Disappointed in Barack?

Well, sure, so am I. To a degree. But really, I'm not surprised.

Anyone with half a heart and a quarter of a brain supported the President during the election campaign. Even if we weren't necessarily comfortable disarming a weak opponent like McCain, there was a visceral sense of urgency born of the nascent national nightmare that is Sarah Palin.

Some of those in the disappointed camp wanted more done by now. But that was unrealistic. After all, simply rectifying the horror of the idiot Bush years would take nearly as many more. But it's the way the battle has been fought, rather than the wars won, that drain ardor from the Obama revolution. Why won't he toughen up? Why won't he do more? Or at least say more?

Well, two thoughts on this.

First, Rutgers historian David Greenberg reminds us that even the great Presidents aren't so great in their first year. The ticket to election...and the inevitable result...is consistent:

Candidates have no better path to victory than by inspiring us with dreams of a new political era, and presidents have no choice but to attempt 'too much'. In doing so, however, they can only disappoint us.

Indeed, if you look at the early months of Kennedy and FDR and Lincoln and Clinton--there is failure and misfortune for every one. Nothing is easy...and this is a job with a learning curve like no other. So, is time all that's needed? Will we eventually see the 'real Barack'...and at least partial fulfillment of hope?

Unfortunately, I believe not. Not unless a fundamental truism is acknowledged.

Mr. Obama makes no secret of his fondness for the 16th President; he was sworn into office on Lincoln's own Bible. And in tone, his presidency thus far virtually mimics the bipartisan words that Lincoln himself spoke on inauguration day:

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right...let us strive...to bind up the nation's wounds—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

What is frequently lost in recounting is the fact that Lincoln spoke these words not during his first inauguration--facing Civil War and the potential destruction of America--but during his second, when nearly all the blood had been shed. As he stood on the steps of the Capitol in March of 1865, less than four months had passed since Sherman left Atlanta in smoldering ruins. A little peace seemed advisable.

What Mr. Obama seems to have missed is the necessity for victory first--no matter how bloody it may be. He is faced with an enemy who has no battle strategy, but a single tactic--complete and utter obstruction. An enemy which believes that despite losing an election, they have not lost the right to rule. Lies are their weapons. They are immune from hypocrisy: they shamelessly and uniformly oppose even what they themselves previously proposed--so long as the President has now come to agree with them. No attempt at negotiation has succeeded. Whatever Obama gives is not enough. They will always ask for more. And it will never be sufficient.

This is a cancer in the body politic, but Mr. Obama seems to refute the need for medicine, radiation or chemotherapy. He hopes to reason with cancer. But this disease is not open to negotiation. It needs to be defeated. Only then will rational dialogue return from people of good will--no matter where they stand on the political spectrum.

So, perhaps it is unfair to expect too much yet. But at the same time, it is not too soon to begin wondering if one disappointing year will turn into four. Peace talks only work with one side squarely facing defeat. And it is yet to be decided which side that is. So buck up, Mr. President. Find your Atlanta.

It's what Abe Lincoln did.

And the Gold Goes to...Darwin?

This morning a great part of the American Olympic audience went apoplectic with the news that gold medal hopeful Lindsey Vonn had injured her shin, and might not be able to compete in her specialty, the giant slalom. For those unfamiliar, this is an event that has humans careening down the side of a mountain at speeds greater than what is allowed on the nation's interstate highways, even though in that environment, competitors are equipped with seat belts, air bags and several tons of reinforced steel.

A somber Vonn looked on as an even more-somber Matt Lauer talked about her string of 'adversities'. Like, how unfair that she got hurt hurtling down a hill at more than 70 MPH.

OK, let's put this in perspective. When you suffer an injury doing this, it's not an 'adversity'...it's an 'inevitability'. If you try to walk barefoot across an acre of razor blades, when you get cut, it's not really an adversity.

And to make it even more preposterous, the Olympics have sanctioned a new version of this. Instead of one person falling down the mountain, now four will do so at the same time. And they've added jumps and moguls and more turns. That will allow more of them to suffer serious injury, and thus satisfy the blood thirst of those 'younger viewers' who find the regular events 'boring'.

So, bring it on. Let's watch more people maimed...paralyzed...or even killed. It's the perfect melding of our culture. The world's preeminent athletic competition meets the Darwin Awards. I'll be watching...but not really that closely.

I'll wait two years for the summer games...when cage fighting replaces the far-too-mellow boxing.

Sarah and Hizzoner

In the summer of 1971, inside the city of Chicago, you would think that nothing much had changed. Fire hydrants were detonated at neighborhood intersections to cool the sweltering masses. Ice cream vendors thrived. Thousands of Sunday afternoon barbecues were conducted by masters of the charcoal arts, tongs in one hand and a can of Old Style in the other, while sizzling before them danced bratwurst, Italian and Polish sausages--the Holy Trinity of processed meat byproducts. As friends and family exchanged news, invariably the conversation would include something like this: "my cousin Johnny's idiot kid got on wit' Sanitation". In the North Shore suburbs, that might be translated as, "my nephew has a new job as a garbage man". Except that no one on the North Shore would ever admit such a thing. But inside Chicago, despite the stained image of the '68 Democratic Convention and the race riots of that same summer, a city job was still a city job. It was not only the promise of a steady paycheck, but also one that wouldn't require much in the way of sustained labor.

It was also confirmation that Chicago, the town built on the patronage plums doled out by Richard J. Daley--'Hizzoner'--still worked. The system reached from the lowliest lawn mowers in city parks all the way through the ranks of Daley's city council. While 'democratic' in party name, the council was as closed a court as any medieval king's. Among the 50 elected aldermen, a black face or two could be found, but because Daley's machine controlled the nominating process, their loyalty was assured. The lone Republican member was a curiosity, derided when not dismissed entirely. The only discordant notes came from a handful of progressive Democrats from pockets of wealth on the near north side and Hyde Park (where Barack Obama lived before moving to the White House). But their attempts to argue democracy in a body purportedly constructed to honor concepts like 'one man-one vote' and 'free speech' were doomed. When he had heard enough, Daley, seated behind his commanding desk like a wary wizard, would simply tap his finger to the side of his nose, and magically the dissenter's microphone would lose the power of electronic amplification.

But outside the council chambers, Daley was losing his magic touch. Aligned with the likes of Rev. Jesse Jackson, the few council liberals dared to challenge the entire state's slate of party delegates to the following year's national Democratic Convention in Miami. And they would win. But not without a fierce fight from Daley. His chosen argument was a populist appeal symbolized by the then recently coined phrase, 'limousine liberal'. In his appeal, those party rivals, voicing support for the 'common man', could have no concept of that man's world. The bungalow belt of carpenters and machinists that girded Daley's working class political base frequently toiled beneath the stench of the Stockyards. In Daley's mind, those sniffing only the fresh breezes of the posh lakefront precincts could neither see--nor smell--real life. They were college-educated, cafe-fed, and couldn't figure out which end of a hammer to hold. They were elitists. And thus, they were the enemy.

This comes to mind as Sarah Palin inevitably assumes the role of Mad Hatteress for the current wave of disaffected Tea Partiers. In the upside-down world of baseless beliefs and failed lives, stupidity is smart and quitters can still win. Even if you can't voice your truth, or even explain it to yourself, you can still feel that it's right. And that's all that matters. Because aligned against you are those persistent limousine liberals, with all their easy money and their paper degrees. They don't know your world. They are elitists. And thus, they are the enemy.

But a funny thing will happen to the Republicans on the way to electoral triumph. Because (as the perceptive ones already realize), the Tea Partiers stand ready to slay their own elitists along the way. Sarah Palin is in attack mode. She is the same potent political witch's brew of delusion, ambition, religion, ego and vengeance that periodically conflates heroism with fascism. There is no 'I' in team. But there is in Palin. She is mad as hell--and so are her minions. They're not going to take it any more. They are mounting the steps of hatred in lockstep, one at a time--frustration...alignment...mockery...anger...obedience...violence. Their eyes are trained on Obama. But their boots will mindlessly trample would-be allies on the climb to the top.

On those hot August nights of 1968, when Mayor Daley's stately Michigan Avenue and pristine Grant Park were invaded by the 'dirty hippies'...whose straggly hair and rag-tag clothes only disguised the next generation of clueless elite...there was no doubt sincere conviction in the hearts and minds of the the helmeted and shielded police as they raised their night sticks. After all, they were not attacking, only defending. Defending the truth; a city that worked; a country that worked. A place where 'real people' understood what the elites never could. In the heat of the moment, cliches like 'offense is the best defense' and 'love it or leave it' and 'America first' could all be melded into a hazy, fearful aggression. The crack of wooden weapon on human skull was not violence--it was justice.

It was the death knell for Mayor Daley's career.

But it was the spiritual birth for Sarah Palin's.