Charity Begins At Nome

I am heartened by the news that Sarah Palin will be donating the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in clothes, shoes and accessories the Republican National Committee purchased for her and her family to "charity" after the election is over.

It will sort of be like when sports apparel manufacturers send the gear of the losing Super Bowl team to third world countries - leading to the incongruous sight of normadic tribesmen and women transversing the desert in New England Patriots 2008 Super Bowl Champions t-shirts and hats.

Which conjures up the thought of homeless women pushing grocery carts full of all their worldly possessions while wearing pencil skirts and hooker heels.

The Power of "O"

Standing in front of the triumphal arch that provides the backdrop for what appears to be the dawning of the Age of Obama, I ponder the wondrous power of the letter O. The most mellifluous of letters, O is full and round, flirty and confident, boisterous and full-throated. The letter O is also sly and seductive. Strung together like pearls on a string, Os can convey pleasure, pain, wonder or surprise. O is an ingratiating letter. A comfort letter. An all-purpose letter. A letter that can be all it can be. O is a letter you can trust.

Oh, say can you see how a skinny bi-racial kid with a funny name came out of nowhere to vie for the most powerful office in the world? Do you ponder how improbable it is that a girl born in rural Mississippi to a poor teen-aged single mother, and later raised in an inner city Milwaukee neighborhood, would blossom into a television host, media mogul, and billionaire philanthropist? Ain't nothing but the power of O, baby.

So on election day don't exclaim "Oh!" when the young man with the last name that begins with an O is elected President of these here United States cause it's all in the O (doncha know).

The Brief Wondrous Visit of Junot Dias

Went to see author Junot Diaz speak last night. It was one of the
best author readings/talks I have ever attended. Mr. Diaz was as
funny, profane and erudite as his novel. He was also gracious
and engaging.

With the cocky chi of a bantam rooster, Dias exhorted a reticent
audience into a lively question and answer session, posed for
pictures, gave hugs, and signed copies of his books for over an
hour. He stood the whole time, making eye contact and thrusting
his hand forward to shake the hands with everyone who stopped
before him.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked eyeballing me through
owlish black oval glasses after shaking my hand, asking my name
and thanking me for coming.

I had resolved years ago to always answer that question in the
affirmative: "I am a writer."

But, standing before this self-proclaimed "artist," I
chickened out and stated my day job.

"Oh, so you work for a living?" he commented with a sly arch of his
eyebrow.