Dinner, Wednesday Night

broccoli, carrots, parsnips, tempeh, udon noodles, ginger, garlic, red cabbage

Dinner, Thursday Night

I had an idea, to take my mind off election season, which is already breaking my heart (though as usual I'm not sure why). If I had to guess, I'd say this: there's an abundance of vision of one side, a paucity of vision on the other, and neither may mean anything at all push-come-to-shove. In office, everybody's something of a disappointment, and as often as not, it's our fault, not theirs. So if the end is uncertain, the means won't be: there's some terrible ugliness to come, and we all know it. Will Obama be Swift-boated by God-fearing Americans who discover his middle name is Hussein? Will Ann Coulter tear John McCain apart limb from leathery limb? And will we cheer mindlessly on?

So back to my idea: dinner, in photographs. Surely we can all agree on that.

Jeans, Teens, and the Coupon.

So here's the thing. Aeropostale, a store I hate on principle, is running this campaign called "Teens for Jeans," where it asks teenagers to turn in their "gently worn" jeans in exchange for a 20%-off coupon for a new pair of pants. The used jeans go to a local homeless shelter, which, almost anywhere you are, you can assume will be bulging, and especially now, when so many "submprime borrowers," i.e., people, are being tossed out of their houses.

So okay. Because I care so damned much about everything, and feel everyone's pain so acutely, I say, Hey, kids, let's respond. Let's tote our old pants to Aeropostale, a store as I've pointed out I'd normally circumnaviate the globe to avoid, and clothe the poor local teenagers who are stuck in homeless shelters and probably wishing they were dead about now. (Have you ever actually been in homeless shelter? I have, many times. So trust me on this one.) Anyway, we've got a chance to give these poor kids our used pants. That in itself is kind of icky, when you think about, but the brands are cool and kids will at least be able to hold up their heads in school, maybe for the first time in their wretched lives.

Of course, two of the children in my house don't care about this campaign. My son pats me on the shoulder and tells me I'm cute. The other one can't be pried away from his video game long enough to recognize that he's being spoken to. Now, my lip-glossed step-daughter, she cares, but only because there's a coupon attached. No coupon, no action, it's that simple. Why bother otherwise? And that's the problem - one of the problems - with all such"we care" marketing ploys. They just underscores what the stylish 13-year-olds amongst have always known: if you're going to give, you'd better be getting even more in return. Otherwise ... puh-leeze. If the poor have to hang around smelling bad and whining, we should at least profit from them.

The Karamazovs and the Glasses

Two good things in this blighted political season: Bee Season, the recent movie based on the novel; and The Brothers Karamazov, which I read for the first time last month and am now reading through again. Both are about our highly individual and idiosyncratic searches for God, and the inevitable compromises that we all, saint and sinner alike, must make in the end. Add a third book about religious quests, and an old favorite: Franny and Zooey, which I'm having the pleasure of watching my 18-year-old son tackle right now. Indeed, we just got off the phone, where he complained to me from his dorm room about Salinger's high-flown vocabulary. What's a "Bennington type," or a "Sarah Lawrence type," he wanted to know, except maybe artifacts from a long-dead cultural landscape somehow associated with girls in religious crisis travelling on trains? I told him to stick with it; it'll be worth it. And so it will: indeed, is there a better book for an 18-year-old? If so, tell me. I'm listening.

Four Days to NH

It's 7 degrees in New Hampshire this morning and on the way to school to drop off one of the kids, I see two John McCain supporters, holding giant signs and hopping around in the snow trying to stay warm. The 13-year-old beside me pulls out one of her iPod earbuds and says, "They're here."

I say yes, indeed they are. They've been here for a year, of course, but now they're standing outside trying to avoid frostbite.

Obama's people keep on calling. His is the most persistent campaign, hands down. I expect we'll be seeing his people any time, along with Hillary's and Edward's, fighting for prime locations at the same intersection.

"I don't think they ever change anybody's mind," the 13-year-old said, reinserting her earbud.

"Maybe it's the enthusiasm that counts," I mutter. But she's probably right.

In New Hampshire with the Candidates

I grew up in Indiana, which never received any attention in presidential elections because everyone knew the state would always go Republican, no matter what. Any lame-brained Republican could win there. My family always voted for the Democrats, and thus my family was always disappointed. But it was never ever surprised.

When I lived in Massachusetts, it was the same thing, only reversed. We got no attention in presidential elections because we were always going to vote for the Democrat, and everyone knew it. A Democratic corpse would've gotten more votes than a Republican in Massachusetts, and to my way of thinking, after wandering in the cultural and political wasteland of Indiana, that was just fine. In fact, I loved it.

Now I live in New Hampshire, and my license plate says "Live Free or Die." (I dislike this quite a bit, but never mind that.) New Hampshire likes to think of itself as flinty and independent, a state where high-minded ideals never get in the way of practical, cheapskate decisions. It's a state on the fence - Democratic in the last election, but Republican in the more general sense. Contrarian, difficult. If you were in a fight with New Hampshire, it would definitely aim low.

So this is what it's like in New Hampshire right now: Obama for President calls twice a night and leaves messages. Hillary Clinton for President calls every three days to poll me again. John Edwards calls once a week just to let me know he's still thinking about me. In today's mail, we got two identical fliers from Obama, one from Rudy Guiliani, and one from John McCain. Two weeks ago we got a annual-report sized piece from John Edward (who looked very fetching, by the way, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, ready to physically attack the deficit, slay the corporate elites and slug it out for the poor.)

The desperation is mounting. Who will I vote for? Who, who, who? I've got an idea, but the truth is, I've wanted to delay all this anxiety until the very end - like worrying about a particularly nasty outpatient procedure that comes every few years like clockwork. It won't kill you, but it will be painful. And a little humiliating, for all concerned.

Socialism in the Bible, and Britney. Again.

Does God want us to be socialists? Well, I'm beginning to wonder, what with this passage from the Bible - that's right, the Bible - that Sojourners recently emailed out. Wonder what religious fundamentalist, so philosophically averse to "communism," make of it?

Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles' feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.

- Acts 4:32-35

I'm Like So Totally Shocked ...

On another topic, Britney Spears and her now-pregnant 16-year-old sister are making themselves useful in one area: being negative object lessons for pubescent girls. Yes, I know - they're sort of victims. But they're sort of perpetrators, too, and that's where their saga needs to end. Our already hyper-sexualized teen girls don't need any more examples of empty-headed and pathetic female behavior. What I hope girls learn? How's this: Put on a tube top and lip gloss, warm up the flashbulbs, and suddenly you're ... nowhere at all. Look at the Spears' girls.