Blessed be the moderates, for we shall inherit the dearth

As a voter, I'm an endangered species -- a moderate. Somewhere between a Howard Baker Republican and a Daniel Patrick Moynihan Democrat, which, number one, badly dates me and, number two, puts me in a very narrow political demographic of little use to either party anymore. Today's politics are all about whipping the bases into a frenzy, and I'm way off base.

We Bakerian Moynihanites believe government is essential to national security and certain domestic duties, but to expect it to do anything especially efficiently or cost-effectively is foolish. That applies equally to waging war and running health care. We acknowledge the need for both guns and butter but think we ought to pay for them, and if we can't afford it all -- and we can't -- we should buy less of one, or probably both, rather than spend ourselves into oblivion.

We moderates are leery and weary of the shouting from both extremes. Doesn't anybody here know how to use an inside voice?

Tea Partiers rant about "taking our government back." They love to cite the Constitution, though one suspects many haven't read the thing and would do so only if it came in coloring book or Primary Reader form ("See Dick go on and on and on about his fantasy football league; that's freedom of speech. See Jane point an AK-47 in his direction; the 2nd Amendment says she can do this until you pry it from her cold, dead hands. Spot cannot seem to produce a birth certificate proving he's a real American.")

On the torches-and-pitchforks fringe of the Tea Party -- and also among some actual Republican candidates who identify with the TP -- some mutter darkly of armed revolution, but let's not get too worried; most of these folks look barely capable of organizing a beer run without driving the van into a tree or canal, or over themselves.

Meantime, Obama seems to be disappointing or angering just about everyone, because that's what presidents do once they go from the thrill of the campaign to the grubby reality of governing. Many of us moderates, while excited at the prospect of an African American president, were frankly skeptical from the start about all this airy "hope and change" talk, but it's those who bought into it who are especially hurting. Yes, it's hard to believe that a guy who won messianic acclaim and worship from media and supporters alike for such campaign promises as "yes, we can" and "we are the change we've been waiting for" would have ended up falling short of expectations, isn't it?

(On the lunatic wings of both extremes, there is at least some common ground -- a belief that the height of clever, cutting political commentary is to adorn the picket-sign images of your foes with Hitler mustaches. It's time to banish this tired practice; it does a disservice to the legacy of Hitler, who worked way too hard to redefine evil to be compared to every other American politician. Here's an idea: Instead of Hitler mustaches, how about drawing Justin Bieber hairdos on our political nemeses? A much more topical cultural reference and, in its way, more dismissive and insulting.)

So, another Election Day looms. Clearly, Sarah Palin has emerged as the counterweight to Obama. She was smart enough to see the Tea Party movement forming and to say, as the old saying goes, "There go my people. I must find out where they are going so I can lead them." Now, she's the veritable Wicked Witch to these flying monkeys. "Take your army to the Haunted Capital and bring me that boy and his dog. Now fly – fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!"

I can't help it: Whenever I hear Palin's voice, I react like a dog having a dog whistle blown next to his head -- I cover my ears, whimper and tremble; a couple of times, I even peed on the floor. But I also have a visceral reaction every time I hear and see Harry Reid, who may be the only politician in America awful enough to lose to the deranged Sharon Angle. Reid sometimes reminds me of a mortician and other times a mortician's customer, no offense to either morticians or corpses.

Oh, and speaking of corpses, Newt Gingrich somehow climbed out of his political grave, and all signs point to that noxious toad running for president.

So, while we can be glad the 2010 election is nearly over, it's nearly time to start dreading 2012. Palin-Gingrich vs. Obama-Biden.

Hitler mustaches all around. And Bieber haircuts, too, please.

The nutritionally and environmentally conscious who distribute fresh fruit, coins and dental floss to trick-or-treaters should go ahead and also hand out raw eggs, bars of soap, toilet paper and Molotov cocktails (Detroit only) so the kids don't have to make a separate, gas-wasting trip back to your house later.

The greatest bolt of sheer, unadulterated joy is found in that split second when you awake thinking it's a weekday and suddenly realize it's a Saturday. If that burst of giddy adrenaline could be distilled into a drug, I'd happily become an addict.

Of course living well is the best revenge, but if that's not a realistic option for you, a tire iron to the headlights can be quite effective, too.

‎Unlike some people, I never feel hungry an hour after eating Chinese food, but that might have something to do with my post-fortune cookie routine of pounding down a couple of burritos.

Just my luck -- I got a bod for business and a head for sin.

Career counseling

I've reached an awkward stage in my life and career: Too young to count the days 'til retirement (though I did: about 5,774) but too old to properly reinvent myself. I'm watching the work I enjoy and at which I am reasonably competent – organizing words and punctuation marks into some semblance of coherence -- become less and less marketable (oh, how I loathe that word), and hoping it remains viable long enough to get me to retirement.

It's not that I require a particularly affluent retirement. All I ask is a tidy little house, with a porch in front from which to yell at the neighborhood children and a small subsistence garden out back, including a row of medicinal marijuana to treat my Alzheimer's. I'm willing to don the blue vest of the Walmart greeter or the hairnet and plastic gloves of the hamburger slinger, if need be. I'm salting away cost-cutting tips, like a recipe for a Ramen noodle-cat food casserole. I hope not to be reduced to licking pizza boxes found in dumpsters and living in a van down by the river, though I'm hanging on to my old van just in case.

Meantime, I have two sons who will be entering the workforce -- please, Lord, let it be so -- in the next couple of years and they are looking to their old man for some wise career counsel. OK, that's a lie; they've asked me squat. But I have learned a few things in 28 years of hard work, grit and determination – actually 26; I coasted through 1986 and ’91 – and I’m going to share a few tips for my sons and all young men and women about to begin their careers, even those who seek to hasten my demise by working more cheaply, more cheerfully, more quickly and with fewer bathroom breaks than I:

• Pay about twice as much, maybe triple, for work shoes than you feel comfortable paying. You won’t regret it. Success begins with comfortable feet.

• Never attribute to conspiracy and venality that which can be explained by sheer human folly and stupidity.

• Network, network, network or, at a minimum, identify the movers and shakers in your profession and affix your lips securely to their behinds.

• Understand that starting at the bottom and working your way up is all well and good, but sometimes you only get to the middle and spend the rest of your career working your way sideways, and that's not all bad. There’s usually more fun to be had there than at the top, albeit less money.

• Success is partly about being in the right place at the right time but, even moreso, about NOT being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

• Men, strive for a job that doesn’t require the wearing of a suit, but in which you can get away with wearing one if you want to without having people coming up to you all day and asking, “who died?” It’s even better if men the next level up in your organization also don't have to wear a suit. That way, you won't need to invest in a new wardrobe if you somehow ascend another step up the organizational chain, either via the Peter Principle or because some schmuck in middle management, on one of the rare days he does wear a suit, gets a little too close to the paper shredder and gets sucked through it when his tie gets caught.
• I have no corresponding career fashion advice for women. I could venture some guesses, but I suspect that would end badly for me. Sorry.
  
• You've heard it's not what you know but who you know that determines success. Maybe. But if you really want to get ahead, it's about who you know, what you have photos or video of them doing and with whom they are doing it.

• And, finally, steal one Post-it note, one paper clip and one pen each week so you'll have a head start on going into business for yourself if the bottom falls out of your job.

Oh, and one more: Be nice to the old guy greeting you at Walmart. It might be me … and, one day, you.