I am Ben. Ben I am.

I am Ben.
Ben I am.

Do I like Obamacare?

I do not like Obamacare,
I do not want it here or there.

I do not like it in my state.
In fact it makes me quite irate.

I do not want it near Chimney Rock
Or near the Capitol that looks like ... well, you know.

I know that it is quite the rage
But I have read it, every page.

To destroy it is my fondest mission,
Bummer ‘bout your precondition.

In this I do agree with Mitch
Though as you know, I’m not his bitch.

It’s destroying America as we know it
Even my RV is starting to show it.

It stinks of rot, squalor, decay
Though it may be time to do laundry

Yes, it’s also hated by Shane
On a shortbus and a plane

Vote for Shane? Give him a turn?
Matter of time before crash and burn.

The right wing loves me, yes they do.
I throw them red meat, lots to chew.

I’m on their websites, talk shows, ‘zines.
Sarah loves me, no mom jeans.

They call me Obamacare’s nemesis.
Without it my campaign has no premise.

OK, yes, you got me there,
I’m nothing without Obamacare.

So maybe I love it, just a little.
My reasons, hey, this is no riddle.

Against it I’ll continue to taunt,
Hell, it’s my ticket out of Fremont.

Quite a George Will column today on why he quit sniffing glue. It starts:

"The voluntary inhalation of vapors for the purpose of altering psychological states has a long history," Edward A. Preble and Gabriel V. Laury noted in the Fall 1967 issue of the International Journal of the Addictions. "At Delphi, in the ancient Greek world, the Pythia sat on a tripod above a cleft in the rocks and inhaled cold vapors emanating from inside the earth, which induced in her an ecstatic alteration of mind. In this altered state she uttered mystical observations in the presence of the Delphi Prophet, who translated them into oracular pronouncements.

"In the ancient Judaic world, the vapors from burnt spices and aromatic gums were considered part of a pleasurable act of worship. In Proverbs (27:9), it is said that 'ointment and perfume rejoice the heart.' Perfumes were widely used in Egyptian worship. Stone altars have been unearthed in Babylon and Palestine which have been used for burning incense made of aromatic wood and spices."

While casual readers today may interpret such practices as mere satisfaction of the desire for pleasant odors, this is almost certainly an error; in many or most cases, a psychoactive drug was being inhaled.

All of this passed through my mind as I sniffed model-airplane glue off my bow tie, gloriously hallucinating that Calvin Coolidge was still president and I his speechwriter. ...

Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is white

"DEAR MEGYN KELLY: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say Santa Claus isn't white.
"Papa says, 'If you see it on Fox News, it’s so.’
"Please tell me the truth: is Santa Claus white?”

VIRGINIA, your little liberal friends are wrong. They have been affected by the silliness of a politically correct age. They believe whatever Barack Obama, Rachel Maddow and their public school teachers tell them.

Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is white. He is white as surely as Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh and John Boehner. OK, maybe that last is a bad example.

Yes, perhaps he seems like a black Muslim socialist like Barack Hussein Obama, on account of giving so many things away. But remember, he keeps naughty and nice lists, so only those who earn them receive gifts. That is the American way.

 

Yes, VIRGINIA, Santa Claus is white. How dreary would be the world if he were black. Why, instead of a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer, he would travel in ... well, however blacks travel, I don’t know. Instead of leaving out cookies and milk for him, you’d leave out ... well, I don’t know, whatever blacks eat. Malt liquor and fried chicken?

Not believe Santa Claus is white! You might as well not believe in concealed-carry gun laws! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to shoot a selfie with Santa Claus, but while he’s doing that, some black guys probably are breaking in through a window, so maybe don’t after all.

No white Santa Claus! No! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, white Santa will continue to make glad the hearts of childhood.

OK, he actually may be Hispanic by then. :(

Sincerely,

Megyn Kelly, Fox News

Reflecting on The Play

So, after a few days’ giddy reflection, what lessons might we take from the events at Memorial Stadium last Saturday night?

I mean, beyond the obvious, such as: “It ain’t over ‘til the fat quarterback flings;” or the ancient Chinese proverb, “he who leaves early may beat the traffic but thus share not in the glory;” or, “Jesus Christ, you NEVER let a receiver get behind you on that play.” 

All well and good, but what else?

Well, perhaps we fans might embrace a little humility and perspective. It surely has crossed all our minds more than once that it was only a very flukish ending that saved Husker Nation from yet another Very Bad Week, with rumblings of coaches being fired, a program adrift, past glories so far out of reach they might as well have happened last century.

The Huskers had a 2.7 percent chance of winning in that situation; yet they did. So, yes, they were lucky. Bo was lucky. So what? It says here that Bo Pelini was due some good luck, especially this season, especially after what happened down in Florida last week. It restores one’s faith in God, or at least the football gods, that he was granted some.

So, by THAT much, we avoid doom and gloom.

Look, I’m a typical fan. I really don’t know much about coaching except I’ve almost always been certain somebody else out there could do a better job than the schmuck we had. That goes for Tom Osborne, too; but for three seasons, he was a hapless hack.  

So the two proudest, happiest moments of this season – maybe of the entire Pelini era -- are the two most improbable: Little Jack Hoffman’s scamper for a touchdown in April and Ron Kellogg III's heave and Jordan Westerkamp’s leap for another in November.

It says something about Huskers’ fans that they have taken such joy and pride in Jack’s moment, and it says even more about the coaches that they let it happen. And it says something, too, that so many fans have taken special delight that this latest moment came courtesy of a third-string quarterback who stuck around more than four years, working his tail off though knowing he might never play. The indescribable joy on his face as he ran around the field, and the joy of the players as they piled on top of each other, were a helpful reminder that for all the weight we put on this business, it is about kids playing a game.

Both moments remind us that what we really love about sports has little to do with championships and rankings. 

Maybe there will be another moment or two like those this season. Probably not. Maybe there will be a division title, maybe even a conference title. Probably not. Or maybe there are two, three, four more losses on this schedule.

Maybe, just maybe, it's not the victory but the action; not the goal but the game; in the deed the glory. Hey, that's pretty good; someone oughta carve that in stone somewhere.

Easy to say on a Wednesday night while still basking in the glow of Kellogg's CornFlick. I still reserve the right, of course, as do you, to call for Bo’s head this Saturday afternoon.

But let's not forget this feeling.

There but for the grace of God ...

“How’s your day going?”
 

“Um fine ha, it’s school so it sucks. You?”
 

“Ok, except work sucks. Let’s run away.”

An unremarkable text exchange between my daughter and me Monday morning, except that it came right after I read a news bulletin from the local newspaper that a 17-year-old girl had jumped to her death from a downtown building.

I presume I’m not the only parent who reached out to his or her child in that moment, just for a connection, however tenuous, or even felt, as I admit I did, a moment’s gnawing “my God, could it be” fear. Even after that passed, I ran to the men’s room at work because I felt like I was going to throw up. 

(Parenthood is great, but there’s a darkness to it: It teaches one what Fear really is.)

See, I have a 17-year-old daughter who suffers from depression and anxiety. She’s doing ... well, like she said, “um fine” now, but I am under no illusions, and neither is she, that she is cured or that her struggle is over. She’s managing it well now, but she has thought of suicide before and even attempted it once. 

I am a writer, so I always presumed I would write about this someday, and this just felt like the day. I got my daughter’s permission to do so and let her read it before posting. She did not change a word.

I did not know Trinity McDonald, but I look at her pictures and a video or two posted online and she strikes me as a spectacularly charming and lovely girl, the sort of person that others gather around just to bask in her presence. A video showing her playing ukulele and singing, utterly unselfconsciously, made me laugh and cry simultaneously. How could such a girl be so depressed that she would even think of, let alone carry out, suicide?

As I’ve learned from my wife, who also suffers from depression, this is one of its most insidious aspects: Things are fine, I have a great life, why am I so depressed? That guilt feeds the depression, and vice versa.

Trinity could be my daughter, also a spectacularly charming and lovely girl. My daughter tells long, involved, entertaining stories, often with multiple sidebars, about various adventures at school and with her friends (Her oldest brother, at the end of one of these, once said, “Sarah, maybe you should think about the point of what you’re saying before you say it,” and she looked at him like he was an alien being.)

God forbid you interrupt one of her stories, or you’ll get a glare and she’ll say, “OK, I’m done. You don’t get to hear the rest of the story now.” Sometimes I get impatient in the middle of these tales, but I also marvel at her energy, her verve and her appreciation for life’s absurdities.

My daughter laughs easily, gets most of my jokes, is a keen commentator on my many foibles, makes me watch “Wife Swap” with her so we can make fun of it together and is fiercely loyal to those she loves.

The sarcasm gene runs deep in my daughter, but so does the kindness and empathy. 

And so does the depression. At its darkest, almost three years ago, we weren’t sure she was going to make it and her parents weren’t sure we would either. We gained enormous respect and admiration for the doctors, nurses and staff at our hospital’s adolescent psych unit, where they perform emergency triage on broken souls, where they tolerate no bullshit from patients or parents because they’ve seen and heard it all before.

I am an absolute believer in therapy and carefully monitored medication. 

And I am a believer in random texts every now and then just to connect.

 “How’s your day going? Band?,” I texted to my daughter this morning.

“Oh I have a lot to say,” she answered.

I can’t wait to hear it.