Whatever You Do

As always, please send this video to five friends and insist they do the same and that they do the same and on and on and on. If you can, drive people to the polls. Call your local election commission and ask how you can help them on election day. Do anything and everything within your power to vote and to ensure others do the same.

Sports Night: Number Twenty-Two

It's no secret that I am not a sports fan. There is much about it that does not make sense to me but I have always been able to appreciate the ideals for which sports stand: the dedication and work it takes to participate, the courage required to stand up and put your abilities on display, the devotion of the fans. And of course, a good underdog story is always heartwarming.

Much of my exposure to sports this past year has come through my walks with Duncan as we navigate the various teams which swarm over the fields in the park across the street. While I detest the surprising majority of parents who seem completely inattentive, talking on their phones while standing on the sidelines with their backs turned, or sitting in their cars reading a book or the paper while their children run and kick and jump and cavort for them, I genuinely admire the kids who give their all. I remember what it was like to stand there, awkward and fearful, praying the ball stayed as far away from me as possible 'less I blow my one chance. To this day when I see a ball I careening toward me across an athletic field I see a lifetime of childhood and adolescent anxiety. Duncan merely sees a ball bouncing across the grass and wants to join in the fun. On more than one occasion we've accidentally interrupted a kiddie soccer practice when he's charged into the fray to wrest control of the ball in a mad attempt to slather it with drool.

The football teams finally returned today. They appear to have lost some of their status along with the privilege to play on the main fields and have been relegated to practicing on the now abandoned baseball diamonds. While Duncan paused and sniffed the trunk of a bare Aspen tree, I watched the kids slam into each other, their pads colliding and groaning under the strain of their impacts, but one kid, rather thin and gangly, was a little more forceful than the others, running a little harder, catching a little more air just before crushing into the others, grunting louder but catching his balance and pushing on before his teammates did. It was only when he turned away and moved back into formation that I saw the long ponytail hanging halfway down his back, noticed the grace of his movements and realized that number twenty two was not a he but a she. And a damn feisty one at that. When it came time to rush her coach, squatting behind the small kiddie-sized tackle sled, she nearly knocked him over and moved right on past as he struggled to keep his balance and prepare for the next kid.

I could've stood there all night, watching this small, bird-like girl throw better than some of the boys, run faster, dance on her feet with much more agility and repeatedly push her coach back, gaining ground on him each time. I was never a fan of team sports, but she was the kind of person I'd definitely want on my team. I was always one of the last kids picked when it came time to choose teams (except at dodge ball!) but that's something number twenty-two will never have to worry about. I guarantee it.

Proud

I voted today. And it feels god damn good!
What have you done today to make yourself proud?
Go vote!

Politics Monday: Conservatives for Obama

Many of the people I know will freely admit they vote Republican simply because that's what their parents and grandparents have always done. While I understand it I can't help but feel it's the lazy and ignorant way out and requires no thought whatsoever. Many of the Republicans I know don't realize they're actually moderate Democrats who just can't seem to get their acts together. For instance, several friends believe that health care is a right, not a privilege. They also believe that we all deserve the opportunity to improve our lives through education, while also recognizing that we don't all have the same background and financial ability to do so. They believe that gay people deserve the right to love whomever they choose and share in the same rights and benefits offered straight people. They adamantly believe in a woman's right to choose. I've tried speaking to them and while several have stopped and seriously considered what I've had to say (the military friend I wrote about last week admitted recently that he'll most likely vote for Obama), others choose to remain steadfastly ignorant of their own political leanings.

This video is for them. They know who they are. If you know of people who are afraid to come out and turn their back on the old way of doing things, please forward the video to them as well. Share it in any way you can. Post it on your own blog, Facebook or Myspace page. Get the message out to those people who are simply afraid to break with family tradition. Their votes could make all the difference. We only have 8 days left. There is not a moment to lose!

Obama Sunday

I was a part of something today which was enormous and important and which could potentially change the entire world. You may have heard that Barack Obama spent Sunday morning in downtown Denver speaking to a crowd of well over 100,000 people, which included Melissa and myself (watch part of it here).



It was an exhilarating experience, one I hope never to forget. I cannot tell you how amazing it felt to be a part of something so big with so many other people who recognize that this country is in dire need of change in a positive direction. They were people of all types and colors, economic brackets and classes.


The volunteers, who numbered in the thousands, handed out fliers, sold buttons and shirts, bumper stickers, recruited even more volunteers and shared their message of hope. I have never been in such a large crowd with so many considerate people; everyone wished us a good morning, thanked us for coming out, wished us well as we left. It was electric and there were times when I listened to Barack speak that tears actually came to my eyes. I felt I was part of history, that this day and this election was a one I could look back on and be proud of. I felt part of a community which wants nothing more than to help this country and her citizenry realize its full potential.


I can not urge you enough to vote early, to tell your friends and family to do the same, to speak with everyone you know about why Barack Obama is the best candidate for the future of this country. This afternoon I signed up to go canvassing door to door, which makes me proud and helps me feel like I've earned the right to see this man made president of the United States. Do all you can do. Don't just sit there, get involved!

"Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time.

We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek."
(Barack Obama)

*The last photo was borrowed from The Huffington Post

Clambering Autumn

When I was young, perhaps seven or eight, I remember my sister and I Sunday-driving through the wide neighborhood streets near the high school in Blackfoot, Idaho in my father's car. It was some time in late Autumn when the sun is still able to choose warmth even though the sky is as sharp as a razor and as far away as the moon. The trees, yellowed nicely, had finally kissed their leaves farewell and set them free on the wind. They'd spent all summer shading and sheltering the swallows and sparrows and countless other little gray and dirt-colored Idaho birds, listening to their talk, imagining they understood enough that when the time came they'd learned enough to fly off on their own, far away from the bleak little town on the edge of the reservation in a forgotten corner of the state. But when the time came, when the fingers of the trees relaxed and set them loose, they could only spin once or twice in the air before alighting on the grass, against the tall curbs or down into the street where they curled up on themselves and waited and waited.


Casey and I were in the backseat, standing, as you could in those days, looking out the back window, watching as the thrust of the car pushed the leaves aside and then pulled them in behind us where they rattled as they took chase, bouncing and crunching, leaving sad, broken bits of themselves––slivers in the road––behind. Casey and I cheered them on and when our father asked what we were watching I exclaimed, "They're chasing us, daddy! They're chasing us! Go faster." He glanced back in the rear view mirror and confirmed the army of leaves advancing and then falling behind as we sped ever forward, and bless him, he played along, slowing the car and letting them clatter forward, almost reaching us and then gunning it just as they reached for the tires beneath us.


It was an image I have never forgotten, and I have spent many a Fall afternoon walk with Duncan remembering it as I've watched the leaves rain gold and fire from the trees, roll across the sidewalk, heave through the grass or shatter against the curbs in the parking lots. There is nothing quiet or serene about Autumn and her colorful dancing minions are louder than even the wind, never content but always clambering for direction and movement, for the ghost-dreams of flight which haunt them through their final hours. On those days when the weight of the season has not taken my heart I like to run with Dunc across the grass, dodging the dried little hand-print shapes caught in the slowly yellowing blades, leaping over them as we cross the sidewalks. His joy at the chase is matched only by the surrender when we stand beneath the locust trees as the leaves swarm down on us, catching me around the shoulders, hanging from Roo's ears and clinging to his tail. Eventually we find ourselves on our backs staring upward, blinking leaves away when they waft down into our eyes, listening to their final mad frolic and the broken glass notes of their song.


There are not many days left of this part of Autumn, this Clambering Autumn when Orion rules the night and the naked trees, can only point, mute, at his path across the dark.

Special Guest

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." (Anaïs Nin)

After months of anticipation and planning it finally happened: Lori from Fermented Fur finally came to Denver and made her debut appearance right here at While Walking Duncan. Although she hasn't actually had a chance to walk with him, she did spend several quality hours playing with and spoiling him. Of course it helped that she came bearing gifts: a beautiful pheasant toy we've dubbed Birdy and some delicious Duck Strip Dog Treats from Plato. I, in turn, made my Famous White Pizza, and Duncan doted on her and somehow convinced her, as he does every visitor, that he's sorely neglected and doesn't get nearly as much attention as he deserves. We had a wonderful evening, especially Dunc, who has made a new Best Friend For Life. Lori and I spent much of the night sitting and talking, playing with Roo, eating and talking, playing with Roo, discussing books and writing, politics and Roo, and getting so caught up in our time together that we didn't realize it was well past Turning-Back-Into-Pumpkins time and finally admitted that it was time to call it a night. As Lori gathered her things and headed to the door, Duncan put on his saddest face and pouted as she scritched behind his ears one last time. Luckily we'll be able to get together again on Saturday and actually walk and enjoy the cool Fall weather which has settled over The Rockies, with crunching leaves underfoot and the laughter of a new friendship ringing across the fields.

Politics Monday: Experience

I was talking with a good friend this morning, someone I admire and genuinely love, but with whom I rarely discuss politics. He's an Iraq war veteran and although I'm opposed to the war it would not be respectful of his service and the sacrifices he's made to argue my opinions with him. He left his home and family to fight for something he very much believes in and I am in awe of his duty. I sat at home, watched the war on television or read about it, debated it from the safety of my living room or on the phone with friends while he was actually there, unable to turn it off, put it down or hang up on it. And although we have differing opinions he knows how high my esteem is for him and how grateful I am for the decisions he's made.

One night last Summer, sitting on his patio sipping a beer and listening to the crickets hum in the rose bushes in his backyard, we engaged in one of our few, brief political discussions. He told me the reason he could not vote for Barack Obama was that he lacked experience. It was an argument I'd heard many times before and the only response I had was to say that George W. Bush didn't have any experience either and that he'd been so cavalier about his time with the Texas Air National Guard that to this day we're not sure whether he ever fulfilled his duties there. But, I pointed out, Obama is a man who will surround himself with other educated and experienced people, that he would not be brash and arrogant in his decision making.

This morning on the way to work I mentioned that Colin Powell had finally endorsed Obama on Meet the Press. The news caught him by surprise and for a moment I think he believed I was mistaken. He made me repeat the name. Yes, I told him. That Colin Powell. The General. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Secretary of State.

He was shocked but asked questions, wanted to know more about what Powell had said. I explained that he disagreed with the GOP's direction, did not have faith in McCain's economic strategy and doubted his choice in running mates. I also mentioned that several weeks ago General Patraeus had discussed the strategy in Afghanistan and without endorsing him, clearly stated an opinion that more closely resembled that of Barack Obama's than it did Senator McCain's. My friend realized that in one fell swoop, Powell's endorsement and Patraeus' strategy had effectively destroyed the "no experience" argument.

I have no idea whether my friend will vote for Obama; that's not the point. The point is that because I was informed and had not given up on the election in these last crucial weeks, I was able to make him pause and think. I did not expect to have the conversation and I certainly didn't think there was anything I could say that would change his mind, but he admitted he had some studying to do, and that's all I could hope for. And I hope that each of you, no matter where you are or how many political commercials are bombarding you (I live in Colorado, and believe me, all I see are political commercials!), you will take these words to heart. We are too close to think we have it in the bag. Now, more than ever, we have to fight, harder than we have over the course of the past several months. We have to fight for the uninsured, for the veterans and the soldiers still serving, for the poor and disenfranchised. We can not make the same mistake we made four years ago. We owe it to them. Research, read all you can, take the videos off this blog and send them to everyone you know. Urge them to forward them along. If you have a blog you must use your voice, no matter how small or how off-topic you think it is, to speak up for what you know is right. I challenge you to get involved in whatever way you can. With two weeks remaining, every moment counts!

LATE BREAKING NEWS (10/21/08 6 AM): Word has just come out that in addition to Michigan, the McCain campaign may be giving up on Colorado, big news for a state that twice went red. See, the little people can make a difference! Get out there and do something in your state!

Rapture and Oblivion

There is a wall at the end of the grassy lane where Duncan and I walk in the morning and again at night. On both sides of that wall the trees have turned the most brilliant shades of Autumn and beneath them the light glows a buttery cinnamon color and the air is sweet and heavy and flavorful on the tongue. For the last few weeks we have watched the progress of the leaves erupting from the tree and the slow but steady growth of the empty space around them as more and more find their way to ground below. The light has changed slowly as the canopy above has frayed, but the ground, a pleasant but single shade of green, has tattooed itself in celebration with the red and golden bodies it espied enviously all Summer.

The most marvelous thing about the wall and the corner where it sits is the delight the wind takes in traipsing through it. This morning, the street calm and quiet, the light still low but bright, Duncan and I followed the grassy lane down to the wall and gasped at the festival awaiting our arrival. As the leaves were finally letting go of their roost, the only place they have ever known, the wind fluttered and swirled around the base of the trees, pulling the bodies which had already settled there into the air and flung them in wide, playful eddies around the trunks where they mingled and danced with those who were only just making the journey to the ground. Families of leaves rose up to meet the stalwart who had held out for so long, tickled their crimson skins and coaxed them free of the branches where they swept far and wide and low. Duncan and I watched the leaves rise up even as others fell. He wagged his tail as his feet danced before him, then cocked his head and looked at me, curious for an explanation but content with the magic of not being given one.

In this time of transition, from vibrant life to stark hibernation, I wonder if The Universe will rejoice at our own passing in a similar manner, stirring the spirits who have gone before us into joyful revelry as they escort us from the only place we have known into rapture and oblivion.

Happy Birthday, Grandma

It's Grandma's birthday once again and even though we're six-hundred miles away, Duncan wanted to be part of the celebration. She's his favorite, you know, especially because of all the turkey and treats she sneaks him when his papa isn't looking, and were she here he'd plant a big sloppy wet kiss right across her face.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Hillside

"What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach far to the horizon?" (Hal Borland)

This afternoon the northwest side of the park and the lower field were blessedly clear of the usual brightly clad darting soccer-kids and their milling, indifferent parents. Duncan and I had crossed Bowles, tromping over the fallen leaf bodies in the curb to weave through the gathered crowds. Once on the far side of the queen willow, holding court over the tall reeds and cattails bowing and bending low at her feet, the field opened up before us like an unexpected sanctuary. The elms on its western edge have long since given up their Autumn struggle and looked bony and sickly, almost obscene against the faraway hollow blue of the mountained sky. But the field spread before us long and green and the maples and cottonwoods ringing her other boundaries were full and bloated with color. We spent much of last winter there playing in refuge from the wind at the base of its low hill, but there has been little reason to visit it since. There are places in the world which are meant almost strictly for specific times and seasons and it seems I have found another. Duncan was lucky enough to find a good, solid throwing stick which he preferred to gnaw upon rather than chase, and so I unrolled myself out on the ground, rested my head among the tall blades of grass which, at this time of year, feel cold and damp, even if they are not, slipped my hands behind my head and watched the sky move as only Autumn skies do, swiftly and with unknown purpose, clouds spread haphazardously about, mingling as indifferent as strangers among each other. Defying their nature they did not blend or merge and grow indistinguishable, like people in a crowd, but moved cautiously, revolving around one another, like drops of oil in water. From where I watched, my glorious red dog chipping away on the fractured femur of a maple branch with his diligent and purposeful teeth, the fuzzy, almost transparent clouds made impressions in the sky like the fleshy undersides of alabaster baby feet dipped in heavy cream. My fingers, restless worms, tubed through the grass on the hill above my head, blind eyes seeking contact, catching and crunching the few stray leaves which had fallen in the hours since the park's grounds crew had mulched them en masse earlier in the day. My hand fell upon an elm twig, pliable and green at the place where it had broken free of the rest of the tree, its skin still tender and warm with ridges heavy and knuckled like the bony finger of an old woman, the kind of thing I imagine Gretel offered to the witch who wanted only to fatten up her and Hansel before making a dinner of them. My fingers rejoiced in its texture and weight and because I did not use my eyes, did not commit its color and speckled skin to memory, I knew it as intimately and as fully as a lover's body, traced and caressed under the silken sheets of midnight.

And this, I suppose, is what I love most about this bittersweet season, that even though The Universe placates our fear and apprehension with explosions of color, so much more is offered through its scents and sounds, the feel of it on the skin of our faces and hands, the whispering of the leaves dancing down the street, the sweet, pungent flavor of the wind on our tongues. This is the time to close our eyes and feel our most alive, to remember and burn our brightest, rejoice in the beating of our hearts.

"It was one of those perfect... autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life." (P.D. James)

Political Monday: Character

My friend Ruth and I were discussing the election tonight and I mentioned that this election is unlike any I have experienced in the nearly twenty years I've participated in the political process. It seems that since 1988, when I was two months shy of being allowed to vote, most of the elections have been centered on hot-button social issues such as abortion or gay rights (being allowed into the military or granted the right to marry), or universal health care, but that this election is about America's place in the world, as both an economic and democratic leader. This election is about restoring the principles which made this country great and repairing the tremendous damages by a single dangerously ignorant administration. I feel so strongly about this country's future because I have never felt quite so patriotic and wanted so badly to believe in the truth of the American Dream. I want to see our flag and nation restored in the eyes of a world which once looked to us for guidance. I firmly believe that this is the most important election of my life and that only one man has the values and character to guide us out of the quagmire that George Bush has left us in.

John McCain has waged an erratic and divisive campaign and it is clear by the lies and deceit he's perpetuated in his ads, his handling of the economic crisis and the hateful and dangerous rhetoric he and his pit bull lobbed against Barack Obama last week, that he has little sense of direction and is a volatile and unsafe candidate. The character of the man now is an indication of the character of the man in office. Barack Obama has kept his campaign focused on the issues which are of concern to the American public. He has not used smear tactics and has remained presidential throughout much of the turmoil that has engulfed this country over the past several weeks. I want a community organizer to lead us into the future, a man who knows how to teach others to lead themselves, not a maverick who shows little respect for the greater need of the majority of our citizens. I want a man who is clear-headed and calm, who surrounds himself with a group of advisers who are experienced and intelligent rather than cronies and lobbyists. The country has never needed change as terribly as we need it now. Please speak with your friends and family about the issues that matter most to you. Use your voice, be it in a telephone call or an email or on your own blog, as a force for change. Volunteer in any way you can, if that means canvassing your neighborhood or offering to drive voters to the polls on the 4th. Any effort is better than remaining silent. Silence will not change the world but strangle it.

Be sure to watch the third and final presidential debate on Wednesday, October 15th! Host a party, attend one, talk about with everyone you know.

Grandpa's Poetry

My grandfather is the kind of man by which I measure all others. It seems there was nothing he could not do or figure out. As a child I was fascinated by him, by the stories he told and the sound effects he injected throughout, the beeps and toots and whistles. He is a natural musician, playing the guitar, singing in his smooth tenor voice, learning the harmonica in only a day. It was my grandfather who taught me to whistle, and despite the fact that I whistle almost constantly, I will never be half as good as he is in his sleep. He knows how to fix things like cars and sinks and showers and toilets. He is an outdoors man and many of my earliest memories of him are centered around camping trips and fishing excursions or the places in-between, when he would set me on his lap and let me drive the turquoise green truck we took on so many of those trips, keeping a careful finger at the bottom of the steering wheel as I was hardly big enough to see over the dashboard. Grandma was kind enough to feign fear and cover her eyes as she squealed. But it thrilled me and Grandpa always made me feel capable and brave and I loved nothing more than when he'd rest his heavy hand on my shoulder and call me "son." He is a hunter with a tremendous love and respect for the wild places of the world. For as long as I can remember, when asked what he'd want if I were to become rich and famous he's said he wants a helicopter to take him to the most beautiful and remote places in Alaska where he could stand in a cold stream and fly-fish all day. When I was very young and got to spend a week with my grandparents, Grandpa and I had a routine that began the moment he walked up the front step. I would hide somewhere in the house and he would spend long minutes, tired and smelling of grease and the bus he rode across the desert to and from the I.N.E.L. where he worked, tromping back and forth through the kitchen and living room, down the hall to the narrow closet where Grandma kept the vacuum, peeking behind couches and under tables looking for me. I'd stay put, giggling into a clenched fist and chirping like a bird or squeaking like a mouse to attract his attention, and he would pretend not to see me, standing almost on top of me until I leapt out at him. He'd stumble back in shock and then hug me tight, tickling my ribs as he held me. And then, after he'd cleaned up, changing into a simple white t-shirt, he'd carry me downstairs in his arms and lead me through the family room to the stuffed antelope and deer heads mounted on the wall, which I would pet somewhat apprehensively, staring at my own reflection in their glassy black eyes. Then he'd lead me to the bobcat hide, tanned and hanging above the couch, which I would run my fingers through while Grandpa meowed softly in my ear. Then he'd set me down on the bearskin rug and let me peer into the eyes and open mouth of the thing, poke at the place its tongue should have been, trace the lines of its teeth. That mothball-scented basement family room is where I learned to love my grandfather and I think that was because it was his space. Grandma could do whatever she wanted with the rest of the house, changing and rearranging the furniture, making new curtains and drapes, painting, buying new lamps and fixtures, but the basement was his. It was where he kept his trophies, his hunting equipment, including the elk calls he'd occasionally let me blow into. Most importantly, though, it was where he kept the jars.

There were shelves and shelves of them, mostly old peanut butter jars, the glass kind, family-sized and heavy, thick so that when you peered into them their contents blurred and warped and refused to reveal themselves except by the red or green punch labels Grandpa had made and attached to the places where Grandma had washed away the paper Skippy or Jif labels. Elk, grouse, pheasant, skunk, they read; beaver, mule deer, roadkill, on and on, every manner of creature. And in those jars were bits of hide, colorful feathered wings, tails he'd collected. I spent many hours leaning over the arms of the rough-textured couch behind his work station, watching him open them and withdraw bits which he always let me stroke or caress with the back of my hand, fascinated not only by what they'd once been but also by what they were about to become. I don't know how he did it, but he spent hours extracting pieces of fur or strands of feather which he wrapped around a hook and mounted on a vice and spun and spun until after long hours he'd produced a bright and beautiful lure for his fly-fishing trips. My eyes lit up at the transformation and I wanted to throw my arms around him and congratulate him on his magic. Nothing was more wondrous than his ability to change one thing--something so alien, disconnected as it was from the thing it had been--into something luminous and more alive than all those heads and skins hanging from the walls around us. My grandfather could spin gold! And there is nothing I wouldn't give to sit in that basement and see him do it again.

This morning at the park Duncan followed close, almost behind me, near to my body, watching me as though waiting for something, his eyes wide and head slightly cocked, ears up. His ball was at home where he'd dropped it in all his excitement and bum-shimmying in front of the door while waiting for me to leash him up. I had nothing to throw his way. and held out my empty hands for him to see. He did a little prancing hop at me as though I was hiding something which he'd discovered and wanted. But I had nothing. Scanning the ground I spotted a large branch which had broken free of the naked and sickly elm above us. Moving quickly I snapped off the last brittle four feet of the thing. Duncan plopped down hard, his tail wagging beneath him, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Hardly able to contain themselves, his front paws danced in place as I worked, peeling the smaller leafy twigs off the main branch, shucking them and dropping them at my feet, until I'd finally fashioned the perfect throwing stick, smooth and nearly nub-free. As I tossed it across the park, watching it spin and arc in the air while Duncan chased after it, his head craned back and his tail sticking straight out, I thought of Grandpa and his flies, his taking and making, the way he taught me, without knowing it, how to write poetry and how to move through this life, looking at things exactly as they are but also seeing them for what they could be, should be. In my mind those flies, those scraps of long-dead animals and birds, are still humming and darting over the speckled lakes and rivers of southeast Idaho, more alive in their tethered flight than I could have imagined peering into their peanut butter jar-kennels.

I do not know how to tie flies, and despite Grandpa's best efforts, I never managed to catch anything fly-fishing next to him on the south fork of the Snake River. There are many things my grandfather knows which I will never be able to do but his whistle is not the only thing I've inherited. I can turn branches in flying toys and fulfill the dreams of my own "son."

Political Monday: McCain's Judgment and Values

"The current economic crisis demands that we understand John McCain's attitudes about economic oversight and corporate influence in federal regulation. Nothing illustrates the danger of his approach more clearly than his central role in the savings and loan scandal of the late '80s and early '90s.

John McCain was accused of improperly aiding his political patron, Charles Keating, chairman of the Lincoln Savings and Loan Association. The bipartisan Senate Ethics Committee launched investigations and formally reprimanded Senator McCain for his role in the scandal -- the first such Senator to receive a major party nomination for president.

At the heart of the scandal was Keating's Lincoln Savings and Loan Association, which took advantage of deregulation in the 1980s to make risky investments with its depositors' money. McCain intervened on behalf of Charles Keating with federal regulators tasked with preventing banking fraud, and championed legislation to delay regulation of the savings and loan industry––actions that allowed Keating to continue his fraud at an incredible cost to taxpayers.

When the savings and loan industry collapsed, Keating's failed company put taxpayers on the hook for $3.4 billion and more than 20,000 Americans lost their savings. John McCain was reprimanded by the bipartisan Senate Ethics Committee, but the ultimate cost of the crisis to American taxpayers reached more than $120 billion.

The Keating scandal is eerily similar to today's credit crisis, where a lack of regulation and cozy relationships between the financial industry and Congress has allowed banks to make risky loans and profit by bending the rules. And in both cases, John McCain's judgment and values have placed him on the wrong side of history." (as quoted from www.KeatingEconomics.com)

It may be a bit long and technical but it's crucial that we understand exactly where John McCain's allegiances lie: with the rich and with the corrupt institutions which continually profit off the hard work of American citizens. He does not support the middle class and does not have your best interests at heart. History has proven that. Twice. Please take the time to watch the video, read on your own and pass this information along to everyone you know. You owe it to your country. Be a patriot and stand up for what you know is right. Vote Barack Obama on November 4th.

Sunshine Rapture

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
(from "Wild Geese", by Mary Oliver)

Don't Vote

Don't watch this video, packed full of film, television and music stars. And whatever you do, don't vote. And when it's over and you have the option on clicking "embed" or copying the link, don't post it on your own blog or send it to five people. Don't do anything. Whatever you do, don't do anything. Except maybe look into the faces of our children who can't compete academically. Or the faces of people whose lives have been ruined because they got sick and our government refuses to see health care as a right instead of a privilege. Or hold the hands women who were denied the right to choose. Or watch as the ice caps melt and the polar bears have to eat each other just to stay alive. Or witness our economy collapse right before our very eyes. Don't vote, but do those other things and come back and tell the rest of us how you feel. Duncan says so.

And don't forget to watch the VP debate Thursday night! Not only is it important but I have a feeling it will be entertaining and infuriating all at once!