Sarah Palin: Literacy Unplugged

Sarah's shopping a book deal, bless her heart. Since she's already proven her shopping ability, this should be a piece of cake. What will she say to cuddle up to the reported 11 million-dollar advance? The real issue isn't politics, though, it's the glint in some publisher's eye. If Rumpelstiltskin could spin straw into gold, publishers can, too.

Let's be honest. I'm sure no one - no one - thinks she'll tackle this without a competent ghostwriter. Not even Sarah herself has that kind of audacious hope.

So who's the ghost going to be? Probably someone with years of ghostwriting experience and past successes. If they really wanted to follow through with the Sarah Palin template, they'd choose a relatively unknown writer. Someone folksy from some tiny town or state with scads of guns and churches. Someone, perhaps, who's never really written anything before, but who has all this potential and is a quick study. The publishing house could gather a whole bevy of aides to teach the ghost things like verb agreement, comma usage, and - perhaps later - paragraphing. All of these skills could be learned on the job.

If a good portion of the country was willing to let our collective futures ride on such things with Governor Palin, surely some forward-thinking publishing house could do the same with her ghostwriter. It's only money, take a chance.

Why, any one of us could fill that bill. Most of us are even over-qualified, so let's do it. Got a catchy title? Already envisioning a snappy opening line? Maybe there's a whole literary concept rattling around in your head. Post it in the comments. Who knows - Sarah may just snatch one of us up and hand us our Fifteen Minutes of Fame. Remember Joe the Plumber?

Exactly.

Farewell Note on the Fridge to Dubya

Remember Bush's farewell speech to the nation on Thursday? Neither do I. Kamikaze geese and miraculous crash landings and heroes stole that thunder. Even while the last survivor of the Hudson River crash was interviewed on CNN, President-Elect Obama's train pulled out of the depot heading straight for the White House. More distractions.

I wanted to post a Note on the Fridge to Bush - sort of a farewell address of my own - but ended up sitting here, staring at the computer screen, fingers on the keys waiting for inspiration. I had nothing.

Maybe it's my Southern upbringing whispering in my ear, "If you don't have anything nice to say..." But I do.

So thank you, President Bush, for introducing us to your lovely wife. Like most Southern women who marry beneath themselves, Laura is charming, intelligent, and a rock. In the end, the best part of your legacy is her devotion. I don't remember a word you said in your farewell speech, but I'll always remember Laura sitting there in front, smiling, back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, tirelessly devoted, her dignity perfectly intact. The Republican party can keep their hockey moms, because most women I know are a lot more like Laura Bush.

Like most Southern men who marry better than they deserve, I've no doubt you're perfectly aware of your good fortune, Mr. President. She's got her hands full with a man like you and deserves some measure of peace. Please see that she gets it. It's the least you can do.

The Retro Future's a Nice Place, But I Wouldn't Want to Live There

It's 2009 and I'm feeling like an old gal now. I grew up with 2001, A Space Odyssey, 1984, the Jetsons, and the traveling Bell Telephone House of the Future. The first two still give me the willies if I think about them long enough, but my experiences with Saturday morning cartoons and the mobile House of the Future imprinted me at an early age. These would be the real day to day future. Everyone would be flying around in bubbled triangles without seat belts and using punch cards to order food our own kitchens. Mom would still be at home and her job would be infinitely easier with the help of Rosie the Robot doing all the grunt work. We'd all have picture-phones in the kitchen, a bevy of mysteriously hidden cooking implements, and switchboards full of labeled buttons to run the whole house.

Why, there might even be a color TV in every home. Hung on the wall. Like a sofa painting. Can you imagine.


I remember walking through the Bell House of the Future as it sat parked in the Kroger parking lot. I marveled at the slickness, the plastic, the fabulous array of buttons making things disappear and reappear. My mother didn't seem nearly as impressed. She took one look at that kitchen and shook her bubble-flip hair-do and we left. I suspect she saw what I didn't. The house of the future still required cleaning and most of it looked like something she'd have to do. A house full of gadgets to make a woman's life easier, but it was still her life and her work.

In 1966 we could never have imagined the world as it is now. Fast food, breast implants, ten year-olds with cell phones, Smoke-Free restaurants, computers you can hold in two outstretched hands, women with careers on purpose, seat belts and airbags, more than four TV channels, a black president. What?

No, there's no Rosie the Robot cleaning my house while I'm at work. I still own a broom and a mop and use them both, though not nearly as much as my mother did. There's no bread-winning man coming home from the office expecting a clean house and a hot dinner either, but that's another post for another day.

With the exception of all that flying around on invisible air highways, we've surpassed the Jetsons and the House of the Future. That 1984 business is a tad too close for comfort, but we haven't yet been blown to cinders by The Bomb. There's that.