There has been a profound change, it seems, in the way we, as a society, approach relations with one another, a shift that has been transpiring over the past few decades. It is reflected in the near-extreme polarization of the American political arena, as much as it is ubiquitous on TV. In addition, members of certain media programs seem to be on a constant bender, aiming, steadily, to pinpoint the faults and foibles of those in the celebrity spotlight. You see it in the news; you also see it on so-called news programs; and it is most especially prevalent in many of the talent contests where people are judged for their singing or dancing abilities.  Somehow it has become the providential right of the judges to insult as much as to “judge.”  I suppose if individuals in a position of power and those in the media must direct the attention of the public to the defects in the behavior and physicality of others, those in the celebrity spotlight form the most ideal pool of individuals from which to cull victims. Indeed, it is even more expected that those who allow cameras into their lives to film the so-called “reality” of their existence deserve the bad alongside the good. Still, there’s exists the feeling that something’s just not right about it.

On top of this is the lack of civility that subsists more locally on a day-to-day basis. To wit: People who drive with no patience and need to cut others off for fear they will have to wait just one more moment before pulling out behind them. How about those who find it difficult to be polite to those in a position of servitude:  food servers, cashiers, and the like? Even more sinister are the nasty judgments people hold of one another. Individuals these days seem to be very good at spouting vitriol against those who are different or with whom the spouters have limited patience or just feel a sense (falsely) of superiority over them. After all, patience is in short supply these days, is it not? With our instant text messaging and fast-paced lifestyle, God forbid we forego the need for the three-second outcome in the effort to have our every desire met!

The real doozies can be found on the radio. What a terrific platform for mouthing off. Their listening audience just adore them, as they cling like listless zombies to every spoken word without a modicum of critical thinking, furthermore lacking consideration for what may be truth and that which is fiction.

But I’d have to say, the most egregiously evident example of this can be found on TV, most specifically in the form of shows like Teen Mom, Jersey Shore, and, what is the worst of them all:  The Jerry Springer show. Yup. I know, Old News. But truth be told, when I was home one day resting from a week of busy insanity, I allowed myself the indulgence of TV, only to find that daytime television has hit a new low (who knew it could get even lower?). I flipped through the channels and paused at the picture on the screen:  Two women going at it on stage, both in an absolute rage, as the cheers and jeers of a packed audience drowned out the four-letter words that each were screaming at the other, also obscured by the network beeps.  My mouth was agape; my eyes fell in absolute amazement on the crass inanity of what was on display. If the Romans asked for bread and circus, we—a supposedly more civilized society—sure as hell haven’t come that far. I watched women being set up to beat the crap out of one another over, in most cases, a man, and concluded that TV has hit the nadir of its lifecycle. The thing is, too, that Springer—who himself looked as if he were truly uncomfortable in his role as so-called mediator of foolish people deficient in problem-solving skills as it regards their most basic issues—must surely know better, yet he seemed to be plugging along just enough to allow the show to run its course. Bodyguards were there to break up the cat-fighting, only after they allowed a significant portion of time for the viewers to see the spectacle of it, engage in the merriment, and wait for the girls, once separated, to go at it again. Hair pulling, name calling, and even the smearing of wedding cake on each other were behaviors not beyond the boundaries of decorum. It was a rather pitiable site, but one that also elicited disgust in the viewer.

What does one take away from this? Don’t know, only that it seems as a society we aren’t getting any nicer. On top of it, we are teaching our young girls that resorting to their fists is the way to resolve problems or handle frustration.  This, at a time when we need to teach them the proper skills for managing conflict effectively.   This is a trend that doesn’t look like it will let up anytime soon, not with the media’s influence and not with all the anger people embrace and pass down to their children.  It’s far easier to be angry, to feel disdain, to despise and to vilify than to accept.  It’s in our nature, I fear.  People love to bully.  They love to whine, bitch and complain about others.  They love to hate, and, sadly enough, that is far more a passionately driving force than the one that asks us to take the high road.

Whatever the situation, it hearkens to passages from Jane Eyre in which Jane at times feels this unbearable weight of imprisonment that is endemic to her life.  Whether she’s waiting on Mr. Rochester, or wanting to escape conditions she finds emotionally unbearable, she has no recourse since she is, after all, a governess and therefore possesses no real liberty and, worse, no financial security.  Restlessness (and the forced repression of it) is not a concept that is easy to sustain today; one cannot image enduring it in 19^th century England, isolated in the countryside in some dark, dank manor house.  The agitation that Charlotte Bronte conjures in her novel as a result of Jane’s suffering is excruciating, and one imagines has to be that which she herself has experienced in order to deliver it with such realism.

Still, what does one do today when such feelings arise?  After all, something tells me that heartbreak, anger, loneliness and, in some cases, physical pain are far more endurable than the suffocating feeling where repression of, well, everything is essential.  Whether it be a situation that is meticulously exact in its cause or a general pervasive ennui, my inner instinct tells me this is far more demanding, challenging and, well, unpleasant.

In it, I imagine there always resides the natural desire to fight, scratch and claw one’s way out.  Whether one persists at it or relents is another story.  I think of the account of James Hepburn, Mary Queen of Scots’ third husband, who had been confined to a prison in Denmark at 34 for the accusation he was complicit in her second husband’s murder.  He spent his remaining days subsisting in appalling conditions, chained to a pillar and inadvertently carving a groove in the floor, until he finally succumbed ten years later.  He, at least, had the good fortune to have gone mad—how else could one endure the protracted direness of his final decade of life?

Then, of course, there’s Mary herself, confined, at the same time, to a castle in the countryside by her second cousin—the Queen of England—for twenty years (repeat:  twenty years) until Elizabeth finally got around to beheading her (today’s equivalent of death row?).  Elizabeth may have been her father’s daughter, but something tells me Henry would have lopped that noggin off with far more expediency.  Nevertheless, how does one spend her days when the constant taunt of a projected decapitation hovers over her head (pun intended); I mean, one can only do so much stitching, sighing, and patting of her Cairn Terrier before the stagnancy, coupled with the gloom and doom of her portended outcome, weighs upon her mental faculties.  (And I thought the tedium of working, raising kids and keeping house was a tiresome diversion!)  Still, did living at a far slower pace in a quieter world make such confinement an easier sentence, or is the animal instinct to test the weaknesses in the cage still very prevalent?  Don’t know; only, I think the smart thing may have been to ask the maid-in-waiting to smother me in my sleep, perhaps three years in.

So, as is often the case, I ponder yet another aspect of the human condition.  Is forced stagnancy an all-too-common feeling which, depending on one’s circumstances, we for the most part are relegated to endure in some shape or form (some, of course, being more acceptable of their lot than others), or is it just narrowed to a select few?  Do those who are unfortunate enough to maintain depth of thought and gravity of feeling, where sentiment is . . . well, more than just sentiment, suffer more?  Those who wade in the shallow end probably endure less, which leads me to believe that the restlessness of the average person is modest, or he/she is more capable of compartmentalizing it.  That, then, means the more contemplative individual must be relegated to greater suffering, no?  Is this a question for the ages, or a futile investigation, one wrought by the unease of one cardinal tetra in a pond of guppies?  Of course I don’t have the answers; I only ask the questions, but I can imagine relief from such despair tends to be, to borrow the phrase, a long time coming, if at all.

I must ask:  Why the photos?  How necessary is it to put an image yourself out there for the entire world to see (potentially)?  That’s got to be a little dangerous, I’d presume, for a politician.  After all, a he-said/she-said may be do-able in terms of the questions:  Did he do it, or not?  Is he lying, or not?  But, alas, a photo cannot tell a lie, just as neither can a stained blue dress (Bill Clinton) or records showing the movement of campaign contributions to fund a mistress’ silence (John Edwards).  Doesn’t anyone know that once you hit the “send” button, you have sealed your fate?  Ahhh, and so we continue to take pleasure in bread and circus.

Do these individuals in the public sphere have any clue whatsoever?  Do they shun the hazards of exposure due to mere stupidity, or is it that the risk is just far too enticing?  Even more so, is it more of a turn-on knowing the danger is, in fact, so great?  How can anyone, in this day and age, not recognize that their relationship with modern technology, for all intents, could potentially unearth their deepest, darkest secrets to the masses?

Okay, so these guys want, ultimately, to have an affair, or two.  It’s not a concept beyond comprehension.  For rich, powerful men, attractive (or not so) female groupies are far too great an aphrodisiac.  Hell, for men (and women), in general, it could be the case under the right circumstances—doesn’t matter the demographics.  We know the drill:  marriage gets stale, someone shows an interest, and the surge of being desired is too great an enticement.  Very few can refuse that draw, I’m sure.  But still, posting photos and potentially lewd ones at that?  Now that’s using your brain.

The idiocy in this is especially more telling after witnessing the politicians of late who have fallen from grace due to extra-marital sex alone.  Think back to Eliot Spitzer (fmr. Gov. of NY) and his penchant for high-priced call girls.  How about James McGreevey (fmr. Gov. of NJ)—a closeted homosexual who admitted to having a long-term affair with a man.  And there’s Mark Sanford (fmr. Gov. of SC), who sent his Argentinean mistress a slew of sugary emails that ended up as public fodder.  Don’t forget Senator John Ensign (NV), who admitted to having an affair with the wife of one of his top aides.  Similarly, you may recall Eric Massa (NY Rep.), who resigned abruptly in a slew of lies, just prior to being accused of groping a male staffer.  And the list goes on.  (I suppose one could mention Arnold Schwarzenegger (fmr. Gov. of CA) here.)

It happens, certainly.  We need only look back at someone like JFK—a notorious womanizer—to recognize how commonplace it actually is and was in the political arena.  What about those who manage to fly under the radar a little more stealthfully, though?  How do they manage to get away with it?  While Bill Clinton’s brouhaha may have caused a slight paradigm shift (I don’t think anyone any longer thinks politicians are spotless), those who take it to the next level are performing political suicide. 

I suppose the only way to manage an affair successfully today (and not just for those in the public eye) involves the right conditions; yet, as we have seen, in any situation there is always the threat of it going awry.  Problem today is that for someone in the spotlight, there is far too much surveillance.  Compound that with either outlandish conduct or the carrying out of illegal activity and, well, there you’re just serving yourself up as bait.

Spring brings about a certain vibrancy and newness that leaves the darker dormancy of winter long behind.   The desire to hunker down escapes us, and instead we exist like race horses, chomping at the bit, so to speak, ever ready to charge forth down the track to our destiny (to win or not to win). 

This time of year, just as the sap in the maple starts to run, freeing itself up for distillation into that sweet amber elixir that yields so nicely to Sunday breakfast, so follows the blood, and what transpires from the rousing of the senses is magical, such that it can push a person toward certain folly, in search of newness in every area of one’s life, to explore that which is unexplored.  No wonder the age-old speech one’s father had with his son about copulation was referred to as the talk of the “birds and the bees,” because when the fauna return from their period of latency, so it seems emerge the yearnings and desires of the young.  

Does it awaken desire in us all?  Indeed I’d have to assume it does.  Who wouldn’t be moved by the vigor that spring elicits?  Those who are coupled at length must surely be forced to repress such stirrings; after all, while it may be in our nature to stray toward new territory, it’s not in our rule book.  But that leads me to question how absolutely feasible such a concept is in this day and age. Undeniably, there were times when the commitment of a lifelong pairing was necessary, times when food was scarce and women needed protection (think Middle Ages), or when farming and animal husbandry required a large family and lifelong dedication.  But does such steadfastness seem necessary today, especially when we live so much longer than those centuries before us?  Of course, there exists the argument of marrying in the eyes of God, or the obligation of duty and responsibility to one’s children.  Still, all of this made far more sense when life was more limited, did it not?   Even still, for eons people have been indulging in extramarital recreation—nothing new there.  So what does that really say about society?

Think back to a time when the country life of the gentility meant you were restricted to whatever pool of single folk existed in your village or town, depending on the distance you traversed on foot or by horse.  If you were a woman, and you lived where the pickings were slim, your only hope was that your neighbor’s cousin, who came dashing into to town for a fortnight and whom you met one day at tea, took a liking to you.  Otherwise, you were doomed to spinsterhood or a marriage of convenience.  Your only hope, then, was to find someone amenable enough to partner with for a lifetime of socials and a somewhat isolating existence.

Today, look at what is at our disposal.  Not only is the world so populated that most of us live within relatively close proximity to many others, in some cases suffocatingly so, but our lives bring us into contact with so many others on a daily basis, whether we live, work and/or socialize in a relatively populous locale.  Then there’s the Internet.  We have access to people all over the world, let alone those just a short distance from us, with whom all sorts of social relationships can arise.  There’s also the glorious opportunity of travel, where one can meet a myriad of people from a host of destinations.

What does all this say?  Whatever we do and wherever we live, temptation to stray is strong.  If we can manage it, what does that reveal about us?  If we can’t, what does that say?  From a philosophical perspective, I’m not certain absolute commitment is necessarily the answer.  I know far too many unhappily married men and women.  And then there are those who are satisfied simply plugging along, disregarding (purposely or not) the lure of risk or the provocation of their souls.  I don’t know whether to commend them or condemn them, really.  After all, who was it that said we were supposed to live this way?

Very tricky this time of year, indeed, but it’s short, as is life, so one ought to make the best of it.

There is a certain melancholia that seeps over us during this time of year, of forced lodging on brutally cold evenings and short days. Late fall may more appropriately contribute to a depressed mindset, with its death and decay, leafless trees and dying blossoms, but it’s winter that really does us in, with its barebones, in-your-face emptiness. I walk the isles of the supermarkets, ever aware of those who are shopping for one, who happen to be older and perhaps a bit more fragile and think, “So this is where it all leads?” Is it because winter brings on a more dismal feeling, making those who plod along—ever unaccompanied, with life being a more tenuous thought—appear that much more solitary?

In a way, one has to let go of those thoughts, though, as they can weigh one down. Just as the release of anything can be a challenge in itself: the loss of a treasured artifact, the end of a relationship, the departure of a child to college, or the death of a loved one. All are difficult propositions, but nonetheless a part of life. Even more challenging can be the liberation of those emotions that are tied into our precepts, such as bigotry, racism, homophobia and the like. These are as damaging to the sender as they are to the receiver and, truth be told, society as a whole. Could one venture further and say that political hatred can be equally as damaging, so much so that to despise members of the “other” side of the political spectrum could produce continually increasing negative effects on society, especially, it seems, during this time of year? Could one say, too, that perhaps, then, it’s time for the right-wing faction in America, that almighty band of righteous know-it-alls who think with their entire beings that they are, in fact, always “right,” to relent to some degree?

This isn’t so much a response to the shooting in Arizona and the blame game that followed, as it is a peek at what really does appear to be a cauldron of hatred that is evermore growing and stirred into the broad spectrum of our society. It’s perpetuated by anyone in any corner looking to settle a score, but it seems most prevalent amongst those with a public voice. Let’s start with Sarah Palin. I ask, can she not give in at all? Is it so hard for her to relent a bit, or does that hard-woman, Alaskan-survival-kit-ready bad-ass really need to present itself so distinctly? What about Ann Coulter, the Eveready Bunny of liberal bashing, who has penned several malicious books on her hatred of liberals? And can we talk about Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh, who spend their days spouting off in continual ire if only to inure the masses to the idea that anyone left of center is toxic? In the scheme of things, does this make sense? Or does it just fuel a nation already severely divided into further division?

Still, the vitriol surely must end somewhere. The mean-spirited near hatred that is purported in the name of the label “conservativism” is just wicked and spiteful. Can not the right see any value in the values of the left and, if not, can they be tolerated? Surely Joe Lieberman, while seemingly wish-washy, could see both sides in straddling the fence. Why is it that the representatives of the right can’t ever see the other side and just push their agenda with no ability to yield?

I guess the question I’m getting at is do politics need to be a blood sport, as Matt Lauer so accurately stated on the TODAY show in talking of a time in American politics when the likes of the late Sergeant Shriver and Ted Kennedy sought to improve conditions for Americans, instill volunteerism, and fight for the little guy as if it were a badge of honor? It seems that way, so much so that what we see today is anger and hatred and a mean-spiritedness that I can truly say does not look like anything that will ever dissipate.

I discovered this as I ran across a Kardashian-related reality show boasting the laughable name, Kourtney and Khloe take Miami. All I could think was, “What the fuck?” as I watched in stunned but nauseated silence, the lack of authenticity enveloping me with repulsion. Indeed, we’ve been hoodwinked and someone out there is laughing all the way to the bank. 

So I ask:  What is the necessity or significance of all this?  What meaning does it purport to engender? In the grand scheme of things, how essential is it that we witness Kourtney Kardashian juggling her seemingly limited baby duties with contrived frustration?  (Certainly, off camera, she has three underpaid nannies waiting, ever-alert, to wipe the baby puke off of her $3000 blazer.)  And her boy-toy baby-daddy, Scott Something-or-Other, who uncomfortably resembles Christian Bale as Patrick Batemen in American Psycho, considers his self-importance so elevated, he could work in the White House. It’s all rather revolting.

Who are these people anyway? What have they done in life that advances them to so exalted a position, such that their “reality” lives have necessitated and acquired TV coverage? What have they contributed to society? I can’t possibly imagine; after all, not one iota of substance is exhibited on the show. Even better is the dialogue; it’s so . . . meaningful, demonstrated in scenes in which the word “like” seems to permeate every sentence spoken . . . like, a lot! Oh, and I was partial to those moments they spoke directly to the camera outside of their “reality life” mode to narrate what was going on, as if the audience is too asinine to figure it out. Then again, perhaps that is the case. The culmination of this rather intriguing show was when Kim discovered she was missing two bottles of wine in her house. Oh no! Dare we call in the National Guard?

And don’t get me started on Jersey Shore or any of the “Housewives of . . .” shows. Have our lives become so dull that we have to watch the seemingly illustrious lives of others, which are in fact more lackluster than we care to imagine? God help us. All I know is that during my 30 minutes of stunned horror, it all became so truly mind-numbing that I was swimming in a sea of long black hair parted down the middle, à la Cher (circa 1970s), and voices with valley accents so noticeably similar I could no longer decipher whom I was watching. The thrust of the show was in trying to determine what Scott does when he’s out clubbing and “taking shots of Patrón,” while his wife and baby are home waiting for him. I heard the phrase “you don’t get it” spoken back and forth between the two girls more times than I care to remember. A travesty indeed.

Needless to say, I won’t make the same mistake twice, to pause at such a depiction of stupidity as I flip through the myriad of superfluous channels on the boob tube. Now evermore I am filled with dread at the downward spiral of our society in more ways than I care to imagine—these women and those watching them with genuine interest being my first case in point.  In his recent column piece, Bring On the Elites! (TIME 8/23/10), Joel Stein writes that “Antielitism is a cancer waiting to metastasize in any democracy.”  That “We are becoming a country that believes the rich have earned their money but the well educated have not earned their intellectual superiority.  This leads to a nation that idolizes Kardashians.”  My point exactly.

My only hope is the universities never dilute the canon of American literature, because what we possessed of our country’s once-esteemed intelligentsia certainly exists no longer except on paper. Sadly it has vanished, never to return, along with, hopefully, my memory of this ever-painful depiction of, um, reality.

But it’s not that easy; this tragedy—one of momentous proportion—will haunt us for years to come. It’s a stain on our nation, the likes of which compare to no other self-inflicted wound. The camera shots of oil gushing non-stop day after day is a repugnant one, enough to incite bitter anger toward those responsible and a deep mourning for our coastline. Worse, this calamity has cost us in human lives, damaged ecosystems, tarnished coastal regions, and countless animal deaths. The images of goopy, oil-laden birds on the verge of death—expressing no apparent knowledge of their ordeal so as to enlighten them to the cause of their terminal state—is heartbreaking.

Additional fallout from this spill—if you can call it that—can be glimpsed in the widening of the gulf between both political parties, as Obama supporters look to blame BP, and the Obama haters aim their malevolence at him for not doing enough. The real blame should fall on the greed of the evil corporate empire, so eager to tap into new reserves with such expediency the ka-ching-ing must have been resonating even as recently as the failed effort to cap the gushing pipe. The blame also should be shared by the federal regulators (who just so happen to enjoy a cozy relationship with the oil companies), those supposed protectors who are expected to be responsible for overseeing drilling leases and the ability of oil companies to fulfill regulatory obligations before setting forth with little, if any, real and valid precautionary measures and emergency response controls. But, indeed, they failed. Since when, ethically, should corporate responsibility be displaced by profit potential? Doesn’t it behoove industry to think before doing, to secure the safety of its workers, the environment, and the community around it before diving into potentially life-altering ventures? Where are BP’s own safeguards for drilling in an area in which it was not prepared to drill?

And separately, but surely connected, why does it seem that much of American effort is guided by big, bad oil?  Think of the unsuccessful efforts to thwart global warming, of futile efforts to seek out alternative energy sources, and of the war in the Gulf (as was before it became the War on Terror—remember, it started in Iraq while Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda where elsewhere). Tell me . . . no, convince me that Bush’s run wasn’t dominated in large part by oil lobbyists and Halliburton. No wonder it’s been over 30 years since valid alternative resources have been developed but still have yet to take hold in the U.S. (although the technology is in use in other nations)!  This is where the backwardness arises; it makes the utmost sense to pursue avenues that would help the environment in many ways and create nearly 2 million new jobs, boost the manufacturing sector (which sorely needs it), and lower energy costs for Americans, yet oil prevails.   Even better, it would make us energy independent and ease our concentration in the Middle East, yet oil prevails.  Does it make sense?

I fear the questions may never be answered, and the problems triggered by corporate greed may never be rectified. Still, as the ever-hopeful optimist, I have faith. I envision Americans once again rallying for a cause, pursuing an end-goal together regardless of the barriers that normally pull us apart. I also trust that disaster can engender change for the better, that new regulatory provisions for oil drilling will be initiated, that Americans will now attempt to embrace alternative energy sources with fervor, and that Sarah Palin finally can shut her trap about offshore drilling. Oh happy day!

First, the Swine Flu. In a final goodbye to the pandemic that never was, I posit the question: What happened? What became of the menacing Swine Flu (that evolved in name toward the futuristic and more marketable ”H1N1″)? I know some individuals contracted it and it ran its course, and some became sick and died (from secondary complications, as is usually the case), but no more so than what happens in a given flu season. I know there were a lot of Americans who refused, rightly so, to get vaccinated, so why didn’t this thing spread like wildfire as predicted by the media and the talking heads? And why, into Spring now, are we seeing advertisements still encouraging people to get vaccinated? Did someone or something not turn a profit as planned (the CDC?, the doctors? the manufacturer?)? Makes one wonder. Fear is a great generator of effort, but I surmise this attempt fell short.

The Catholic Church and pedophilia. There is a simple answer and this one is so blatantly obvious that my dog coulda thunk it: Put an end to the absurd celibacy rule and keep little boys away from priests! To begin, the church should terminate the doctrine of celibacy. Allow priests to marry and learn to resolve whatever demands need to be juggled in serving both the church and a family (apparently, priests in other nations do so, but in the U.S., as usual, it’s taboo); those who choose not to marry . . . well, it’s their prerogative and they will have other issues to attend to, I’m sure. In this age, a married priest is no less a minister to his parishioners, and the church certainly need not worry about that archaic fear of priests bequeathing church lands to their sons.

Next, eliminate altar boys (and girls) altogether. Let me be clear here: There is NO substantial reason for the church to employ acolytes today. Children can be indoctrinated into the church through CCD and mass, as the need to encourage boys to a vocation in the priesthood (usually, the second son who didn’t inherit) is not so relevant today. If one has a calling to honor God, one will have it, regardless, and deacons can be the ones to assist priests in the liturgical service. The concept of Altar Boy is outdated and only leads to trouble, as we have seen. The answer is a commonsense one. Problem solved.

Sarah Palin . . . diva? Imagine that. How can that be when she’s just a regular gal, like her discourse purports? If she’s such an outdoorsy Alaskan, why would she require elite jet planes, water bottles with straws placed just so, and ample compensation to spread her vitriolic rhetoric to young inquiring minds? Is she trying to become one of the privileged few? Indeed, then, the Alaska persona is just part of the image. Next we’ll hear she’s diddling someone other than her husband; just you wait!

So Oprah may be gay. Big Friggin’ Deal! If it is discovered she just so happens to be, is it a surprise, is it disappointing, or is it betrayal?

Last, but never least, is the state of we.  I still witness, daily, the pervasive deterioration of our culture (whatever that is today) toward a state of mediocrity, and it pains me ever so (see my Rant-time on the State of our Nation). Ever see some of the comments posted on the celebrity pages of the Web? Do these people have half a brain? Do they have a life beyond posting stupid and meaningless comments about people in an inconsequential occupation: celebrity? Enrich your brain people. Read a book – and not Twilight, for God’s sake! There is a reason why a “Canon” of English and American literature ONCE existed in universities before the PC Police took over to make it global and inclusive (even though other such classes were offered separately in universities):  Because ideas were expressed and a brilliance of intelligence was articulated, because they taught us of the minds of men and women long before us, of the culture, of art and architecture, of society (when people attended the Theater, and live music (the classical kind), and lectures), and, most importantly, conveyed the courage, rhetoric, or endurance required for survival of whatever sort. Today’s writing—and in many ways our ever-too-comfy lives—lacks that, since writing is an expression of the age and all that represents it, and ours is one less of a drive for substance and rigor, and one more of ease.

Rush Limbaugh, speaking with such vitriol he spat all over his microphone, passionately declared that “the government is running our lives” and that he “hopes Obama fails,” proving that the pasty white cracker just can’t handle it.  (Rush, PLEASE go to Costa Rica as you promised if the bill passed and get a little sun!)

There were a couple of good moments from others, such as when John McCain was being interviewed by the TODAY Show and was asked about Sarah Palin’s incendiary “retreat and reload” rhetoric, along with the U.S. map on her blog with crosshairs pinpointing where she’s looking to “take back” house seats carried by Democrats in districts carried earlier by Republicans.  The interrogation caused McCain to become bit rattled, producing the appearance of one who wanted to lock, load and take aim at Ann Curry when she repeatedly grilled him about the inappropriateness of Palin’s militaristic stance, considering all the recent violence against certain Democrats who voted for the healthcare bill.  How he must have been digging his nails into his palms in every effort to control himself!  

Then there was the commentary by Senator Durbin (D) in his discussion of the threats to the reconciliation bill.  He said it may be snagged by several Republican amendments, including the one proposing “no prescription Viagra for rapists.”  What a hoot!  If that’s all they have to go on and all we have to worry about . . . all I can say is, really?

And of course we can’t forget Glen Beck, appearing as if he were furnishing us with a history lesson, tending to a blackboard graced with images of the nation’s forefathers, with some kind of org chart drawn out in chalk and the word “evolution” in it.  Like he knows that concept.

In a nutshell, the thrust of the bill is that it will provide coverage for the nation’s 32 million underinsured and the uninsured poor.  How can that bother anyone (other than Republicans, that is)?  I’m sure someone reading this knows someone who has lost a job and can’t afford insurance coverage.  Or a mother who is recently widowed and can’t string insurance costs for herself and her child.  Or someone in remission from cancer who finally gets a job with insurance, only to discover he can’t get coverage because of his medical history.  The list goes on.  The uninsured are not just what some are thinking—the slackers of the nation.

Of course there’s a lot more in the law, but it’s not like we really get a sense of what was in the legislation to begin with.  For one, it probably was an extensive bill, and for another, it’s not like the news organizations gave us any real and valuable information about the bill’s content.  Instead, they gave us plenty of the controversy surrounding the bill because the contents aren’t as salacious as the immaterial bullshit coming from the Right.

All in all it’s been a Roman circus, and not one that harkens to the more poised debates of the Continental Congress when trying to establish whether to secede from England and form a new nation.  What we have today is a severely polarized country, and it’s only getting worse.  If we weren’t so, um, civilized, I’d say pull out all the stops, start another civil war, and be done with it, ‘cuz this battle between the clever folk and the out-of-touch, dim-witted demagogues is driving me crazy.

When I viewed the video, A Wake-Up Story, which is available on this blog, I was moved by the sheer sensibility of it.  No one is saying, “Hey, let’s go back to the days of the outhouse,” but neither do we need to produce trash needlessly, provide a lethal environment for our children and ourselves, and damage everything around us.  Our food is so detrimental to our health it’s ridiculous, and the conditions under which we live are even worse.  Our homes are toxic, that is, unless you’ve purchased natural, untreated fabrics for your rugs, curtains, and bed linens; and you have replaced all your cleaning agents with non-toxic ones; and you don’t employ plastic or Teflon in the kitchen; and you don’t take your clothes to the dry cleaners; and you don’t have your yard sprayed; and your upholstery and mattresses are chemical-free.  Even if we wanted to bolster our health in order to evade damage from the barrage of chemicals we inhale or ingest, which in due course will shorten our life spans, we wouldn’t know how.  Few of us can cook (I mean really cook), and even fewer will bequeath culinary wisdom to the next generation.  See Jamie Oliver’s rant (also on this blog) on obesity and cooking unawareness in the U.S.  It’s brilliant.

The way I see it, this recession is good for our country—not, of course, for those losing homes or jobs, but to provide balance.  Continued growth, in addition to excessive consumerism, establishes a need for more things, which in turn begets more junk.  If industry slows down, then so does the generation of garbage.  Tell me, is the unpretentious sock monkey really that unappealing to a young child who just wants to tote around something familiar?  Are wooden toys really less functional?  Why do we always need to have bigger, better . . . faker?  Where do you think half of the goods in a dollar store end up every year?  In a landfill, likely discarded within a month of purchase.  What about the products themselves?  Some of the trinkets and toy jewelry in dollar and discount stores have been found to contain lead or cadmium; both highly toxic metals.  And plastic, loaded with phthalates, is no better, especially for young children who mouth them.  Ask yourself next time you aim to walk into one of those stores:  Do I really need this?  Why not forego the purchase and sit down with your kid and do a puzzle, pull out the play-doh (make sure it’s not toxic), color together, paint pictures, build something with Lincoln Logs, play badminton or croquet, or go fly a kite, literally.  One day you may wish you had.

Modern society has invented terrific conveniences that were unthinkable once, in addition to the fact that our supermarkets provide vast warehouses of food whenever we need it (much of which may very well end up in the landfill).  But we don’t really need all of it, do we (especially that middle section where they display all the seasonal debris (more stuff for the landfill))?   It is imperative that we try to modify our lives on a fundamental level and reverse this trend or certainly we will end up like the folks on Wall-E (as will the planet).  One by one we can seek out ways to scale down.  We can support small local farms by shopping farmer’s markets and natural food stores.  We could pledge to discontinue using plastic in as many ways as possible.  We can aim for simpler lives, slow down, fashion a healthier home environment, eat real food, and focus more on our children instead of the TV, computer, Crackberry, and other gadgets.  Replace the frenetic, harried, craziness of life with something to engage yourself.  Consume less and be less of a consumer. Instead, read a book, garden, learn to knit, take a cooking class, take a walk in the woods, build something, enjoy a bubble bath, learn to brew beer, get a potter’s wheel, paint a picture, or install a hammock and . . . relax.  Indeed, not only will you and your children benefit, not only with the planet benefit, but I guarantee you will recognize the value in it pretty darn quickly.

Americans, in their effort to “become” something over the years, have really become nothing. We have devolved into a nation of classless, voyeuristic, mouthy, vilifying, language-impaired androids. Because of this, we will soon be left far behind by other nations in many ways, while they persist with vigorous educational objectives, cultural potency, and discernment in lifestyle choices. I cannot say the problem lies in one thing, because while I tend to be a black-and-white thinker, it’s not that simple. But I can say that I think it’s an undoing, of sorts.

Perhaps being a melting pot nation has diluted our cultural identity to the point where we really don’t have one, and so have nothing to strive to retain. For what is the American identity other than the fact that we are individuals staunchly divided in so many ways? What do we symbolize today? We have pockets of identity, but nothing solidly ours, no one strong point that transcends the whole as an American people. Add to that the way in which we portray ourselves to other nations, via the boob tube, as if we are a bunch of whack-jobs: crying politicians, actors jumping on couches, people beating each other up on talk shows, bachelors whittling down their matrimonial selection from a peck of desperate blondes in less than six months for a supposed lifetime of marriage, and desperados vying for first-place on reality shows. Lady Gaga is an icon and why? Honestly, are the ridiculously fantastical outfits really an expression of her artistry? That’s already been done (think Elton John, Madonna). Young girls, literally, are dying from anorexia to look like Britney Spears and hold vapid, materialistic girls like Paris Hilton in high esteem, or they’re killing themselves because of bullying, sexting, and other callous actions. Young men don’t even know who or what they’re supposed to be today. So what represents us more, the folks on PBS or the brainless characters on MTV? The country, in short, is a mess.

Of late are all the ignoble politicians and fallen athletes getting into trouble with their pants around their ankles. All over the media we hear and see blowhards ranting about dodgy Liberals, and we have lackluster Lefters afraid to step out of the shadows. We hear ridiculous commentary about socialism and the like, but we also have a president who is trying to appear so agreeable to a seriously divided nation, he’s afraid to make waves. We have a former president who was so incautious, we are now in a war we can neither win, nor extract ourselves from, for which our young men and women are losing their lives and being maimed daily in a locale in which we do not belong. The cherry on the cake is the former vice presidential candidate who writes crib notes on her hand to aid her in summoning those three vital items which she (or some hired hand) thinks should be her sound bite of the day, and which she believes she could have potentially fixed as vice president or . . . God forbid, president. Ha! In the words of the somber Charlie Brown: “Good grief.”

How about the condition of our food? For the sake of the almighty dollar, our food industries slather toxins on our food, inject animals with chemicals which we then ingest, and process food completely out of its natural state until its origins are unrecognizable. Furthermore, Americans don’t know how to eat nor do they know how to cook. What happened to the tradition of bequeathing culinary wisdom to the next generation, of inculcating our children with the tools they need in order to go forward in good health and well-being for themselves and their children? In what decade did the principals of coaching in domesticity fall by the wayside? Instead, it’s all about opening a box, pulling out a plastic tray, and throwing it in a mechanism that cooks and heats food faster than it takes to preheat an oven. These people, in return, teach their children that eating toxic, over-processed food from a box is standard, and that drinking carbonated drinks laden with sugar and a multitude of dangerous junk should be routine, and so the next generation will find itself with a host of diseases very young in life from a shortfall of proper nutrition and the ingestion of chemicals and artificial ingredients, which they will assume was likely anyway, and they’ll turn to the myriad of medications advertised daily on TV to take care of it.

And don’t get me started on our culture. I sat in my car one day in the parking lot of a CVS in an urban area near my home waiting for someone to run an errand, traumatized by what I saw walk in and out of the store: Women with nails so perfect you’d think they had a private manicurist, while folds of skin squeezed liberally out of openings in their size 8 clothing from their size 10 bodies as they teetered along in their super tight skinny jeans and high heels all the while feeling like they looked like the girls from Jersey Shore. Then there were the men, whose pants (or, in some cases, pajama bottoms) were so far down their buttocks that Einstein could not explain the phenomena of their tenancy. So I sat and pondered: What happened to the dress code of respectability? What happened to civility, sophistication, refinement? Where’s the sense that we, as a society, are elevated by what is reflected in both our outer and inner selves? It’s all down the tubes, replaced by a generation of slobs and slovenly people. How many kids today read the classics . . . before college? How many children attend plays, operas, and ballets? Wherein lies the enrichment of a literary and artistic upbringing? Oh wait, it’s in the Wii and the Xbox. Kids don’t even learn cursive in school anymore, but they sure as hell know how to say “awesome” and “like” pretty darn well. Are you kidding me?

So the one saving grace in all this is that I’ve finally figured out why I love zombie movies so much. It’s because they, ultimately, are silver-lining movies. See, once the zombies get killed off or die off from starvation, there may be a glimmer of hope that those few humans who survived just may be able to start all over again; that is, of course, if those left behind were of, dare I say it . . . Good Breeding. Otherwise, either way, I think we’re screwed!

Consider this:

Paper milk cartons, juice cartons, and aseptic boxes are lined internally with polyethylene.

Most meats, unless bought at the counter and wrapped in paper, are on a Styrofoam container with a plastic wrap covering. Styrene, of which Styrofoam is comprised, causes estrogenic issues in the body, among other things, and long-term use can have neurotoxic effects.

Canned foods and drinks are in containers lined with Bisphenol A, otherwise known as BPA—the type of plastic everyone is now beginning to realize is highly toxic.

“Of all foods tested, chicken soup, infant formula, and ravioli had BPA levels of highest concern. Just one to three servings of foods with these concentrations could expose a woman or child to BPA at levels that caused serious adverse effects in animal tests.” (http://www.ewg.org/reports/bisphenola)

Most breakfast cereals come in cardboard boxes, but the bag inside the box is made of plastic.

Nearly all portable water, including now some of the high quality French and Italian waters, is in plastic. If you’re drinking bottled water to avoid the impurities in your drinking water, think of getting a filter. If it’s more for the convenience, get a stainless steel water tumbler.

All cosmetics, body lotions, face creams, suntan lotion, toiletries and the like are in plastic bottles and jars and the product is slathered on our skin. Many of these contain parabens, which are toxic preservatives implicated in breast cancer and other ills.

Freezer boxes, butter boxes, and ice cream containers are lined in plastic. Frozen fruits, veggies and prepared foods are in plastic bags.

Market prepared foods, such as rotisserie chicken, are sitting heated in plastic containers or have been previously placed in the plastic when hot.

Paper bags with pet food, coffee and the like are lined in plastic.

All dairy products, except for individual sticks of butter, are in plastic.

Paper cups and some paper plates are lined with plastic.

Tampons, pads, diapers, tissues, napkins, toilet paper and Splenda are bleached. These either are absorbed in the skin or are consumed.

Then there phthalates. This is a toxin used in plastic children’s toys, pacifiers, and the like:

“Phthalates are a hormone-altering chemical. Baby powders, oils, lotions, shampoos and other products with phthalate additives, are linked to endocrine and reproductive system problems. Babies who are cared for with phthalate-laced products and cosmetics show developmental problems, especially in reproductive development of male children.”  (http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/582169/phthalates_in_baby_products_toxins.html?cat=25)

In addition, per the same website above:

“Baby oil is essentially mineral oil which clogs pores and damages skin. Vaseline and other petroleum-based lotions, gels and salves are not safe for babies also. Any product with petroleum is of course, a relative of plastic and natural gas. Many baby lotions contain large amounts of alcohol which dries skin and prevents healthy skin functioning. Baby powder can be dangerous as it gets into the respiratory system and causes breathing problems. Some powders contain talc, which is actually a very soft type of rock. Baby shampoos and soaps are often just as harsh as adult shampoos and soaps.”

Also, be aware of the dioxins, which are now naturally present in milk and other dairy products—whether organic or not—because cows eat grass and dioxins fall onto the grass from pollution in the air.

Breast milk is found to have a host of toxins as a result of the chemicals mothers consume in their day-to-day life. Is that any way to start out, especially when babies today need to develop a strong immune system to fight all the chemicals the average human will come into contact with in a lifetime? Sad, indeed.

Our on-the-go, convenience-oriented society is generating unhealthful processed food, toxic containers we eat and drink from, preservatives in all forms for longer shelf life, and artificial whatever to make things pretty, because brown paper or cereal without ungodly colors just won’t do. Then there’s all the disposable everything that will go into the landfills and, let’s hope, disintegrate before they hit the water table. Scary? It should be! Reflect on that next time you go shopping.

See, the way I view it, there is a disparity here. Celebrities are going to get up on TV and solicit the American people, many of whom are buried in debt from the recession, to dig deeper into their pockets to help others, and especially those in another nation. Then the Clooney-MTV machine will arrange the telling of tragic stories, they’ll provide ample cheerless music, and display heartbreaking video to cry over, all in an effort to solicit as many donators as possible. Now, while I am all for helping people, and Lord knows Haiti needs it desperately, I am not for the multi-millionaire celebs getting on TV and asking me to sacrifice for it when, hell, theirs is not even a small one. They may be donating their time, indeed, and we all know how hard they work for their money, but so do I and so do most of the American people (and I don’t own several mansions or vacation in exotic locales to ease the burden). Therefore, doesn’t it make more financial sense to cull from the wealthier masses than the deprived ones? It’s really a logical question, and one that begs no further assessment. The Haitian president said on the TODAY show that, as a result of the quake, he would “not be sleeping in the street tonight [even though his majestic palace crumbled], but plenty of his people will,” meaning, while he feels for them, he, a member of the rich, need not sacrifice. Well, I say it’s wrong. Why beseech the average American to forfeit money when there’s no or little sacrifice from those who are fortunate enough to have a fortune?  Why employ shiny, happy celebrities to plead with U.S. citizens who are already fraught with money woes from the bad economy, job losses, and the like, plying us with stories of how this one lost a daughter and that one lost a leg, only to tug at our heart strings so that we’ll call up, hoping to speak to Brad Pitt or Matt Damon who will be actively manning the phone lines, and put yet more debt on our Visas and Mastercards? Does it make sense? Or, rather, does it seem just a tad manipulative?

My take? Let the bulk of the effort arise from those rolling in dough, not those already sacrificing. If this smells of something stinky, allow me to put this into perspective.  There are 40 U.S. senators (those elected to serve us plebs; I wonder how many would vie for the job if the pay or the perks weren’t so great) making over a million annually (http://www.wsws.org/articles/2003/jul2003/sen-j07.shtml). If my math is correct (and I’m known for poor math skills), at $10 K per senator, that’s $400,000 right there. Do you know it would take 16,000 ordinary Americans to come up with that at $25 a pop? Then there are the Wall Street barons. Now that they’re all getting their bonuses, there’s gotta be a little left over.  In all, nearly three million Americans are millionaires. So, by my humble calculations, we’re looking at $30 Trillion! If I got all the zeroes correct and the comma placements right on my calculator, that’s a hell of a lot of money for Haiti . . . and just from the U.S. alone. This means, President Obama, with all due respect, need not pull from the coffers, and the hard-working U.S. citizens will go forward with their credit cards a little less taxed. In addition, MTV need not expend the funds or the time to run the show, and George Clooney can go back to his villa-mansion on Lake Como well rested. Sound difficult? Not really. We just have to put someone in place who can manage it all without lining his or her pockets in the interim.

Just think, if this worked, we could do it again for all the starving kids and the really dirt-poor citizens in the U.S. There may even be a little left over to help fix some of the schools around the country and the crumbling infrastructure. In this case, we could ask for just a little more to fix everything from, say, America’s 400 Richest people  (http://www.forbes.com/2006/09/21/americas-400-richest-biz_cx_mm_06rich400_0921richintro.html).  Plus, I’m sure Conan O’Brien and Jay Leno could work out their differences by donating a little extra together (Jay could always throw one of his more than 50 vintage or high-end automobiles in stock; I’m sure he could do with one less; after all, can’t take it with him!). Paris Hilton could feel good about herself by, er, putting out a little more.  Folks like Oprah, Ellen, and Dr. Phil—heck, they like to help humanity—let’s ask ‘em for $20,000 each. Then there’s all the actors who pull in millions; I’m sure they’re not too strapped to add to the pot (Cameron Diaz makes $50 million alone; just think how much more we can get from the even better actors!). How about the pro-athletes? A-Rod could pull a little from his $28 million a year.  (We can leave Tiger out of this one; he’s struggling enough right now.)  Then there’s all the former athletes. I bet Michael Jordan’s got something tucked away in the family safe.  Oh, and we can’t forget the entertainers.  With Beyonce making a whopping $80 million, she certainly can part with a bit more. Finally, let’s not neglect the retreating Simon Cowell. We could just beg $1 million from his $72 mil. salary. I’m sure he won’t miss such a paltry portion. After all, although he labors long and hard judging wanna-be singers, what can he really do with all that moula? I mean, one can only spend so much.

One last-ditch effort, if we can’t seem to obtain what we hoped, is this:  We ask Rush Limbaugh personally to donate his fortune; this way he need not fret that the money for Haiti may be going to Obama’s campaign.  In fact, we can make sure he personally hand deliver it directly to the Hatian president himself—make an event of it with live TV, balloons, and the like.  Imagine how good he’ll feel!

So you see? There we have it. Problem solved. It’s a win-win situation for Haiti and the American people, and we have all we need to fix our country. Hey, if my plan works, perhaps we can pay back the nation’s deficit next. Okay, I concede I may be thinking a bit too optimistically, but you never know.

If we were to look back on a New England long past, one can almost imagine the tedious lapse of dark, cold winters forced, especially—dare I say?—upon the women, those homebound warriors of a sort, awaiting, with hope, the return of seaman or soldier, or maybe the birth of their baby after a lingering pregnancy. A torturous time lag, indeed.

The stretch from November to the end of March is a lonely one, where spirits of a distilled nature aid to assuage feelings of isolation, a practice in which many New Englanders of centuries past have indulged and to which many are now wedded, particularly in the coastal areas. It helps to diminish what feels like a life sentence, where moments of quiet desperation are not infrequent; it hearkens toward passages from Jane Eyre, of forced isolation and the subsequent fretful misery that arises from it. And we all experience it, no matter where we reside:  high in the mountains or on the barren coast; interred inland or obscured in the woods; it’s all the same and all too familiar, where the same questions play over and over again: When will it be spring? Where is the sun? Why do I live here? Then spring comes, and with it the assurance of sunshine and warmth, of buzzing bees and budding flowers, and with everything beginning to flourish winter is soon forgotten.

But my goal in writing this isn’t to dwell upon the climate of New England. It’s just that life here yields a remarkable metaphor for those moments when we are passing the time as we live our everyday lives waiting . . . for . . . something:  our “spring,” so to speak; that certain phenomenon into which we can pour ourselves with pure abandon; a commotion in the everyday routine which engenders the remarkable sensation of vibrancy; that intensely wild occurrence whereby we are forced to undergo a kind of crazy lunacy that keeps us anxiously awaiting that next experience, the interval of which seems ever so prolonged.  I’m talking passion.  It’s akin to trying to rack up those thirteen perfect days at once. It’s no wonder the word has its root in the Latin “peti,” meaning “suffer,” because, in a way, to be impassioned feels like torment. Have you ever been in a situation in which the intensity of feeling was so heightened that you almost wanted to stop it? That is passion, however backwards that seems. Whatever the situation, you spend your time in it fearing the absence of it, and your time out of it desiring it . . . desperately.  Alicia Keys sings of this, of wanting to return to an earlier stage of infatuation when the slightest hint could drive one into a fervor, perhaps because she’s mired in stagnancy:  ”Take it back in time, When forever was minute, and eternity was a second . . . Let’s go back there . . . Have that reckless love, That crazy love, That off the wall won’t stop till I get enough kind of love, I need that love.”  Hmmm, so there it is. 

Another consideration, too, is that passion seems to be so singular, making it all the more insufferable. Even if it is seemingly a shared experience, our encounter of it, individually, is absolutely exclusive. It’s like the account of Cathy and Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, both passionately synchronized, yet so divided in terms of their perceived outcomes, and, therefore, painfully unable to fulfill their ultimate desires, even though they could have simply risen above all of the constraining factors to do so (still, where would that lead, ultimately?). Yet, it’s human nature not to move in the direction that seems best, or, if we do, to allow ourselves the risks that may bring forth our downfall (think Tiger Woods). It’s probably the reason many marriages fail; then again, marriage can be a prison of sorts, more encompassing than the waiting, like a junkie, for the next encounter to bring forth gratification. Then there are those encounters that make us so impassioned we could cross over onto the slippery slope of borderline insanity (which I suppose could comprise a form of suffering), whereby we simply lose ourselves altogether. Certain art and literature can be prototypical of this. Wuthering Heights, which depicts it in excruciating detail, is just one of many. Kate Bush’s song, Wuthering Heights—a nod to the novel—exposes the temperamental nature of it: “How could you leave me when I needed to . . . possess you? I hated you, I loved you too.” That says it all: The need to possess in order to suspend the feelings of passion, brought forth in yet another Bush song, Oh to be in Love, when she sings, “Stop the swing of the pendulum, let us through.” This is because, oftentimes, this torture can be delicious, even when we are elevated to the near-level of madness, as we know too soon the feeling is to elude us.

So my foray into the human experience—on paper, that is—leads me to believe that, ultimately, we are not supposed to reside in a state of continual passion; rather, we are supposed to experience the overwhelming elation briefly and the torment of its dearth longer. Hell, life would be far too easy if it were the other way around!  Interestingly, all the madness it engenders was enough to have caused humanity a few centuries back to push itself toward the “divine” in order to ease their lusts and passions (see theologian John Wilkins, 17th c). As it is, the definition of passion has morphed from the Roman “suffering” to the medieval “strength of feeling,” which indicates that the passage of time alters concepts from a contextual standpoint. To wit, today, many of us see the state of being impassioned as primarily sexual or erotic, and less one of suffering or of romantic or emotional fervor.  Does it change in substance, though?

So, in the end, what are we left with?  I suppose this demonstrates that, while we are similar in our passions, we are different in our individual perceptions of it (e.g., Cathy and Heathcliff), as well as in the way the concept of it evolves through the ages, which is, subsequently, the reason behind why life experiences sometimes prove strangely contrary to our expectations—because, more often than not, none of this makes absolute sense, especially in the case of passion: we want it, yet we don’t; we wait for it, yet we can’t; we relish it, yet it’s fleeting. In essence, then, can I deduce that life is meant to be about a lot of things, but a little of the really good? How very wicked.

As it is, instead of listening to Christmas music and putting ornaments on the tree, I spent the evening eating Chinese take-out and sitting afterward by candlelight in front of the fireplace . . . in quiet contemplation. I thought about how difficult this situation seemed, with three young children and a refrigerator full of food to worry about (kind of an oxymoron, don’t ya think?), and I pondered the difficulties of those who have come before me. After all, it was only my mother’s generation—borne of immigrant stock—that lived without central heat. For my grandmother it was worse; not only did she experience the arduous work of baking bread each day from scratch and cooking thrice daily to feed a family of five over the course of a week—here comes the hard part: she also had to do laundry by hand and hang it on the line to dry. In the winter, after the laundry performed some level of aeration outside, she had to pull the stiff fabric off the line with frozen hands, which, in her later years, signified the labors of her life. After that, she spent the day ironing it all, from sheets, to clothing, to handkerchiefs (and let’s not talk about the state of the irons then, or doing it all while feeling ill, or pregnant!).

I recall just earlier today, as I was in the basement pulling the Christmas ornaments from the storage room, how I had glanced at the dryer where I had just placed a freshly washed load. It was odd considering that, at that moment, I experienced a fleeting appreciation of the ease with which that load of laundry, in just two short hours, would be washed, dried and neatly folded, fragrance still intact. And I was grateful. Then, when the power was out and I was able to sit in the candlelit stillness, I thought back to my mother’s day, and my grandmother’s. Then I went back further to the early days of the pioneers. Imagine life then. Whoa! Think of those log cabins, lined of wood hewn by hand; no insulation, no wall-to-wall, no shower! Not even, really, separate rooms. You wiped your ass with leaves, or whatever you could muster, in the outhouse, in the cold, and you lived your life working to survive. Life was about survival, essentially, and that’s the whole point.

From my perspective (i.e., not from pure historical fact), it was only as a result of the Industrial Revolution that the hard work of living was eased slightly. Even then, however, life still was not a walk in the park—even in the fifties, when my mother bought my grandmother a “washing machine.” It was the kind that stood upright, round in shape, and my grandmother had to pull each piece out one-by-one and run it through a crank, which served to drain and flatten the fabric—a kind of early spin cycle, reminiscent of a pasta crank. While it seems arduous to us today, that machine made it far easier for her then, and (I’m told) her gratitude was abundant. Imagine that. For me, I look at my washer and dryer and feel appreciative that I’m not still in Vermont taking my laundry to the local laundromat each week, let alone do all that was required “back then.”

So where am I going with all of this? Well, my “blackout” thinking made me contemplate the nature of our lives today. While we seem to have it all, we are also tremendously discontented. Though our lives are so easy, comparatively speaking, we still complain. We worry, stress, whine, and grumble. Nothing’s ever right, nothing’s ever satisfactory. We try to mold perfect children, we try to be perfect humans, we try to have perfect lifestyles, we try to run perfect households. In the end, really, where does it get us? We all end up in the same place—six feet under. So why are we trying so hard, in a vain attempt, competing and thrashing to supersede our neighbors, colleagues, and the like, and then pass along the same mindset to our children. And for what? Pioneer living for three months ought to be a mandatory rite of passage to all able-bodied Americans of middle-class and higher backgrounds before going on to, well . . . life. Who needs the Peace Corps when you can experience hard living right in your own back yard? Heck, it may just change our perspectives and engender the recognition that not only are we all spoiled little monsters, but we may just find that a night without the TV might just be a good thing!

What I find most disagreeable about it is when it is so exasperatingly personal, particularly in a neighborhood where mothers are routinely exposed to other mothers who are all in the same boat: raising kids, paying the bills, running our asses off, and trying to keep a semblance of sanity—yet, there’s an overarching sense of disunity. I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. One day you’re in the front yard, and you’re neighbor says hello, but you know there isn’t a stitch of authenticity in either the “hello” or the conversation that ensues, albeit briefly, if you’re lucky enough to engage in one. Meanwhile, her collective of friends are across the street and next door on the other side and down the road, and you know they’re getting together during their occasional pizza and soda nights (God forbid they drink alcohol!) to rake you over the coals. I know; I’ve been there as a newcomer observing the pack of wolves and the talk is most always about the few other women in the area who don’t look like everyone else, or those who like to drink, or, worse, have fun—the more decadent kind. What this really says is, it’s not so much a social competition based on internal factors—How much money we all make or what colleges our kids may one day attend, but rather on external ones—Might she be looking a tad too pretty today? Why doesn’t she dress in t-shirts and baseball caps like the rest of us? Why do her visitors always seem to be having a blast? Do you think our husbands secretly desire her? God forbid.

Sure in times past, when a couple of neighbors would sit on a porch together, sipping lemonade and rocking in their chairs as they gossiped about who seemed to be flirting with whose husband, social competition seemed more a nuisance than anything. Today it’s downright menacing, as it’s about one’s position on the social climb upward. Where, then, it was “known” how others felt because you didn’t fit in, today it serves to undermine your sense of self. Today, it’s that the insincerity of a near entire street transforms a neighbor toward the sketchy sensation of being the outcast, one that’s not blatant or readily apparent, and so the neighbor questions herself, wondering where she went wrong or if she’s even just overly paranoid.

This behavior is not a factor of where we exist on the social strata so much as the mentality within one level of it. See we all live in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, housing ourselves on a Wisteria Lane expanse of residential roadway, where everyone is on a relatively equal economic par, and yet there always exists that nasty nitpicking behind closed doors when they get together, at the summer barbeques to which you don’t get invited, or the little child-related activities that get planned to which your children aren’t privy. It’s all rather sick and twisted. Meanwhile, if disaster suddenly struck, what, then, would be the nature of the interactions amongst the street folk? Would their true colors emerge or would they, in fact, be forgiving if you could only provide a little help?

It’s all rather comical, really. It makes me wonder:  Is this the new Desperate Housewife?  Not the one getting into or out of some sort of dilemma with the neighbors, but rather one desperate to carve a niche in which select individuals are invited and others are shunned, if only to make themselves feel . . . well, superior?  If so, this must make me appear more the Edie Britt character and less Bree Van de Kamp.  So I sit on my perch of exile and watch with a half-bemused half-saddened eye. I often wonder if the alienating pulse of apartment life in the city is better than this weird, sickeningly spiteful approach. What’s more bothersome is having to raise my children amidst this. It’ll be far worse for them because the alienation originated with their mother and her uniquely un-suburban presence.

It’s funny, but one of these so-called neighbors actually had the nerve to make this statement when asked, so, “What’s it like when your daughter is finally nearing ten and out of the age of tantrums?” to which she replied, “Well, now it’s all that cliquey behavior, like who is going to hang with us and who isn’t. I don’t know where she gets it from, but I don’t like it.” I almost gagged. Hmmm, where do you THINK she gets it from?

It is they, however, who are all so revolting. The Republican Machine sickens me, so much so that I feel repugnance and contempt every time I hear one of their talking heads spurting venom on the telly. In fact, the whole notion of this Machine as an organization beyond the political, with considerable clout and influence, is both appalling and terrifying, and I worry where it will lead next (considering they had the power to put the idiot Dubya in office for eight years and spent eight going after Clinton). If Obama hadn’t made it to the Big Office, Europe was proving a most appealing destination for my existence so that I wouldn’t have to undergo another four or eight years of them, with the media overrun by ever-smiling, cheeky blondes on TV or bloated white ponytailed hypocrites on the radio discharging hatred of Democrats, Liberals, left-wingers, and anyone who doesn’t fall within their ideal of someone who shares their right-wing, conservative, and (erroneous) Christian sensibilities, since they all bunch us together anyway. Not only does the sight and sound of Ann Coulter or Rush Limbaugh repulse me, I’m now even more fiercely compelled to consider that this country can never be nudged in the direction of genuine idealism again.

This brings me to the wonderful caricature of the sickeningly sweet (and hugely hypocritical) evangelical couple—the Newlins—who run the Fellowship of the Sun camp on HBO’s True Blood. No one could be more well-parodied than they, and could speak more volumes than their perversely righteous organization, which aims to “protect humanity from the iniquity of vampires,” uplifting thousands with their “core values,” in the effort to rid the country of the forces of wickedness, all of which is a spoof on our own nation’s assemblage of politically oriented Christian Republicans; instead of vampires, however, it’s anyone left of center, including homosexuals and the depraved.

In his speech, the president referred to the great loss of the ever eloquent senate Lion—Teddy Kennedy—the one man capable of working graciously with both parties to achieve greatness. We will never observe that potential in our lifetimes again. What struck me most was when Obama made reference to a note the senator wrote to him in the spring, already knowing his time on Earth was limited. In it, he commented on the need for healthcare reform—“that great unfinished business of our society.” He further read: “What we face is above all a moral issue; at stake are not just the details of policy, but fundamental principles of social justice and the character of our country.” What a statement to comprehend! The “principles of social justice,”—I had to ponder whether we will ever be able to see efforts made in this regard again. I fail to think so. Not when Republicans rule the roost, acting righteous and using spiteful actions and demagoguery to oppose what is truly “right,” sorry to say. Social justice is one of those outdated concepts, like peace.

More telling is the phrase “character of our country.” I didn’t even hear the remainder of the speech; I was so hung up on what that idiom encompassed, I couldn’t wrap my head around the thought. I tried to envision the true character of our country, what it is today, and what we stand for as a people; I tried to define it, and I couldn’t. On the one side, all I could see were our suffering Americans; or our hard-working, honest Americans who simply want to do right by their children; or those who, in embracing the philosophical ideals of our earlier nation, wish to better it. On the other side is the lump of the so-called “Right,” which encompasses a huge group, including, but certainly not limited to, gun-toting rednecks and infuriating TV personalities. I feel the character of our nation either is ill-defined or is incapable of being defined. The ideals of a nation long-since-passed, as imagined in the workings of the Continental Congress by our esteemed forefathers, no longer exist. We live in their shadow today; that is all. We have become a country, cleft in two (or more) by our political and social agendas, some of which don’t even resemble what they purport to stand for. We are disliked around the world. We are under-educated and are failing economically, having now taken second place in the world’s ranking. Our soldiers are dying and being maimed everyday in areas of the world in which WE DO NOT BELONG. What does this say about us? And after Obama, who I believe will attempt to do great things, whom are we left with: Sarah Palin or Bobby Jindal? God help us. We will never turn this around, no matter how hard we try.

I am, by nature, an optimist, yet I can’t help but think that along with the Honorable Senator Edward Kennedy went the little that existed of our nation’s once-great character.  Although sad to say, I don’t think we will ever be defined by it again.