Biden Our Time

David Brooks is happy with the Biden selection, and lord knows that is good news. I mean, hell, I'm sure hostesses all over Georgetown are breathing a big sigh of relief that they won't have to invite the Clintons over to dinner this fall. David Brooks is happy, so polish up the silver, kids, and let's have us a nice civilized village dinner like we used to in the good old days.

The PUMAs are happy as they head off to Denver, knowing they can protest to their heart's content without having to explain why they refuse to be satisfied with a ticket that might have put Hillary a heartbeat away from the presidency.

Tom Watson is satisfied for reasons that are similar to the ones we'd be offering if we could set conscience aside and just endorse Obama already -- i.e., Biden brings the gray hair, the foreign policy cred, and the experienced insider's knowledge of how stuff gets done in Washington that the hopey-changey crew desperately needs if it is actually going to realize any of its airy-fairy ideas, should the Lesser manage to secure a victory in November.

Mod Fab is feeling less enthusiastic than he wishes he felt, now that some of the scales have fallen from his eyes, but he's gearing up to blame those psychotically obsessed Clintonistas who might "throw a hissy fit" on national television next week and cost Dems the election.

Prediction #1: Even if Hillary Clinton stands up at the convention and gives the most gracious speech in the history of language, even if she spends every single moment of every single day between now and November 4 tirelessly stumping for Obama-Biden, if the ticket loses, she and her deranged, disloyal, bitter supporters will be blamed for it. It won't be the fault of a candidate who ignored the several constituencies who supported Clinton in the primaries, dismissing them as part of an old, outmoded Democratic coalition. It will be the fault of voters who just didn't know what was good for them. That's right, guys. Blame the voters. That's a strategy that always works for Democrats.

Prediction #2: If blaming Hillary isn't enough (and if Obama manages to lose in a year so perfect for a tidal wave of Dem victories, even the all-powerful, super-wicked Hillary may not be enough of a scapegoat), the "blame racism" argument will be brought in as a reinforcement. Oh, wait -- Here it is already, wrapped up in a bright, shiny package, just waiting to be opened up and pressed into service.

For those of you who've been hitting your refresh buttons all day long, wondering what on earth Roxie's World would do now that Moses has descended from the mountain and announced His veep choice, well, darlings, you know we appreciate your devotion and your faith in our political wisdom. (Or is it the jokes that bring you back and back? The charmingly crude turns of phrase -- "poop on toast," for example?) Sorry to keep you waiting, but we are slow thinkers here in Roxie's World and need some time to sort through our options and our feelings. For the time being, the flag of Switzerland still flies, while the moms devote themselves to the pressing late-summer tasks of syllabus-writing and back-to-school meetings. We can tell you this isn't a ticket that will get much, if anything, from our political team in the way of time and money. As Goose disclosed in a comment on the previous post, we've recently decided to do some work on a significant local political battle over a Montgomery County, MD law that prohibits transgender discrimination. We'll be calling on my legions of loyal fans to support Basic Rights Montgomery as it gears up to win a referendum likely to be on the ballot in November on whether to keep or throw out a law that provides protections for transgender individuals in housing, employment and public accommodations. (Wa Po brief is here.) Stay tuned.

Sometimes, it's good to remember the old lefty adage: Think globally, act locally. This old dog has plenty of fight left in her, but she may just decide it's time to pick her battles carefully. And you can't blame her for that. Peace out.

We Got the 3 a.m. Part Right

(Photo Credit: Haraz N. Ghanbari, AP Photos, via Wa Po, 8/23/08)

Nice touch, don't you think? Sending the text message announcing that Hillary was not the veep selection just after 3 a.m.? Yeah, we figure it means some great and powerful Obamaniac has been lurking here in Roxie's World along with all the English profs and pretty boys. Whateve, dudes. Good luck to you.

We're not on board the love train yet, kids. Hell, some of us aren't even out of bed yet. Let us do some thinking, reading, caffeinating, and fulminating, and we'll get back to you later. Meantime, here's a little YouTube of one of the loquacious Senator Biden's finer moments. Note to Obama campaign: Take it from an old dog. You will want to have a muzzle and a short leash handy for this big (old) fella.

It's 3 a.m.

(Image Credit: Random search of internets on "red telephone.")

Time to pick up the phone, Senator Obama. You may not want to and you may have to medicate your wife while you do it, but it's time to admit that the bitch you beat is the woman you'll need to help you get to the White House. If you're lucky, she'll agree to step in and do what women from time immemorial have done: Work her keister off to help a younger, less qualified guy get the job she deserved while she grabs, ahem, the booby prize of being the first woman vice president in American history. If not, well, maybe all that bluster about new voters will work out better for you in the general than it did in those big primaries you lost between March and June. Can you say, "Texas," Senator? "Ohio?" "Pennsylvania?"

Forget the bluster, Senator, and consider the current state of the race. Things aren't looking all that good for you right now, despite your fawning fans in the media and the "progressive" blogosphere. Just today, for example, we note:

• A new Reuters/Zogby poll shows McCain with a 5-point lead over you nationally. Your support among Democrats is weakening (it's fallen by 9 points to 74%, according to this poll), while McCain's support among Republicans is solidifying (it's up to 81%). Incredibly, McCain now has a 9-point advantage 49 to 40%) on the crucial question of who would be the best manager of the economy. How boiled-over Bushanomics could have put McCain in that position is a mystery beyond the understanding of one in our lowly pay grade, but we think it might mean his ads focused on whether the world's biggest celebrity can understand the problems of ordinary folks might be hitting home with some voters.
  
• You continue to lose ground in key battleground states. RCP averages have McCain leading in Ohio, Colorado, Virginia, and Florida and give you thin leads in Michigan and Pennsylvania. Our blog buddy Historiann had an excellent post the other day on the importance of OH, MI, and PA to the prospects of a Dem victory in the fall. We think you might want to take a look at it.
  
• The advantage you've enjoyed in analyses focused on the electoral college has also suddenly vanished, according to Electoral Vote Predictor, which attributes your slide to McCain's negative ads over the past month. Eerily, EVP hears echoes of what happened to John Kerry in the Swift Boat summer of 2004: "If you compare the 2008 electoral college graph with the 2004 one, the parallels are striking. Kerry led throughout the summer until the Swift Boat ad kicked in, and it was downhill from there. Kerry never recovered."

Not pretty, Senator, not pretty at all. Things have gotten so tight that even arch Clinton haters -- Ralph Nader, for dog's sake, and John Nichols of The Nation! -- have started saying you will or should tap the former First Lady as your veep choice. You have to admit, the trial balloons you've floated recently -- Bayh, Biden, Kaine, Sibelius, and the monster whose name will not go away, Sam Nunn -- haven't generated a whole lot of excitement or done much for your poll numbers. By contrast, "a recent New York Times/CBS News poll of convention delegates found that 28 percent preferred Mrs. Clinton for vice president — by far the largest bloc supporting a candidate," according to the NYT blog, "Political Memo."

Pick up the phone, Senator. Make your convention delegates happy. Turn at least a few snarling PUMAs into purring kitty-cats ready to curl up at your -- or her -- feet. Most importantly, earn what you and some of your disgruntled followers have long sought: the coveted endorsement of America's most famous dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball. That's right, Senator. Roxie's World stands ready to offer you a Five-Paw Salute and our unstinting support of your candidacy if you have the good sense to call the junior senator from New York and get her to accept a place on your ticket. As we promised in the strat memo we sent you in June (you still have that in your briefcase, don't you?):

Do that, sir, and we’ll have an Obama-Clinton widget up on our sidebar so fast it’ll make your halo spin. We will set aside all our reservations and do everything within our power to assure that both you and Senator Clinton get to place your hands on the Bible come January 20, 2009. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss our Old Bitches for Obama-Clinton tee shirts as you stroll by in the inaugural parade. We’ll even give you a new blog name. Perhaps, instead of “the Lesser,” you might become known in these precincts as, um, “Good Enough.”

Are we predicting Senator Clinton will actually end up on the ticket? Nope, no way, no how. We gave up prognostication after the embarrassment of Moose's wildly incorrect (if deeply moving) predictions about Texas and Ohio. Do we think choosing Clinton will make everyone, including some of her strongest supporters, happy? No, and we're sure it will infuriate a good many of Obama's strongest supporters, since foaming-at-the-mouth Clinton hatred has been a powerful unifying and motivating force among many of his followers. We don't think Obama-Clinton would be a perfect ticket, but we think it's the ticket most likely to secure a Democratic victory in November, and that is really, finally all that matters.

Don't let an imagined perfection be the enemy of an attainable good, Senator Obama. Pick up the phone. Our hunch is there's a smart, hard-working woman prepared to answer your -- and the nation's -- call.

Phelps Phever

(Photo Credit: AP, via Baltimore Sun; Baltimore native Michael Phelps with each of the eight gold medals he won in the Beijing Olympics, 8/17/08.)

H/T to Baltimore Sun sports columnist Rick Maese for the phrase "Phelps Phever," which he offers in a column written with all the detachment of a high-school cheerleader shrieking praise for her boyfriend the starting quarterback. (That is not a criticism, Rick. You know we love you and are big fans of the Sun when it comes to Maryland sports. Besides, we are not exactly objective on the subject of Aquaman ourselves.) Check out the rest of the Sun's proud coverage of "the epic story of Michael Phelps' transcendent Olympics" here. Wa Po columnist Sally Jenkins offers her tribute here. We particularly like this paragraph, which nicely captures Phelps' rare combination of humility and ferocious discipline:

Phelps did not seem ambitious in any ordinary sense. He never seemed interested in becoming the all-time Olympic champion to revel in the celebrity of it. He competed less against others, than against some faint abstract outline of the possible. In fact, he seemed acutely isolated, a man with a distant stare and a heart made like a timepiece, executing perfectly aligned strokes with invariable precision, and a seemingly tactile sense of the ticking seconds.

Way to go, Michael Phelps. You got the eight gold medals. Seven new world records. The attention of the world -- presidents and NBA superstars, gossip columnists and the folks back home, many thousands of whom stayed late after a Baltimore Ravens' preseason game to watch your thrilling final swim on the giant screen at M&T Bank Stadium. We gathered 'round the plasma here in Roxie's World to see it for ourselves, and an anxious Moose pumped her fists and implored Brendan Hansen to kick it up a notch on his leg of the medley relay, as he fell into third place on the breaststroke before you dove in to churn up the water for your 100 meters of butterfly. We thank you, Michael, for letting us ride with you on what you referred to as the roller coaster of your Olympic quest. We enjoyed every move and every moment -- indeed, every one-hundredth of a moment, as your long, mighty arms gracefully yet miraculously propelled your fingertips to the wall a fraction of a second ahead of Milorad Cavic in the finals of the 100-meter fly. You delighted us, with your big ears and your goofy grins, your struggling to find words to convey the significance of your accomplishment before offering the eloquence of a modest man and a good son: "It's been such an unbelievable ride. All I want to do is go see my mom." You inspired us, as time after time we watched you thunder into overdrive to win a race in the last few meters. We were inspired by your teammates, too, of course, since three of your gold medals came in relay races that featured remarkable performances by other swimmers, including Jason Lezak's furious anchor leg of the 400-meter freestyle relay.

So, yeah, Michael, we're pretty darned impressed and have already voted you onto our very short list of Super Cool Dudes Who Momentarily Make Us Forget the Terrible Things Chlorine Does to Our Hair. (Also on the list: 41-year-old Dara Torres, who took silver in the women's 50-meter freestyle in her fifth Olympics.) We have to confess, though, that we've gotten fixated on an aspect of your story that doesn't seem to have gotten nearly enough attention in the midst of all the hoo-ha about world records and whether "greatness" in one sport is as great as greatness in another sport. We refer, of course, to the under-reported story of what fuels your greatness, literally -- i.e., to what you eat . . . and eat . . . and EAT!

Note to the Pretty Boys and Middle-Aged Girls Who Are Our Most Devoted Fans: What you are about to read may induce paroxysms of jealousy and dangerous fantasies of binge eating. Sorry, but it's our blogger's duty to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, with stretchers thrown in when the truth is insufficiently entertaining. Just remember: Michael Phelps spends thirty hours a week working out. Before you stuff that Ho-Ho into your mouth, stop and think about how many calories you burned in any activity you performed for thirty hours in the past week. That's right, English profs and grad students. Step away from the Ho-Ho. Now. Read on. Think of it as calisthenics for the eyes.

Here is the amazing truth: Michael Phelps consumes 12,000 calories per day -- and still has a tough time keeping weight on his 6'4" frame. You read that right: 12,000 calories per day. His day begins with a 5-egg omelet, three fried-egg sandwiches, three chocolate chip pancakes, French toast with powdered sugar, and, to top it all off, a bowl of grits. Oh, yeah, and two cups of coffee. The rest of day includes a couple pounds of pasta, an entire pizza, and thousands of calories in energy drinks. My typist slumped in her big red chair when she read that.

"Moose," I said, because I am a curious animal, "what would you eat if you had to eat 12,000 calories a day just to maintain your weight?" Her eyes went all soft and dreamy.

"Oh, Rox," she said, "wouldn't that be lovely? And since it's a fantasy, can we pretend that I would have to do this without spending thirty hours a week in the pool or the gym?"

"Absolutely, Moose! So what you would you eat?"

"Dip."

"Dip?"

"Yep. Dip. Lots and lots and lots of dip. I would fulfill my cherished dream of having a vat of that crab-and-cream-cheese dip they serve at receptions over at Queer the Turtle U. all to myself. I would eat tons of it every single day and I would never be embarrassed about anyone noticing me going back for more."

"Okay. That's maybe 3000 calories. What else would you eat?"

"I love the idea of pancakes and fried-egg sandwiches, so I'd borrow that from Phelps, but I think I'd add some fried chicken and cream gravy into the mix, and huge bowls of mashed potatoes, of course."

"Now I think your fantasy is encroaching on Goose's."

"True, but we have similar taste in high-calorie cuisine."

"Although her 12,000 calorie diet would differ from yours in some respects."

"I suppose. She would probably skip the dips and have boxes of Godiva truffles for mid-morning and late-afternoon snacks. Washed down with several beers, of course."

"What about dinners?"

"Oh, that's easy. If we were on 12,000 calorie diets, we would dine every night at Ben's Chili Bowl downtown. It's DC's high church of high-fat, low-down cuisine. I can see us tucking into their famous half-smokes and a big order of chili-cheese fries, with a big ole slice of cake (pineapple coconut for me, German chocolate for Goose) for dessert. We had food from Ben's last night when we went to see the Nationals get their butts kicked by the Colorado Rockies. The game sucked, but Goose declared the food 'nasty great.' Isn't that poetic? She has such a way with words. And wouldn't it be swell to be able to eat that way every day without gaining weight?"

"Moose! Hey, earth to Moose, come in please! Fantasy's over. Watch this video by our favorite chick reporter Wendy Reiger on what women over fifty need to do in order to reach and maintain a healthy weight."

"Shoot, Rox, do I have to? I mean, I'm guessing Wendy's plan doesn't include vast quantities of dip and spending thirty hours a week trolling the internets, does it? Besides, I'm not fifty yet!"

"Tick-tock, Moose. Fifty is right around the corner, and you've kind of slacked off on your commitment to the Tim Russert Memorial Lifestyle Adjustment Plan. Let the Olympics inspire you! Let Wendy motivate you! Let the prospect of not fitting into any of your clothes when school starts focus you!"

"Wait, Rox. You know, we could sign on with the cause of fat acceptance. There is a strong feminist argument to be made against the obsessive focus on physical perfection."

"Of course there is. You are not seeking a perfect body, Moose. You are seeking a healthy body and a reasonable balance of work and play."

"I hate the winding down of summer, Rox -- the end of Olympic swimming, the changing of the seasons, the gearing up for another school year, the inexorable passage of time as we make our sad, slow march to the grave."

"Is this about your body or your syllabus?"

"Both, maybe?"

"Uh-huh. Watch Wendy's vid, Moose, and then it's back to work."

Between Men

I want to hold your hand . . . .


(Photo Credit: Doug Mills, New York Times; Times caption: "Americans Chris Colwill and Jevon Tarantino nearly won the bronze medal in the men's synchronized three-meter springboard, but Tarantino botched his entry in the final dive, a reverse three-and-a-half somersault, and they slipped to fourth." Beijing Olympics, 8/13/08)

(Image Credit: Michelangelo, "The Creation of Adam")

Olympian Observations

Here's what really matters about the Olympics, of course:

(Photo Credit: Doug Mills, New York Times; Michael Phelps takes his fourth gold medal of the Beijing Olympics in the 200-meter butterfly with a world-record time of 1 minute 52.03 seconds, 8/12/08, unless you are in China, where it is already 8/13/08.)

Roxie's World takes an extra jolt of pride in the accomplishments of the beyond phenomenal Phelps because he's a Baltimore boy with a hard-working mom. We won't mind at all if he breaks Mark Spitz's record of seven gold medals in a single Olympic games, even though Spitz was a hero of Moose's swimming-obsessed family in childhood.

[. . . .]

(Ellipses mark the pause in typing while Phelps picked up his fifth gold of the games in the men's 800-meter free relay. And his fifth world record! My typist is so easily distracted.)

[. . . .]

(How does the balance beam not do serious internal damage to the bodies of those tiny little girls? Oh, right -- It does!)

Anyway, watching the Olympics means watching commercials broadcast during the Olympics, which has made us wonder:

• How can it be legal for McDonald's to be a major sponsor of the Olympics? Shouldn't someone have said, "No, really, guys, you've done more to undermine the cause of healthy eating world-wide than any other company. We just don't think this is the kind of product we want associated with the Games."
• Is it us, or are those "Where does depression hurt?" commercials for Cymbalta the most depressing things you've ever seen? And do the marketing geniuses at Eli Lilly think viewers of the Olympics are the best target audience for Cymbalta? I mean, granted, a nation of couch potatoes glued to the spectacle of gravity-defying athleticism might be feeling a little down on itself, a little inadequate in comparison to the gods and goddesses on the screen, but viewers might also be reveling in the fantasy of their own god-like potentiality. "By golly," they might chirp from the couch, "I don't need an anti-depressant -- I need new running shoes! Or maybe a Big Mac . . . ."

(Eek, these little American girls are dropping like flies off the balance beam and onto the floor. Things are not looking good for the women's all-around. Quick -- Send in the Cymbalta!)

• Flame us if you dare, but we think McCain's "celebrity" ads, which have been in heavy rotation in the DC media market during the Olympics (presumably because of the battle being waged for Virginia in November) are actually pretty effective on repeat viewing -- and there is something especially powerful about viewing them in the context of the Olympics. Caught up as we may be in the myth-making machinery of NBC's (actually pretty darn good) coverage of the games, McCain's message about whether a celebrity can be counted on to take care of your family has extra resonance within this context. Obama may be the political equivalent of Michael Phelps, but it's easy to imagine that Phelps would be, um, a fish out of water at something as mundane as a cabinet meeting. We can't imagine how the McCain campaign is affording all this air time, but we think it's a smart move.
• On the other hand, and we swear we didn't make our minds up about this ahead of time, we are underwhelmed by the "hands" commercials Obama has been broadcasting during the Olympics. To us, they are about as moving as the corporate PR spots Archer Daniels Midland runs on The NewsHour. Strong production values, but a real snooze in the message department.

On a totally unrelated matter, you will note we haven't yapped, woofed, barked, or howled about the shocking news that Senator John Edwards was in fact schtupping Rielle Hunter, a woman hired by his campaign to make videos, as reported last October by The National Enquirer. We've kept quiet because it's so hard to find anything new or interesting to say on the tired subject of ambitious men with zipper problems. Two or three things we will say, though:

• Go read Ruth Marcus's insightful column on the sordid affair. She reminded us of the snarky comments Edwards made about Bill Clinton's infidelity and pointed out how troubling it is that Elizabeth Edwards publicly promoted her husband's commitment to her during her illness as a reason to support his candidacy when, according to the timeline of events they have produced, she already knew about his infidelity.
• Marcus doesn't make exactly this point, but we say that a candidate who uses parts of his private life as evidence of the kind of leader he would make can't cry foul when evidence of private misconduct is used against him. You don't get to say, "My virtues are a reason to vote for me, but my vices can't be held against me." Especially if you and your incurably ill wife have been publicly lying about your vices for nearly a year!
• Finally, we couldn't help but raise an eyebrow this morning when photos of Edwards and Hunter together on his campaign announcement trip in late December 2006 turned up on Wa Po. This got our attention because Edwards has spoken of his "liaison" with Hunter as being over and acknowledged within his family in 2006. Now, of course, photos of the two together on a campaign trip say nothing about the private state of their relationship at that point in time, but public glimpses of the two looking chummy together just moments before the end of 2006 will fuel skepticism about the timing of events in relation to the recurrence of Elizabeth Edwards's cancer (in March of 2007) and the birth of Hunter's child (in February of 2008). Yeah, and we think it's super-convenient that Hunter is refusing a paternity test -- from the comfort of the Santa Barbara home that Edwards's top money guy is helping to pay for.
  

Gotta get off the soapbox, kids -- It's time for bed! The moms take off for a couple of days at the beach tomorrow, but if you're really, really good, maybe they'll post some pretty photos of the Jersey shore. Meantime, here's another piece of eye candy for Moose, qta, and other lovers of Aquaman:

(Photo Credit: Getty Images, via Baltimore Sun, 8/10/08)

Shrub Legacy Secured

Attention, Clio: U.S. President George W. Bush secured his place in history today by becoming the first American president to attend Olympic competition in women's beach volleyball. That's right. After a "really, really difficult" ride on the Olympic mountain bike course, the soon-to-be-former prez stopped in to watch gold medalists Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh practice before they went on to win their 102nd straight match in their opening round match against Japan. In a sweat-soaked shirt, the president didn't look at all like a guy who needed to be worried about the Russian invasion of Georgia as he mugged for the cameras and tried a few bumps in the sand with May-Treanor. Wow, it's a pity Mount Rushmore is full, isn't it?


(Photo Credits: Mandel Ngan, Getty Images)

Meanwhile, Michael Phelps has won the first of his possible eight gold medals, setting a world record in the men's 400 individual medley. Sorry, kids, but the Summer Olympics make us all a little Goosebumpy, a little Moosebumpy, even a bit Roxie-bumpy. We just loves us them swimmers with their gorgeous bodies in their skimpy little suits slicing through the water with the greatest of ease. But, hey, we're not, like, the leaders of the free world or anything, so don't judge us for our profound superficiality, 'kay? Gotta go, kids -- The chicks are up on the starting blocks for the women's 400 IM!

On your marks, get set -- We're gone.