The Followspot

This American Life

The news lately -- some sad, some farcical, some infuriating -- presents a target-rich environment for any blogger. The only problem is, "Where to begin?"

Lately every other day, it seems, has been punctuated by another celebrity death. I am totally mystified by the prolonged brouhaha over Michael Jackson's demise. I thought The Freak Show that was M.J. for the past twenty years was barely on the radar anymore. Who wanted to hear about a disgraced, unsavory pedophile addicted to self-mutiliation and an infantile grandiosity? Apparently, half the globe. Now there's a tidal wave of distraught fans ready to immolate themselves on his funeral pyre in an elaborate parody of grief? Sure, as long as the cameras and helicopters are hovering over the writhing, narcissistic mob.

Then there's the latest episode of America's Gubernatorial Freaks, the smash reality show wherein state chief executives from around the country vie for the title of Biggest Horse's Ass. Thrill to the spectacular idiocies of "Macaca" Allen, Elliot Spitzer, Rod Blagojevich, and the latest contestants -- Mark Sanford and Sarah Palin. Talk about a cage match! Just when you think you've seen the ultimate in addled egos from "Bull of the Pampas" Sanford, Madame Moosejaw Palin comes along and blows him away with a single insane presser/pity-party.

You settle in for a prolonged mocking of one elected hypocrite and before you know it, another comes along. Or a mega-celebrity death pushes the lucky pol off the front page.

Oddly enough, the one death that saddened me the most was that of pitchman Billy Mays. Some people found him totally annoying. Many more -- myself included -- thought of him as an American original. I could count on seeing Billy almost every day on tv, pitching OxiClean or Kaboom from his roster of household products, and somehow I trusted him. I never ordered anything on the phone -- the S&H charges are where the sellers make their money -- but I have bought OxiClean and Kaboom in stores. And they work!

Billy wasn't a distant, surreal celebrity like Jackson. He wasn't an ancient icon finally leaving the scene like Ed McMahon. He was the typical overnight success who worked 25 years to get there. His new reality series on Discovery, "Pitchmen", was surprisingly enjoyable.

Billy was the king of the two-minute infomercial. He was unmistakable: "Hi! Billy Mays here for OxiClean!" His voice was a gravelly shout. His smile was eye-crinklingly happy. His hand gestures were pitch perfect, pun intended. He'd reach out with both hands as if he was grabbing you by the lapels and drawing you close to him. And he always wore the uniform of the Everyman: blue shirt open at the collar, khaki pants and sneakers.

He was only 50 years old, far too young to go. He worked with his son, Billy Mays III, from his first marriage. He had an adorable three-year-old daughter from his second marriage. The people surrounding him weren't delusional egotists, sycophantic courtiers or fame-whores. They were ordinary Americans like you and me.

Billy was astonished and thrilled that he was living the so-called American Dream. He was a very rich man when he died. It's too bad he didn't have more time to enjoy his success but I believe he died a happy man. I've been surprised at the depth of affection I grew to have for Billy and his pitches. I miss him already.

Punks, sweetgrass and summer

I am convinced that half of our adult lives are spent in trying to recapture the lost pleasures of childhood -- well, at least mine is. Long ago I waxed elegiac at The Broad View with "Remembrance of Toys Past." Lately I've been searching for something more ephemeral -- the scent of the past.

Does anybody else remember the summer smell of burning punks? You know, the long sticks of dried something (dung?) -- like incense but not perfumed except with a primal odor that must be encoded into our DNA. As kids, we'd light a punk and hold it between our teeth. It was supposed to repel mosquitoes but the real attraction was the curling tendrils of delicate smoke. I imagine Paleolithic campfires smelled like punks.

Years passed and the ancient folkways disappeared. DEET reigned supreme. It may be toxic but, by gum, it does the job.

There are a few places, though, that have preserved the past as if in amber, and they charge commensurately. The Vermont Country Store sells punks and mine were delivered yesterday. The price is $14.95 for 600 punks, plus shipping. Crazy, I know, but I've been sitting on the porch with the punks smoldering alongside and I don't regret a thing.

There's another scent memory that you might have experienced: sweetgrass. The scent of sweetgrass is intoxicating, an elusive yet totally memorable blend of vanilla, earth, hay and sky. Native Americans burn it ritually and some northeast tribes used sweetgrass in basketry for the tourist trade (not to be confused with the sweetgrass baskets made in the Gullah tradition in South Carolina).

I had one of those small lidded button or sewing baskets, bought on a family trip to Niagara Falls in the late '50s. (Dad drove our used 1952 powder-blue Chrysler sedan -- a dream car with a spacious back seat that a child could stretch out on and take a nap.) Somehow, the basket got misplaced and lost years ago. You can buy sweetgrass braids from those new-agey, herbal healing and ritual suppliers. But the old baskets are calling...

Saturday Night Fever

I might be dismayed and disappointed by Obama's walk-backs on Guantanamo, torture, secrecy, Iraq withdrawal and all the other issues on which he's shown something less than political courage. There is one area, however, where Obama is a gust of fresh air: He and Michelle are totally cool. I mean, after Junior and his brush-clearing and Laura's resolute avoidance of anything resembling excitement, the Obamas are shakin' it up, big-time. (NYTimes pool photo: Aude Guerrucci)

Who can not be charmed by the president's date last night with Michelle? Obama is admirably checking off his campaign promises and one promise was dinner and a Broadway show with his wife after the campaign. They took the short flight to New York yesterday afternoon for dinner at Blue Hill in Greenwich Village and a performance of “Joe Turner’s Come and Gone,” at the Belasco Theater. 

First of all, great choices, guys. Blue Hill is a pioneer in the local food movement and well-known for its exquisitely fresh and tasty ingredients. Michelle, as we know, is championing locally-grown, organic food. The Tony-nominated play by August Wilson recounts the experiences of a group of boardinghouse residents in the early 1900s who left sharecropping in the South for cities in the North.

Obama certainly knows how to show his lady a lovely time. Michelle revealed this last week: "You know, after 20-some-odd years of knowing a guy, you forget that your first date was at a museum. But it was, and it was obviously wonderful. It worked." A museum! I love it.

Not everyone is as tickled as I am over the geek glam of our First Couple. The pursed-lip pills in the Republican Party fired off a fresh salvo of monumental political tone-deafness:

The Republican National Committee slammed the outing in an "RNC Research Piece": "As President Obama prepares to wing into Manhattan’s theater district on Air Force One to take in a Broadway show, GM is preparing to file bankruptcy and families across America continue to struggle to pay their bills. ... Have a great Saturday evening – even if you’re not jetting off somewhere at taxpayer expense. ... PUTTING ON A SHOW: Obamas Wing Into The City For An Evening Out While Another Iconic American Company Prepares For Bankruptcy."

The RNC's Gail Gitcho added: "If President Obama wants to go to the theater, isn’t the Presidential box at the Kennedy Center good enough?”

Hmm, let's see: We're supposed to express high dudgeon over a charming date that gives a very hard-working guy a break with his wife. Oh, that's right -- the guy is a Democratic president. The most recent Republican president could jet off to the pig farm in the middle of Nowheresville, Texas for more R&R time -- 384 days -- than any other president and citizens should applaud his manly man, cowboy, brush-clearin' everyman act. Forget that all those getaways were at "taxpayer expense," not to mention the fact that we paid the slacker for eight years and he spent more than a year of that time kicking back at the "ranch".

The Repugs got nothing. If they think they're going to get any traction over the Obamas' date night, the real question is which is greater -- their stupidity or their desperation? Sing along with me, boys:

Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody.
I got some money 'cause I just got paid.
How I wish I had someone to love me.
I'm in an awful way.

The Micro and the Macro

I've been cleaning old files off my computer, forgotten and outdated stuff, and found this little essay of mine. It's from four years ago and I only vaguely remember writing it. I suppose it deals with issues I'd rather forget.

The Micro and the Macro

My darling daughter, my only child, moved out yesterday to live with her boyfriend. She’s barely eighteen. On top of all the worries and concerns—“Will she be okay? She’s really so inexperienced and not street-wise enough.”—there are the quiet questions. As so many before me have asked, “Where did the time go? How did she grow up so quickly?”

There are other questions, too. Did she leave because we were at each other’s throats, constantly battling for control on the one hand, freedom on the other? Where did I lose confidence in knowing what to do, how to do it, and know that this was not what I had expected after 18 years of motherhood?

And back to that sad, echoing question: “Where did the time go? Where was I while this was happening?”

I was at work, or commuting to work. Or commuting back home. One summer evening, soon after moving to the suburbs and doubling my commute time to two hours each way, I was sitting in the backyard with my toddler daughter. We were admiring our flourishing vegetable garden and she asked me when I’d be home the next day. I tried to make the miserable facts poetic: “I’ll be home when the fireflies come out.” That sounded much better than, “I’ll be home when it’s almost dark, after leaving the house before you’re awake.”

Then came the years that I’d get calls at work. She’d be crying, or wanting, or sick, and what could I do? I was 50 miles away. So I’d talk and soothe as much as I could, and give instructions to the babysitter, and stew at my desk.

I have a message for women: You can’t have it all—at least not the way modern American society is structured in its beliefs, values and priorities.

Lest anyone think I am advocating a return to the days of “women, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen,” please let me state that my feminist principles are strong. But this isn’t about feminism, or maternalism, or the proper role of women in society.

This is about what our society is doing to destroy families, mothers, fathers, children and the entire extended clans of grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins.

For most of human history, children knew what their parents did each day. Their parents worked in the fields, or hunted, or made useful things to sell, or performed services that people needed, like getting the horse shod. The children often helped, and so became accomplished and responsible as well. Mom and Dad were rarely, if ever, far away, and grandparents, aunts, cousins, the extended family were on hand as well.

Now we have “Bring Our Daughters/Sons to Work Day.” One day a year to try to make the unimportant and unintelligible seem like a good enough excuse to keep Mommy away from home for so much of the time. What will they put on my epitaph? “Here she lies, She filled a filing cabinet for MegaCorp Inc.”

Why do we do it? For some of us, it’s what we want to do, what we’ve trained to do, and we love the work. For most of us, I believe, it’s because we must. We need the money to pay for things, for mortgages, for cars, for college educations, for insurance, for food, for toys and expensive amusements for the children we’ve left each day. For too many, one income isn’t enough, even for the necessities.

So we travel long distances to jobs that may or may not be interesting, but these jobs are a mystery to our children, who resent how the job has robbed them of parents. It’s not just Mommy, it’s Daddy as well. When we were a nation of small farmers and shopkeepers and artisans, we were around to see our children grow up. And they could see us, and know we were there for them. A cellphone doesn’t replace that. And please spare me the nonsense about “quality time vs. quantity time.” Children want and need quantity.

The problem, as I’ve come to see it, is the complete package of Western industrialized capitalism. Equilibrium is abhorred in this system. It must be ever-growing, ever more consuming. We strive as a society for a larger GDP year over year. In order to accomplish that, we must be ever more productive, working ever harder. And all that production must be consumed, so we are trained to buy new, buy more, buy larger, and work ever longer to keep that engine of commerce, production, capital and profit running. Technology has been the midwife of this swelling burden. For every benefit that technology has wrought, it has bound us tighter to the treadmill.

Please don’t turn away now, convinced I’m a Luddite of the most ignorant sort, or a Commie-pinko throwback to the commune movement of the Sixties. I’m just calling it as I see it. I don’t deny my own personal responsibility for the choices I made, nor do I blame the feminists, the economists, or any of the salesmen for the American Way of Life that we’ve heard daily since mass media entered the television age.

But I wish I’d known then what I know now—that the time with my precious daughter would be so short, and hers with me, and that I would be squandering way too much of it just trying to give her what I thought she needed. It wasn’t what she needed after all, and I’m left asking, “Where did the time go?”

There’s a larger lesson in this, as well. As a society, as a species, we can’t keep squandering the time we have on this earth to make everything bigger, better, more powerful or more consuming. It’s not what we need, nor what the earth needs. Something has to change, and change soon, because this arrangement can’t last forever. Or we’ll all be asking, “Where did the time go?”

Blogrolls, foodie sites and Lewis Black rants about milk and water

Ellen has suggested we put up blogrolls so I've been assembling a list that she would call a proper gallimaufry. Everybody has the NYTimes, Digby, Talking Points Memo, Daily Kos and the rest of the usual suspects. But how many include a blog dedicated to the finer points of pizzaria pizza by the slice?  Or Bear's Battlestar Blog, written by Bear McCreary, the composer of Battlestar Galactica's music?

I have a lot of sites bookmarked. A lot. I visit most of them only rarely, if at all, so it's been fun to rummage through the forgotten stuff in the attic. I'm including several sites on the blogroll because they're worth a look-see.

You can tell a lot about a person by the stuff he or she keeps -- hidden in the closet, stuffed in a totebag, ripening in the back of the fridge or populating a bloated Favorites folder. So it's rather personal to admit that along with dozens of news and political commentary sites, I've bookmarked loads of recipe/foodie sites, obsessive fandom television sites, and a hodge-podge of quirky backwaters I've stumbled upon that were somehow amusing or profound. The signs of an undisciplined mind and too much food and sloth are revealed. Sigh. 

Which brings me to this gem I found while rummaging around (Warning: NSFW due to very naughty language and a lot of it.):

Welcome to The Followspot

We, your humble correspondents, lately of The Broad View, have decided to put away politics — at least as a main focus — for now. We've been at it for a lifetime (or so it seems) and it is time to make room in our writing lives for reflection on the other adventures of mind, body and spirit that engage us, each and both.

As I write this we are but twelve hours from the inauguration of Barack Obama — and what we hope will be a new era of enlightenment for the country and for its bushwacked citizens. We are grateful to leave the deep thinking and keen analysis of political events to the likes of Digby, RJ Eskow and others in the liberal blogosphere whom we so admire.

The Followspot is a work in progress — we intend a gallimaufry of observations about books, shorebirds, the kitchen, movies, mortality and...well, you get the idea.

We hope you will join us on our journey of exploration.

—Ellen and Chiaroscuro