Meanwhile, as the RNC debates how much to tip for a lapdance...

Reactionaries on the Left are lining up to take shots at the latest news from the Obama Administration.  Expanded offshore drilling along the East Coast and off the North Shore of Alaska.  People are shocked, SHOCKED, by the about-face on this ("he campaigned against it, for the love of crepes!").  I, however, must offer up what I've been thinking we've begun to see in policy practice from the Obamanauts and assuredly see here.

Obama is more than just moving the goalposts - he's rolling out a plan to redesign the whole stadium.  This is all part of a plan that was in place back during the campaign.  Because every campaign had a plan of what to do if they won.  And every campaign in the future will.  Even Sarah Palin would put together a similar list of initiatives, albeit one with startlingly different aims.

Anyone who takes the time to ponder the field of play will recall that Bill Clinton did the same thing.  So-called "welfare reform" being the bumpersticker example that to this day drives the GOP off their collective nut.  But there was a whole host of plays that Clinton stole (for lack of a better word) from the traditional playbook of Republicans.  Fast forward to Obama getting his big save with successful passage of health care reform.  He then moves quickly to knock things off of what I believe constitutes their big ol' "to do, to them" list hanging on the fridge in the White House breakroom.  Recess appointments.  Talking tough publicly and privately with Afghanistan.  Opening up energy exploration.  Next up, I expect the list of Administration initiatives will cause even more heartburn for the Left.  Social Security.  Terrorism prosecutions.  War powers undertaken in Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia, and even along the border with drug lords from Mexico.  I wouldn't be the least bit surprised by a very moderate pick to replace the soon to retire beloved lefty Justice John Paul Stevens on the Supreme Court - most likely a Senator or Governor meant to tie up those pre-ordained to object during confirmation hearings.  Long story short, Obama plays 3D chess.  The GOP, on the other hand, collectively couldn't look one move past yelling "King me!" after Scott Brown won a special election against one of the worst Senate candidates I've ever seen.  

What we're seeing with this offshore drilling headline nugget is a long-planned move in a larger serious game.  Can the GOP now take shots at Obama's energy policies, in anticipation of the climate change legislation debate about to heat up?  Sure, but DAMN did the Obamanauts take the legs out from under that GOP position.  Unfortunately, this "game" does have major impact on the environment and millions of jobs and just about every facet of our society.  I say "unfortunately" only because it has to be played like a game in order to win anything worth claiming as a trophy.  The truth is, I'd rather have Obama "playing" than any other leader in my adult lifetime.  Because even while he's changing the rules and where the dugouts are and how many vendors can sell gawddamn redhots from the stands, I believe this guy is smart enough to be thinking ahead to a whole wide world of what's next.  Obama says it himself - he's a better political strategist than his staffers tasked with that portfolio.  And he's right.

Hope your own perception of crisis presents an opening for expanded opportunities today.  Rock on.

Every generation looks back, some better than others.

This weekend featured an intentional movie double-feature of new releases.  Turns out that they very much focus on the same subject.  Turning 40.  And trying to turn back the clock to rectify doing so.  With very different results.

"Hot Tub Time Machine" features the best/worst full-story title since "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead".  And some of the early reviews were actually quite positive.  Suckers.  We saw it opening night at a fairly crowded downtown Seattle multiplex.  While I was telling Sarah a scintillating story about buying socks at Nordstrom's (I wish I was joking), a big group of goofballs in their early 20s showed up in 80s-themed costumes.  Many of them were dressed way too generally (preppies, long-haired "Poison" rockers, blah blah blah).  I dearly wanted to give them credit for the effort, even though I would have chosen to show up as Max Headroom drinking New Coke.  Which would have also sucked.  Even more sadly, the reality is that they were just like the movie - funny to begin with as a derivative joke until the lameness creeped in and harshed everyone's buzz to the point of regret.  Although I expect the people behind the movie sincerely hoped for a good time to be had by all, they couldn't help but let their own neuroses seep in.  Everyone knows the set-up.  A bunch of childish adults try to go back and use a do-over to set everything right.  "Hot Tub Time Machine" lets them do so with out ill effects or anything like story editing required.  See it if you're a total douche or just plan to drink heavily either before or afterward.  Everyone should be required by law to come up with their own version of the story.  You couldn't do any worse.  My rating for this movie is a big fat D.

"Greenberg" was meant to be the indie counterpoint to "Hot Tub Time Machine".  And judging by the crowd, a polite gaggle of middle-aged Seattlites shared that impression going in.  I'll just get it out front - my rating is a widely-varied C.  Could've been a B-plus, felt more like a D.  The actors are all serious about what they do - Ben Stiller takes risks, Greta Gerwig is appropriately vague and fearless (her initial sex scene with Greenberg is stunning in the hilarious discomfort it causes), Rhys Ifans proved yet again that I'd go to see him in anything or even just hanging around coffeehouses that I frequent talking and smoking and generally looking like that cool-as-Sean Connery bedraggled burnout that sold pot in everyone's dorm sophomore year.  Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  The movie.  Man, it's just not there.  Greenberg is meant to showcase another form of 40-year-old angst - looking at back at what could have been.  But this time, from a place where your mind is damaged goods and you know it.  Aside from all that, there's one extended scene that effectively became the climax (before the actual climax of the movie).  I'm not spoiling anything here, trust me.  The set-up is quick.  Greenberg is housesitting at his brother's place and their oldest kid comes home from college at Spring Break.  She throws a party.  A bunch of entitled, probably cool-enough characters show up.  They give Greenberg drugs.  And you...wait.  You expect him to explode or run crazily off the rails or dissemble into a pile of rags that had once been a person with real promise.  What happens, I won't spoil.  But that scene and what comes after are the best acted riffs I can think of in recent memory.  Too damn bad it takes an hour and a half to get anywhere near it.

On second thought, see "Greenberg".  That whole party is worth the price of admission.

But if you want to really see something worth much more, I must recommend with my highest regard "The Pacific" on HBO.  It's a 10-part miniseries.  The first two parts were a slow burn, and I wasn't committed.  Then, Part 3 aired this weekend.  The main characters are safely off Guadalcanal, allowed to somewhat rest and barely recover in Melbourne as heroes.  They're greeted by, among others, some very horny Aussie women.  Or, more importantly, love-starved.  That love burns both sides - the civilians and the soldiers.  I won't give anything away here either.  Catch it if you can.  My rating is at this point a solid A.  My heart still hurts after Part 3.  If things go where I think they'll go in the upcoming chapters, I may need to get a full work-up to make sure no true damage was done.

Hope your own confused 80s nostalgia gets you nowhere near a movie starring Shannon Tweed today.  Rock on.

"Do you have the audio version of these? With or without the laugh tracks."

It's been a long while since a picture on the front page of the NYTimes made me laugh.  But seeing Obama enjoying a moment holding up both Mitt Romney's and Karl Rove's latest cheese screeds at an Iowa City bookstore induced more than a few yuks this morning.  I'm sure wonky folks all across 'Merica this morning are spitting up a bit of soy latte when they catch the implied meaning of that shot.  Kudos are due for that one, BigCity PaperPeople.  Even if they do hate our freedom, they're pretty goshdarn clever.

Speaking of which, that bookstore (Prairie Lights Books) must be stoked.  Obama bought three kids books there after giving them a shout-out during his health care reform event.  Some lucky staffer surely dug doing that advance location scout.  I'm sure his whole staff was loving the campaign throwback theatrics of it all.  Obama even got to field a heckle about paying for his books with taxpayer money.  In effect, that is true.  So kudos to the heckler, as well.

Hope your own job lets you spend copious time browsing in bookstores today.  Rock on.

Sorry, Elvis. You too, The Beatles. Oh, and Bob...well, I never really "got" poetry.

 A little game Maya started playing last night got me thinking about what makes a good pop song.  After dinner she was running upstairs to downstairs - from me to Sarah - asking us for a song to sing to the other.  We started simple and really only gave her a chorus.  “Beat It”, “Who Let the Dogs Out”, “Mmm-Bop” – just a taste from the universally recognized collection of super cheese.  We came up with the cliches floating atop the brain pan, then passed them along for her to go sing.  All we gave her was one quick whisper of the chorus.  She grasped almost all of those songs immediately, and repeated them without worrying how accurate they sounded.  We laughed, she danced – total dorkfest family fun.

Then this morning, I listened to Slate’s “Culture Gabfest” while running as they touched on music criticism (thanks to a horrible article in the Boston Globe) and Alex Chilton’s passing.  In effect they were posing the eternal question of what makes a good pop song and if that really matters.  Or at least that's part of what I took away from the conversation.  I've always thought a good pop song requires a hook, a cleverish title, something to pass along that’s memorable.  It brought me back to last night, and how too often people that claim to be knowledgeable about their music are so often posing when they try to pick and choose stuff that’s unique.  When actually people, no matter how old they are, generally come back around to the stuff that’s universal when they’re pressed for a tune or a song at a moment’s notice.

I only bring this up because I then admitted to an answer I’ve been searching for going on just over a decade.  This is my blog so I’m allowed to be indulgently self-referential, mmm’kay?  I’m looking back to a typically way late night in New York City with a few of my best friends that both then lived here in Seattle.  I was living in Dallas, and we all had congregated to visit friends hosting a broadly random Passover seder.  On that particular night we were doing what people do in nameless, timeless bars in Greenwich Village from somewhere between 2am and the time you get motivated to finally spill back out onto the street.  Talking, too.  And the question was posed – what’s the best song ever?  Broad as hell, presumably asked by every human bean at some point in their life, usually in a similar deep-conversation hole.  To this very day I’ve always lamented the fact that I wouldn’t answer.  I wasn’t shy about looking uncool.  Plenty of things came to mind.  Many of them obscure, some of them dorky, a select few possibly inspired.  But the point is that I didn’t answer and just kept on blathering about other things.  I'm sure everyone else forgot about this conversation that same fuzzy morning.

Well, I’m ready to answer now.  The best song ever is “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen.  Load my pizza up with cheese, people.  This is the one for me.  Thanks, Maya.  You got me to admit it, at long last.  Now if only I could teach you the chorus, whatever that may be.

Hope your own moments of delayed clarity mean a little something to someone other than yourself today.  Rock on.

Orange you glad this came to light?

So after all that sturm and drang, Obama gets a health care reform bill.  Sure, the Senate still can throw some blood from the grandstands in hopes of undermining the hoopla.  But this really is a big deal.  Not even Biden can fully toss this moment under the bus with the overstatements to ill effect (even though he tried).  I'm convinced that McCain and all the haters that are throwing "repeal" around haven't really tested what they're talking.  This will hurt the Dems in the Fall, although they were bound to get spanked for looking so completely rudderless regardless of what they did on health care.  What will happen to the GOP is the big open question.  Actually, I expect them to soon begin gushing a reversal of accusations.  They'll pivot 180-degrees to say that the delay required to test many of the provisions of this legislation is too long and that they should all be rushed to market so as to shock the system.  Still, the upcoming period of debate will see many new surprises.  Anyone that claims they can predict those upcoming surprises, however, is totally full of snot.

One surprising bit of hilarity that I didn't see in all the reporting beforehand was that indoor tanning studios will see a 10% increase in taxes as early as this summer as a minor part of the bill.  How have this Nation's comedians not used that to further color John Boehner's clownish appearance?  Granted, I'd read long ago that he actually uses one of the those vanity tanning lights in his office that went out of style in 1963 - not some new-fangled tanning salon.  It matches his chosen brand of cigarettes (Boehner smokes Barclay's).  He really is the joke-writer's gift that keeps on giving.

Hope your own pursuit of the glow keeps you on the golf course rather than in a tanning bed today.  Rock on.

Another Whitehurst begins the longest possible march toward History

 I don't usually have much to say about the Seattle Seahawks.  They're an increasingly irrelevant organization with a largely witless crowd that I've seen make complete fools of themselves up close and impersonal at Qwest Field on a few occasions.  But they've just done something that makes me feel a weird, sentimental attachment to them.  Tinged with knowing sadness.  They traded for an unproven quarterback that some of the more especially uninformed are calling their future starter.  Charlie Whitehurst.  Son of David.  Yes, Packer fans - that David Whitehurst (occasional starting QB from '77 to '83).  As far as I know, David was a mute.  Maybe even borderline mentally handicapped.  That's not to say that he was a terrible quarterback.  He was just, well, bad.  Yet apparently his offspring is worth $10M for 2 years, even though he's 28-years-old and has never thrown a pass in an NFL regular season.  When I mentioned to Sarah this morning that he was born in 1981, she rightly noticed that he's "old" for a young quarterback.  In fact, he was drafted in 2006.  Did he spend a few years before college in prison?  That's my guess.  I realize that there's no salary cap this year (which will lead to a work stoppage next year if contracts like this continue for free agents this off season).  But, seriously, who is holding Paul Allen's purse strings for the Seahags?  On one level, I hope Charlie succeeds so I get the chance to see David dug up and asked to speak with the media about the utter absurdity of his son's ascendancy.  But on all other levels...well, like I implied, I feel kind of sorry for them.

One minor fresh recommendation - the newly-released album by Titus Andronicus - a clear-sounding, punky, anthem-driven band of clevermeisters from New Jersey.  A concept album ("The Monitor") derived from Civil War narratives might sound pretty unlikely to anyone but Ken Burns.  The comparisons of their sound to The Replacements, The Hold Steady and just about everyone from Jersey aside from the cast of "Jersey Shore" make them a slam dunk worth at least a cursory listen from my point of view.  But I've found them seriously growing on me over the past few days.  My rating - a solid B thus far.  Maybe further ascendant, especially if I see them in a few weeks here in Seattle (playing at the tolerably all-aged venue, The Vera Project on 3/30).  Regardless, if you search for such things, you can do a helluva lot worse.

Finally, I didn't do a single NCAA men's basketball tourney bracket this year.  And I've actually got plenty of horses in this field.  So I'll offer up my Final Four here - just between you and me.  Georgetown, Butler, Wisconsin and Louisville.  Georgetown over Louisville for all the shiny marbles and immortality following the most surprising tournament in history.  No, no - don't thank me.  This is just what I do.

Hope your own longshots also aren't the least bit influenced by Obama's picks today.  Rock on.

The Epic that is Mammoth

Mammoth.  The word, the ski resort, the idea of vast high altitude coolness. It all goes together.  We're back after a solid week at Mammoth Mountain in California.  And we can hardly wait to go back, even if that means a whole year before being able to do so.  For those like myself (up until little more than a week ago) with no exposure to that resort, I'll give a brief thumbnail to accompany my special gold-plated A rating.  Rest assured, there are deeper, more challenging reviews of Mammoth out there. But maybe none are as fresh as this untracked powder.

Dave McCoy founded Mammoth Mountain when he put up the first rope tow in 1955 and thereafter managed things for 68 years.  McCoy was a hydrologist that took snow pack readings in the Sierra Nevadas, where Mammoth is located on the Eastern range (about 30 miles from the entrance to Yosemite).  So he, more than maybe anyone,  knew what to look for in a location for a new Western resort.  Like most premier resorts, there have been periods of expansion and cycles of boom and bust.  But the family appeal is central to Mammoth's success.  The ski school for Maya was exceptional.  They dig old skiers, although you now need to be 80-years-old to ski for free as a pleasantly disgruntled 77-year-old told us one glorious sunny day riding up the chair lift.  And there is truly something for everyone, including some of the best terrain park snowboarding in North America with a SuperDuper-Pipe (22-feet-high).  Since I returned to skiing in earnest just this season, Mammoth gave me plenty to warm up on.  Then tons to challenge me like never before.  By the end of a week, we all were skiing better.  Most impressive though was Maya, who had never skied before heading to Mammoth.  She now can comfortably lead anyone through an easy run and makes her way pleasantly down intermediate ones.  I certainly hope she'll be a skier for life.  Seeing her start off this way at Mammoth makes that seem like a distinct possibility.

But a post on skiing cannot ignore the primary downside of the activity.  Money, most importantly.  It's a crazy expensive thing to do.  The relative lack of others out there on some absolutely perfect days (more than 400 inches of snow thus far, fresh powder, temps heading up above freezing, the occasional lack of winds all the way up at the Top of the Sierras) provides the best evidence that most people have an awfully hard time justifying the luxury at this point in time.  Still, if you can find a way to pool together your sheckels and are looking for an incomparably worthwhile place to do so with your whole family, Mammoth gets my vote.  Like I've said, I can hardly wait for my next time.

Until then, real life has more in store for us.  Like the leaky water heater we discovered the day after we returned.  Better the day after than while we were gone, I'll agree.  Doesn't mean that the cost of a new direct-vent gas heater is any less shocking, though.  Hope your own appliances don't smack you on the calves with a karma chairlift today.  Rock on.

Maya's first approving look at the rental gear.

Maya's first approving look at the rental gear.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

We've had a fantastic week skiing at Mammoth Mountain in California. And while a point of this trip was to introduce Maya to skiing, we never expected she'd love it so much and take to it so readily. What follows is just a taste of her new life on the slopes. Expect more commentary soon.

"Yea sure, I'm a beginner. But my legs ain't noodles."

"Yea sure, I'm a beginner. But my legs ain't noodles."
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Everyone's gotta start somewhere.

Everyone's gotta start somewhere.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya preferred to dress for skiing like a colorful version of Kenny from "South Park"

Maya preferred to dress for skiing like a colorful version of Kenny from "South Park"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya's updated pink and purplicious style choices for the slopes.

Maya's updated pink and purplicious style choices for the slopes.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Posing before a family run on an absolutely gorgeous day at Mammoth.

Posing before a family run on an absolutely gorgeous day at Mammoth.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Heading toward the intermediate stuff off of Chair 8 at Mammoth Mountain.

Heading toward the intermediate stuff off of Chair 8 at Mammoth Mountain.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya takes a trailside break with Sarah, Auntie Katie and Auntie Becca.

Maya takes a trailside break with Sarah, Auntie Katie and Auntie Becca.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

If you're smiling like this on the gondola ride back to the condo, skiing is something you'll do again, and again, and again.

If you're smiling like this on the gondola ride back to the condo, skiing is something you'll do again, and again, and again.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Canadian intrigue. On ice.

 

I joined in the fun last weekend watching the Winter Olympics gold medal hockey game.  Living as close to Canada as we do, I feel more secure knowing that their national pride was bolstered even if they don't have nukes (as far as we know).  But maybe more interesting than seeing Canada get a national chubby is how first draft stories of this great moment in hockey history are coming out.  Such as how Sidney Crosby's stick, one glove and the game-winning puck went a-missin' after the game.  Somewhere out there, I imagine a crime novel being lived in the underground transfer of these incalculably worthy items from fan to fence to hood.  I can picture a high-level boss of the BackBacon and Toques mafia rubbing his bejeweled, maple-syrup-stained fingers over his new, prized possessions, pondering his childhood dreams on the clean, yet still rather harsh streets of Montreal.  

And then in publishing, there's a minor story about how two competing publishers were rushing to get a book out THIS WEEK encapsulating and hoping to take advantage of the Canadian triumph.  The fact that a book like that can be cranked out so quickly makes me wonder what the world record for publishing turnaround might be and if it is threatened by this project.  I imagine World Series Champs books get pumped through the sausage press every season.  But this has to be close to some sort of record. 

Obviously, this level of distraction shows I'm focused on things other than my own work.  I'll blame it on a good thing - we leave tomorrow for a week of skiing and associated wintry fun at Mammoth Mountain in California.  It seems crazy to compare the more than 400-inches of snow they've received this year with the early cherry blossoms in Seattle.  But I damn well look forward to doing so.  Maya's game to try some classes.  Or at least that's what we're all telling ourselves at this point.  Check back to see how it goes.  Rock on.

"And in conclusion, I'd like to summarize my earlier points on child rearing..."

The best thing about hosting a 5-year-old's Birthday party is looking back, hopefully self-satisfied and unblemished.  That's how we still feel after Saturday's celebration for Maya.  The kid did great.  As did her 18 compatriot guests, plus a few younger humans and a bevy of adults that stuck around.  I'd like to recommend the place where we had the party - Arena Sports in Magnuson Park.  Extra credit points for the name of the park.  But that only pulls the place up to a C-minus.  The kids couldn't care less if a place is horribly dirty and on the brink of condemnation (which this Arena Sports certainly is) so long as they can run wild on the indoor soccer field and massive bouncy gyms (yes, that's a plural).  Some of the parents even got a few swings in at the decrepit pitching machine in the batting cage.  No one injured, no one's feelings even noticeably hurt.  The only thing that sucked was my little thank-you speech to everyone at the end of the party.  Seldom has the internal commentary "am I still talking out loud?" applied so well.  At least I didn't call anyone a chickenplucker or anything close to that.

The other big part of this past week was having my parents visit from Wisconsin.  We hit some things I don't do often enough when I'm not in tour guide mode - browsing through the quietly awesome Nordic Heritage Museum in Ballard, brunch at Lowell's in the Pike Place Market at such a time where we basically had the whole second floor to ourselves (sshhh!), a quick jaunt out to Snoqualmie Falls where the winds were whipping and the observation deck was closed which was actually a more authentic feel than any sort of postcard day.  Plus they got loads of grandparenting time, along with a handful of visits to Maya's Pre-K.  They left tired but satisfied, with us staying behind feeling much the same.

So now the nation turns its focus to what a cranky ol' sumbitch Sen. Jim Bunning (R-KY) is and always has been.  Here's hoping the guy has a grandchild or a few to soften up that mental kidney stone he's waiting to pass.  Hope your own stones do so quietly today.  Rock on.