Yes, I know, I misspelled Kennedy's name

Writing over at FoxPolitics.net about political dynasties and why they're bad...and why they're not so bad, I spelled Caroline Kennedy's name wrong.

The upside is, I can almost guarantee that this is the biggest mistake I'll make for the remainder of the year.

Here's an excerpt:

We have an aversion to generational politics in this country. It reminds us of aristocracy. Of power handed down by birthright. There is no birthright here, or there's not supposed to be. You have to earn it, just like everybody else.

We know that’s not really true – not entirely. Some people have advantages others simply don't. Still – political power, at least, isn't supposed to arrive at your bedroom door like a shiny silver dollar the night after losing a tooth.

...Let’s not be unfair: Carolyn [sic] Kennedy is surely not the best-qualified candidate for the seat, but…so what? What are the qualifications, exactly? What job skills are required? The ability to read speeches written by media staffers? To appear in public without embarrassing yourself?

If so, heck, even I'm qualified. And if I am, so is she.

It's an odd feeling, writing a [sic] while quoting yourself.

What Sarah Connor can teach us about raising Very Important Babies

From today's column over at FoxPolitics.net:

Imagine for a moment that before your child was born – before your child was even conceived – you knew he was coming. Somebody told you. His name; who he would be; things he would do; and that his birth is of absolute importance to everyone, everywhere. Not only will your baby be special, he’s going to save the entire human race.

Now go raise him.

Gee, thanks.

Now…oh, wait: I may have misled you just now. With Christmas coming up, you probably thought I was talking about Jesus.

I wasn’t. We might as well talk about him now, I guess – he does fit the profile. But, no, I was talking about John Connor. You know: from the Terminator. The movies and the TV series. The guy that led – or, rather, will lead – the human race in its war for survival, after the machines take over.

Connor's mother found out before he was even conceived that he was coming, what his name would be, and that he would be the lynchpin – the cornerstone, on whom the fate of the entire human race would someday rest.

Talk about pressure. Yeah, this kid is going to save us all, y’know, so try not to screw him up too much. Kind of important that he not die in a drunk driving accident (or the early first-century equivalent).

In the Terminator series, these revelations turned John’s mother into a borderline-psychotic whose obsession with keeping her son safe has had serious ramifications for his adolescent development. And even if it hadn’t, knowing that you’re raising the single most important person on the face of the Earth can’t be an easy thing to live with.

You wonder how Mary and Joseph handled it.

Did they, when Jesus was an infant, do any of the normal parent-infant things? Play peek-a-boo? Coo over his curly little toes? Smell his head? Laugh at the faces he made as he filled his diaper?

Did they discipline him? Did they have to? And how, exactly, does one take the Son of God over one’s knee?

Did they tell him what the Angel told Mary? Did he know why his childhood began in Egypt, instead of Nazareth? If so – at the risk of channeling Dr. Phil – how did that make him feel?

It’s one thing to be a normal, average teenager sitting in a school assembly. Quite another to be a teenager who spent yesterday afternoon dodging killer robots from the future, and quite another thing to know you might have to do that again tomorrow.

Now try on the whole Son of God thing.

Granted, being the mother of the Son of God must have its advantages. Sure, she’s working without a script, but it’s hardly as though she’s working alone. If God Himself put Jesus here – if Jesus is, in fact, God Himself in mortal form – then Mary didn’t have to worry so much when Jesus went off with some friends on Friday night.

She might have worried, anyway. Moms do that. But if anybody can take care of Himself, it’s…well, Him.

The thing is, Jesus didn’t start out as the robed and bearded sage who had every answer to every trick question: He started out as a baby, then a toddler, then a boy, then a young man. And he had parents, who had to raise him.

They probably hadn’t thought all of that through on Christmas morning, Year Zero. But then, how many parents – even those of us not raising humanity’s saviors – have?

Merry Christmas!

Rose for Supe

New column up over at FoxPolitics.net (like I post columns anywhere else these days). This time, it's about the upcoming race for Superintendent of Public Schools.

I've found, since sending this in, that there are at least two other potential candidates for the seat whom I did not mention*. Sorry about that. I'll likely write about the race again before the February primary. I'm very unlikely to change my mind, although you never know. Not when Rose Fernandez is running.

Here's an excerpt:

For all I know, she’s as liberal as the day is long. For all I know, she’s just as Sky-Is-Falling as Evers. For all I know, she’s a hemp-wearing tree-hugging peace monger who thinks Karl Marx had the right idea and wishes Ed Garvey would just be honest and join the Republican Party, already.

In other words, the race might cast Evers and Fernandez as the Democrat and Republican candidates, respectively. The liberal and the conservative. But she might not be. At this point, I don’t know.

And I don’t care.

Read the whole thing.

* The two candidates I didn't mention are Van Mobley, an econ professor from Concordia, and Lowell Holtz, the Beloit superintendant.

What if Mumbai happened here?

That's the topic of my latest column over at Foxpolitics.net. Here's an excerpt:

I guess we should be asking – not what if it happened here, but why hasn't it happened here? Why haven't we had suicide bombers in Houston? Car bombs in San Diego? Roadside ambushes, homemade mortars?

It's not that hard, really. Not that hard to make homemade explosives. Easy as pie to walk into a crowded mall and set them off. It happens in Iraq, and Afghanistan. Israel. It used to happen in Britain and Spain.

Why not here? We are, after all, the Great Satan. If the Islamofascists were really serious, they'd bring their game over here.

If they can, that is. Hey, I think I've answered my question.

So back to the original question: what if it did happen here?

Read the whole thing.

What do we do about the deer herd?

According to the anecdotes, hunters are seeing fewer deer this year. Which is a little odd, if the DNR's 1.7 million-head count is accurate.

That's the topic of my column over at FoxPolitics today. An excerpt:

It’s becoming a pattern: every year, I go hunting. I fire one shot. I bring home one deer.

Clockwork.

Oh, fine: I’ve only been hunting three years now, so this “pattern” is hardly on par with the Lions losing on Thanksgiving Day. Sooner or later, I’ll get shut out. Or I’ll bring home two. But so far: one season, one shot, one deer.

That trend is in trouble, maybe.

So: if the herd really is a lot smaller than we thought, what's next?

I wonder if hunters will end up happy with the solution. Click over and read.