Pet Cobra

Intern

Two weeks before Voting Day, and I was knee-deep in garbage.

The internship was American politics in action from the get-go: I got a good job with the campaign because one of the campaign consultants was an alumni member of my fraternity. My qualifications: working on a Poli Sci degree (the emphasis was on International Relations, which meant that I could tell you all about the sordid history of the French/Middle Eastern arms trade, but couldn't tell you who my Congressman was - turns out my Assemblyman was an Assemblywoman), and I'd done some volunteering for the other side a couple of years ago, doing some canvassing for a Congressman who as of this writing is rotting in prison. I knew the guy was a crook even back then, but his party gave away free booze on Election Night to underage staffers.

So my internship, working for the Assemblywoman: I was a Point Guy, who did a couple of things. First, I was tasked to arrange a series of Meet N' Greets - my candidate speaking to small groups of voters at the homes of various top supporters. Second, I was to gather "actionable intelligence" on our opponent. Meaning that every ad, statement, flyer, mailer, was to be obtained and fact-checked, and any lies...let's call them what they are, I was told - "mistakes" are made by stupid people, and stupid people don't run campaigns; assume that whatever is done or said is deliberate, and aimed at a certain block of voters with the intent of winning their hearts and minds - politics is war by other means, and words and images are the political operator's smart bombs and guided missiles. Actionable intelligence. Data wins elections. Information is everything. There are facts and there is "truth"; the operator's job is to take the facts and mold them into the truth, more accurately a truth. Ideals...ideals are for voters. Idealogues have no place in a campaign operation. Leave what you believe at the HQ door; it'll only get in the way of getting your candidate elected. Assume this: the opponent's team will lie and cheat and have his or her people do whatever it takes to win. You must do the same, and the only validation is a victory.

So one day I found myself knee-deep in garbage. Specifically, in the early evening, in a dumpster behind our opponent's HQ. They'd all gone home for the evening and now I was rummaging through their trash, in the hopes of intercepting a flyer that was to go out the following morning. Actionable intelligence. The world before the Internet was a much different place, where campaign mailers actually meant something. A simpler time. Bingo. Found a stack of extras...and the proofs. Who throws away the proofs? Amateurs. We shredded everything, because we assumed that they'd be sending their interns to dig through our garbage. So, actionable intelligence - I found the mailers, and learned that the other side wasn't as paranoid as we were. Useful data. I'd earned my stripes for the day. I took the documents straight back to our offices, still smelling like a garbage disposal. I dropped them off on the boss' desk, with a note: "Nothing new as far as policy goes, but take a good look at the photo. Wedding ring."

The next day, the story was the photo, with the papers asking all sorts of questions about Divorced Candidate Seen In Publicity Photo Wearing Wedding Ring. Actionable intelligence. We won the election.

 

Fitter, Happier

I Am A Bad Father

I was informed earlier today that I made some special list. Twice.  That's pretty exciting! One problem. In reviewing recent entries, I've determined that the "dad" component of "dadblog" is notably lacking. There's stuff about McCain and Jiffy Lube and zombies and such, but not a lot of touchingly funny anecdotes about fatherhood.  As of late, the daddy stuff has been kept to a minumum, because like all dads I believe that I'm batting .500 in the Good Dad Department. Good if you're a baseball player, not so much if you are responsible for the moral, mental, and physical well-being of small children. Here is an example of my bad parenting, because I am one of those Honest and Courageous Writers that you hear so much about on Oprah.

My son, Lucas, whom some of you know, is a Rock Man. He does not cop to today's Pop Music. A song comes on the stereo (do people still say that? I'm reminded of the episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, where Jethro gets a stereo and keeps referring to it as The Hi-Fi. I am Jethro.) and Lucas will invariably ask, "Daddy, does this song rock out?" and I will answer "yes" or "no" depending. His tastes have evolved over the past few months (while he enjoys the Kanye song "American Boy", he would much rather listen to anything by The Roots. Four years old and he likes The Roots. Woot!) but there's still much he needs to learn. EXAMPLE: recently, in the Xterra (BEFORE IT DIED, JIFFY LUBE MOTHERFUCKERS) the song "The Story" by the talented Brandi Carlile came on, and after listening to the opening bars Lucas said to me "Daddy, this song doesn't rock out. It's a Girl Song."

EEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRKEEEEEK (sound of brakes squealing as I slam them in horror): "First, give it a second, because believe me, it rocks out, and second, a Girl Song? Do you think girls can't rock out? " Lucas: "Only boys can rock out!" Me: "Ohhhhh. My son. There is much that I still must teach you. Girls can and DO rock out. Kate Pierson! Johnette Napolitano! EXENE CERVENKA!" He paused, contemplating my words, and then Brandi and her band kicked in the electric guitars and she shrieked "I SWAM ALL ACROSS/THE OCEAN BLUE" and Lucas played his air drums and thrashed about like a freshly caught grouper on the deck of a small fishing boat.

I then realized that I have no B-52's, Concrete Blonde, or X in my iTunes Library.

I'm a bad father.

You May Say I'm A Dreamer, But I'm Not The Only One

Relax. I'm not gonna get all granola on you. Despite my occasional frothing rants, I do take time to step outside the rhetorical sandbox and think about stuff. Some quick thoughts about current election-y stuff:

David Brooks. Conservatives and liberals ought to read everything that Brooks writes. Agree with him or not (and I fall into the "not" category more often than), he's a man of ideas, a rarity today. This is his latest, in which he takes a look at Republican class warfare. Now, Republicans, before you get all huffy and start throwing out argula-based accusations, we Dems have done a fine job at alienating the people that we claim to embrace. At some point, we need to take a look at why there aren't more guys like these.

Addressing The Nastiness.  Ever go to a baseball game, and end up next to the guy whose devotion to his team and dislike of the opposing team starts straying into "Oh shit, I'm sitting with DeNiro in The Fan" Territory? I'm sure that most of us aren't OK with the thought of people screaming "Kill him!", or "Off with his  head!" at McCain/Palin rallies. That crosses a line. Now, we've seen McCain and Palin acknowledge enthusiastic individual crowd members before; I'd like to see either of them interrupt themselves during a speech to call bullshit on the nutjobs that call for Obama's death as it happens, rather than issue some lameass press release afterwards saying that they don't condone such behavior. One hopes that both candidates see each other as opponents, and not enemies to be dehumanized.

Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself. We had a little Point/Counterpoint going on over at DadCentric, which was civil for a spell and then of course went south. Couple of reasons why, namely because one commentor started talking at rather than to Mr. Big Dubya, and in a downward direction. The other tied in with that. As I mentioned a couple of days ago, the line between Fact and Opinion is rapidly becoming non-existant these days; I don't necessarily think it's The Liberal Media as much as it is the evo(devo)lution of journalism into some sort of search for The Truth. You want The Truth, study Philosophy. I want the Facts. I want to know, for example, how Obama's tax plan will affect small businesses, as that has the potential to affect my livelihood. And I don't want to hear it from his people, or McCain's people, or some blogger, or some op-ed writer, or Campbell Brown (Jesus! Really? The one who about a month ago was doing a piece on Best Halloween Costumes For Your Dog over at The Today Show?) Preferably, I'd like to hear it from the utterly devoid of human emotion, political-leaning-free Account-u-tron 5000 Macroeconomics Supercomputer.

Finally, This Is Funny Because It Is (thanks to J.P. over at the always awesome Leucadia Blog):

Jiffy Lube Sucks

So it looks like the good people at the Jiffy Lube, located at 221 El Camino Real, Encinitas, CA (manager Scott Eccles) are refusing to pay for the damage that they inflicted upon my Xterra. A couple of tips for you, Dear Readers. First, don't go to any Jiffy Lube anywhere. Second, if you live in north San Diego County, really don't go to the Jiffy Lube, located at 221 El Camino Real, Encinitas, CA (manager Scott Eccles). Third, if you're Scott Eccles and you manage the Encinitas Jiffy Lube and enjoy fucking people over, please know that the least of your worries is being taken to Small Claims Court; you really ought to be more concerned about someone contacting the local DA's office to inquire about bringing up charges of consumer fraud. Fourth, if you're Scott Eccles and you are the manager of the Encinitas Jiffy Lube (221 El Camino Real, Encinitas, CA) and enjoy fucking people over, you might want to check if they write for a couple of blogs that have a fairly large readership and have some connections with local media, who really love to go after shady business owners who fuck people over. Fifth, if your name is Scott Eccles and you manage the Encinitas Jiffy Lube (221 El Camino Real, Encinitas, CA), congratulations! You weren't searchable on Google before, and now you are!

HOLY SHIT! A CIVIL DISCUSSION OF POLITICAL DIFFERENCES!

Not here. Here.

To Be Effective, The Brainwashing Must Start When They Are Young

There Are Four Lights

Let's talk, you and me, about the election. Wait! Hold on! I don't care about Palin, or Biden, or McCain, or Obama. My mind's made up. I'm betting yours is too. And I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that no matter who wins, we'll all survive. Maybe our next president will solve all of our problems. Maybe he won't. (Probably he won't. A president's not a king. At least he's not supposed to be. The problem solving should be done by everyone in a democracy. That's how it works. Or at least that's how it's supposed to work.) I'm pretty sure that we'll not devolve into a fascist theocracy, just as I'm equally sure that we'll not devolve into a communist Worker's Paradise.

I did a MamaPop post today that touched on something that's really been bothering me, something that a pretty sharp guy commented on in a recent magazine interview. He said:

"There's not more news now than there was when we were kids. There's the same amount from when it was just Cronkite. And the easiest way to fill it is to have someone's opinion on it. Then you have an opposite opinion, and then you have a mishmash of fact and opinion, and you leave it the least informed you can possibly be."

That was Stephen Colbert, by the way. We're all guests at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party; we're celebrating our Unbirthday. Opinion has become fact. Spin has become interpretation. We call an exchange of soundbites a debate, and we point fingers at the interviewer when the interviewee can't or won't answer a question. We look to others to do our thinking for us, and we give credence to the most simple-minded takes. (Talking to you, Diddy.) We have left-leaning and right-leaning newspapers and news channels, institutions that were supposed to provide with facts, which the last time I checked were supposed to be irrefutable. We're all guilty of it; I've let my blood boil over stuff that was tainted by position and unleashed diatribes at those who disagreed. We've let mouthpieces inform us. Everything that is and should be gray is black and white, and even when the sky is not blue, we're told that it is. Or that it should be. We've dumbed ourselves down, and one of these days, we'll look up at those lights, and there will be five of them.

I'm Gonna Be Like Fred Flintstone, Drivin' Round on Bald Feet

Continuing where we left off. Xterra gets towed to local Nissan dealer. Nissan Guy tells me that upon visual inspection, the only thing that could have caused the engine - which is now deader than Julius Caesar and must be replaced, not rebuilt, replaced - was someone not putting any or enough oil into it during the last oil change. The last oil change was, oh, two weeks ago, at a local JiffyLube. So I call up Local JiffyLube and speak to Local JiffyLube Manager. He is cordial and after hearing my tale offers to go to Nissan Dealer and check out the car so that he can determine whether or not JiffyLube will buy me a shiny new engine. Flash forward a couple of hours. Nissan Guy calls me and tells me to expect a call from JiffyLube Guy, who will tell me that he needs more info to determine whether or not JiffyLube will buy me a shiny new engine. Which means that Nissan will have to remove old engine, tear it apart, and inspect it with JiffyLube Guy watching. Which will cost X of cash. Which I have no choice but to pay because we still owe XX amount on the Xterra. Which is less than the XXX amount we will have to pay for a new engine should it NOT be JiffyLube's fault (which I'm about 1000% sure it is, because we took damn good care of the Xterra, there were no signs of any oil leaks anywhere, and those things are built to run until humankind has gone the way of the dodo and the cockroaches have become smart enough to drive). So right now, I wait, and I seethe, and I do research on legal recourse-type stuff, and most of all I wish people around here still rode horses to work and to the beach and to daycare and to karate lessons.

The Universe Sends Me A Message

We'd been talking about it for days, my surfing compadres and I. Mick, he of the excellent Aussie surf blog Safe To Sea, waterman, filmmaker, designer of this blog's logo, and all-around good mate is in SoCal this week on business, and the plan was to meet up at Malibu on Tuesday for a day of surfing and hanging. Surfsis, Whiff, Ted, and Alan would also be in attendance. I've been fortunate to strike up friendships with a good group of folks, all great surfers, great bloggers, great people, and this would be the first time that I'd be able to paddle out with all of them. At Malibu, a place that I've been dying to surf, for no other reason than to say that I had.

Quandary. I'd called in sick this past Friday, thanks to, ah, extensive revelry on Thursday night. (Now that we're done having kids, and have a deep bullpen of babysitters, Beth and I are in our twen...well, our thirties again. So Thursday night - pizza and wine at Wine Steals wine bar/restaurant. A bottle of the Foxen 2007 Pinot. All well and good. Except for the fact that we went to a dive bar in Encinitas following that. Three fingers of Jameson and a kamikaze shot and a few beers to finish it off. Not so well and good.) Now, my client's very flexible with how I allocate my time; I can work from home as needed, and work flex hours if I choose. But to take another day off...when I had a small heap of work that needed to be done this week...with the economy spiraling down into the abyss...with one meeting that I probably needed to sit in on...

I blinked.

Yesterday morning I got up at 6:00, to check the waves. Flat. That made me feel a little better, but not much. I went to work, and dove through resumes, answered emails, updated spreadsheets, keyed in data, all the while thinking of a long gentle right point break and good people to share it with. This is the price we pay, we grown up responsible adults. We do the right thing, we keep our kids fed and our backs clothed and a roof over our heads, and we are ultimately rewarded for it. No Bad Days, the stickers on the back of restored woodies say, and that's the mantra that keeps us going. The gang had a good time at the 'Bu. I took stock of my work day and realized that all of it could have been done tomorrow. Certainly there will be other days and other Malibu meetups. The rest of the world works like the ocean; time, places and people ebb and flow like the tides.

I was telling myself that on the drive home, when I noticed that the engine, which had been making an odd rattle for the past couple of days, suddenly got stuck at 5000 rpms while I was doing 60 on the freeway, and so I got off, and then the engine seized up completely and died, greasy black smoke pouring out of the hood, and while I waited for the tow truck to come and pick me and the wounded Xterra up and take us both to the mechanic I realized that, all things considered, the Right Thing? Overrated.