Seven months ago, in a fit of political frustration, I used this space to berate my party, the Democratic party, and particularly its Washington leadership. Including the president of the United States.
I said that "these people simply do not seem to possess the collective will, the guts or the focus to enact a genuine reform of health care."
Well, let us now consider the labors of the president and the Democratic Congress in the past few days. They may not have scored an A-plus -- who ever does? -- but their work has been nothing short of monumental.
They have opened a door leading toward decades of genuine progress in the health and well-being of all Americans. And they accomplished it all coolly, confidently. With class, under fire.
So now am I ashamed of myself? Sure. But mostly I'm proud to be a Democrat.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
age
The Volunteers of America, whose Meals on Wheels I very much appreciate, have notified me that March 22 is 'As Young As You Feel Day.'
Okay. Today, March 22, in the year of our Lord 2010, I feel 88, going on 89.
Charley
Okay. Today, March 22, in the year of our Lord 2010, I feel 88, going on 89.
Charley
Friday, March 19, 2010
mutts
I'm mostly fond of all dogs, those that don't jump up on me or that don't live in the same house with me. Dogs are basically my friends, like good ol' Duffy next door. They're just not my up-close, 24-7 buddies.
(Cats? Well, with me, cats are something else. I'd really rather not have a cat anywhere in my block. Or the neighborhood. Or the city.}
But back to dogs. One trouble that dogs have is that they often get blamed for things they haven't done and aren't responsible for.
And they can't defend themselves. Like when someone is called a "dirty dog." Or when "dog" is the word describing some very nice -- but very plain -- lady.
Lately, we've been hearing a lot about certain "blue dogs" in Washington, D.C. These, of course, are members of Congress, the Blue Dog Coalition.
They should not, probably, be called "dirty" dogs. At least not automatically. They are simply a bunch of elected Democrats who sometimes like to wander off the reservation. They like to be able to slip off and go frolic with Republicans in certain tense moments when loyalty to their own party seems, oh, just too hard to bear.
Colorado's John Salazar is one of these Blue Dog Democrats.
There are a few other notable canine colors as well. "Black Dog" is a song by Led Zeppelin. "Red dog" is said to be the color of the jersey worn by a defensive player in a football scrimmage.
And another color has been lifted from an old, everlovin' composition by W. C. Handy, the "Yellow Dog Blues."
Handy's particular "Yellow Dog" -- technically the "Yazoo Delta" -- was once a short-line railroad in the state of Mississippi. The name appears in song as the answer to a love-smitten maiden who is tearfully asking where in the world her easy rider has gone.
It turns out "he's gone where the Southern meets the Yellow Dog," which in real life would have been in the vicinity of Moorhead, Mississippi, where the Southern and Yazoo Delta lines actually crossed.
History also tells us that years ago the term "yellow dog" was applied to the shameful labor contracts that bosses used to be able to enforce on employees: Making them agree never to join a union while working at that place.
My all-time, historical dog-color favorite, though, comes from an old southern political phrase: ". . .yellow dog Democrat."
What was that? Well, you probably guessed it. In the old days, if his only choice on the ballot was a Republican or a yellow dog, he'd vote for the yellow dog.
(Cats? Well, with me, cats are something else. I'd really rather not have a cat anywhere in my block. Or the neighborhood. Or the city.}
But back to dogs. One trouble that dogs have is that they often get blamed for things they haven't done and aren't responsible for.
And they can't defend themselves. Like when someone is called a "dirty dog." Or when "dog" is the word describing some very nice -- but very plain -- lady.
Lately, we've been hearing a lot about certain "blue dogs" in Washington, D.C. These, of course, are members of Congress, the Blue Dog Coalition.
They should not, probably, be called "dirty" dogs. At least not automatically. They are simply a bunch of elected Democrats who sometimes like to wander off the reservation. They like to be able to slip off and go frolic with Republicans in certain tense moments when loyalty to their own party seems, oh, just too hard to bear.
Colorado's John Salazar is one of these Blue Dog Democrats.
There are a few other notable canine colors as well. "Black Dog" is a song by Led Zeppelin. "Red dog" is said to be the color of the jersey worn by a defensive player in a football scrimmage.
And another color has been lifted from an old, everlovin' composition by W. C. Handy, the "Yellow Dog Blues."
Handy's particular "Yellow Dog" -- technically the "Yazoo Delta" -- was once a short-line railroad in the state of Mississippi. The name appears in song as the answer to a love-smitten maiden who is tearfully asking where in the world her easy rider has gone.
It turns out "he's gone where the Southern meets the Yellow Dog," which in real life would have been in the vicinity of Moorhead, Mississippi, where the Southern and Yazoo Delta lines actually crossed.
History also tells us that years ago the term "yellow dog" was applied to the shameful labor contracts that bosses used to be able to enforce on employees: Making them agree never to join a union while working at that place.
My all-time, historical dog-color favorite, though, comes from an old southern political phrase: ". . .yellow dog Democrat."
What was that? Well, you probably guessed it. In the old days, if his only choice on the ballot was a Republican or a yellow dog, he'd vote for the yellow dog.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
politrix
POLITRIX
After I sent a modest contribution to the Democratic National Committee last November. I got word that I could now consider myself to be a "member" of that very same Washington-based group.
Gee whiz! Who would have thought?
Of course I knew enough to be sensible about it. It wasn't personal. It was politics of money. I knew they weren't going to stay in close touch with me. Or pay my expenses for trips to Washington for DNC meetings. Or let me a vote on which city gets the next national convention. Nothing like that.
But still, there it remained, in so many words: A member.
So I was surprised the other day, when I got my first follow-up message from the DNC, to learn that my membership had somehow "expired" as of March 3.
It lasted less than four months.
They didn't say why. Had they heard how impatient I get sometimes for tough, in-your-face leadership from the White House? Or how tired I get of squabbles among congressional Democrats?
I don't know.
Anyway, as of today, here's what the DNC wants of me now: They want me to take the card they enclosed -- "an original copy" -- and initial it to "verify" my membership in 2010. Then send the card back to the DNC, for "return to file."
They didn't say when it would expire this time.
And that isn't all they want. Not at all. To seal the deal, they also expect from me "the most generous contribution (I) can afford" -- specifically, $100 or more.
The 4x5 card they sent looks just like the cards my mama used for her recipes in Hiawatha, Kansas. She kept them in a small box in the kitchen.
I don't know if the DNC has a similar filing system for its "members," but if they do, they surely need lots of boxes. I'm member No.098965071.
(You'd think the DNC would have heard of computers by now. The Republicans have.)
By the way, as part of my Washington mail, I also got what resembles a personal letter from Barack Obama himself. It's addressed "Dear Charles" and starts out by saying that "together, you and I have accomplished so much in the first year of the Administration. . ."
Aw shucks, Mr. President. I can't lie to you. I have to admit I haven't accomplished one damn thing in the past year except get older and more stubborn.
I know he can claim some big accomplishments, and I appreciate them. I still have my 2008 yard sign. But I would be happier if, months ago, he had grabbed health-care reform with both hands, spelled it out to everyone in plain language and fought to make it work.
After I sent a modest contribution to the Democratic National Committee last November. I got word that I could now consider myself to be a "member" of that very same Washington-based group.
Gee whiz! Who would have thought?
Of course I knew enough to be sensible about it. It wasn't personal. It was politics of money. I knew they weren't going to stay in close touch with me. Or pay my expenses for trips to Washington for DNC meetings. Or let me a vote on which city gets the next national convention. Nothing like that.
But still, there it remained, in so many words: A member.
So I was surprised the other day, when I got my first follow-up message from the DNC, to learn that my membership had somehow "expired" as of March 3.
It lasted less than four months.
They didn't say why. Had they heard how impatient I get sometimes for tough, in-your-face leadership from the White House? Or how tired I get of squabbles among congressional Democrats?
I don't know.
Anyway, as of today, here's what the DNC wants of me now: They want me to take the card they enclosed -- "an original copy" -- and initial it to "verify" my membership in 2010. Then send the card back to the DNC, for "return to file."
They didn't say when it would expire this time.
And that isn't all they want. Not at all. To seal the deal, they also expect from me "the most generous contribution (I) can afford" -- specifically, $100 or more.
The 4x5 card they sent looks just like the cards my mama used for her recipes in Hiawatha, Kansas. She kept them in a small box in the kitchen.
I don't know if the DNC has a similar filing system for its "members," but if they do, they surely need lots of boxes. I'm member No.098965071.
(You'd think the DNC would have heard of computers by now. The Republicans have.)
By the way, as part of my Washington mail, I also got what resembles a personal letter from Barack Obama himself. It's addressed "Dear Charles" and starts out by saying that "together, you and I have accomplished so much in the first year of the Administration. . ."
Aw shucks, Mr. President. I can't lie to you. I have to admit I haven't accomplished one damn thing in the past year except get older and more stubborn.
I know he can claim some big accomplishments, and I appreciate them. I still have my 2008 yard sign. But I would be happier if, months ago, he had grabbed health-care reform with both hands, spelled it out to everyone in plain language and fought to make it work.
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