Yes, I promised to ignore the Punch and Judy presidential primaryshow.
But my God . . . when the Clinton campaign tries to portrayBarack Obama as a drug dealer, it's time for people of good will toshake off indifference and hoot them down.
"The Republicans are not going to give up without a fight," saidBill Shaheen, who is not some envelope-stuffer, but co-chairman forthe Clinton campaign in New Hampshire. "One of the things they'recertainly going to jump on is his drug use."
Among the questions Shaheen told the Washington Post thatRepublicans might bring up about Obama -- while disingenuouslyraising them himself -- was: "Did you ever give drugs to anyone? Didyou sell them to anyone?' "
That's vile. Obama's discussion of his youthful past was candidand refreshing, particularly compared with the deceitful "I didn'tinhale" spin Bill Clinton put on his own indulgences.
The easiest way to grasp the sheer hypocrisy of Shaheen's attackis to apply the same logic to his cause. If the measure ofDemocratic candidates is how Republicans might twist their records,then Obama would have to have sold heroin to schoolchildren beforehe could reach the level of infamy that Hillary -- serial murderer,unconvicted felon and Lady Macbeth rolled into one -- merits inRepublican eyes.
The Clinton campaign can apologize from now until Election Day ordoomsday. They've revealed who they are.
- - -
We are a nation that treats children like grown-ups whileinfantalizing adults.
Thus we view 6-year-olds playing doctor as sex offenders, and putout signs like the one on a baby grand piano at the East Bank Club:
"Please Do Not Play the Piano."
Perhaps a few of the hyper-focused, undernourished go-gettersmaniacally flailing away at the exercise machines paused to settheir sinewy bottoms on the piano bench before pounding out a fewbars of "Rhapsody in Blue," and it got annoying.
But I doubt it.
My bet is, the sign was put there as a precaution by someoneforgetting that anybody mature enough to pay their club dues surelyknows how to treat a piano.
Myself, if I ran a really expensive club and decided to stick apiano in the hall in advance of "We Appreciate Our Members (So LongAs They Don't Touch the Piano) Night," I would take a differentapproach. My sign would read:
"Please Feel Free to Play the Piano (Tenderly)."
- - -
FLASH! HACK FEELS COMPASSION! . . .
Christmas must nearly be upon us because anthracite hearts aresoftening.
I usually blow past the old, possibly blind man wearingsunglasses and a large wooden crucifix around his neck. His signreads, "CAN YOU FEEL JESUS IN YOUR HEART?" or some such thing, andsince my answer is a resounding "Not a chance!" I never give him anickel.
He sits, under a lap rug, at the southwest corner of the MadisonStreet bridge. But Thursday, he was standing -- I've never seen himstand -- and ringing a brass schoolhouse bell.
I still blew by him, but smiled, inwardly, feeling a pang ofsolidarity and thinking, "In these rapidly deteriorating economictimes, we in the communications business need to adapt to get ourmessages out, if that means pumping up the online or ringing abell."
I slowed. If it works for him, maybe it'll work for me. By mid-bridge, I had stopped, spun around and headed back, unbuttoning myBurberry to fish out a buck.
It's that time of year, and even if you don't normally give, youshould give because 2008 is going to be a very bumpy ride, and younever know whether you, too, will have your hand out by the end,hoping against hope that somebody feels something in his heart.
. . . and so can you!
Speaking of giving, I've been resisting the urge to tell thisstory for years now because it's embarrassing. But since it mighthelp others, I will accept the momentary humiliation and pass italong.
I'm a guy who eats out a lot in fancy restaurants. My idea offun. It breaks up the day and injects a note of urban elegance intomy otherwise shabby suburban existence.
As a regular customer, I get to know the various maitre d's.We're friendly. We chat.
It was at a popular downtown spot -- I'm going to draw the veil,so as to not embarrass them -- and the maitre d', whom I'll callSally, had found a table for me, even though there were no tables tobe found.
Escorted to my seat, I glanced back at my pal, Sally, who likesme so much and helped her friend out. There was something in herexpression -- a weariness -- as she walked back to the crowdeddoorway to cope with the other customers pouring in.
And then it struck me. This is her job. My considering her afriend was a tribute to her art. This was her job, and I should tipher.
On my way out, I folded a bill into my palm -- I like to think itwas a $20, but maybe it was a $10 -- and almost apologizing,extended my hand. I was worried she would refuse, insulted. Inreality, the bill vanished from my hand so quickly, I glanced downto make sure I still had all my fingers.
It's the holidays -- those bartenders, waiters, hostesses,busboys, doormen and all the others in your life, being so good atwhat they do, they make you so comfortable you forget that they'reworking. Don't. Give 'em a tip. They deserve it, for convincing ahaughty, hurried, overpaid, corporate sack of arrogance likeyourself that they actually like you. It's an art form and deservesreward.
Today's chuckle . . .
FROM BARRY CRIMMINS:
There's a nickel's worth of difference between Democrats andRepublicans. If you put a nickel on the table, a Democrat will stealit from you, and a Republican will kill you for it.
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