or push a referendum on independence in his nearly ten years as party leader.
Now, these three men sit at the same table, a partnership forged from practicality, not politics, putting country before party. This team of rivals can look forward only to uncharted waters and stormy seas, but, if they can make this almost farcical arrangement work, it may cement prosperity for Canadians for decades to come. And, hey, it's fun to watch for us Americans. (Okay, maybe just us political geeks...)
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Wall Street to Main Street: The Financial Crisis in Context
Hello again.
Most of you know where I'm at, but for those who don't. 8 days ago, I quit my job in San Francisco, pulled up stakes (if only briefly) to work with Senator Obama's campaign in Columbus, Indiana. A bit of a seismic shift to be sure, but one which I welcomed with open arms. To spend 50 days to get a man with the character and leadership abilities of Barack Obama is a charge I am honored to take up.
That said, I've been spending a lot of time out on the streets of Columbus (population 40,000), speaking with voters door-to-door, mostly undecided, trying to get them out to vote for Barack. In the last 48 hours, the conversations I've been having have definitely taken a different tack, focusing largely on the economy.
I must say, maybe I'm witnessing an outlier, but for the most part, these independent voters I've been getting to know have been particularly savvy on the issues. They understand that the failures of Lehman, Merrill and AIG have a direct impact in their daily lives. They understand companies like Cummins, the major employer here, do not exist in a vacuum, and that the Wall Street firms provide the capital necessary to keep good paying jobs here in Indiana. And they understand that it is the failed policies of the last eight years of financial mismanagement from George Bush (and, yes, his Congressional henchman - Mr. 90% - John McCain) that have led us to the precipice. Some of the voters I talk to - I tend to go out during the weekdays a lot - are seniors, and they remember Herbert Hoover and the Depression. One woman even told me she thinks McCain's economic outlook reminds her of Hoover (she was pretty feisty!) and it scares.
For God's sake, he uses the same the terminology - the fundamentals of our economy are strong - that Hoover did!
America couldn't afford Herbert Hoover then, and they can't John McHoover now. And these people know it.
---
I'll try to update as much as I can, especially as we help turn Indiana Blue!
Most of you know where I'm at, but for those who don't. 8 days ago, I quit my job in San Francisco, pulled up stakes (if only briefly) to work with Senator Obama's campaign in Columbus, Indiana. A bit of a seismic shift to be sure, but one which I welcomed with open arms. To spend 50 days to get a man with the character and leadership abilities of Barack Obama is a charge I am honored to take up.
That said, I've been spending a lot of time out on the streets of Columbus (population 40,000), speaking with voters door-to-door, mostly undecided, trying to get them out to vote for Barack. In the last 48 hours, the conversations I've been having have definitely taken a different tack, focusing largely on the economy.
I must say, maybe I'm witnessing an outlier, but for the most part, these independent voters I've been getting to know have been particularly savvy on the issues. They understand that the failures of Lehman, Merrill and AIG have a direct impact in their daily lives. They understand companies like Cummins, the major employer here, do not exist in a vacuum, and that the Wall Street firms provide the capital necessary to keep good paying jobs here in Indiana. And they understand that it is the failed policies of the last eight years of financial mismanagement from George Bush (and, yes, his Congressional henchman - Mr. 90% - John McCain) that have led us to the precipice. Some of the voters I talk to - I tend to go out during the weekdays a lot - are seniors, and they remember Herbert Hoover and the Depression. One woman even told me she thinks McCain's economic outlook reminds her of Hoover (she was pretty feisty!) and it scares.
For God's sake, he uses the same the terminology - the fundamentals of our economy are strong - that Hoover did!
America couldn't afford Herbert Hoover then, and they can't John McHoover now. And these people know it.
---
I'll try to update as much as I can, especially as we help turn Indiana Blue!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
McAfee Coliseum: A Thoroughly Adequate Baseball Experience
Realistically, I was ready to hate McAfee Coliseum. But when I traveled over there this morning for Dave Stewart Retro Jersey day (I was too late to get a jersey. I am still angry about this.) something happened. Something changed. I didn't hate it, and it didn't suck.
Look, the atmosphere is middling to poor at best. They have made some drastic improvements to the place that had miles of foul territory up until recently, but it is still not a great place to watch a game. You are fundamentally disconnected from the action, even in the best seats in the house (not that Mark and I were sitting in them...). But in that way, it reminded me a lot of Yankee Stadium.
Now I know you'll all scream bias when I dump on the Toilet (pun firmly intended), but Yankee Stadium is a fundamentally awful place to watch baseball for the very reason that makes Fenway or AT&T here in San Francisco or Jacobs Field in Cleveland great places to watch baseball. At McAfee, like Yankee Stadium and - actually - like Nationals Park in DC oddly enough, you are so far away from the players and action happening on the field, that it is easy to get distracted, forget about the product on the field, get wrapped up into something else. That kind of thing cannot happen at Fenway or AT&T or Camden Yards, because as a fan in those arenas, you are part of the action. It consumes you. You and your fellow fans rise up and breathe and scream and cheer and boo together. It's the places like those that make baseball special.
Baseball is not special at McAfee. Even just walking through the gigantic concrete behemoth, you understand that the A's are a baseball team playing in a football stadium. The sightlines are wrong. Whole portions of the stadium lie dormant. Your focus is more on the myriad of - just god awful - food and beverage options than on the game. Maybe that's the way they want it, they sell more goods and services and I buy them for lack of anything else to really do. Maybe I'm too much of a purist. Maybe that is just the business of mid-market baseball.
But the stadium - and my ass poor $5 "hot dog" aside - the experience, on balance, was enjoyable. Hell, if you let me go to a baseball game for $9 and not sit behind a pole or look through a peephole or something, I'm taking that deal every day of the week. It was even a good game, Duchscherererererer was dealing, we had two 9th inning rallies, one that won the game, one that fell short, and I got to see K-Rod up close and personal (ok, not THAT close) in the amazing season he's having. It was a thoroughly adequate day out to be sure.
Look, the atmosphere is middling to poor at best. They have made some drastic improvements to the place that had miles of foul territory up until recently, but it is still not a great place to watch a game. You are fundamentally disconnected from the action, even in the best seats in the house (not that Mark and I were sitting in them...). But in that way, it reminded me a lot of Yankee Stadium.
Now I know you'll all scream bias when I dump on the Toilet (pun firmly intended), but Yankee Stadium is a fundamentally awful place to watch baseball for the very reason that makes Fenway or AT&T here in San Francisco or Jacobs Field in Cleveland great places to watch baseball. At McAfee, like Yankee Stadium and - actually - like Nationals Park in DC oddly enough, you are so far away from the players and action happening on the field, that it is easy to get distracted, forget about the product on the field, get wrapped up into something else. That kind of thing cannot happen at Fenway or AT&T or Camden Yards, because as a fan in those arenas, you are part of the action. It consumes you. You and your fellow fans rise up and breathe and scream and cheer and boo together. It's the places like those that make baseball special.
Baseball is not special at McAfee. Even just walking through the gigantic concrete behemoth, you understand that the A's are a baseball team playing in a football stadium. The sightlines are wrong. Whole portions of the stadium lie dormant. Your focus is more on the myriad of - just god awful - food and beverage options than on the game. Maybe that's the way they want it, they sell more goods and services and I buy them for lack of anything else to really do. Maybe I'm too much of a purist. Maybe that is just the business of mid-market baseball.
But the stadium - and my ass poor $5 "hot dog" aside - the experience, on balance, was enjoyable. Hell, if you let me go to a baseball game for $9 and not sit behind a pole or look through a peephole or something, I'm taking that deal every day of the week. It was even a good game, Duchscherererererer was dealing, we had two 9th inning rallies, one that won the game, one that fell short, and I got to see K-Rod up close and personal (ok, not THAT close) in the amazing season he's having. It was a thoroughly adequate day out to be sure.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Getting Settled
The tumult of the last month has been such that I haven't been able to properly sit and think and update the way I wanted to, and told you all that I would. However, I am forced to stay at work until 6 tonight, and all my work is done, so you, dear reader, are the beneficiary of my efficiency yet again.
I have, at long last, and through great pain, suffering, joy and wonder, arrived and settled in the City by the Bay. The last month has seen me on both coasts, in innumerable airports, bars, offices, apartments, and baseball parks, all in a great quest to get out here, once and for all.
The odyssey began in New York, where I received word, as most of you know, that I would be transitioning into a new role as an Associate with the Innovation and Operations Practice of the Corporate Executive Board. Less than 80 hours after making my acceptance, standing in a suit in Union Square, New York, I was in Waterview, Rosslyn, Virginia, getting oriented to my new position.
The three weeks that followed are largely a blur, thanks to my fellow colleagues who started the same day, and whom I quickly dubbed "The Channel 4 News Team." I assumed the role, of course, of Ron Burgundy, and was helped in my efforts to drink, carouse and generally enjoy life by a merry band of characters, including Champ (Peter), Brian Fantana (Jenny), and Alycia, our very own Brick Tamland. They helped fill three weeks of desperate boredom and hostility, stuck in Rosslyn, with stories that, while not fit for such an austere venue as this, will be shared around watercoolers and campfires for years to come.
My introduction to CEB was a whirlwind of acronyms, scripting, mission statements and goal setting. Trying corporate America on for size has been a relatively smooth transition from the world I had been in; almost as if it were far away, so close. Many of my fears of joining the work-a-day world have been allayed. I don't feel soulless and disgusting, or like a snake-oil salesman, or like a complete failure and sellout. In all honesty, the work we do here has real merit for this economy, and for companies to succeed by working together instead of ripping each other apart. It is not quite the socialist, communitarian utopia, but it's a start.
Much of my wariness of the corporate world has been stopped short by the fact that I am living in an incredibly beautiful and vibrant place. San Francisco is a world city, unparalleled in the opportunities it presents and the culture embodied within it. In the same way that the Obama campaign is the Dean campaign perfected (more on that another time), San Francisco is like Boston perfected. Beautiful weather, wonderful people, laid-back attitude, kickass food and wine, all within reach. And yet with the charm and decency of a insular microculture that no city can match. It rivals Cape Town for me in that. Doesn't beat it, but it does rival it.
I am living in Pacific Heights, just off the quiet bustle of Fillmore Street for the month. I am going to find it tough to leave. Between the burger special at Harry's (hands down best in the city), shopping at Mollie Stone's, or just taking in the views from my window, looking over Alta Plaza Park, I have become enchanted with it already. My checkbook on the other hand...oh well, we won't get into that. I literally found the place at the very last minute. I was 6 hours away from being homeless and I pulled through. What luck. A studio, all to myself, for a month, in the best neighborhood in the city. I can't complain.
All in all, the last month has been completely crazy, but I am looking forward to what's next.
I have, at long last, and through great pain, suffering, joy and wonder, arrived and settled in the City by the Bay. The last month has seen me on both coasts, in innumerable airports, bars, offices, apartments, and baseball parks, all in a great quest to get out here, once and for all.
The odyssey began in New York, where I received word, as most of you know, that I would be transitioning into a new role as an Associate with the Innovation and Operations Practice of the Corporate Executive Board. Less than 80 hours after making my acceptance, standing in a suit in Union Square, New York, I was in Waterview, Rosslyn, Virginia, getting oriented to my new position.
The three weeks that followed are largely a blur, thanks to my fellow colleagues who started the same day, and whom I quickly dubbed "The Channel 4 News Team." I assumed the role, of course, of Ron Burgundy, and was helped in my efforts to drink, carouse and generally enjoy life by a merry band of characters, including Champ (Peter), Brian Fantana (Jenny), and Alycia, our very own Brick Tamland. They helped fill three weeks of desperate boredom and hostility, stuck in Rosslyn, with stories that, while not fit for such an austere venue as this, will be shared around watercoolers and campfires for years to come.
My introduction to CEB was a whirlwind of acronyms, scripting, mission statements and goal setting. Trying corporate America on for size has been a relatively smooth transition from the world I had been in; almost as if it were far away, so close. Many of my fears of joining the work-a-day world have been allayed. I don't feel soulless and disgusting, or like a snake-oil salesman, or like a complete failure and sellout. In all honesty, the work we do here has real merit for this economy, and for companies to succeed by working together instead of ripping each other apart. It is not quite the socialist, communitarian utopia, but it's a start.
Much of my wariness of the corporate world has been stopped short by the fact that I am living in an incredibly beautiful and vibrant place. San Francisco is a world city, unparalleled in the opportunities it presents and the culture embodied within it. In the same way that the Obama campaign is the Dean campaign perfected (more on that another time), San Francisco is like Boston perfected. Beautiful weather, wonderful people, laid-back attitude, kickass food and wine, all within reach. And yet with the charm and decency of a insular microculture that no city can match. It rivals Cape Town for me in that. Doesn't beat it, but it does rival it.
I am living in Pacific Heights, just off the quiet bustle of Fillmore Street for the month. I am going to find it tough to leave. Between the burger special at Harry's (hands down best in the city), shopping at Mollie Stone's, or just taking in the views from my window, looking over Alta Plaza Park, I have become enchanted with it already. My checkbook on the other hand...oh well, we won't get into that. I literally found the place at the very last minute. I was 6 hours away from being homeless and I pulled through. What luck. A studio, all to myself, for a month, in the best neighborhood in the city. I can't complain.
All in all, the last month has been completely crazy, but I am looking forward to what's next.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Let Us Begin
Even the clattering dittoheads will acquiesce now.
This evening, amongst the Badlands and the Big Sky, the Junior Senator from the Land of Lincoln will be able to claim victory. Tonight, America will stand for change. Tonight, America will set the stage for the greatest electoral fight of our lives. For tonight, Barack Obama will, finally, be named officially the presumptive Democratic nominee for President of the United States.
Whether he gives a big speech or not, whether his now former opponent will make one final stand or not, whether his new opponent tries to crash the party or not, what tonight signals is a seismic shift in American thinking, in American policy, in the hearts of the American voter and, yes, in American history.
It has often been said that Slavery was this country's original sin. That the kidnapping, enforced labor, sale and genocide of an entire race of people was a major engine in the creation of this country, sadly, must always be acknowledged. Tonight, the presumptive nomination of Barack Obama, may finally begin to work back that stain on our history. A child of the Civil Rights Act, a citizen of the world, his was a candidacy and will be a government, built on a Perfect Political Storm to be sure, but one that has the opportunity to be transformational in nature.
Not merely transactional as many of his predecessors have been, bartering for votes and making concessions out of political expediency, but his was a candidacy and will be a government that will seek to transform American politics and government for generations to come.
He is the legacy of John Fitzgerald Kennedy in that way. He will have the gravitas, the will, the wherewithal, the drive, the determination and the guts to seek change across disciplines and interest groups, in many different segments of the American society. His Presidency will be the next great step in the American Experiment. His is the promise of a new generation.
We may not see the change promised in the next financial quarter, or the next four or eight years, or even in this generation or in our lifetimes. And thus, from the candidate on down, the time has come together as a party, and as a country and as a society and support Barack Obama.
For it will all be a dream without hard work.
The fight of our lives is upon us and will yield the promise of a new American century. Let us begin.
This evening, amongst the Badlands and the Big Sky, the Junior Senator from the Land of Lincoln will be able to claim victory. Tonight, America will stand for change. Tonight, America will set the stage for the greatest electoral fight of our lives. For tonight, Barack Obama will, finally, be named officially the presumptive Democratic nominee for President of the United States.
Whether he gives a big speech or not, whether his now former opponent will make one final stand or not, whether his new opponent tries to crash the party or not, what tonight signals is a seismic shift in American thinking, in American policy, in the hearts of the American voter and, yes, in American history.
It has often been said that Slavery was this country's original sin. That the kidnapping, enforced labor, sale and genocide of an entire race of people was a major engine in the creation of this country, sadly, must always be acknowledged. Tonight, the presumptive nomination of Barack Obama, may finally begin to work back that stain on our history. A child of the Civil Rights Act, a citizen of the world, his was a candidacy and will be a government, built on a Perfect Political Storm to be sure, but one that has the opportunity to be transformational in nature.
Not merely transactional as many of his predecessors have been, bartering for votes and making concessions out of political expediency, but his was a candidacy and will be a government that will seek to transform American politics and government for generations to come.
He is the legacy of John Fitzgerald Kennedy in that way. He will have the gravitas, the will, the wherewithal, the drive, the determination and the guts to seek change across disciplines and interest groups, in many different segments of the American society. His Presidency will be the next great step in the American Experiment. His is the promise of a new generation.
We may not see the change promised in the next financial quarter, or the next four or eight years, or even in this generation or in our lifetimes. And thus, from the candidate on down, the time has come together as a party, and as a country and as a society and support Barack Obama.
For it will all be a dream without hard work.
The fight of our lives is upon us and will yield the promise of a new American century. Let us begin.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Good Things Come to Those Who Wait
It was a grim, gray, dull, lazy Saturday here on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. One of those brutal New York days, where the air is thick with the musty odors of the city hanging in humid air. The city is aching to breathe, praying for rain and continuously waiting for the respite to come. It was the perfect day for a field trip.
As the rain finally starts to fall around noon, James, Megan and I make our way into the 4 train. We have decided to get out of the Upper East and make our way to Brooklyn, to one of the centers of food world. I know, leaving Manhattan for good food seems like a crime. Dominic DeMarco makes your trip to Midwood, Brooklyn worth the trip, however.
James and I have been planning this excursion for years. Ever since we first heard from our songwriting hero Mike Doughty of his love for Di Fara Pizza, we have always wanted to try it out. The humble pizzeria had grown in our minds over the years to almost mythic proportions. Di Fara is revered both in and outside of the foodie community, especially amongst the pizza cognoscenti, and we felt that we needed to see it ourselves.
But we had always put it off. I mean, Midwood, Brooklyn might as well be on the far side of the moon. It takes forever to get there and the only real highlights even nearby are Brighton Beach or Coney Island. It literally defines the Bowels of Brooklyn. The time had come, however, because recent life events have dictated a move to the West Coast for yours truly (more on that in the afterword to this post) and with Dominic not getting any younger, we finally pulled the trigger.
So, hot, tired, hungover and hungry, we set off. After the change to the Q train at Union Square, it still took another 35 minutes to get to 14th Street and Avenue J in Midwood. As the skies opened up, we could not believe our luck. In this baptismal experience in pizza culture, the massive rains falling over Brooklyn may help keep the crowds down, and keep our waiting to a minimum.
We ran across 15th Street towards the giant "PIZZA" sign noting the small Di Fara outpost. As we burst into the cramped, blazing hot shop, we immediately took notice of the slower pace of life here. The signs on the wall don't lie. It's worth the wait.
After about five minutes, Dominic's assistant took my order: 1 regular cheese pie, to stay. He asked my name. That was the end of our transaction and conversation. He went back to work assisting the great master in his craft, shaving fresh mozzarella, refilling his sauce bowl, bringing new dough out for Dominic to craft his signature dish.
Dominic is clearly a man of advanced age. He is covered head to toe in flour. Bent slightly at the middle of his back from years of reaching and shaping and massaging and punching and spreading and saucing. He uses few tools: one wooden paddle to insert the pie, one metal paddle to remove the pie and serve, a box grater, a fine grater, a ladle, two oil cans, and a pair of scissors. Most important are his hands, worn into prime dough shaping position from more than a half century of work, calloused, burned, arthritic. These are the hands of a grand master, hands that can tell in one touch of the crust if a pie is done, hands that will reach into a 600 degree oven again and again to remove and reshape pies, hands that have the muscle memory and instinct all their own to make a perfect pie.
I watch him, studying him for almost 45 minutes. Finally he starts working on my pizza. He quickly shapes the ball of dough into a thing sheet, slightly oblong rather than circular, and covers it in flour. He then spreads out his own tomato sauce made fresh that day from rich, sweet San Marzano tomatoes. He then reaches for a loaf of fresh mozzarella and his box grater, shaving long, thick slices of the cheese over the pie. A final dose of extra virgin olive oil and the pie loaded onto the wooden plank and shoved into the oven. And the process repeats itself. Over and over and over again. And the line forms anew and more orders are given, and more people wait and watch and ready themselves.
Finally after about 12 minutes the pizza is ready. Dominic reaches into one of the two ovens (he can only cook four pizzas at a time, hence the wait) and grabs the pizza, sometimes with the metal paddle, sometimes with his bare hands and places it on a metal pie pan. He then tops it immediately with finely shaven mozzarella (not fresh, think more like string cheese mozzarella), fresh oregano which he cuts with his scissors and a final dose of olive oil. He asks whose pizza it is, shouting initials or a name written by his sous chef.
You give him your $20 and run to one of the few tables in the little shop. You want so desperately, after waiting what seems like forever in anticipation (in our case, we only waited about 45 minutes or so), to just rip into the beautiful delicious, bubbling, oozing pie. But you control yourself, if only for a moment, knowing that the charred dough and boiling cheese and creamy sauce are still white hot. But you remember, good things come to those who wait.
Finally, you can't control yourself anymore. You tear into the first slice. It is sloppy, gooey, hard to hold or control, even harder to cool down.
But then you taste the work of the grand master and it all melts away.
Pizza is delightfully simple, but when put together in the right way, with the right ingredients it is absolutely the greatest substance ever created by mankind. In Dominic's case, he has found the perfect blend of the ingredients. And his time tested methods and his personal skill and know-how allow him to create the perfect pie.
As James, Megan and I sat, briefly to take in the immensity of wonderful tastes and smells and experiences we had just borne witness to, we were awash in realizations about pizza and life and other things of import. There is no place on Earth like Di Fara. After Dominic is gone, hopefully not for many years, the little, cramped space at 14th and J will fade into the long history of Brooklyn lore, a place lost in time and forever remembered by all those who were there, then. But the memories of a day so long anticipated, and so humbly rewarding will remain forever.
Go to Di Fara for yourself. See the grand master and working class hero work. Smell the air. And yes, taste the pizza. And remember, good things come to those who wait.
---
AFTERWORD
So yes, it has been a while. I have recommitted myself to this blog (famous last words) and intend to write a lot more about the issues we all (read: I) care about (the election, baseball, food and wine). The last couple months have been rough, but I'm happy to say that come the end of June I am off on a new journey in my life, taking up residence in the City by the Bay. Friends on the west coast be advised, and friends elsewhere, come visit anytime!
As the rain finally starts to fall around noon, James, Megan and I make our way into the 4 train. We have decided to get out of the Upper East and make our way to Brooklyn, to one of the centers of food world. I know, leaving Manhattan for good food seems like a crime. Dominic DeMarco makes your trip to Midwood, Brooklyn worth the trip, however.
James and I have been planning this excursion for years. Ever since we first heard from our songwriting hero Mike Doughty of his love for Di Fara Pizza, we have always wanted to try it out. The humble pizzeria had grown in our minds over the years to almost mythic proportions. Di Fara is revered both in and outside of the foodie community, especially amongst the pizza cognoscenti, and we felt that we needed to see it ourselves.
But we had always put it off. I mean, Midwood, Brooklyn might as well be on the far side of the moon. It takes forever to get there and the only real highlights even nearby are Brighton Beach or Coney Island. It literally defines the Bowels of Brooklyn. The time had come, however, because recent life events have dictated a move to the West Coast for yours truly (more on that in the afterword to this post) and with Dominic not getting any younger, we finally pulled the trigger.
So, hot, tired, hungover and hungry, we set off. After the change to the Q train at Union Square, it still took another 35 minutes to get to 14th Street and Avenue J in Midwood. As the skies opened up, we could not believe our luck. In this baptismal experience in pizza culture, the massive rains falling over Brooklyn may help keep the crowds down, and keep our waiting to a minimum.
We ran across 15th Street towards the giant "PIZZA" sign noting the small Di Fara outpost. As we burst into the cramped, blazing hot shop, we immediately took notice of the slower pace of life here. The signs on the wall don't lie. It's worth the wait.
After about five minutes, Dominic's assistant took my order: 1 regular cheese pie, to stay. He asked my name. That was the end of our transaction and conversation. He went back to work assisting the great master in his craft, shaving fresh mozzarella, refilling his sauce bowl, bringing new dough out for Dominic to craft his signature dish.
Dominic is clearly a man of advanced age. He is covered head to toe in flour. Bent slightly at the middle of his back from years of reaching and shaping and massaging and punching and spreading and saucing. He uses few tools: one wooden paddle to insert the pie, one metal paddle to remove the pie and serve, a box grater, a fine grater, a ladle, two oil cans, and a pair of scissors. Most important are his hands, worn into prime dough shaping position from more than a half century of work, calloused, burned, arthritic. These are the hands of a grand master, hands that can tell in one touch of the crust if a pie is done, hands that will reach into a 600 degree oven again and again to remove and reshape pies, hands that have the muscle memory and instinct all their own to make a perfect pie.
I watch him, studying him for almost 45 minutes. Finally he starts working on my pizza. He quickly shapes the ball of dough into a thing sheet, slightly oblong rather than circular, and covers it in flour. He then spreads out his own tomato sauce made fresh that day from rich, sweet San Marzano tomatoes. He then reaches for a loaf of fresh mozzarella and his box grater, shaving long, thick slices of the cheese over the pie. A final dose of extra virgin olive oil and the pie loaded onto the wooden plank and shoved into the oven. And the process repeats itself. Over and over and over again. And the line forms anew and more orders are given, and more people wait and watch and ready themselves.
Finally after about 12 minutes the pizza is ready. Dominic reaches into one of the two ovens (he can only cook four pizzas at a time, hence the wait) and grabs the pizza, sometimes with the metal paddle, sometimes with his bare hands and places it on a metal pie pan. He then tops it immediately with finely shaven mozzarella (not fresh, think more like string cheese mozzarella), fresh oregano which he cuts with his scissors and a final dose of olive oil. He asks whose pizza it is, shouting initials or a name written by his sous chef.
You give him your $20 and run to one of the few tables in the little shop. You want so desperately, after waiting what seems like forever in anticipation (in our case, we only waited about 45 minutes or so), to just rip into the beautiful delicious, bubbling, oozing pie. But you control yourself, if only for a moment, knowing that the charred dough and boiling cheese and creamy sauce are still white hot. But you remember, good things come to those who wait.
Finally, you can't control yourself anymore. You tear into the first slice. It is sloppy, gooey, hard to hold or control, even harder to cool down.
But then you taste the work of the grand master and it all melts away.
Pizza is delightfully simple, but when put together in the right way, with the right ingredients it is absolutely the greatest substance ever created by mankind. In Dominic's case, he has found the perfect blend of the ingredients. And his time tested methods and his personal skill and know-how allow him to create the perfect pie.
As James, Megan and I sat, briefly to take in the immensity of wonderful tastes and smells and experiences we had just borne witness to, we were awash in realizations about pizza and life and other things of import. There is no place on Earth like Di Fara. After Dominic is gone, hopefully not for many years, the little, cramped space at 14th and J will fade into the long history of Brooklyn lore, a place lost in time and forever remembered by all those who were there, then. But the memories of a day so long anticipated, and so humbly rewarding will remain forever.
Go to Di Fara for yourself. See the grand master and working class hero work. Smell the air. And yes, taste the pizza. And remember, good things come to those who wait.
---
AFTERWORD
So yes, it has been a while. I have recommitted myself to this blog (famous last words) and intend to write a lot more about the issues we all (read: I) care about (the election, baseball, food and wine). The last couple months have been rough, but I'm happy to say that come the end of June I am off on a new journey in my life, taking up residence in the City by the Bay. Friends on the west coast be advised, and friends elsewhere, come visit anytime!
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Delicious and Nutritious (For The Ears)
I have had today marked on my calendar for a long time. Well, a few months anyway. Today, Mike Doughty finally released his anticipated fourth solo studio album Golden Delicious on ATO Records. Like any good fan, I awoke early and downloaded the album from the iTunes Music Store, and enjoyed a first listen on my iPhone on the way to work.
The Dan Wilson (he of Semisonic...thus answering the question of "Hey, whatever happened to them?") produced album strikes the upbeat tone indicative of Doughty's work to date. Since leaving Soul Coughing, the "neo-jazz" (which was a term, created by music journalists in the late '90s, to describe whatever the hell it was that band was concocting) ensemble which blazed a trail for later artists with albums as diverse and rich in music texture as Ruby Vroom and El Oso, and kicking a heroin addiction which had begun to consume his life and artistic talent, Doughty's work has gotten progressively more happy. As he settles into his middle thirties in his beloved Brooklyn, each of his albums, beginning with Skittish, right up to today's release, have sounded sunnier tones, if the subject matter is still, occasionally, depressive, bordering on morose. Still, "I Wrote a Song About Your Car" would not have been heard from a guy writing "Laundrytown" and "No Peace, Los Angeles" ten years ago.
Is this album Doughty's best effort to date? I believe so. And I like this album for the same reason I liked the movie Juno; it is delightfully uncomplicated. Songs like "Fort Hood" and "Book of Love" are surely thought-provoking, but they are, at the same time, 3 to 5 minute pop songs, bulwarked by Doughty's unassuming yet provocative and singular vocal work. Like Juno, it was a solid work bringing together excellent parts to paint a good story. Subtext and self-importance need not apply here. This album is not Synchronicity or Joshua Tree or even Before These Crowded Streets. But the album stands alone on its merit as a great collection of songs that together weave a story of its time and place, and set the stage for Doughty's solid work to continue for albums to come.
Definitely give an earnest listen to "Fort Hood," Doughty's homage to Iraq soldiers, both suffering and dead, who have not received the devotion and thanks from this country and its citizens for whom they have given so much. "You should still be getting stoned with a prom dress girl/You should still believe in an endless world/You should blast Young Jeezy with your friends in a parking lot" should not be as compelling a lyric as it is, and yet in this time and in this scenario, it rings a deep and profound truth.
And there is something strangely poetic about wanting the girl in the blue dress to keep on dancing. That's pure Doughty, as he said on last weekend's All Things Considered. Assessing the essence of the mess is his very own essence and his wheelhouse. And that's what makes "Blue Dress" the most likable song, along with Put It Down" and "Navigating by the Stars at Night" on this, Mike Doughty's latest slice-of-life vignette of the outskirts of Hipster America.
The Dan Wilson (he of Semisonic...thus answering the question of "Hey, whatever happened to them?") produced album strikes the upbeat tone indicative of Doughty's work to date. Since leaving Soul Coughing, the "neo-jazz" (which was a term, created by music journalists in the late '90s, to describe whatever the hell it was that band was concocting) ensemble which blazed a trail for later artists with albums as diverse and rich in music texture as Ruby Vroom and El Oso, and kicking a heroin addiction which had begun to consume his life and artistic talent, Doughty's work has gotten progressively more happy. As he settles into his middle thirties in his beloved Brooklyn, each of his albums, beginning with Skittish, right up to today's release, have sounded sunnier tones, if the subject matter is still, occasionally, depressive, bordering on morose. Still, "I Wrote a Song About Your Car" would not have been heard from a guy writing "Laundrytown" and "No Peace, Los Angeles" ten years ago.
Is this album Doughty's best effort to date? I believe so. And I like this album for the same reason I liked the movie Juno; it is delightfully uncomplicated. Songs like "Fort Hood" and "Book of Love" are surely thought-provoking, but they are, at the same time, 3 to 5 minute pop songs, bulwarked by Doughty's unassuming yet provocative and singular vocal work. Like Juno, it was a solid work bringing together excellent parts to paint a good story. Subtext and self-importance need not apply here. This album is not Synchronicity or Joshua Tree or even Before These Crowded Streets. But the album stands alone on its merit as a great collection of songs that together weave a story of its time and place, and set the stage for Doughty's solid work to continue for albums to come.
Definitely give an earnest listen to "Fort Hood," Doughty's homage to Iraq soldiers, both suffering and dead, who have not received the devotion and thanks from this country and its citizens for whom they have given so much. "You should still be getting stoned with a prom dress girl/You should still believe in an endless world/You should blast Young Jeezy with your friends in a parking lot" should not be as compelling a lyric as it is, and yet in this time and in this scenario, it rings a deep and profound truth.
And there is something strangely poetic about wanting the girl in the blue dress to keep on dancing. That's pure Doughty, as he said on last weekend's All Things Considered. Assessing the essence of the mess is his very own essence and his wheelhouse. And that's what makes "Blue Dress" the most likable song, along with Put It Down" and "Navigating by the Stars at Night" on this, Mike Doughty's latest slice-of-life vignette of the outskirts of Hipster America.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Best. Campaign Video. Ever.
"Words. Words when spoken out loud for the sake of performance are music. They have rhythm and pitch and timbre and volume. These are the properties of music and music has the ability to find us and move us and lift us up in ways that literal meaning can't." - Jed Bartlet
What strikes me in watching this video of the words of Sen. Obama's Iowa Victory Speech is the message wrapped into the rhythmic cadence of his inspiring oratorio. Here stands a man - with followers neatly in tow - not just asking us to believe in the promise of America again, not simply asking that we dream of the things that never were, but to put our hope into action. To do, as the last frames of the video suggest, to turn our hopes into votes. To work together, in this time of great trial as a nation, to make our nation whole, and united, and strong again. To believe in hope, yes, but moreover to be the change we seek in the world. It is only in hard work, in reconciliation, in trial and triumph that America will be great again.
Let us begin.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The Best Thing To Come Out Of Illinois Since Barack Obama
That's right, it's time for Top Chef: Chicago!
Published reports say the Bravo favorite will light the burners for their fourth season on March 12th at 10pm ET. Tom, Ted, Gail and, oh yes, the extra yummy Padma will all be back with a cavalcade of celebrity guest stars (Sadly, we have not, as yet, been advised of a cameo from Bill Swerski's Super Fans, or Wayne and Garth.) as we embark upon another culinary odyssey.
If you want to check out the early favorites for the $100K, Food and Wine spread, awesome vacation and Glad Ware, click on over to YumSugar, who have a slideshow of the new season's contestants.
Now, please pack your knives and go.
Published reports say the Bravo favorite will light the burners for their fourth season on March 12th at 10pm ET. Tom, Ted, Gail and, oh yes, the extra yummy Padma will all be back with a cavalcade of celebrity guest stars (Sadly, we have not, as yet, been advised of a cameo from Bill Swerski's Super Fans, or Wayne and Garth.) as we embark upon another culinary odyssey.
If you want to check out the early favorites for the $100K, Food and Wine spread, awesome vacation and Glad Ware, click on over to YumSugar, who have a slideshow of the new season's contestants.
Now, please pack your knives and go.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Bistro Bis? More Like Bistro F.
I decided, at the behest of my good friend and former campaign roommate Julie, to drop a little honest coin and indulge in Washington's annual Restaurant Week. Ever ambitious, Julie made several reservations in the DC metro area, but we decided on Bistro Bis, which I had heard about through the grapevine as being pretty decent fare. Also, I'm a sucker for solid bistro French food at all times. So we gave it a shot.
First of all, as I was rushed to our table upon entrance, I noticed various empty tables throughout the fairly small restaurant. This probably should have been more ominous, since it's Restaurant Week and you cannot get a reservation anywhere in the District, but I sloughed it off, chalking it up to Wednesday night. As it turns out, the absentees knew more than I did.
I quickly ordered a glass of the special South African Cabernet from Wellington, which was actually quite decent. It also turned out to be the high point.
35 minutes later, our waitress finally appeared ready to take our order. In the intervening time Julie and I got catch up and I got to have a drink. Oh, this might be a good time to mention the other absentees: the waitstaff. It took twenty minutes to get water (bread would take ANOTHER 20) and finally - mercifully - we got to put in orders.
Julie ordered the moules grenobloises, trout special and chocolate toffee bread pudding. I chose a more traditional bistro route with onion soup les halles, cote de porc and chocolate roulade. The appetizers were passable though often forgettable. My soup was overpowered by brandy in the broth and it was, inexcusably, served lukewarm. (It's French Onion Soup, for Christ's sake.) Julie's mussels were nice, but oversized for an appetizer. The main course was where the meal totally lost its luster. Julie's trout looked decent enough - I admit I didn't try it - but my pork chop was completely lifeless. And to make it worse, it was covered in some kind of ridiculous, flavor-retardant barbecue sauce without any starch on the plate.
You know what guys? i know it's restaurant week, but stop treating us like cheap rubes. I mean, Jesus, this is not New York, it's Washington. Getting people in the door for haute cuisine is enough of a struggle, don't make those of us trying to enjoy an experience like this on short money feel stupid for having chose you. Have the common decency to do the little things, despite the drop in price. It's bistro food. I demand potatoes. Not a lot, just a taste, something interesting maybe. But at least something. Not a half empty plate. If you're working in DC, and you're not Michel Richard or Jose Andres, get over yourself and fill plates. And if you're pushing half empty plates at a bistro, that's borderline insane.
And in any case, don't lose a perfectly good medium rare pork chop in barbecue sauce.
Dessert was hit and miss. Julie's chocolate toffee was a good effort, and tasty, if non-inventive. My roulade was flat and nearly bereft of chocolate, though the berries left a pleasant brightness on the palate. All in all, I've soured on the restaurant week experience. If DC restaurants are all like Bistro Bis, people will continue to forcefeed themselves overpriced steaks at Sam and Harry's and the Palm and the food scene here will die.
Restuarant Week or not, however, skip Bistro Bis.
First of all, as I was rushed to our table upon entrance, I noticed various empty tables throughout the fairly small restaurant. This probably should have been more ominous, since it's Restaurant Week and you cannot get a reservation anywhere in the District, but I sloughed it off, chalking it up to Wednesday night. As it turns out, the absentees knew more than I did.
I quickly ordered a glass of the special South African Cabernet from Wellington, which was actually quite decent. It also turned out to be the high point.
35 minutes later, our waitress finally appeared ready to take our order. In the intervening time Julie and I got catch up and I got to have a drink. Oh, this might be a good time to mention the other absentees: the waitstaff. It took twenty minutes to get water (bread would take ANOTHER 20) and finally - mercifully - we got to put in orders.
Julie ordered the moules grenobloises, trout special and chocolate toffee bread pudding. I chose a more traditional bistro route with onion soup les halles, cote de porc and chocolate roulade. The appetizers were passable though often forgettable. My soup was overpowered by brandy in the broth and it was, inexcusably, served lukewarm. (It's French Onion Soup, for Christ's sake.) Julie's mussels were nice, but oversized for an appetizer. The main course was where the meal totally lost its luster. Julie's trout looked decent enough - I admit I didn't try it - but my pork chop was completely lifeless. And to make it worse, it was covered in some kind of ridiculous, flavor-retardant barbecue sauce without any starch on the plate.
You know what guys? i know it's restaurant week, but stop treating us like cheap rubes. I mean, Jesus, this is not New York, it's Washington. Getting people in the door for haute cuisine is enough of a struggle, don't make those of us trying to enjoy an experience like this on short money feel stupid for having chose you. Have the common decency to do the little things, despite the drop in price. It's bistro food. I demand potatoes. Not a lot, just a taste, something interesting maybe. But at least something. Not a half empty plate. If you're working in DC, and you're not Michel Richard or Jose Andres, get over yourself and fill plates. And if you're pushing half empty plates at a bistro, that's borderline insane.
And in any case, don't lose a perfectly good medium rare pork chop in barbecue sauce.
Dessert was hit and miss. Julie's chocolate toffee was a good effort, and tasty, if non-inventive. My roulade was flat and nearly bereft of chocolate, though the berries left a pleasant brightness on the palate. All in all, I've soured on the restaurant week experience. If DC restaurants are all like Bistro Bis, people will continue to forcefeed themselves overpriced steaks at Sam and Harry's and the Palm and the food scene here will die.
Restuarant Week or not, however, skip Bistro Bis.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
You're Not Wrong, Walter, You're Just Illiterate
Quite the barnburner last night in the Granite State.
Hillary Clinton went from being clinically dead (at least according to known feminist Chris Matthews) at 6pm to the "frontrunner for the Democratic nomination" by Midnight.
That actually happened. And while I believe all of those far-off prognostications about as far I can throw Hillary Clinton, we have been taught in American politics these days to expect the expected, that pollsters have gotten so good at what they do that they could never be wrong and that whatever they feed the mainstream media must be correct, because they got it right once or twice before. And the media, largely lacking the ability to use critical thinking and decipher what polls actually mean, report polling numbers as facts and then get pissed off when that's not the whole story, and legions of them look foolish on national television.
But the problem with both of those memes is that even a casual observer of the American political process would have known by 8:15 last night that something wasn't right. Actually, scratch that, anyone with an eighth grade education (or your typical New Hampshire primary voter) who can use a calculator would tell you that 40+30+15=85. By the best estimates, 15% of voters were undecided when they walked into the polls last night, and that's if you only look at the numbers. (And don't bother telling me "Oh you forgot about Kucinich." I didn't forget about Kucinich, we just all wish he forgot about us. Lunatic. Honest to God, he already talks about aliens, if he starts talking nude conspiracies, he and Lyndon Larouche are going to run on the Looney Tune ticket.)
This situation also reminds us why tracking polls are crack for the weak. When there are only about 100 hours from the results being announced in Iowa until people started voting in New Hampshire, no pollster worth his weight whatever they were feeding the media all day yesterday would tell you that all bets were off. And then, when you factor in at least two huge events happening in an 18-hour span (the debate and Hillary's odd, salty discharge moment [non-sexual division]) history will take over.
See, people in New Hampshire are regarded as "private" people. They may actually just be "ridiculous" people but any way you slice it, they openly lie to pollsters in a vain attempt to try and get them off their backs. We go through this every four years: New Hampshireites (New Hampshirians?) are oversaturated with campaign materiel, candidates, pollsters, pundits and toast and egg breakfasts at diners, and they get hostile, wanting everyone to leave town, and thinking they never will. So they lie. They lie to staffers. They lie to pollsters. They lie to whoever will listen to their insane rants about their "problems" (Word to the wise, the only problems you have in New Hampshire are not enough NASCAR and too much snow and it was 65 degrees yesterday and the race is probably coming up, so shove it). They claim, despondently, that they just want to be left in peace. Then they vote and we all figure out that they were lying all along and we leave and talk about them for about 24 more hours and then we move on to the other 48 states and the real issues facing the nation.
And then, two years from now, New Hampshire will demand to know where we all have gone and invite all the politicians and pundits and pollsters and gentrified media types back for toast and eggs and demand that we fawn over these hardworking Americans facing down their withering past in a new American century. And for some reason, we oblige them.
And we are left with one simple, incontrovertible fact: That as the sun rises through the snowdrifts of Dover and Portsmouth on primary day and sets over the desolate hellscape of Keene on the evening of primary day, two-thirds of New Hampshire voters, whether they tell you or not, whether they know better or not, whether they care or not, will go to the polls (after eating their toast and eggs, of course) and stand in a booth, furrowing their brows in a vain attempt to understand and THAT IS WHEN THEY MAKE A DECISION.
These are people that make swing voters look like decisive party boosters. These are people who sling coffee and eat toast and eggs and yearn for simpler time when their lack of understanding and cultural diversity seemed to fit in Wonder Bread America.
These people are New Hampshire, for better or worse. And someday, people in politics will understand them. And run far, far away.
[/rant]
---
And yes, thank you, it is good to be back.
Hillary Clinton went from being clinically dead (at least according to known feminist Chris Matthews) at 6pm to the "frontrunner for the Democratic nomination" by Midnight.
That actually happened. And while I believe all of those far-off prognostications about as far I can throw Hillary Clinton, we have been taught in American politics these days to expect the expected, that pollsters have gotten so good at what they do that they could never be wrong and that whatever they feed the mainstream media must be correct, because they got it right once or twice before. And the media, largely lacking the ability to use critical thinking and decipher what polls actually mean, report polling numbers as facts and then get pissed off when that's not the whole story, and legions of them look foolish on national television.
But the problem with both of those memes is that even a casual observer of the American political process would have known by 8:15 last night that something wasn't right. Actually, scratch that, anyone with an eighth grade education (or your typical New Hampshire primary voter) who can use a calculator would tell you that 40+30+15=85. By the best estimates, 15% of voters were undecided when they walked into the polls last night, and that's if you only look at the numbers. (And don't bother telling me "Oh you forgot about Kucinich." I didn't forget about Kucinich, we just all wish he forgot about us. Lunatic. Honest to God, he already talks about aliens, if he starts talking nude conspiracies, he and Lyndon Larouche are going to run on the Looney Tune ticket.)
This situation also reminds us why tracking polls are crack for the weak. When there are only about 100 hours from the results being announced in Iowa until people started voting in New Hampshire, no pollster worth his weight whatever they were feeding the media all day yesterday would tell you that all bets were off. And then, when you factor in at least two huge events happening in an 18-hour span (the debate and Hillary's odd, salty discharge moment [non-sexual division]) history will take over.
See, people in New Hampshire are regarded as "private" people. They may actually just be "ridiculous" people but any way you slice it, they openly lie to pollsters in a vain attempt to try and get them off their backs. We go through this every four years: New Hampshireites (New Hampshirians?) are oversaturated with campaign materiel, candidates, pollsters, pundits and toast and egg breakfasts at diners, and they get hostile, wanting everyone to leave town, and thinking they never will. So they lie. They lie to staffers. They lie to pollsters. They lie to whoever will listen to their insane rants about their "problems" (Word to the wise, the only problems you have in New Hampshire are not enough NASCAR and too much snow and it was 65 degrees yesterday and the race is probably coming up, so shove it). They claim, despondently, that they just want to be left in peace. Then they vote and we all figure out that they were lying all along and we leave and talk about them for about 24 more hours and then we move on to the other 48 states and the real issues facing the nation.
And then, two years from now, New Hampshire will demand to know where we all have gone and invite all the politicians and pundits and pollsters and gentrified media types back for toast and eggs and demand that we fawn over these hardworking Americans facing down their withering past in a new American century. And for some reason, we oblige them.
And we are left with one simple, incontrovertible fact: That as the sun rises through the snowdrifts of Dover and Portsmouth on primary day and sets over the desolate hellscape of Keene on the evening of primary day, two-thirds of New Hampshire voters, whether they tell you or not, whether they know better or not, whether they care or not, will go to the polls (after eating their toast and eggs, of course) and stand in a booth, furrowing their brows in a vain attempt to understand and THAT IS WHEN THEY MAKE A DECISION.
These are people that make swing voters look like decisive party boosters. These are people who sling coffee and eat toast and eggs and yearn for simpler time when their lack of understanding and cultural diversity seemed to fit in Wonder Bread America.
These people are New Hampshire, for better or worse. And someday, people in politics will understand them. And run far, far away.
[/rant]
---
And yes, thank you, it is good to be back.
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