Hey man, my inner feminazi is weeping because Hillary won't be in the White House. Seriously, I like her: Strident tones and all. The woman has a plan, that's for sure. She's smart and detail oriented and thinks like the policy wonk lawyer that she is. Bill, I could have lived with. But...moot point now.

Going forward, we need a womyn with herstory in the White House. So, get a grip and burn your bra, and head over to Suffragette city, and plan for the future...okay, okay, so I'm being a little over the top. But geez, we're are so in the habit of reflexively saying that "we live in the best country in the world," that sometimes, we should check in and make sure that we're doing all we can in the society to warrant that statement.
(Mind you, I'm advocating a critical glance filled with love—not hate—but a critical glance nonetheless.)

Fact is: We don't have many woman leaders. Why is that? Also, I watched "The Business of Being Born," a documentary about U.S. childbirth practices (home labor vs. traditional hospital birth.) According "Business/Born," we have the second highest infant mortality rate of any industrial nation. Scary, Mary. Anyway, here's what the Washington Post has to say about women in government.
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The 'Not Clinton' Excuse
By Marie Cocco
Thursday, May 22, 2008; A25

A woman? Yes. But not that woman.

It is the platitude of the moment, an automatic rejoinder to any suggestion that Hillary Clinton has struggled so desperately -- and so far unsuccessfully -- to grasp the Democratic presidential nomination in some measure because she is female.

It isn't the woman part, the rationale goes. It's the Clinton part: that "polarizing" persona and "unlikable" demeanor. The unappetizing thought of President "Billary." The more inspirational quest by Barack Obama to become the country's first black president.

Yet the question remains: If not now, when? If not Hillary, who?

The record suggests that if Clinton is not the nominee, no woman will seriously contend for the White House for another generation. This was the outcome of the 1984 Geraldine Ferraro experiment. After 24 years, Ferraro remains the only woman ever to run for national office on a major-party ticket. And she was selected, not elected, as a vice presidential candidate.

"Maybe a generation from now," says Debbie Walsh, director of the Center for American Women and Politics at Rutgers University. "My feeling is, I don't see who's coming after Clinton, and I don't feel like it's going to be easy for whoever comes next."

The United States already lags miserably behind the rest of the world in electing a woman as head of state. To look around the globe is to see a stark truth: Americans seem peculiarly averse to female leadership.

Women have had some success in gaining legislative office. Yet only eight women currently serve as governors, the springboard to the White House for four of the past five presidents.

So which woman, exactly, would be acceptable?

Readers -- that inexact approximation of vox populi -- typically answer: Someone like Margaret Thatcher or Elizabeth Dole or Condoleezza Rice or Christine Todd Whitman or maybe Kathleen Sebelius, the Democratic governor of Kansas. The roll call itself illuminates the barriers.

Thatcher, for instance, never ran for executive office on her own. She became the first (and only) female prime minister of Britain by reaching the leadership of the Conservative Party. That is how many female heads of state have risen -- through parliamentary systems that often use quotas to guarantee women legislative seats. Americans don't like quotas much.

And we don't like political wives who strike out on their own. Yet around the world, political spouses, widows and daughters are elected with stunning regularity. Indira Gandhi of India; Corazon Aquino of the Philippines; Violeta Chamorro of Nicaragua; Benazir Bhutto of Pakistan; Cristina Fernandez, the current Argentine president -- who succeeded her husband -- all rose to power through family connections.

Here, though, revulsion often is expressed at the prospect of the Bushes and Clintons trading the White House among one another. But the "dynasty" argument didn't impede other American political families: not the Adamses, nor the Roosevelts nor the Kennedys. It sure didn't keep George W. Bush from becoming president.

Though it never sparked the rancor attached to Clinton's White House drive, Dole's brief presidential bid in 2000 was a preview. Dole, now a Republican senator from North Carolina, served as a Cabinet secretary in two administrations and headed the American Red Cross. Yet a review of media coverage by Rutgers political scientists showed that when Dole received in-depth coverage, nearly two-thirds of the stories mentioned her marriage to Bob Dole, the former Senate Republican leader and presidential candidate. Elizabeth Dole's marriage to a powerful politician often drowned out discussion of her own record.

No woman on the political horizon possesses the portfolio that Clinton brought to this campaign: National name recognition. A record as a prodigious fundraiser -- for herself and scores of other Democrats. Winner of two Senate races in New York, a rough-and-tumble state with a trove of 31 electoral college votes and Democratic donors with deep pockets. And a huge, loyal base of support within her party.

Who can compare? Not Secretary of State Rice. She's never run for elective office, and it's tough to run for president with no experience in those muddy trenches. Not Whitman. The former New Jersey governor has openly broken with conservatives who dominate the Republican Party. Not Sebelius. She heads a state with six electoral votes and limited fundraising potential.

Clinton cleared the hurdles often cited as holding American women back, yet she is unlikely to surmount the final barrier. So you have to wonder.

Is it something about Hillary, or something about us?

Marie Cocco is syndicated by the Washington Post Writers Group. Her e-mail address is mariecocco@washpost.com.

Found this on Politico in the column's "Life" section and wanted to share. There was a time when I could give a rat's about clothing. I'd just as soon walk through the streets in old jeans and a garbage bag. However, as I've said Ad nauseum, that changed for me over the last ten and now I have a side—an aspect, if you will—that's every bit as shallow, trivial, and small ball as the next chick. More seriously, what you wear (and where you wear it) DOES serve as a tell for inner values. (I once had a boyfriend who said that if he had discovered a tat on my hide he would not have "continued the relationship." At the time that statement pi**ed me off to no end, but I do see his point, even if I think that tats are no longer much of a tell for anything. Forgive me but I digress...) Happy reading. And remember, that pantsuit, skinny tie, or faux leisure suit may come back to haunt you (and all of us) so pay attention and choose wisely.
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GQ: Washington style is no style
By: Helena Andrews
May 14, 2008 11:43 AM EST

So the rumors are true. According to GQ magazine, "official" Washington style is no style: Pleated pants should have their own bullet point in the congressional code of conduct and Brooks Brothers, a spot in the Smithsonian.

In the May issue of the men's style guide, former GQ editor Greg Veis reports that "what barely passed for fashionable in the Condé Nast cafeteria is cause for suspicion at the National Press Club." Veis, now an editor at The New Republic, writes that his skinny ties and tailored blazers are an anomaly in the prosaic fashion wasteland that is Washington.

But what say the male members of "official" Washington? Is GQ right? Do the men behind the scenes in the District shun fashion trends in favor of blending in?

Brandon Garrett, a legislative assistant in the office of Rep. William Jefferson (D-La.), said the GQ piece nailed his style in some ways. "I like Brooks Brothers," he said, "and own a seersucker suit post-Easter or Memorial Day." He couldn't remember the rule about when to wear it.

Garrett, 30, also agreed that people on the Hill tend to follow the rules, which place a premium on fitting in. "Here, where there is always someone watching — sometimes the best thing to do is fly under the radar and go with the flow," said Garrett.

But the definition of fitting in might be shifting. "There's a lot of young people working [on the Hill]. They're a lot more into fashion than someone in their 40s," said Krishnan Subramanian, 32, who works as a technology architect with the Senate.

His colleague Rick Bowman, 26, said he hasn't sported pleated pants since the 1990s. "When's the last time someone wore pleated pants?" he asked, while sporting cigar-colored flat fronts from H&M with tan moccasins his mom bought at Aldo.

When Bowman has meetings on the Hill, he never walks in without a tie and throws on a jacket if he's "feeling important."

Shaw McKean, 18, is an intern in presidential candidate Barack Obama's Senate office. He's wearing a charcoal Benetton suit that's emitting a slight shine, Hugo Boss black shoes and a light-purple slim-fit button-down with a mint-green striped tie and his plastic congressional badge. He pointed to his belt — "Polo" — and his messenger bag, "J. Crew."

"[Washington's] not as stylish as other places," said McKean, who's finishing his senior year at Sidwell Friends School, "but it does a pretty good job." He's been working in the Senate for a week.

Tony Doggett, 55, has been working in Washington since the '80s. He's a government contractor and a GQ subscriber who's wearing a black corduroy blazer he got from Express, Lucky Brand fitted jeans ("I love these jeans") and pointed snakeskin boots (a gift). Pleats are not part of his wardrobe.

"I just got hip to that," Doggett said about the style movement against "old-school pleated pants with cuffs.

"When I was with the government," he admitted, "that was pretty much what I wore."

"I don't know if it's uniformity so much as it is conservative," Doggett said. "Maybe it's because the Republicans are in power." And although he loves Ermenegildo Zegna suits (so does Garrett, but only when they're on sale), he still shops at Brooks Brothers — "I like their shirts a lot," he said.

Then there's Dan.

Dan is a lawyer who works on transportation issues and declined to give his last name. Dan has on violently pleated brownish-green pants and a navy blue tie.

Dan's fashion credo: "I try not to wear the same thing three days in a row, but nothing beyond that. I wear stuff that's clean."

GQ may be right: No one wants to be labeled an "outsider" in Washington, and the best way to make sure you stay behind the scenes is to wear what everyone else is wearing. But, thankfully, the in-crowd these days is becoming more in vogue.

© 2007 Capitol News Company, LLC

I was introduced to Krishnamurti by Mr. B when I was 27. Mr. B bought me a stack of books as long as my arm, including "Think on These Things."

The book is done in a Q&A format and gets pretty "deep," so those who would rather choke themselves in the shallow water need not engage. (Sample question: Is not the worship of God true religion? K begins to answer by saying, First of all, let us find out what is NOT religion. Wouldn't that be a logical approach....it is like cleaning a dirty window.)

However my reason for mentioning it here is what K has to say about education (true education is to learn HOW to think not WHAT to think.)

Particularly interesting is what he has to say about creative discontent, particularly on p. 37: Do you know what initiative is? You have initiative when you start something without being prompted. It need not be anything great or extraordinary—that may come later; but there is initiative when you plant a tree on your own, when you are spontaneously kind....that is the small beginning you must have if you are to know this extraordinary thing called creativeness. Creativeness has its roots in the initiative which comes into being when there is deep discontent."

And so I wish you deep discontent today, you creative souls. Deep discontent and happy building.

Like many of my creative brothers and sisters in the apple that can be rotten, I came to this city with 65% aspiration, and a strange brew of naivete, visions of BIG things, and a certain native turbulence.

I was going to find a creative living and escape working for the man. I was going to write for Rolling Stone or SPIN, find a band to sing in, learn to play the guitar (which I did, although only well enough to write simple songs on) and what have you. It was going to be a rock and roll paradise. Hah.

Sure, I had no trust fund, no connections, and I didn't know I what I didn't know, had a mood disorder, but what the heck. Refusing to acknowledge the huge advantage held by the private school attending classes with silver-spoon-in-various-orifices and enough attitude to man a torpedo, this working class grrrl, who had a different sort of moxy, was going to do it her way with little but gumption to propel her.

Of course, real life happened, the rich got richer and bla, bla, bla. Looking back, I realize I had the audicity of someone who didn't realize how ridiculous she often looked. Someone I briefly dated during the period, Mr. B, once told me I had the audacity of ignorance. (He read some of my short stories at the time and said they did not constitute "moral fiction" because the tone of my tales was despairing and complaining. He hipped me to the guy who wrote Grendel, John Gardner, who had tons to say on the subject and a lot to say about the need for fiction to instruct and uplift and not just be a diatribe.)

I could, at this point, descend into a bitter rant. (Oh, but you might be saying—haven't you? :) However, the point here is NOT my residue of bitterness. I make effort not to let it corrode me and I often succeed. Moreover, I try to improve for reasons that don't always have to do with an immediate reward.

Why bother? Well, the Buddha might say, right action yields right results. Christ might say, do unto others...or, like this, that I found on a little blog called Sacred Luminations: "If we just worry about the big picture, we are powerless. So my secret is to start right away doing whatever little work I can do. I try to give joy to one person in the morning, and remove the suffering of one person in the afternoon…That is the secret. Start right now." ~Sister Chan Khong

I will circle back later and catch up on some entries and stuff that I've been gathering in my little dandy notebook. But I will make this observation: anyone who has to wear a T-shirt that says: "I'm kind of a big deal" probably isn't. (And yes, that's especially true if the wearing of the T-shirt is meant ironically.)

Someone in my circle, sweet, funny A recently had to take a road trip with a supervisor. As far as details and backstory go, suffice to say that this Boston-based professional and small business owner has the rep for being joyless sort. Her situation got me thinking about the perils of the road trip, where you can't as easily hide behind insulating office routine. And yet, the trip represents an opportunity to show your off your 'pro' chops. Like anything else, handling yourself is a matter of presentation. Sometimes, troubles occur because you are too nervous, or, oddly, not nervous enough. Think of it as being relaxed but not your weekend self:

DO: ask questions about the purpose of the trip. Do it in such a way that suggests you've done your homework (ergo you are not a lazy sh*t) but you're interested enough to ask for more details.

DO: ask a boss a few key questions that might lead him or her to share a tidbit of personal information. If he or she is polite enough to inquire about you in return have ready an airbrushed version of your own story. Note: Now is not the time to drag out the skeletons, inner demons, or extended stories of flaky relatives. (Nor is it the time to expound on your own youthful escapades.) If you are asked a direct question such as, 'Are you close with X? Answer to the effect of, 'Oh, I think we've gotten a deeper understanding of each other over the years.' The right answer is on the surface, without damning detail, or any reflection of turmoil. Remember this person is your boss, not your shrink.

DO: share any details about hobbies or passions or charity work, especially if asked, [but anywhere you can fit it in], that demonstrate your willingness to generally take initiative. Think of this as "job interview, the sequel." Keep it pithy, interject carefully. What you are communicating is your personal brand.

DON't: whilst riding in the car, take care not look too obviously bored and try to keep a pleasant look on your face. Laugh at all attempts at humor.

DON't: appear to take more interest in the food and lodging than the clients.
(Although I think it is fine to note the attributes of a great looking property.)

DO: conduct yourself with manners. If you don't have a familiarity with formal dining already, take a course to figure out how to get through a more formal business dinner, including such scintillating essentials as which forks to use when and how to communicate effectively with wait staff. Watch tone of voice, tone of humor, and avoid touchy political subjects. If asked a direct question about said touchy subject at a dinner (because some people like the atmosphere of an old-fashioned social club) answer directly, but if you are like Norma Rae don't slip into ranting. Mind you, I'm sharing these tidbits because I've made a few of these mistakes over the years, and I'm trying to save you some heartache.

Just the other day I ran into actor Paul "There will be Blood" Dano on Sixth Avenue near West 4th. Not "ran into" as in, met him for coffee or something, but ran into as in, sidled near. I know of him, in the way that an avid NYC movie-goer can (and particularly of the I-jones-for-indie-flicks ilk). We locked eyes scant seconds and he registered my recognition of him, he turned half away, clearly not in the mood for gushing adoration in any form.

Of course, even if I hadn't taken in his "Little Miss Sunshine" performance I might have caught his face on some tv footage, or seen his headshot posted on the internet and so on: so goes it in this celeb-centric world of ours. This got me thinking of my various celestial star encounters over the years. Most of them were quick and oddly electric, experienced as a jolt of pure adrenaline that shot south to my toes and vanished, leaving me bereft before moving back into the realm of humdrum.

Now, admittedly, it is quite an embarrassing thing to admit being so swayed. Better to be purely rational about the actors and public figures of our times. And yet, I see why it happens, given how glam and fun some forms of the celeb life seem. Cintra Wilson examined this phenom in her wisea** book on celebrity called, "A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-examined as a Grotesque and Crippling Disease." And now an excerpt from that book—"Then there was this thing that happened to everyone in the 20th Century, where their insides grew small, and weak, and sad, they all strove and suffered, and each sold each other down the river and ffffd each other into pulp in order to obtain this thing they were all desperate for: fame....constant slobbering attention, obscene wealth. Armies of anonymous worshipers so hypnotized that they would saw off their own fingers just to be smiled at. YIKES CITRA!! SAD BUT...

1. Late 1980s: As a clueless city newbie I ran, literally, right into Debbie Harry as she was emerging from a card shop on 7th Avenue somewhere in Chelsea. My intake of breath was audible. "Oh my GOD!" I shrieked. "I love you. I could listen to Fade Away and Radiate for, like, 8 hours straight." By this point, she had shasayed away from me, a fierce irritation in her eye. In mere seconds, she determined I was blown away but harmless. A quick toss of her head and she was gone in a flash. At least I didn't sing in the street.

2. Maybe 1991 or so: Still new to the big apple, though beginning to appreciate it's tart flavor, I was lunching a corner bistro when who did I see but Geena Davis, amazingly tall (in a world full of celebrities that are actually quite diminutive in the flesh). Having not learned my lesson by the Blondie Encounter, I hooted, "Gina Davis." The look she shot my way might have flat-lined me had I not ducked. I felt something like shame, though I'm sure she had her reasons. :) And she did make a damn good female president on tv, didn't she?

3. 1995ish: poolside in a 4-star property in Pasadena (taking a rare break during a business trip—one of those opportunities for the poor trade writer to "play rich"), I found myself surrounded by three "industry types," as apparently, there is a week in the summer time when tv execs and production companies and actors gather and pitch and sell and formulate next season's tv. Anyhoo... I squinted at one, knowing I knew him but not from where. Boldly I asked. A guessing game ensued, are you X, are you Y. "Nah," he said. The guy was getting increasingly uncomfortable. His friends egged me on and made lots of sarcastic comments. Eventually the little gathering broke up. Later, I found out this uncomfortable guy was none other than Dice, Little Miss Muffet himself.

4. Around 2000: The guy from K Street, John Slattery, (who later became the doomed ad exec hooligan on Mad Men). Quite mentally weathered and schooled in the psuedo sophistry of under-expression, I said nothing—and strained to avoid visible reaction— as I headed downstairs into the bowels of my gym on Hudson Street, to see the actor brooding near the Pilates contraptions. Still, he looked at me and knew that I knew he was "somebody."

5. Around 2003: Julianne Moore. As lovely in person as on the silver screen, I ran into the actress in the Ladies in the Angelika. I have long been a genuine fan so it was fun to see her. But I said nothing.

6. Around 2005: indie darling Lili Taylor. She was right in front of me in line at Starbucks. I screwed up my nerve. "Hi Lili," I said. "Keep up the good work." I told her, very briefly, that I loved what she was doing on Six Feet Under. I said I would miss the show dearly when it was departed, I meant it. She was very gracious.


In closing I'll say that it took me years, on a deep emotional level, (rationally I always understood it of course) that I don't have a relationship with the actor, singer, etc, I have a relationship with his or her work. The "star" wasn't put on the planet to spill his guts for my amusement, pull me up, make my life more interesting or engaging—that is, apart from the art they leave behind. (Yes, that's art with a capital A.) Okay, I've pontificated quite enough for a day.

I always can tell when I mainlined too many nightly news broadcasts: the world seems shaky and dim, upright values appear nonexistent—its bad behavior spinning "OOC," to quote R, always handy with a quick pseudo acronym when a gal needs some comic relief.

Case in point, "marijuana baby," as I now refer to the 2-year-old-ish girl Bill "We at the Factor" O'Reilly mentioned the other night. In case you missed it: she was poisoned (my verb) by her so called guardians (ages 16 or thereabouts) who gave the kid bong hits for reasons unclear. Stupidly they put the little escapade on video, giving depravity a new variation on a standard theme: what we do to our kids when we're stupid and bored. (Yes, they are being prosecuted and I suppose, the child will be fine—or fine enough.)

This story moreover, was part of a broader "bad behavior" segment that O'Reilly ran (with a substitute at his desk for the program): he referenced the kids who beat up a girl for YouTube value (http://tech.yahoo.com/blogs/null/88857) and had a talking head comment on "the inability of children who are surrounded by the ability to make their own content to distinguish between reality and a movie." In my mind, this recent spate of childhood violence incidents is particularly disturbing because it seems to damage the potential of a generation. But I may be overblowing it.There for a while in the cold, cold of winter, it seemed like each night brought news of inconvenient wives gone missing, dismembered coeds found stranded on lonely roads. It really does seem OOC.

Now, a wise man I spoke with on the matter reminded me that, unfortunately, child evil and other egregious behavior has always been with us. (He referenced some historic practice, I think in England, he said, where children were fed tons of gin as babies to stunt their growth and make them better beggars.) The content of the news is neither indicative of "more" crime or "more" depravity against some historical norm. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact. It reminds me of the expression, I love to bang my head against the wall because it feels so good when I stop.

In wired world where the "revolution is [always] televised" it still astounds me when politicians and other public figures think they can be spontaneous and get a way with it. I'm thinking of Billary and sniper fire (i.e., she went to Bosnia, endured the corkscrew landing and risk of.../He then went on to compound the problem on the campaign trail by other strange variations on a twisted theme—by this I mean, he lied further about the circumstances of her lies. You can check out Fox or CNN if you want details of this.).

Now, I know I'm stating the fairly obvious in saying the camera always catches you in a lie, but my point is actually how easy it is to assemble clips and make a damning montage, which is essentially what was done this past Sunday on Meet the Press. It was quite a laugh, actually, to see Hillary's progressive lies and embellishments (at a series of rallies) as she recounted the long ago visit. The visual punchline, of course, was a 30 second clip of a perfectly peaceful—even routine—meet and greet. (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3898804/) Ouch! The normally taciturn and stately Tim Russert (sort of) giggled.

Part of me says, thank g*d that people still behave like people even though they're being watched. (Reality tv excesses aside.) We are increasingly becoming a managed media state where every serious socio/political/economic news story is manipulated & shaped, more like propaganda than anything else, actually and all surfaces reflect only other surfaces and the agendas of a few owners, as if there is only the wizard of oz way, way, way, way in the background. At least when people attempt to improvise (even for odd reasons) you know they still have a pulse. I'm how you say.... paranoid—like Carlito.

One of my favorite big apple literary freebies is The L Magazine (www.thelmagazine.com), ostensibly an event guide but packed with attitude and extras, including a sex column by Audrey Ference that touches on everything from gray pubes to sex-with-a-stranger decorum. Another column features a Q&A with cab driver's about current events or whatever strikes 'em.

This got me thinking about the craziest cab rides I've ever taken, and interestingly, only one of the stories has to do with NYC (indicating, to me anyway, that we get a rep for mayhem that may be undeserved.)

1. In Las Vegas: In the middle of a business trip, I had to get off the strip to take a quick pit stop to my bank (who wants to pay $3.00 plus transaction fees for "foreign" ATM use? Plus I had to talk to a teller about a minor account-related emergency.) I wound up hailing a cab (illegal practice there as it turns out) after I realized, 15 minutes into a brisk, open air walk, that setting off on foot in a good suit, in the hot sun in the desert, was, indeed, a stupid idea.
Anyhoo, I wound up cabbing it back and forth a good five miles away from the property with Rick, a part-time computer programmer who told me that content management systems were BS, the internet was BS, and pretty much everything else was...you guessed it. In between, he drove what felt like 75 miles an hour, had a conversation alternately going on a mobile and off his walkie-talkie thingie, and nearly hit a rolling garbage can that drifted in the street like tin tumble weed. One hour later, once the bank mishap was behind me—and behind me too the near death experience (and a profound ache in my head had also subsided), I sucked on an iced latte, snorted and shook my head, glad to be alive.

2. Also in Vegas: Met a cab driver who told me he used to work as a prison guard and as a warden in a mental institution. He said that both jobs prepared him for the rigorous mental discipline that cab driving required. "People are ffffn nuts, sweet heart. Never forget it." Will do.

3. From the JFK airport: The driver was so po'd about my "local" address (meaning, no Manhattan price gauging allowed) that he drove 95 MPH on the Van Wyke, etc. while the cab made a death rattle that made me feel as if I were going to projectile vomit my teeth. The cab stank of curry and b*tchy emanations—mine. I exploded into "ranting Lauren" and threatened to haul him in. He finally slowed to a mere 75 MPH. "Lady," he said "I will lose my spot in line if I don't get back within 45 minutes." "Sir," I said, in full Alice Pacino mode "don't get me started. I'm just getting warmed up back here."