I'm With Us

Something unexpected happened to me at the polls today.

It wasn't the overaggressive (not to mention, uninformed) man who practically accosted me with his "knowledge" as I walked in the door. It wasn't the short wait or free coffee and pastries at my new voting precinct. (But, way to go Precinct #2!)

It wasn't the names or proposals on the ballot. I came prepared. I knew who was running. I understood everything at stake.

The thing that took me by surprise... so much so, that I paused for a moment just to savor the feeling... was my reaction to reading my ballot behind those trifold walls. That my eyes actually teared up when I saw a woman's name as a major party candidate for President of the United States. And, that I had just as much opportunity to shade in her box as I did any other box on the list. It was an option. It was finally there.

I've always thought of myself as an empowered Gen-Xer. I never thought of myself as being raised in an era where I was allowed or disallowed to do things simply based on my gender.

Yet, somehow, simply seeing a fellow female's name on a very important piece of paper this morning had enough power to bring me to tears.

Just as I can take for granted that I'm even allowed to step foot in a polling station and cast a vote, my female ancestors will be able to take for granted that their name could even be on the ballot.

It's no longer a "what if", a "one day", or a "that will never happen". It's happened! It's now the norm. We can move forward.

No matter the outcome of tonight's results, this is how America now works. Race, religion or gender no longer impedes our ability to progress. We're running out of "firsts" to brand people with in the political race.

We can move past this silly notion of what's allowed and why it took so long to get there. We're now here! And, it's such an American place to be.





*Disclaimer: My vote today was not based on gender, race, religion or party lines. There was one candidate I agreed with on many things and one I didn't agree with at all. Please save your political lectures for your own social media page. If something inside you is offended by my feminism, you've likely had the blessing of never experiencing the type of treatment that the rest of us battle with every day. Take a moment away from staring at your shoes and take a gander at that glass ceiling that so mesmerizes the rest of us all.

Zero Dark Thirty

Ticked another Best Picture nominee off my list today.  Kathryn Bigelow's, long-awaited by me, Zero Dark Thirty.

Before I get to my review, however, here's a play-by-play of the equally entertaining pre-show.

(Scroll past asterisks if you just can't wait for it.)

   ********************************************************************

I, par for my reputation, stood in the shortest but slowest line for my ticket and popcorn.  Salted my purchase, hoarded a  sapling's worth of napkins and entered Theater Two, only to discover I had my pick of the completely uninhabited seats.  I chose a non-sticky one on the aisle about mid-deep and settled in.  

Shortly after, I hear two or three younger male voices settle in towards the back.  Five minutes later, hear an usher's voice asking to review ticket stubs.

He peruses the first stub, "Are you at least seventeen?"  I hear a, "No," answered back.  (Since when did teenagers lose their ability to lie?)  "You can't be in here without an adult if you're under the age of seventeen."  This conversation repeats itself twice more and I find myself alone again.  (Strangely enough, I had pulled my ticket as well, but nobody bothered checking it.  Or, my age for that matter.  Hmph!) 

Well, the act of pulling out my stub out led me to realize that the movie was to start at 2:40, not 2:20.  Geezo Petes!  I ventured to the lobby restroom to kill a little time and empty up for the 2.5 hour trip that has now become a 2.83 hour one.  Reentered Theater Two to discover the company of about eight or nine more patrons.

The most vocal of which had parked themselves across the aisle from where I'd left my coat.  A duo of eighty-ish white haired birdies, LOUDLY conversing about who has the better ear doctor.  "No, Gladys.  I go to the one on Inskster and Northwestern.  Don't you know EVERYBODY goes to that one!"  

Gladys: "Well, I have an appointment Wednesday at Dr. Shaeffer's."  

Gladys's friend:  "Everybody goes to my doctor.  My daughter had the Meniere's Disease. She's deaf now in one ear. Completely deaf!  And, Bob wears a hearing aid.  My mother did too.  Not that it runs in the family..."

Gladys: "Well, it DOES run in your family.  You don't hear well either!  So, what does your daughter do with her ear.  Wear a hearing aid?"

Gladys's friend: "No, Gladys!  She is completely deaf!  A hearing aid won't fix that.  You can't fix deaf.  And, YOU have hearing problems too!"

Gladys: "Well, we'll see about that on Wednesday."  (I then silently awarded the prize for Best Ear Doctor to neither's.)

Through the previews Gladys's friend delighted in the appearance of Robert Downey Jr., "Ooh. The Iron Man!"  As the feature begins, "Now, here we go!  This is history, Gladys!  You pay good attention!"  When the film snapped five minutes into it, Gladys got anxious. "What do we do?"  Her friend assured her, "Just sit here.  We'll let the people who got up figure it out.  The worst that will happen is they refund our money."  A mere 60 seconds passed before the movie was up and running again. 

I quickly absorbed into the story and nearly forgot Gladys's presence... but, was reminded once again during a water-boarding scene. "This is true, Gladys!  This really happened! This is what that Dick Cheney was all into..."  Sigh.

Now, onto what you all clicked this link to really read:  My review.

   ********************************************************************

I had read Mark Owen's No Easy Day last year immediately following its release.  This left me with an insatiable appetite to see the story set to film.

"Mark Owen" being the alias of one of the Seal Team Six members who penned the account of his early military life, leading into his career as a Navy Seal and ultimately into a play-by-play of the Bin Laden assassination. His rigorous training, camaraderie with military brothers, and the gut-wrenching danger of his many famous missions, controversially, all laid out to bare in this unique and riveting memoir.

I couldn't wait to see what Hollywood would do with an action-packed Seal-perspective version of the mission.  

But, in Owen's story there is a female CIA officer.  The one whose tireless work unearthed Public Enemy #1's location.  The one whose entire career was focused solely on this mission.  As I read, I thought to myself, "If they ever make No Easy Day into a movie, boy are they going to glam up this role and give it the Angelina Jolie treatment!"

But, they didn't make the No Easy Day movie.  Enter Kathryn Bigleow, Jessica Chastain and Zero Dark Thirty.  

There's nothing modern Hollywood loves more than a tough-as-nails heroine with a potty mouth that holds its own against any barking man in uniform. They took this character and ran with it.  But, this character isn't necessarily the one whose day-to-day work life you're dying to be a fly on the wall of.

The film wades through two full hours of CIA investigating and red tape before the final half hour of the actual mission.  Yes, this is the female lead's story.  She's not the one climbing mountains, offing bad guys in their sleep and zip-lining out of helicopters day into night, night into day.  She sits at a computer.  She has conference meetings.  She makes phone calls and performs interviews.  As far as what her story has to offer, Bigelow did it well.

By the time fictionalized Seals finally grace the screen, maybe thirty minutes before the movie's end, they come off almost puppy-like.  One Golden Retriever, one Shepherd, one Pit Bull, you name it.  All breeds represented.  Nothing but muscle and machine.  Big, brawny dummies.  Thick as boards, cocky and  licensed to kill.

The details of the military side of the mission and its preparations were just breezed past without care or explanation.  I wanted to start shouting out extra information I learned from the book to help the audience better understand.  "They built an entire replica of the compound for training! Complete with doors that swung in or out the right way", "That's just the perimeter gate they're at!  There's more door explosions to come", "That team was supposed to enter from the roof!",  "That was the courier they just shot!", "They thought the women would be wearing suicide vests. That's why they said that!",  "Nope!  That's just the brother!  Just you wait!", "They pulled DNA from the body too, you know.  Not just digital pics!", etc., etc., etc.

But, alas, Hollywood never did cherish its military as much as it did its spies.

I still think No Easy Day would have been the more interesting take on the assassination.  But, now that this version is out---and has even stolen bits of the book's dialogue---I doubt we'll see that day come.

Kathryn Bigelow is a wonderful director. The film is well-acted (at times, over-acted.)  And, the cinematography brilliantly finds beauty in otherwise unbeautiful locations.  

Is it worthy of its nominations?  Sure.  But, if you're anything like me, you may want to see Zero Dark Thirty first and then read Mark Owen's story to fill in the missing pieces.  You'll save yourself some frustration that way.

As for Gladys and her friend?  I can't tell you what they thought.  The ladies were finally stone silent by the time the credits rolled.  This could be a sign of awe.  Or, confusion.  Or, simply the midst of an elderly person's afternoon nap.

Lincoln

I just returned from seeing the critically lauded new biopic about our sweet sixteenth (president, that is) and am riding the goose-pimply emotional swell of seeing and hearing a good story told well.

This is not a movie review, however... although the pic is sure to see Academy nominations for Best Picture, Director, Screenplay, Actor (Daniel Day-Lewis), Actress (Sally Field), Supporting Actor (Tommy Lee Jones) and maybe even a long shot Supporting Actor nom for the very entertaining James Spader.  Not to mention, Best Costuming and a slew of technical nods, as well.  But, this is not a review!  (Although, I must also note: At 180 minutes, empty your bladders before or during the previews, because there are no boring lulls in the film to designate as a potty break.)

No, this blog entry is designated to that 10-15 minute adjustment it took for me to adapt to the fact that Abraham Lincoln was appearing before me in motion and speaking.

You'll hear Daniel Day-Lewis's voice speaking as Lincoln moments before the camera pans to his wonderful and accurately made-up face.  And, it's quite the unexpected jolt!  I don't know how the actor chose the voice he decided to use to represent our 16th president, but it's definitely not as booming and authoritative as I obviously must have expected.

Then he moved.  Which is also quite a startle.  For all of our lives, we've seen Abraham Lincoln as still life.  Faded and photographed, sketched, oil-painted, crumpled up on our five dollar bills and frozen in marble for all of eternity at the foot of our capital's reflecting pool.

But, for the first time in our lifetime, he moves.  He ambles rigidly, clumsily, oddly moose-like.  He folds his stature practically in half and creakily crawls across the floor.

I watched, amazed.  I'm not sure what I had expected to see.  I'm not sure if Day-Lewis's choices in tone and cadence were artistic choices or historical fact.

Then it dawned on me!  My generation's ideals of this president's motion, voice and natural demeanor weren't based on film or recordings... the technology didn't exist in his time.  We're familiar with his face and stature from the aforementioned photographs and artwork we've familiarized ourselves with over time.  We're comfortable and confident in the depiction of his looks.

But, the only reference we've had to his speech and his movement, up until the release of this marvelous film came in the form of a Disney animatronic.

Ha, yes!  Mystery solved!  Hopefully, you may now spare yourselves the jolt at the theater.  Besides, it only took about 15 minutes for the unfamiliarity to pass.  Go see Lincoln, cheer on the 13th Amendment and enjoy!

Election 2012

Only eighty hours until "No More Political Ads" Day!  For this, I am grateful.

 

The last presidential election nearly gave me a stroke.  They say there is no physical indicator of an increase in blood pressure, but I'm sure the months-long burning in my ears could refute that claim soundly.  This combined with the emitted steam and their blinking red hue, well... let's just say I spent the Fall of 2008 resembling a Donald Duck cartoon from the neck up.  The tips of my ears managed to develop a pulse of their own separate from the rest of my body and I could evaporate falling snow just by walking through it.

 

Thankfully, I've either matured or gotten lazy in the following years and the only body part that's developed its own pulse this election season is the pimple that claimed squatter's rights on my right temple a week ago and refuses to evict.  Even this, due more to dairy than political furor.

 

I'm the kind of voter every election campaign loathes.  I'm a devoted American, but mistrustful of government.  I'm an active citizen who hates politics.  I'm a moral person who realizes that I can still be the same, no matter who is in office and what becomes law.  The reason campaigners hesitate at my kinds' doors is because people like me don't see the world in black or white (or red and blue, I should say.)

 

My kind isn't swayed by attack ads.  We don't stress over which hospital on which continent people were born.  We're not impressed that we've received robo-calls from both Bill Clinton and Clint Eastwood (though, we might be mildly amused.) We don't think either candidate is pure good or full-on evil.  We won't hand someone a career of national control because we happen to agree upon one social issue.  We don't judge a whole being based on one thing that fell through the cracks during their career, the joint they smoked in high school, the domestic skills of their spouses or who their daughters might be sleeping with.  And, we certainly don't want to be constantly told why we shouldn't be voting for the other guy.  Why should we vote for you?

 

There's a certain type of person that chooses politics as their career and those are the people we must elect from.  Mother Theresa never ran for government.  We won't see "Jesus Christ" printed on the ballot.  So there you go.  Deal.  Perfection is not an option, so quit expecting people to vote based of that specification or implying that it's even a possibility.

That said, it's time to get a few things straight:

Contrary to your Facebook posts; I am not an idiot, racist, war-monger, disillusioned pacifist, moron or R-word-that-we-don't-use-in-our-house if I don't punch the same chad as you on Tuesday.  You calling me those names will not shame me into changing my vote. (Because, that's your intention, right?)

I am not prejudice if I choose red and I am not sinful if I choose blue.  My vote does not count any less because there are no signs in my front yard.  (Lawn signs don't sway voters, by the way... they're just calling cards so teenagers know which houses to egg and neighbors know who they might want at their next barbecue.)  I'm not uninvolved because I'm not shouting my vote from rooftops and I'm not staying quiet out of shame either.  I have my convictions, you have yours.  My opinion shouldn't be regarded any higher or lower than yours; or yours than mine.

Contrary to the television and radio ads, when I vote on the local proposals I'm not choosing between children and bureaucrats (as one ad suggests.)  I'm not voting for things in opposition to particular vocations or lifestyles.  I'm not voting against ideas that  can't be further tweaked, improved upon and voted on again.  The people making these ads are doing so because they're paid to.  Not, because they understand the issues inside and out from both sides.

Contrary to the weight we like to put on the position of the presidency, I'm responsible for researching my local congress and senate candidates as well. When people get mad at the president, it's usually over something that's being bickered about in one of those other large white buildings in Washington.

Most importantly, this is not the Super Bowl.  No matter what the outcome on Tuesday, promise me this: Don't cry.  Don't brag.  Don't taunt.  Don't loot.  Don't crumble into a heaping mess.  Don't move to Canada (because that's just the dumbest threat ever... unless you actually have family there.  Then you can go.)  Don't kick your neighbor's dog.  Don't relieve yourself on passing cars.  Don't call people names.  Don't type your Facebook posts in all caps.  And, please, no fanny-wagging!

Believe it or not, whatever happens on Tuesday is not the end or salvation of the world.  Move yourself forward.  Propel and be the president of your own life.  No one in Washington is in charge of who you can be.  Continue to be a good citizen, neighbor, family member and friend.  We're just hiring someone for a temp job, for goodness sakes.  Get a grip!  Slap on that blood pressure cuff, vote and then breeaaaattthhe...  We'll have to do it all again in four more years.

Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I've never felt more like an over-privileged-unappreciative American than when reading Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Hearing of Alexandra Fuller's upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, violent Zimbabwe and the dictatorship of Malawi will have that effect on you. 

But, only the power of good story-telling can make you feel somehow jealous at the same time.  I didn't have baboons, leopards, impala and kudus running around my back yard growing up!  I wasn't free to ride a motorcycle around town, under aged!  I didn't get to keep every dog that followed me home and go horse-back riding every single day!  I didn't get to be poor, yet have servants anyhow!

Then again, I didn't have to fear cobras in the cellar, scorpions under the bed, droughts that impede even toilet use, oppressive heat (worse than a Michigan summer!), malaria replacing my winter's flu and your every day terrorists beating down the front door.

No, a drive through my home town didn't require the flaunting of an Uzi as a preventative to being tagged "fair game".  Bribes didn't have to be exchanged at the border, simply to get to school.  Pedophilic neighbors weren't an oversight.  I couldn't be poor, but with servants, simply because of the color of my skin.  And, I never knew of so much death.

Her story opens like this:

Mum says, "Don't come creeping into our room at night."

They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, "Don't startle us when we're sleeping."

"Why not?"

"We might shoot you."

"Oh."

"By mistake."

"Okay."  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  "Okay.  I won't."

Alexandra (or, Bobo, as you'll come to know her) wasn't raised by banshees.  She was raised by white Africans.  Blatant in their racism.  Undying in their "cause".  Stubborn of their rights.  Regardless of the civil war they were entrenched in and the every day dangers that surrounded them and their children.  Because this is where they stubbornly chose to live.  Even though they were born elsewhere, they weren't leaving!  Until they had to.  They'd then just head to another ranch or farm...  on to the next (what we Americans would call, "sharecropping") opportunity.  Sometimes crossing into other war-torn African nations, but never really owning much more than their pots, pans and dogs; and never really free.

Telling one's story isn't always subject to "nice and neat".  Someone's story is only real if it's drenched in truth... and, truth she does not squander.  Excuses are never made for ignorance.  But, apologies aren't either.  Her childhood may not sound idyllic, but this is the story of her childhood and she tells it well.

Colorful, descriptive, educational, humorous and painful all at once.  It's a story of adventure, drama, comedy, heartbreak and breakdowns.  Not a tidy life, but a life worth hearing about, a history worth learning and a continent worth catching a deep wide-eyed glimpse of. 

Even though I may have never stepped foot off of my own continent, I now somehow feel I know the taste and smell of Africa.

That's not just story-telling... but, the testament of brilliant story-telling!

Things the World Can Shut Up About Any Time Now

Here is a list of things I'm officially tired of hearing about at the moment:

Gabby Douglas's hair:  Gabby Douglas is a beautiful, extraordinarily talented girl.  So why the fuss over her hair?  I'm tired of hearing mothers, who pay exorbitant amounts of moolah to have chemicals drenched and a weave sewn into their  own young daughters' hair, criticizing the care and keeping given by our national hero's mama.  Her hair is, yes, relaxed and then pulled into a bun when working... like every other gymnasts' on earth.  Then, off duty, she wears the exact same hairstyle as my own teen-aged niece.  So the real question is, You got a problem with my niece's hair?   

 

Miley's hair: I absolutely love Miley Cyrus's new hairdo!  It suits her face, it suits her personality and it definitely suits her age.  So why do I keep reading headlines of shock and awe about whether there are deeper issues involved in this celebrity's haircut?  The world has no control over any one person's personal style choices and the sooner the world realizes this, the happier I'll be.  She is not really Hannah Montana!  And, besides, *secret to be spilt* Hannah Montana wore a wig.  I tried a very short hair cut myself in my twenties, the best time to experiment with extreme fashion.  I even tried to frost it to this shade of platinum, but mine turned out yellow instead.  Shocked?  Nope.  Jealous?  Absolutely.

Lindsay Lohan. Period.: Once upon a time, I watched Freaky Friday, Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen and Mean Girls so many times with my niece that I couldn't even venture a guess at the tally.  She was such a promising young actress at the time and then something went slightly off kilter.  The world took notice, then something went drastically wrong.  The world, then, never stopped paying attention, perpetuating a spiral that apparently was never to be recovered from.  World: Please, stop looking at her.  It's the only cure.  (Remember Speidi?  No?  Good.  See, my theory is now proven.)

Passive/aggressive Facebook posts featuring unsolicited parental advice: We get it, we get it... you're a good mom or dad.  No one doubted you. No one needed proof.  And, certainly no one wanted advice that didn't ask for it.  You see, being a good parent isn't a rarity.  Most parents I know are pretty great at it.  So, quit assuming you're way is best when most other parenting styles are working just as effectively.  Don't expect the world to praise you for refusing to vaccinate.  Don't expect a trophy for forcing your child to go vegan.  And, the world will absolutely not be throwing a banquet in your honor because you chose to breastfeed until the age of five.  The sooner you realize this, the sooner friends will start "liking" your statuses again. 

 

The chemicals I may be ingesting, at my own will, as a grown human being: Going along with the previous category; I myself don't need advice about my own diet either.  I have been eating meat, dairy, processed foods, carbs, preservatives and additives my entire life.  And, guess what?  I have my doctor's seal of approval!  If a number skews ever-so-slightly in a worrisome direction upon any visit, we make the appropriate dietary adjustments to correct and move on.  So, while I salute your self-control and your acquired taste for foods that taste like yard grass, while I tolerate your tolerance to ingest a product with the word "germ" in its title... I am uninterested in participating.  I eat, not for political or social agenda, but to stay fueled and living.  Seeing that I'm upright at the moment, breathing and typing... it appears that my way works too.  (Remember: It's your b.m.'s that are unusual in color and texture, not mine.)

Your political convictions: Newsflash! Your offensive critiques, exhausting Facebook rants and "clever" memes have yet to sway a single soul.  Yes, you're passionate.  You have your convictions.  But, guess what? We all do!  And, they're rarely identical.  That's why we show up at those polling stations with the little walled off booths that make one's vote private and sacred.  The way they were meant to be.

The designer names of your attire: When you're talking about your shoes, they're not your "Jimmy Choos", they're your shoes.  When your putting on your jacket, your not putting on your "Burberry", it's simply your jacket to rest of the world.  When you're digging through your purse, you're not digging through your "Louis Vuitton", it's just a bag, for the love of Pete!  If you feel the need to turn every label into a noun, think long and hard about why you feel the need to do that and then be very sad with yourself.  If you, then, still feel the need to pronounce your "Gucci"s, I'll give you a head start while zip up my Gaps and lace up my Targets.

Things Unemployment Has Taught Me

Upon entering my fifth month of unemployment, I have decided the following things:

• I will never make judgemental comments about anyone on unemployment ever again. 
• I will never look down on fast food workers again.  Even accidentally.  Even if they forget my fries.
• I am not quite ready to work at McDonald's yet.
• Saving money is easier than I thought back when I was still making some.  Never realized how many unnecessary things I used to purchase each week until I stopped doing so.  Grateful to have learned that lesson before the severance checks stopped.  My bank account now thanks me!
• Politicians who make any mention of the unemployment rates have no idea what they are talking about.  If you really want to include that in your platform, refuse your pay and insurance for the better part of a year, live off your savings, pay your doctor's bills in cash, manage to still keep your home and cars somehow, and then you may speak.
• Although I'm desperate for work, I will not act desperate.  Just because I may need your job does not mean you do not need me.  I am still a valued worker.  Don't treat me as less than that.
• Single parents who work three part time jobs to feed their families deserve applause.  (And insurance.)
• For every job I don't get, I'm genuinely happy for the person who does.
• Magazines can be read for free at the library.
• They've got free books to read there too!
• Fresh air is a necessity.
• New clothes are a luxury.
• Taking thirty seconds to enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes every day is still a valuable use of time.
• Anyone paying off student loans while having to apply for the jobs ads listing "Bachelor's Degree required. Pay rate $10/hr." has my deepest sympathies.
• Money does not equal happiness.  Although, it could buy a little peace of mind.
• Maybe I'm not quite ready to retire.  Twenty-four free hours can be long ones to fill!
• I will still daydream about retiring one day, though.  It can not be helped.
• I am not a loser. 
• You are not a loser.

Who Wants to be President?

Is it possible to already have election burnout? It seems like just weeks ago we sweated through this and have finally become friends again with our buddies voting across enemy lines. Yet, here I am, already getting a migraine and already bored of the mud-slinging and mockery over a job that no one actually wants.

Who really wants to be president anymore anyhow? Once upon a time, the role of Commander in Chief was one of prestige. Now, I almost think the interchangeable terms Commander in Chief and President of the United States should be separated into two different titles for two separate roles. Really, can you place Commander in Chief Abraham Lincoln in close comparison to any “Commander” elected in your lifetime? But, I digress…

Election Burnout:

In my voting years, the title President of the United States seems to win you this:

• Not the greatest paying job in the country (To put it in perspective, Snooki’s paycheck is higher.)
• An invisible bulls-eye planted on your forehead, upon which at least half of the nation's hatred will be focused
• Your very own Saturday Night Live parody sketch
• A disposable amount of unpaid interns at your beck and call, who will only later ruin your life/historic legacy/marriage/future Hollywood career.
• Unwanted fashion ridicule
• Your family’s appearances, actions and beverages of choice under constant scrutiny
• No less than two stomach ulcers and one necessary heart surgery

And, people wish this on their children at the ripe age of three months! You know, when they learn to simultaneously burp and roll over weeks ahead of their peers in playgroup. “He so smart! I already know he’ll be President one day!” (Note: Never Commander in Chief.)

And, why is it that we equate intelligence with presidential potential anyhow? I can go out on that limb and say I’m smarter than many of our past elects. And, without one semester of college under my belt! (Side note: Lack of higher education does not make me dumb, it makes me poor. Haven’t you all seen Good Will Hunting? Sheesh!)

I'm not bragging. Most of you too can rival the intelligence of a former President. Here’s an informal list I found predicting past presidential I.Q. scores (source:

http://archure.net/psychology/IQs.html):

• George Washington: 118
• U. S. Grant: 110
• Andrew Jackson: 123
• Abraham Lincoln: 128
• John F. Kennedy: 117
• George W. Bush: 125
• Bill Clinton: 137

For comparison’s sake:

• Leonardo DaVinci: 220
• Benjamin Franklin: 160
• Bill Gates: 160
• Sharon Stone: 154

Frankly, I prefer my geniuses in the lab curing cancer or in a workshop making my PC more user-friendly.

I’d prefer wisdom over intelligence in a world leader. Meaning, someone able to apply common logic at the appropriate time needed over someone with the ability to do math equations quickly in their mind. A cautious word goes further in a leadership role than being able to quote every name, date and place in the eight-grade history book. (Note to certain female hopefuls: Please stop trying to do this. It is not a job requirement.)

If you’re gauging your vote on intelligence, stop hurting yourself. You only get to choose from the people stupid enough to run.

Hot topics are another thing that have been hammering the inside of my skull. I know many people vote on social convictions and I don’t fault you for that! I have very strong opinions myself, but realistically… Hot Topic to me means nothing more than that dark store in the mall where you can buy black pants with lots of zippers on the legs. (Zippers with stringy things attached!)

I never have nor ever will change my morals based on law. I don’t recall many laws passed or repealed in my lifetime based on political influence. And, I can’t imagine one being passed or repealed that would in any way affect my day-to-day life. Prohibition has never been reinstated, yet I’m not an alcoholic. Abortion is still legal, yet I’ve never killed a fetus. Gay marriage was just passed in the state of New York yet, amazingly, I woke up the next morning still straight! They’re hot buttons! I know I’m supposed to care, that's why I used the exclamation points! But, a lot of it is just irrelevant to my life. If it's relevent to yours, fine, go forth young (wo)man. (That said, there are ten Laws I try desperately to follow. If you curious, you can find them in the book of Exodus.)

I don’t say this to be provocative, offensive or to incite any kind of riotous behavior (Or hate mail! Unfriend me if you must, but please no hate mail!) I’m just saying, don’t expect to check a box or punch a chad and have someone take the moral weight off your shoulders. Be president of your own household. Teach your children of your convictions. Incite social responsibility amongst your own sphere of influence. More can happen out here than in a white mansion on Pennsylvania Avenue. Don’t expect too much of that position. The president is not your spouse, parent, domestic partner, religious leader, local deputy, HR manager or reporting supervisor.

That being said, what should we look for in a president? It’s pretty much a PR position these days, isn’t it? So maybe (bullet-points are huge this season):

• The self-control to not pass gas in front of foreign dignitaries.
• The strength to keep one’s foot from between one’s teeth.
• The good-natured ability to smile politely for the better part of a 4-8 year time span.
• If I might coin a term: “Schmoozability” seems to go a long way. (Oh, my spell-checker is at full tilt right now!)
• The common sense to hire those who will provide the best support and to give the proper authority to those who can best keep those nasty terrorists at bay.

That seems pretty reasonable.

So, when your child comes to you and states they’d like to become an auto mechanic one day, don’t dissuade him or her. Don’t ask them “Wouldn’t you rather be president, honey?” I’m more worried about auto shop programs being cut in many public schools (meaning, once my mechanic retires, I’ll be hard-pressed to find a new one) than I am about who will be the president of this nation 20 years from now.

Don’t tell your child that an auto mechanic wouldn’t make a decent enough living, because you’re probably that same parent I hear at the local garage griping about how much you’re being charged. My Trailblazer won’t last forever without proper maintenance! I don’t know if the education system expected us to all be commuting by anti-gravity boots by now, but we still need mechanics (and retail managers, and janitors, and someone to raise the food, and kill the food, and sell the food, and cook the food, and serve the food…)

Let your children thrive wherever their talents lie. Because, I still haven’t figured out why anyone would want to be president.

Maybe for the library?