OK, first of all, Tom Daschle should have his lily ass kicked.  What was he thinking appearing in public with those eighties-throwback fashion frames on?  You want the nation to trust you to overhaul health care?  Who are you, Elton John?  I mean, for real.  Somebody needs to smack this bitch up.

Those clowns in Washington still don't get it, do they?  These are sober times.  What if Boston's new Superintendent of Schools had worn froofy frames like that when announcing that 900 positions— almost half of them teachers — were going to be cut from Boston's public schools which are facing their "worst budget crisis in more than a decade"?  It's so bad that the Phoenix has called for BPS to end busing, and make those kids walk!  These are hard times, bitches — what are you going to tell your grandchildren?  That you didn't walk uphill both ways to school, but took the bus?  What kind of story is that to pass down to the next generation?

Truth is, busing for the intention of racial integration ended twenty years ago in Boston. The Boston School Committee's vote in '99 to drop race as a factor in deciding which school a child attends was the last nail in the coffin of desegregation busing. But it was more or less DOA.  It didn't take white people long to figure out ways around it.  They mostly abandoned the public schools for parochials (whites now make up a negligible 14% of Boston Public School student population).  Busing as a tool for integration in Boston was never effective, and the violence that accompanied the attempt may, in fact, have made the racial lines starker than before.  Why should there be any political fallout from just quietly ending it for transportation, too?

Even though busing is now clearly no longer about racial integration, with black kids being bused from all-black neighborhoods to all-black schools in other all-black neighborhoods, busing still seems to resonate politically.  It is, after all, one of those old-school pillars of the Civil Rights Movement, a remnant of the acknowledgment of racial inequality and a gesture, however misjudged and hamhanded, towards righting it.  I mean, who can argue that racial harmony is not a laudable goal?  Busing was once felt to be a step towards it.  And indeed it may once have been a step towards it.  But as my current favorite evolutionary biology booster, John Clippinger says: "the conditions that are necessary for progress at one stage in history become bars to further progress at another."

The last decade saw the all but total repudiation of desegregation busing in cities across the nation.  But it should surprise no one that it was a failure.  It combined two of Americans' least favorite things: education and buses. 

Speaking of.  I saw a great little movie last week called Half-Nelson, with the remarkably talented Ryan Gosling and the amazing Shareeka Epps.  Acting like this is rare.  What struck me here was the same thing that struck me about Lars and the Real Girl, another picture in which Gosling starred that could easily have curdled into cliche.  Owing to the sensitive and sublte performances of the principals both films had real emotional power. 

In Half Nelson Gosling plays a history teacher in a pretty much all-black inner city school.  He also coaches the girls' basketball team, and in his free time smokes crack.  Epps plays his student, who walks in on him when he's all cracked out one night after a game.  Awkwardness ensues, obviously. 

One scene has Gosling's character, Dan Dunne, going home for dinner at his folks' place in a tidy upper middle class suburb.  His parents were counter-culturalists in the '60s and seem to think they singlehandedly ended the war in Vietnam.  They've been riding on the fumes of their youthful idealism ever since, which they imply in subtle (and not so subtle) ways trumps their son's.  They're unwilling not only to recognize the seriousness of his commitment to social change (in fact, they belittle it), but can't acknowledge his obvious depression and drug addiction, either (even though he's cracked out on the sofa after dinner, having just freebased in the garage). 

At one point his father, a little wasted on red wine himself, starts teasing him about teaching in an inner-city school. 

"Teach me something, Dan," he slurs, breaking into a wry smile.  "Teach me some... ebonics.  Is that what they've got you teaching in that zoo?"

Dan looks away.

"Hey, teach me something," his dad repeats.  "How do you say 'asshole' in ebonics?"

Feel-good movie of the year type stuff, y'know?

The other half of the equation is Epps' family situation.  Her mostly absentee father (played by Anthony Mackie) is a smooth-talking clean-cut businessman whose business happens to be crack, and whose idea of quality time is driving his daughter around town in his Lincoln SUV to deliver drugs to his clients.  He doesn't approve of "Teach" giving her rides home from basketball games, and asks her what kind of relationship they have.

"We're friends," she tells him.

"He's a basehead," her father shoots back.  "Baseheads don't have friends."

But it's ultimately the unconditional friendship offered by Epps' character, Drey, that gives what glimmer of hope there is in the end, for Dan, and for us.  I wouldn't call it exactly a happy ending, though.  The movie is all about what keeps us apart, and as should be apparent even to the most ardent, hardcore hopester these days, those forces of separation are formidable.

Christ, even our avatars are racist.

No one said it would be easy, but it's getting ridiculous.  I mean, only a little over two weeks into his tenure, and Obama's era of bipartisanship looks to be about over.  Even the famous HOPE poster that brought so many Obamoids together is being ripped by the AP as plagiary, its creator, street artist Shepard Fairey, arrested in Boston on outstanding warrants the night of his first major solo show at the ICA.  Oh snap!

Even as the right shrieks its protest of art-pork in the stalled stimulus bill, and the $50 million going to the NEA — a paltry sum in such a mammoth plan — is sure to further politicize public funding of the arts, fashionistas at least are trying to bring us closer together, with unisex styles, like mantyhose!


Did you almost swallow your tongue there?  Sorry about that.

I'm not sure where this trend is headed, to tell you the truth.  I mean, how does this help the average joe in hard times?  Say you're pounding the pavement looking for a second or third job.  Whereas women are expected to wear hose to a job interview, if a dude shows up in them — unless maybe it's Joe Namath — your average everyday employer in these tough economic times might have second thoughts. 

Fact is, it's hard enough to sell yourself when people are buying.  But fashionistas do have useful advice for job hunters in this impossible economy.  Did you know that how you part your hair could make or break you?  One word of advice:  stay to your left.  According to siblings and sociologists John and Catherine Walter, "men who part their hair on the left are often popular and successful. People perceive them as strong. Women who part their hair on the left are considered reliable and intelligent." 

Blago?  Parts on the right.  "Men who part their hair on the right are seen as radical and open. These men should be strong enough to overcome the stigma against men with this part."  Can he do it?  Well, he'll go down fighting, that's for sure. 

Whatever you do, there's good news if you get it wrong.  One of the perks of recession is that you can blame it on the economy.  Feeling fat?  It's probably the economy.  Canceled your gym membership to save some dough?  Can't afford Whole Foods anymore?  Find yourself binging on McDonald's Value Meals instead?

Even Starbucks is getting in on the action.  After doing some serious downsizing, the company's considering what it calls "several breakfast pairings" at "attractive" prices. You can dress it up however you want, a value meal's a value meal.  I don't mind, because my self-image and station in life is not determined by the logo on my coffee tumbler.  But for those whose identities are comprised of non fat half caff triple grande quarter sweet sugar free vanilla non-fat lactaid extra hot extra foamy caramel macchiatoes, my sympathies.

I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: as reality crumbles, there's always the internet.  I recently broke down and signed up on Facebook, despite the ominous warning on the registration page:


Which might explain why it's become a haven for this crowd:


Refugees of the more discriminating MySpace, apparently.   Thousands of sexual predators are immigrating to Facebook, according to John Cardillo, CEO of Sentinel, a security technology firm which helps social networks identify sex offenders. He goes so far as to call Facebook, which is not yet a client of his, a “safe haven” for sex offenders.

It certainly paid off for one budding young sex offender, an 18 year-old high school senior who, according to the AP, posed as a girl named Kayla or Emily on Facebook, "tricking at least 31 male classmates, some as young as 15, into sending him naked photos of themselves and then blackmailing some for sex acts."  Do they allow inmates to have Facebook pages?  Because the maximum penalty if the perp is convicted on all charges is nearly 300 years in prison.  Look on the bright side: I bet you can friend a lot of people in 300 years.

My own experience on facebook has been slightly bewildering, to be frank.  With all due respect, I'm baffled as to the point of emails alerting me that so-and-so is about to take his dog out to pee, and such-and-such feels like a tuna salad sandwich.  One real-world acquaintance who had friended me anounced to his 300 Facebook buddies that he had just been beaten and robbed.  WTF?

All of this I found distractingly, sometimes disturbingly disjointed and contextless.  Like listening to static on the radio, hearing snippets of conversations, snatches of thoughts, but nothing really to grasp onto.  The recent viral "tagging" phenomenon "25 Random Things About Me" strikes me as the perfect meme for the Facebook generation.  On the other hand, it also seems like a strangely outdated virtual parlor game from a more gently self-indulgent time. 

I mean, shouldn't we be swimming against the swell of chaos that's about to swallow us up?

Just asking.