Ah, there’s nothing like a threat to Wall Street bankers that brings socialism front and center to America’s politics. With one, big “never mind” when it came to all their rhetoric about “free markets,” the glories and fairness of capitalism, and rugged individualism, Republicans and Democrats joined for a sloppy embrace and a gigantic tax-payer bailout of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac last weekend.

Citizens take note: You know it’s prime fleecing season when both political parties, both houses of Congress, both presidential candidates and almost all of the mainstream media join together to provide a blank check to two banking institutions in financial trouble. And how quickly they acted! With one seemingly magical statement by Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson, the bankers’ worries were over. Viola! And, suddenly, the same government that only days before during the political conventions was being called big and bad was now essential to the well being of the nation. Imagine that.

But those of us with our thinking caps on and even a semi-functioning memory (thanks Google), will recall all the hemming and hawing from those same political parties, presidential candidates and members of the media when the mortgage crisis was primarily hurting the homeowners – not the lenders (yet). Back then, the words from Washington were all about tough love and tough luck, with nary a quick action or bailout in sight.

But then the mortgage crisis started to trickle up, making the bankers nervous and, finally, vulnerable. And then the Adam Smith-like lectures were tossed to the side and out came a surreal Marxian-like plan to – huh? — “save the bankers!”  Yes, indeed, bankers of the world, unite!

If, however, there is to be any true banker reunion in all this, it needs to be held in the courthouses and, eventually, the prisons. Because if the $30 million in salary and bonuses the heads of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were giving themselves – and themselves alone – just last year while millions of men, women and children were getting the boot from their homes isn’t illegal, I’m not sure what is. But don’t hold your breath while waiting for one of the political parties to run with that idea. Bankers are great campaign contributors, you know. And even better lobbyists.

Both parties have totally and completely dropped the ball on this mortgage crisis, sitting idly while families were evicted from their homes and failing to act until the moneyed elite started to feel the heat. The Bush administration might have been running the show but the Democratically-controlled Congress was nodding with approval and/or sleep all along the way.

It was the Democrats, for example, who handed Bush and Paulson the blank check and authority to manage this crisis in July. And now, proving once again that they have no shame, it’s those same Democrats who are crying foul over how Bush and Paulson are using the power that they gave them. Hmm, sound familiar? Hint: Think Iraq.

Here’s how the New York Times (9.9.08) reported on Senator Christopher Dodd’s (D-CT) reaction to Paulson’s handling of the crisis:

“We accepted [Paulson] at his word that all he needed was the authority and that he wasn’t going to exercise it. Then he used his authority very aggressively,” an angry-sounding Mr. Dodd said in a telephone conference call with reporters. He indicated that he would approach any future commitments by the outgoing administration more skeptically.

“Fool me once, your fault,” he said. “Fool me twice, my fault.”

He’s joking, right? Wrong. Sorry, Mr. Dodd, but you’ve been fooled a hell of a lot more times than twice. I mean, doesn’t his above quote sound exactly like the Democrats’ talking points when it came to the Iraq War? As in: We gave Bush the authority but we didn’t think he was going to use it. In fact, the same thing could be said about the Patriot Act, FISA, vote counting and so, so much more.

Oh, Mr. Dodd, we only wish you and yours had only been fooled twice.

But don’t expect this new-found socialism streak to last long. Well, unless some other economic trouble rocks the millionaires. Yep, in America, socialism is for the rich. While the rest of us will keep getting the free market lectures and fighting for the policy crumbs that happen to fall off their table.

Well, so much for the funeral. Because it’s now a high school prom! And guess who’s the queen?

Sarah Palin, come on down, don the crown, get that nose wrinkle thing going and kick the living shit out of Obama. Yikes. Anyone else want to dance? I didn’t think so.

As you all know by now, I don’t play nicely with either major party. I’m old school. And for the 20-plus years I’ve been writing I’ve had two quotes hanging near my writing space. The first is from George Orwell: “If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” And, the second, is from Joseph Pulitzer: “Newspapers should have no friends.” Ah, mission accomplished.

But I do have readers. So let me tell you want you don’t want to hear: The Democrats and the Republicans are taking all of us for fools. They’re co-conspirators in a grotesque fleecing of a nation, where the goal is to dumb-down the political process to the point of irrelevancy. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s not a democracy. It’s a fucking sitcom.

The people talking issues were kicked to the side a long, long time ago. Worse, they were treated like lepers. You do, in fact, remember Dennis Kucinich, Ron Paul, and Ralph Nader, don’t you? Silly men. They thought this was about ideas, ideals, proposals, vision and – sit down for this one – follow through and commitment.

Nope. Not in the sitcom nation.

Because the script for this election has already been submitted. And it goes like this: Obama equals hope. McCain equals security. Biden equals change (huh? Oh yeah, he took the train home every night). And Palin equals Hillary. Now shut up and debate those names and those terms only. Or else we’ll condemn you to a lifetime of snarky blogging.

But if it’s a sitcom they want, let’s analyze it like a sitcom.

Sarah Palin kicked ass last night. Yep, kicked ass. She single-handedly resuscitated the dying elephant in the room and did what every liberal pundit had convinced themselves she couldn’t do: deliver a speech. Better yet (for the Republicans), she largely avoided the issues, keeping the soft-focused lens on her family and her verbal Uzi trained on Obama more effectively than anyone else this campaign season.

Imagine, for example, if Hillary Clinton came out swinging like that against Obama? But she can’t, because she’s bound by the unspoken code of political correctness that, interestingly enough, forbids such discourse. Instead of putting a spotlight on Obama’s inexperience and stadium-sized sense of entitlement like Palin effectively did, Hillary played her own politically correct card – yeah, the one with two “x” chromosomes. Oh, the liberal dilemma!

It is amazing that Obama has been flirting with and outright running for the presidency for almost four solid years and yet this is the first time that I can remember that an opponent undressed and exposed his flimsy resume. And the sitcom crowd roared at the irony that it was finally being done by the woman with the flimsy resume. Oh please, will you two get a room and show each other your resumes and settle this once and for all.

And I love it how the Dem faithful are now demanding that we talk about the issues. Well, now that the helium balloons from their halcyon convention have floated away. But let’s take them up on it for a second. The war? Well, what’s the difference between McCain voting to fund the war and Obama voting to fund the war? Oh yeah, Obama did it while holding his nose. The economy? Well, what’s the difference between Biden bending over backwards for the credit card thugs and McCain bending over for the same? The environment? Well, what’s the difference between Obama’s support of nuclear power and McCain’s support of nuclear power? You get my point.

Hang in there America, because this sitcom ends on November 4th. Or, better yet, tune into candidates like Nader, Paul and McKinney who are actually saying something – and meaning it.

Well, that was creepy. The Republican Convention, that is. Was it me, or did it feel more like a funeral than the party they were trying oh-so-hard to make it? Because this Grand Old Party looked and felt like nothing more than a fatally wounded elephant making a slow fall to the ground. I was half expecting to see the tusk-poachers come crashing in.

Rule number one for political convention organizers has got to be that they make sure to fill the auditorium. You know, kind of like the Dems did in Denver. Because there’s nothing as ineffective as seeing old, white people with really stupid hats standing around in a half-filled arena while trying to pretend that the place is rockin’. Sorry, but the cameras didn’t lie. And I’ve seen more excitement in the windows of Montpelier’s VFW Hall.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we should all begin to understand John McCain’s choice of Sarah Palin. I mean, what the hell else did he have to spice up the party? And, no, Cindy’s ridiculous dress doesn’t count.

McCain saw the Dem Fest in Denver, looked over the notes for his own upcoming convention, and realized that Lieberman, Romney and Pawlenty didn’t offer squat to the ticket or the party. So Palin it was. And the McCain folks are certainly hoping that the Palin intoxication that the left, right and middle are in the midst of – good or bad – will help hide the carcass of the dying elephant in the room.

Last night’s convention agenda was just weird. First of all, how lame is that they think we believe that George Bush “couldn’t get to Minnesota” in order to speak live to the delegates? It’s a two-hour flight – and the guy’s got his own plane. Besides, it had been a good twelve hours since the Hurricane Gustav excuse was removed from the equation.

The result was a terribly awkward and typically disjointed speech by Bush, who looked like a pained school kid trying to muster some enthusiasm for a report he didn’t give two shits about. Worse, Bush obviously wasn’t getting the audio from the convention center, thus abruptly cutting off the obligatory moments of applause – sleepy as they were. It was a disconnected Bush at his best, rushing through his allotted seven minutes and thrown off the stage by the McCain folks before the network coverage began.

And what was the rush to get a sitting, two-term Republican president off the stage at the party’s convention? Well, to make sure the Democrat-turned-Independent-turned-one-slimy-bastard known as Joe Lieberman occupied the primetime slot. That, my friends, is what Texans would call putting a boot up the president’s ass. Time’s up, Mr. President, because we’ve got to save the good slot for your one-time electoral opponent.

But just when you thought it couldn’t get any creepier, up stepped Lieberman who I’m convinced was only there to audition for Don Knotts’ role in the remake of The Andy Griffith Show. Well, that and to prove that he still has no tact or political morals because he actually tried to praise Bill Clinton in his speech. Huh? Yeah, that’ll certainly win him over to a bunch of red-meat Republicans. The guy’s just goofy.

Yep, Palin’s all they’ve got. Unless you’re old enough and senile enough to dance in a three-foot tall American-flag hat to the tunes of Lawrence Welk and find yourself getting (politically) aroused by images of Reagan, Fred Thompson and Lieberman. Ew.

Let’s do Sarah Palin. Wait. That didn’t sound right. So, make that: Let’s consider Sarah Palin. I’ve been pondering words about Palin all weekend but every time I tore myself away from the unbearable relaxation of the holiday weekend and thought I was going to string two or three thoughts together, the terms of the discussion would change. I mean, how fast did the discussion morph from Palin’s “fake birth” to her daughter’s real birth? Nanoseconds.

And, of course, we only have the Internet and the self-important liberal bloggers to blame for the whiplash-like speed to which the Palin story has been changing.

If, as they like to declare, the Denver Dem-lovefest was their “finest hour,” the Palin coverage in the days that followed has certainly been the liberal blogosphere’s darkest hour. No sooner than they were able to unpack and frame their “official” passes to the Dem Party in Denver, the lib-blogs snarled at the gentle rain on their parade that the McCain campaign provided by picking—say what?! – a goddamn woman.

Ouch. There’s nothing that pisses a liberal off more than having a politically-correct trump card played before they’ve even had time to clean up from the mess of their premature victory ejaculation. Dude!

But the Palin card was played and the response was u.g.l.y. – just as the McCain folks were certainly hoping. Sure, it hasn’t been smooth sailing for the Republicans, but I’ll bet the upper-tiers of the McCain campaign are happy that the initial Palin attacks were largely blown away by the coverage of Hurricane Gustav.

There is, after all, nothing more ugly than liberals beating up a woman, a mother of five, an elected (and popular) governor, and, by all accounts, a hyperkinetic outsider who has reached the top in what is certainly considered to be a real man’s state. Good luck with that.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty to attack when it comes to attacking Palin. You know, things like THE ISSUES. But the lib-dips have taken the McCain bait and, instead, decided to run with breathless (and untrue) stories about her “fake pregnancy,” her faux-scandals (trooper-gate, snore), flying while pregnant, and her connection with an Alaska independence party that believed in localism and – yes – independence. Gasp! The silliest aspect to the lib-dip coverage was its use of rightwing Alaska Republicans’ quotes about Palin. Yo, fellas – because, they are mostly fellas – the rightwing Republicans hate her because she pulled the rug out from under the self-proclaimed “good ole boys” that ruled the roost before she chased them from office.

Like I said, stick to the issues. You know, things like her anti-choice position, her pro-drilling position (no pun intended – hey, she IS a mother of five), and her disastrous environmental record that can be summed up by three words: Fuck the bears. Well, not literally. But you get my point.

And, please, stop with the “experience” nonsense. Do the Dems know how many women and thinking men that the “no experience” argument is totally and completely pissing off – especially in an election cycle that has been monopolized by Barack Obama’s helium-filled balloons of “change”? Warning: Palin will eat the wine glass lib-dips alive with that accusation if she ever gets the chance.

Speaking of experience, here’s a fun little snippet from Dennis Perrin, one of my newly found favorite writers:

Watching the libsphere in hysterics over Sarah Palin has been entertaining, and no attack on her is considered too low or too coarse to post in a comments section. Apart from her reactionary positions, the main lib beef, as I recently noted, is with her inexperience. Liberals demand seasoned insiders like Joe Biden to help guide the empire, someone who can properly manage the machinery of state, bomb the right countries, spy on the right people, and above all, normalize imperial matters after eight years of “wrong” turns. Palin is an affront to their sense of professionalism. Thus the constant abuse.

Bingo.

Damn, I miss the issues. But, unfortunately, we’re all stuck in some kind of nightmarish sitcom-like presidential campaign, whereby the issues are damned while we take thoughtless swims in the varnish that will – hopefully – fend the scuff of meaning away for at least another four years.

The so-called blogging revolution is dead. Yep, stick a fork in it. And it died in Denver in the lap of the Democratic Party – purring happily and doing nothing at its death but holding a mini-cam in its paws so as to document its last, pathetic moments.

Let’s face it: Blogging is the new opiate of the current activist generations. Instead of hitting the streets, disrupting the conventions, confronting the power elites or penning their own Port Heron statements, the new blogger generation is busy taking photos of those taking photos of them while they all race to the nearest wireless connection to be the first to upload the photos of nothing really in particular. But they were there! And they’ve got the photos to prove it, damn it.

Quick, someone put out the memo: Blogging is NOT activism. Because simply telling someone about something doesn’t mean you did anything about it – no matter how fast your Internet connection or your prowess with YouTube is.

Take, for example, the bloggers and the current Democratic Convention. If only half of those filling the bloggers’ official home in Denver – known as the “Big Tent” – put down their cameras, their Blackberries, their laptops, and their cutesy “look where I am!” commentaries long enough to actually join in the protests and the activism going on under their noses, the Democratic Party might be forced to actually address some important issues. You know, things like the war (remember that?), health care, global warming, the housing crisis, and – oh yeah – jobs.

Instead, the bloggers (for the most part – because there are some exceptions) are ego-bent on making the story in Denver more like a remake of a Chevy Chase vacation flick than a chance to actually provide some insight into the struggles, the challenges, the power, the privilege and the activist possibilities of it all.

While digesting more coverage of the convention than I thought I could stomach, I’ve been particularly struck by the coverage of the protests outside. Specifically, I’ve noticed how few protesters there are compared to how many people are standing around documenting the protests. Sadly, somewhere along the line, documenting attempts at change became “cooler” than actually risking something and participating in change.

The Howard Dean-led Democratic National Committee took it all one-step further, too: They made the blogs fight for the “one pass per state” to come into the convention as “official” participants. And so, like little fish fighting for the hook, they trampled upon each other and lunged for the almighty bite of – say what? – an inside ticket. Ah, bait ‘em with “access,” bring ‘em in with a ticket and then own ‘em. Because, once inside, they know who’s buttering their bread.

The result, of course, has been one gooey-eyed report after another from the “anointed bloggers,” gushing continuously about “the history,” “the enthusiasm,” “the celebrities” (oh-my-God, is that Walter Mondale?) and the absolute “importance” of it all – with photos and video!!!! Mission accomplished, Mr. Dean, the blogger lapdogs have been neutered.

It’s more than sad to think that the more media – mainstream and citizen – that there is at this convention has equated to less meaningful coverage. I mean, how much have you read about the rallies, the protests or the issues? Instead, we know more than we’d ever want to know about the mood, the cheers, the celebrities (is that Susan Sarandon?) and how “exhausting” it all is for the poor, insider bloggers.

For the most part, blogging has become about witnessing. And the more people are merely witnessing – especially with tickets to the inside – the less people are “doing.” Indeed, “instant” messaging has replaced “effective” messaging.

Ding-dong, the blogging revolution is dead.

I’m the corn-fed king. I grow corn. I eat corn. I am corny – through and through.

Deal with it.

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Dinner? Corn.

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Lunch? Corn.

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Breakfast? Corn.

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I like corn. I’m from Iowa. I have to like corn. I worked in cornfields as a kid doing things that I have never understood – “detasseling,” to be precise. I was told that it was about “sex” and I was hooked. Sucker. Well, not really, because the act of detasseling is kind of like the act of de-sexing the corn. Yeah, got you there, didn’t I? Because you didn’t even know that there were male and female rows of corn. Well, there were in the olden days, back before Monsanto made corn the way they wanted corn to be made (read: ready and able to accept bountiful loads of its pesticides and herbicides and largely incapable of reproduction).

Every morning at pre-dawn we would be delivered to a parking lot in the area where we would be loaded onto one of many school busses awaiting our cheap labor and clueless ways. From there, we would drive to one of the endless number of corn fields, unload, and be sent down one mile-long corn row after another to literally pull the tassels off each and every corn plant.

It was hell. Summers in Iowa, in case you didn’t know, are like living in furnace. It’s hot. It’s humid. And the air feels thick enough to be eaten, not breathed.

But there we were, suffocating in a jungle of corn and who knows what kind of toxic mix of the latest and greatest of corn toxins. Up and down the hellishly long rows we would go – all for the minimum wage of the day.

I remember my first day on the job and being sent into the suffocating maze of it all. I quickly fell behind. And then further and further behind. Soon, I didn’t hear the noise of my fellow de-tasselers anywhere near me. I panicked. And then I made a bad decision according to the boss-man: I started skipping large sections of my cornrow so as to catch up. I mean, come on, who the hell was going to notice in a 200-acre field that a few tassels were missed?

And then I heard a loud and angry voice: “Who is working in this row?”

Oh shit. I ignored it at first and then got more diligent with my work, making sure to get every-fucking-tassel of every-fucking-cornstalk for the eternity that every row seemed to be.

But the voice got closer. “Stop! Whoever’s on this row must stop!”

I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. I was guilty as charged: detasseling neglect.

“What the hell were you thinking?” the master corn detasseler barked in my face as he finally caught up to me, knowing, of course, that there was nothing I could offer in my defense. And he filled the silence with more barking: “Go back, get them all. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.”

It was miserable work. In addition to the unbearable heat and the seemingly endless rows of corn, there was also what was known as “corn rash.” That, my friends, is a most insidious rash that begins to form on your forearms as they scrape against the corn plants, the pollen and who knows what kind of toxic soup as you move yourself for ten hours a day through nothing but one, big corn jungle.

And corn rash itches. In fact, the hotter and sweatier you get, the more it itches. Soon, you’re pouring the coveted water in your jug upon your forearms to soothe the rash – even for just a little while. It’s the stuff that insanity is born from. You see, I’ve got excuses. Lots and lots of excuses.

There was no peace in the cornfield of Iowa. It was either the rash, the heat, or the miserable bastards – and bitches – who thought the lunch breaks should be filled with fistfights. Yep, even the girls fought in the Iowa cornfields. Remember, this is detasseling, and the civilized kids weren’t invited. It was more like survival of the fittest. Trust me, I stayed clear of this, other than expending the energy required to fend off my fellow corn servants so that I, too, wouldn’t be forced to fight on my ten minutes of rest time. Isn’t that what big brothers are for? Thanks, Todd. Besides, I had a rash and all.

Eventually, I got smart. Or rather, I got a better offer. Yep, I got an offer from a friend to join his crew of “soybean walkers” and I jumped on it. We were freelancers, which meant we contracted with area farmers to “walk” their soybean fields. “Walking” a soybean field means going up and down every-single-long-row of soybeans and cutting out the stray corn plants or weeds that may have survived the toxic bathing that had been applied earlier in the season. But it was better than corn because you weren’t drowning in the corn jungle and you could see the world and your peers – as opposed to only the corn – as you worked. And, better yet, there was no rash.

And so it was, my youth.

But today I grow corn in a large garden. It doesn’t need to be de-tasseled and it has no toxins. That, however, doesn’t mean that I don’t have detasseling flashbacks as I make my way through the 40-foot rows of corn that I now grow for my family and for some pocket cash. I need to keep looking up to the sky and to the end of the rows to make sure I’m not trapped – once again – in the corn nightmares of my youth.

And my corn is in. Loads and loads of glorious corn. Breakfast, lunch and dinner: Corn.

It’s in my genes. Rash and all.

We interrupt the regularly scheduled snarkiness of this blog to bring you a tale of hope, talent, and accomplishment. Okay, okay, I’ll let that settle in for a moment.

It’s really quite “straight” forward. You see, we owned a leaning barn that desperately needed to be straightened, one that used to stand tall and proud just outside of the Worcester village. And, thanks to the neighborliness and friendliness of my immensely talented pal, Chris Eaton, we got it done. But let’s also be honest, the use of the “we” pronoun is quite presumptuous of me. Because, of course, I was mostly a “gofer” – and marveler – as Chris took on the Herculean task of running chains, cables and synthetic straps to various come-alongs and –viola! – torque that old heifer barn of ours right back to the upright and straight position. Amazing. All in a one good, long day’s worth of work.

This old heifer barn of ours was once the “little” addition to the monster barn that once graced the Ladd Farm, Worcester’s one-time pride of a farm that sits across the North Branch from the village itself. But, as we all know, the farm economy bit the dust and the farm began its decades-long decline into neglect. About ten years ago, thanks to previous owners, the neglected main barn was dismantled and – mostly – buried in what is now the back yard. What remained was the 20 x 50 heifer barn, a one-time “add-on” that now stood – or leaned — with the kind of tenacity that defied the logic of the engineering wisdom that certainly said: You will fall soon.

Ah, but Chris came to the rescue – just in time. And it’s not like “barn straightening” is on his resume, either. Nope. Sure, he’s a master carpenter and welder to boot, with more than a short stop caretaking – with his wife, Neha — for the Scott and Helen Nearing homestead in Maine. But barn-straightening? Nope. And that’s what’s fascinating to me: watching someone take on such an immense task with the kind of patience, perseverance and skill that would make you bet a whole hell of a lot of money on the fact that it was not his first time doing it. I guess that’s what they call “skill.”

To give you an idea of the task at hand, we started by attaching a nail to the top of the barn and then running a weighted-string down the side to determine just how much this old barn was leaning. According to the trusty tape measure, the barn was nearly 12 inches out of whack. Yep, the little weighted string dangled nearly a foot out of plumb. In other words, just a good storm – or draft horse scratch – away from becoming yet another giant pile of barn refuse.

But “we” attached the cables, hooked up the come-alongs, and gently ratcheted up the pressure as we heard the cracking and moaning of the barn. Disclaimer: This is the point in the project whereby I decided that my job should be to make sure the doors were open (a la “escape routes”), to “monitor” the dangling string (outside), and to otherwise pace with a palpable sense of nervousness that was otherwise no use to the “team.” Chris – being Chris – remained calm, convinced, of course, that a little forethought and a belief in a plan made more sense than my nervous ninniness.

The barn’s sway slowly began to abate – 10 inches, then 8, then 6, and then 4. Then the hardware gave way to the immense pressure of it all (Ha! Before me!). Specifically, one of the giant eyebolts attached to the top plate of the barn’s second story completely opened up and released the mighty pressure in one, big moment of “I quit.”

I thought we’d call it quits, too. Silly me. But Chris being Chris didn’t blink at the new challenge in front of us. “I know,” he said, “ I will…” I wish I could be more specific here. But, for all I know, he was speaking in the equivalent of carpenter-tongue, with words and phrases that I could almost make sense out of. You know something like: “We (oh-no, I thought, there goes that “we” thing again) need to weld plates…reattach the bolts…set the glue…correct the angle…and try it again.” Yeah, sure.

And that’s when Chris disappeared back to his shop and I took a nap, only to be awoken with his knock and his happy news that he’d welded the new pieces, already attached one of them, and – lo and behold – it looked like it was going to work.

“Great,” I replied, “want some coffee?” Nervousness and incompetence is always more tiring than accomplishment, you know.

But off we went with the new welded pieces, the new plan and the renewed creaking and torquing of the barn that seemed hell-bent on kissing the ground.

It all worked, of course. The barn’s lean was ultimately reduced to a mere couple of inches, cabled and secured into place. “We” did it! A barn was saved. An ever-so-small but yet important piece of Worcester’s heritage was given a new lease on life. As one of the few remaining old pieces of Worcester’s rural and farm heritage, it gets to stand – straight! – with the pride and reminder of perseverance. And, better yet (for me, at least), it gets to be filled with a thousand bales of hay to feed the horses that now call it home so that they can also call this farm their home.

Indeed, it was a good day. And I feel blessed. Thanks, Chris. One day, one barn straightened: You ‘da man.