(In)decision '08

The E Street version of the Democratic caucuses gathered around my dining room table last night. There were eight of us—Gishi, Milt, Lorna, Stu, Linda, Dorothy, Phil and me—and for roughly three hours we discussed, opined, mused, pondered and fretted. Having two outstanding candidates to choose from: Hooray! Having to make a choice between two outstanding candidates: Boo!

We attempted to be objective and methodical. We visited the Web site glassbooth.org and collectively answered the survey questions, comparing the percentages of agreement between us and the candidates. Then, really, we just talked, realizing that, for us, this time around, it's not so much about issues (the differences between Hillary and Barack being virtually negligible) as it is about our guts and our hearts. For me, it comes down to asking which one of them gives me the most hope that we can begin to reerse the terrible damage that the Bush administration has inflictd on our country? Which one has the imagination, the audacity, even, to approach the mess and try a new way to whittle it down?

At the end of the evening, the consensus was that we were even more undecided than when we'd started. But we all agreed that what we'd done was valuable, and we'd learned a lot from each other.

So, where does that leave me? Graphic designers have a version of the old light-bulb joke that's told when a client says the company wants a new brochure. It goes like this:
Q: How many graphic designers does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Does it have to be a light bulb?

In other words, maybe a brochure isn't the best way to get what you want. In this crucial election, maybe what I want is not experience so much as innovation, someone who's neural pathways won't be inclined to head down the same route they've been before. I think that's a description of Barack Obama, and that's who I'm going to vote for. I think.

A Dem's dilemm

Election day is this coming Tuesday, and I still haven't decided: Barack or Hillary? Hillary or Barack? Lately I've been leaning strongly toward Obama, but tonight, watching the debate between the two, I can make a case to myself for Hillary. I like Obama's vision and what I see as his ability to break with the "same old, same old," but worry whether his inexpeience will make him ineffetive. I admire Hillary's grit and savvy but worry about the specter of renewed Clinton-bashing and resurrection of the old polarization.

So, tomorow night, I'm hosting my own personal Democratic caucus. I've invited several friends over (all Democrats), to discuss both candidates and (I hope) help me make up my mind. Some of them have already voted, some, like me, are still wavering back and forth.

Regardless, though, I sat here tonight watching the two candidates and thought, come November, I'm going to participate in an extraordinary event: cast my ballot for either a woman or an African American for President of the United States. Twenty years ago, even 10 years ago, I wouldn't have believed it could happen. Things really can, and do, change . . . sometimes, even for the better.

Gap in the record

I've misplaced a notebook. It's been missing for some days, and every day I keep thinking it'll turn up somewhere. I've looked for it in the usual places—various tote bags, purses where I might have put it, my work area—and find I'm rechecking the same places, unwilling to believe I've somehow lost it.

I've been using these notebooks for years. Daytimers makes them, and I buy them in packs of three. They fit nicely into a purse or backpack or even a pocket, and they've ended up being kind of an ongoing record of my day-to-day life. It's not a journal, and I don't treat it as such. I make lists in them, jot down things people tell me that I don't want to forget, note titles of books I want to read so that when I go to the library I can actually remember them, copy bits of writing or overheard conversations that strike me as funny or relevant. Here's what they look like:

The one on the left is the one I'm currently using. The right-hand one is from 2003; the note below the date says "Trinity backpack to John McPhee."

I'm oddly (or maybe not so oddly) disquieted that I can't find the one I've misplaced. The last time I definitely recall having it was Dec. 21st, when I copied my notes from it to my post "Notes from 30,000 feet." I haven't ransacked the house, but really, there aren't that many places it could be, and though I'm not the tidiest person on the planet, the place isn't so chaotic that finding something is an Augean stables kind of task. I keep thinking it'll turn up, keep hoping, anyway. There's a lot of my life in there that I don't like feeling has gotten detached from me.

Pop quiz

A friend sent me a recipe for beef brisket. The directions say to marinate the meat, then ". . . [pop] it in the oven under a large foil tent."

I've seen that term a lot in relation to ovens and baking, and it's always given me pause: Why "pop?" The word seems so, well, perky; I envision a 1950s housewife, dressed in shirtwaist, heels and pearls, a cake in her oven-mitted hands, smiling her never-changing, ever-beaming smile.

But, so far as I can tell, she's not popping, and neither is the oven nor the item being inserted in same. So, from whence "pop?" Why not "shove" (for those in a resentful or truculent mood), "wedge" (a Thanksgiving turkey, perhaps), "toss" (the hurried or harried approach), or, for the "nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven" crowd, "nestle."

If anybody has an idea of why we "pop" stuff into the oven, let me know. And while I'm waiting to hear from you, I'll just go ahead and plop something into the microwave.

Big valley

The forecast was for rain today, but it never materialized, and since the weather was cooperating, and since I hadn't been out on my bicycle for nearly two weeks, I headed out around 1:30 to do the loop I call Tour de Trash, as it takes me past the Yolo Co. landfill.

When the air is washed clean like today, with a mild northwest wind, all the features in the landscape are vivid. Big, big skies, filled with big white clouds processing in their stately way across the flat, flat valley to join their compatriots up against the Sierra to the east, the downtown Sacramento skyline looking like a pop-up book on urban architecture. The slough just to the south of Rd. 28H (the dump road), was nice and full and running at a respectable clip toward the wetlands. I saw a great egret and a great blue heron, several red-tail hawks, lots of gulls, both on the ponds and wheeling above the landfill, looking like scraps of white paper caught in a whirlwind. The fields have greened up, thanks to the rain, and there's a fair bit of standing water at their edges.

It was a short ride as rides go, just 14.5 miles, but it was full of all the things that make cycling such a treat for the senses. And it is such a gift to be able to get on the bike and be out in the countryside within a matter of minutes. I love living in a town with edges.

But first, a word from our sponsor

The San Francisco PBS station has been airing a series called "Pioneers of Television." Beginning with the late-night talk-show hosts, so far it has covered variety shows, early situation comedies, and game and quiz shows. Much of the footage originated in the 1950s and '60s, and it's brought back memories of sitting with my family and watching Perry Como, Sid Ceasar, The Honeymooners, This Is Your Life, and, especially, the game shows—What's My Line, and Password.

But even better than the video clips are the glimpses of the products that sponsored these shows. Many of them are long gone, or at least I haven't seen them lately—Helene Curtis was one; so was Dristan (is this still available?). My favorite so far is Stoppette spray deodorant, smack on the front of the What's My Line? panel depicted as a great big bottle shooting out a spray of droplets. I remember Stoppette, though I don't recall it reminding me of nasal spray.