Noted, While Walking

Or, One More Reason We Totes Heart Our Neighborhood:

(Photo Credit: Moose, on her iPhone, 6/15/10)

Where else do you get a call to environmental conscience and collective action through a clever revision of a famous American poem -- on a home-made sign gone drippy in the rain?

Welcome to the People's Republic of Takoma Park, comrades. There's no place like home!

Peace to all living things, except for kudzu. Kudzu must die, even in Takoma Park. Have a nice day.

Memo to WaPo's Dana Milbank

From the Department of Please Stop Beating Dead Horses:

Dear Mr. Milbank,

Depending on how you count the vote totals in the extremely close Democratic primary battle of 2008, Hillary Clinton either narrowly defeated Barack Obama (by 0.8%) or was barely beaten by him (by at most 0.4%), according to the popular-vote analysis of Real Clear Politics.

Which means that a headline, two years later, chortling that Clinton is finally ahead of Obama in popularity is of questionable accuracy, even if her favorability and approval ratings are well ahead of his at this point. Your claim that Obama "bested Clinton in the only poll that mattered" is true only if by "poll" you mean the total number of delegates awarded to each candidate through the Democrats' incredibly effed-up system of proportionally allocating delegates on the basis of the primary results. Obama did win that "poll," by gaming the system very effectively to rack up large numbers of delegates through wins in smaller states such as Iowa, Idaho, and Utah, while Clinton's wins in key larger states such as Michigan and Florida were muddied through intra-party battles over rules and dates. (Remember, kids? Oh, good times.)

Two years later, Barack Obama is president and Hillary Clinton is secretary of state. He's managing two wars, a ruined economy, and the unfolding of an unprecedented environmental catastrophe. She is traveling the planet trying to repair the damage done to the nation's reputation by a cowboy president and his evil, law-breaking sidekick.

And you think it's a productive use of your precious real estate in the Washington Post to assert that Secretary Clinton "is entitled to enjoy a measure of revenge" as she bests her boss in favorability ratings. Further, you think it's constructive to suppose that "among Hillary '08 fans there is some satisfaction that the woman Obama once cut down as 'likable enough' is now more liked than he is."

Two things, Mr. Milbank:

1. You are about eight months late to the story. Clinton has led Obama in Gallup favorability polling since October 2009.

And 2. The Democratic primary battle is ancient history. Clinton is over it. (We were there for the glorious ending. Where the heck were you?) Obama is over it. Her followers are over it. Stop fighting the last war or, more to the point, the last lunchroom debate over who's most popular. Glee is at least entertaining when it engages in that kind of vapid speculation. You, I am sorry to say, are not.

We realize, of course, that in your highly subjective business perception matters a good deal more than dull, boring, statistical reality. We can only assume that you must imagine that somebody somewhere who still bothers to read your consistently unilluminating drivel will feel informed or amused by the suggestion that Hillary Clinton and her former supporters waste their time dreaming of the day when she will stand on the steps of the Capitol, place her hand on the Bible, and swear, "You like me! You really like me!"

In fact, we spend most of our political time wishing Obama would simply prove to be a decent president, not the miracle maker of his former supporters' dreams, but merely a guy with the guts and the skill to lead the nation in a Democratic direction. Is that too much to ask?

Get a new idea, Mr. Milbank. This one is starting to draw flies.

Yours sincerely,
Roxie

Summer Monday Food Blogging

Yes, we've done this before, almost a year ago to this very day as a matter of fact. Good things are worth repeating, don't you agree? It's summertime, kids. The days are long, and the humidity here in the East is as thick as a wet wool sweater. Let's amuse ourselves with pretty pictures and ideas for delicious seasonal eating.

Par exemple, here's what Moose whipped up for brunch on Saturday morning:

The name is not especially sexy -- Open-Faced Sandwich with Ricotta, Arugula, and Fried Egg -- but the taste was delish. The recipe is from Moose's favorite source of food porn for the conscientious, Cooking Light. That perfectly fried egg is sitting on a piece of grilled bread covered by a spread of part-skim ricotta, parmesan, and fresh thyme and a bed of arugula lightly dressed with olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. The lemon adds a nice little zing that tricks the mind into thinking it's getting a rich, decadent Hollandaise sauce. It was a yummy, summery, and satisfying way to start the day.

Last evening, the moms headed up to Rodgers Forge for five courses of food porn for the sybaritic produced by the beloved Candy Man, his sidekick the Cock-Eyed Optimist, and the world's most sophisticated 10-year-old. The feast started off with an answer to the question on the minds of every Gleek in America: What Would Sue Drink? The answer, of course, is The Sylvester:

Here is Candy Man's recipe for this refreshing, complex, and slightly dangerous beverage:

The first step is to make a berry syrup, which the Candy Man adopted from a recipe in The French Laundry Cookbook:

1 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
6 peppercorns (I used green), lightly crushed
1 pint raspberries
1 pint small strawberries
1 small sprig mint

Combine all ingredients in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. Cook 45 minutes, then strain out the solids. There will be 1 to 1.5 cups syrup; can be refrigerated in a covered container for up to a month.

For the Sylvester:

1 T of the above berry syrup
2 T lime juice
mint leaves, mottled in syrup
2 shots rum
1 shot ginger liquor
A little bit of seltzer

Serve with adorable dumplings filled with a single blackberry and a touch of goat cheese (see lower right corner of above photo), and your guests' bouches will be so amused that their cheeks will ache.

These drinks are so good that we bet Sue Sylvester would slip into her zoot suit to enjoy one. After two, she'd probably be able to embrace Will Schuester without feeling an urge to vomit down his back. After three, well, we can't even write what we might imagine on this family-friendly blog, but we can tell you it would involve a bullhorn and, you know, a bowl full of Cheerios.

(Photo Credit: Fox, via)

Peace out, darlings, and let us know what summer delights you are enjoying!

(With love and thanks to all the boys in Rodgers Forge.)

The Deer Who Came for Brunch

. . . and helped herself to a prodigious amount of hosta salad before Moose noticed she was out there and ran out into the yard in her nightgown shrieking, "Go away! Get out of my hosta!":

The deer was unperturbed by Moose's histrionics and went out to a remote, shady part of the yard for a postprandial nap, rousing herself only when Moose came back out to capture the moment on her iPhone.

Interestingly, as that last paragraph was being typed, Moose looked out and saw that the pretty yet unwelcome guest had returned for another go at the all-you-can-eat hosta bar. She has now officially become that crazy neighbor who shakes her fist and yells in order to protect the sanctity of her home. I will let you know if copies of American Rifleman start showing up on the doorstep.

Note to the Moms: You know, it's really OK with me if you start looking around for a new dog. Srsly, guys, it's been almost six months since I kicked the bucket. I'm doing fine up here in what we might for lack of a better word call heaven, but it's clear that things have gone straight to hell security-wise out in my ridiculously large backyard. Do it for the hostas and, you know, for what's left of your dignity. Just sayin'.

The moms have been inordinately preoccupied recently with matters domestic. In the last few weeks, they have been dealing with, let's see, well . . .

• an upstairs shower that started leaking water through a light fixture in the kitchen;
• an $800 car repair that required several follow-up conversations with our entirely trustworthy mechanic when Moose realized that the exact same repair had been done less than two years ago;
• a consultation with Raymond, our eccentric yet masterful furniture guy, about how to repair the antique table that UPS smashed to smithereens when shipping it up from Texas;
• appointments first with a trapping service and then with an exterminator to investigate the source of the scary tippy-tappy, scritchy-scratchy noises in the eaves of the moms' bedroom (upshot: bees, now deceased, but Brandon the Mighty but Kinda Dumb Trapper messed up the ceiling [in a futile effort to find nonexistent mice], which will have to be repaired by Orlando, the paint and drywall guy; see next bullet);
• waiting on Orlando, whom we adore and have known for years, to come fix the damage done by the winter's ice dams, which is actually going to involve a fairly significant amount of painting and a little dry wall repair;
• hanging out in the meantime with our beloved Joe, awesome carpenter and all-around fix-it guy, who figured out what caused the leak in the shower and the squeak in the dishwasher door and came up with a fix for a threshold in the basement that kept tripping Moose every time she came out of her study;
• getting Cromcast to figure out what was going on with the suddenly glitchy Interweb connection, which was making my typist want to throw her laptop across the room rather than type for me or work on the Most Overdue Project in the History of American Publishing, which she is, actually, occasionally doing these days.

Wow. That's a long list!

Note to Dr. Crazy, who just bought her first house: I swear to dog, home ownership usually isn't this much of a pain in the a$$ or a drain on the wallet. Do not read this post and get scared. The moral of this tale of temporary woe is that everything can be fixed. It's just a matter of knowing who to call. As time goes on you, too, will develop a long list of reliable guys and gals to call in the event of emergencies or problems beyond your range of expertise. As for the money, well, some things (e.g., the ice dams) are covered by insurance, and some you just have to close your eyes and say, "I will get it all back at tax time, I will get it all back at tax time." Your home is an investment. Keep it in good shape in order to protect or enhance its value. Take it from a couple of fiscally conservative old broads who screwed up the nerve to cash out a decade's worth of equity and re-build the whole damn joint back in '03. You'll be glad you did.

While we are on the subject of housekeeping, Moose has racked up a long list of open tabs in her browser. We'll pass them along to you for your summer weekend reading pleasure:

• The backstory on Charlie Riedel, the photographer who took those amazing photos of birds mired in the oil on the Louisiana coast that everyone, including us, has been talking about;
• Melissa McEwan's eloquent and deeply perceptive take on the separation of Al and Tipper Gore, which we also weighed in on earlier this week;
• Think outside the burqa! Here's a Time report on British research suggesting that Internet use makes people happier -- yes, HAPPIER! -- especially women and people in the developing world;
• On the other hand, here's a WaPo story that raises questions about whether the millions of dollars schools are sinking into high-tech gadgetry actually improves student learning;
• For Marylanders following the rematch between former Gov. Bob Ehrlich and current Gov. Martin "You, Sir, Are No Jack Kennedy" O'Malley, here's a WaPo piece that fact-checks the claims each candidate is making about the other's record on taxing and spending;
• In the mood for a good cry? Eager to relive your own dead-pet experience? Well, then click on over to The Best-Ever Dog (H/T Kelly), for a well-written and heart-rending reflection on "how we repay unconditional love."
  

That's it, kids. A happy Friday to you and yours. Here's hoping the deer and the antelope are staying on the right side of your high fences.

David Brooks and the Big Ruh Roh

Everybody on the Interwebs is trying to figure out what the heck David Brooks was talking about yesterday in a column he wrote defending study of the humanities during a period of shrinking labor markets. Now, of course, the official position of Roxie's World is that all dog's children ought to be English or history majors in order to assure a steady supply of scintillating cocktail party conversation in the next generation. We are, in other words, on board with the gist of his argument, which is that humanities disciplines teach skills in critical thinking and creativity that don't get taught elsewhere and shed light on aspects of human behavior that no scientific or technocratic account can adequately explain.

So far, so bueno. Halfway through the column, however, Brooks introduces readers to one of the weirdest analogies ever produced in the history of thinking -- which is funny, because one of the benefits Brooks claims for the humanities is that it will give students "a wealth of analogies." That's true, David, and if you stick around for the advanced course you will learn to distinguish a good analogy from one that will make your readers scratch their heads in befuddlement or wet their pants laughing at the ridiculous image you have conjured up for them.

Which brings me, of course, to The Big Shaggy. Yep, that is the big takeaway from Brooks' column, the cherry on top of the sundae he concocts in defense of the humanities -- Or, no, the final sandbag he throws onto the levee he builds to resist the tide of those who would insist that the humanities are a luxury we can't afford in hard times. (He uses the levee analogy early in the column, which we think has unfortunate Katrina-esque resonances, but we will overlook those in the interests of time and comic efficiency.)

"The Big Shaggy" is Brooks' way of describing what others have called the unconscious, the spaces "deep down" in people from whence arise "passions and drives," "yearnings and fears" that are largely irrational. The Big Shaggy is "an inner beast," a raw force that in its destructive aspects leads, according to Brooks, to such problematic behaviors as a fine Christian governor skipping off to Argentina to, um, shag his Argentinian mistress or people being mean to each other when they disagree politically rather than sitting around a table on The Newshour politely putting one another to sleep. In its constructive aspects, the Big Shaggy makes people really good athletes and artists -- but not bloggers or journalists, because, according to Brooks, their "fast, effortless prose . . . lacks the heft to get you deep below."

Fast? Effortless? Ha! My typist says that kind of slackitude might get you published in The New York Freakin' Times, but it sure won't pass muster at America's favorite dead dog blog! Who you callin' shallow, Brooksie? Huh?

In any case: Again, we take Brooks' point and generally agree with it. Indeed, we think his argument offers support for the kind of work that has transformed the humanities in the past couple of decades by critically examining the deep social and psychic forces that prop up a narrowly constructed notion of the normal by demonizing the shaggy beasts of desires and identities that don't fit the grid. Brooks likely didn't intend to ally himself with proponents of queer theory and critical race studies, but his logic is not dissimilar from those who have seen the queer as a negative, non-innocent force resistant to order and rationality. David Brooks, meet Lee Edelman!

We kid, kind of, but even as we wrap up the black turtleneck and sleek new specs that we will be sending Mr. Brooks as a way of welcoming him to the Cool Club, we can't resist joining in the broad-based Interweb effort to figure out who or what the Big Shaggy actually is. Chewbacca? Maybe. The Abominable Snowman? Possibly. The Heavy Bear imagined in a lovely poem by Delmore Schwartz? Pretty likely.

But in this here corner of the neither quickly nor effortlessly written blogosphere, there is one and only one candidate for the Big Shaggy, and I think you all know who it is:

(Rastafarian Roxie, c. 1995. Photo Credit: Moose)

The moral of this story? Analogies can make or break a piece of writing. Handle with care or unintentional guffawing may result.

Marriage: A Status Update

Heterosexual marriage suffered a devastating blow last week when it was announced that Al and Tipper Gore planned to separate after 40 years of being joined at the heart. The news sparked waves of panic in the nation’s breakfast nooks, as straight, middle-aged couples glanced up from their newspapers (or over their laptops) at their paunchy, unwashed spouses and thought, “Good lord, if Al and Tipper can’t make it, what hope is there for us?”

(Photo Credit: Luke Frazza, AFP/Getty Images, via)

Who knew the Gores were the central cog in the vast machinery of heteropatriarchal marriage? The locomotive pulling the train? The rock upon which the whole edifice was built? The wind beneath its wings? Who would have thought their incredibly civilized announcement, delivered via e-mail (oh, so that’s why he invented the Internets!), would have set off paroxysms of How Can It Be? and What Does It Mean? and Where Will It Lead? Apparently, the big fear among hets is that the Al/Tipper split proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that people are living too long to make that “till death do us part” business practicable. I mean, heck, once the kids are raised and the Nobel Prize has been won, what’s a couple with four houses and a cable TV channel to do? Yep, Al and Tipper are just like us, and if they can’t make it work, well, then, honey bun, I’d say our long-term prospects are bleak.

New York Times columnist Gail Collins got off the best line of the week when she declared that the split proves to an anxious nation that “no marriage is ever safe. And the fact that Hillary and Bill outlasted [Al and Tipper] means that we’ve been lied to by a generation’s worth of Lifetime movies.”

Meanwhile, of course, there is nothing but bliss out in the brave new world of non-heterosexual marriage – Well, I mean, assuming you overlook the recent split of rocker Melissa Etheridge and her wife Tammy, not to mention Congresswoman Tammy Baldwin and her partner of 15 years, Lauren Azar. (Baldwin and Azar weren’t married but were registered domestic partners in Wisconsin.) Oddly, when Moose read those stories, she didn’t start fretting that she and Goose were soon to be herstory. She thought, Well, that’s unfortunate. I hope they all manage to be decent to one another, especially where kids are concerned, and that they find happiness in whatever form of relationship or non-relationship they pursue next.

As I have told you many times, Moose is weird. And not nearly as clever as Gail Collins. Which explains a lot.

Anyhoo, kids, you needn't worry that marriage is in any danger of being canceled due to lack of interest. While the Gores were packing their bags for Splitsville last week, actress Jane Lynch and her partner, psychologist Lara Embry, were tying the knot in Massachusetts.

(Lara Embry, Haden Collette Ryan-Embry, and Jane Lynch. Photo Credit: Trueframephotography.com, via.)

Meanwhile, closer to home, WaPo ran a story yesterday on the nuptials of a local couple, Kevia Shepard and Shannette Matthews, who legally married in DC in April and then jumped the broom before friends and family at a May ceremony in Maryland.

(Kevia Shepard and Shannette Matthews in May, 2010. Photo Credit: Katherine Frey, Washington Post.)

The unwed moms of Roxie's World are emphatically pro-choice on the issue of marriage, though they maintain their queer feminist skepticism about the institution both as a means of organizing intimacy and as a path to secure benefits (such as health insurance) that all citizens should enjoy. Nonetheless, my typist gets a little lump in her throat every time she sees wedding stories featuring same-sex couples in the pages of the Times and the Post. That's only in part because she is a rank sentimentalist. It is also because she recognizes the power of these images and stories to alter our ways of seeing sex and gender variation and the institution of marriage itself. The several stories on African-American couples that the Post has done perform the additional work of heightening the visibility of queers of color and demonstrating that marriage is not, as is often claimed, a priority only for economically privileged white gays. The truth is more complicated, and we see something of that happy complication in the delighted eyes of Shepard and Matthews in the photo above.

To the new couples just setting out on their marital journeys, Roxie's World offers a hearty mazel tov and a few words of hilarious yet useful advice. To the Gores and others who have decided to step off the marry-go-round, we offer our sincere hope that you will move forward in love, wherever you go.

With or without marriage, my lovelies, partnership isn't always easy, because -- d'oh! -- life isn't always easy. It's full of bumps and bruises, disappointments and losses, moments of anger and days of sorrow. It takes an uncertain combination of dumb luck and hard work to make any relationship endure over the long haul, but the best advice we've seen recently suggests it will all go better if you treat your partner as you treat -- yep, you guessed it -- your pets!

We are not making this up, kids. Suzanne Phillips, a psychologist who works with couples, has noticed that even the angriest partners, who are locked in disagreement about most things, tend to "soften in manner and tone to agree that the dog, cat, bird or horse is great." Phillips thinks that many of the behaviors humans easily display in their relationships with pets would enhance their relationships with their human partners -- e.g., a positive greeting, no matter how crappy your day has been; lack of expectation; readiness to forgive trespasses and to accept what can't be changed; a tendency to assume the best rather than the worst about the pet. "Few pets live with the fear of being betrayed or with the implication that things are just not working out," Phillips wisely notes.

So there you have it. Wanna save marriage? Then let it go to the dogs! Desperate to please your partner? The next time you walk in the door, get down on your knees and give her a thorough tummy rub with a Nylabone chaser. PAWS UP to that, lovebirds, and to all your happily ever afters. Peace out.

Facing South

On Monday in this space, we looked west and showed you pretty pictures of bright sunshine, sparkling waters, and pristine beaches. Today, with heavy hearts, we turn our eyes to the south and show you some of the ghastly images coming out of coastal Louisiana. All three of these photos are by Charlie Riedel, Associated Press and are dated June 3. The top two are on the front page of this morning's Washington Post; the third is in an online photo gallery of images going all the way back to early May.

Had we the power, we'd award Mr. Riedel with a Pulitzer Prize this instant for so compellingly documenting the ecological horror unfolding in the Gulf of Mexico. These are images that arrest the eye and perhaps the heart. One's first reaction is likely disbelief: This can't be real. I am looking at stills from some cheesy dinosaur flick. Slowly the truth sinks in: This is real, and the oil is still gushing, BP's optimism about last night's "Top Hat" maneuver notwithstanding . . . . The question, of course, is whether such images can stir the conscience of a nation that thinks "Drill, baby, drill" is a perfectly fine energy policy.



Our world, darlings -- Welcome to it. Or is it BP's world and we are just gas-guzzling guests? Surely that isn't the case. We can't permit ourselves to gaze at these pictures and become depressed, use them as an excuse to become further mired in the muck of our own lassitude: Oh, dear, what can I do? I'm just one little person. I can't save all those birds! Go read our pal Margaret Swedish over at Spirituality and Ecological Hope for some thoughtful analysis of the Deepwater crisis and its implications for our politics and our ways of life.

One little person can't save the world, but that doesn't mean you get to opt out of thinking or trying. Up and at it, ye righteous citizens of Petro Nation. We've got one helluva mess to clean up. Pass me the Dawn, and let's get started.