I’ve moved…to Aimsterville

After much thought, I’ve decided to repurpose the Aimster Blog. So if anyone out there is still interested in following my aimless ramblings, I’ve moved to Aimsterville, a site that I hope is, at the very least, better-looking if not more informative.

See you in Aimsterville!

The Top Ten Songs I’m Obsessed With Right This Minute

A friend of mine dared myself and another friend a few weeks ago to put together a mix of our Top Ten favorite songs, a task we both immediately deemed impossible. Speaking for myself, trying to narrow down every song I’ve ever liked in my life to only ten songs just isn’t happening–I can do Top Ten within genres, I can do Top Ten Breakup Songs or Top Ten Party Songs, I can do Top Tens for certain bands…hell, I can even do Top Tens of my favorite versions of certain Dave Matthews Band songs. But a Top Ten of all time? I just don’t think I could do that.

So as a consolation to the friend who issued the challenge (who just had a birthday, so I need to do something special), I’m going to try my Nick Hornby High Fidelity best to make a Top Ten Songs I’m Obsessed With Right This Minute–the songs that, for whatever reason, I just can’t stop listening to this week (and I’m only giving the downloads to her, so the rest of you will have to go out and find these gems on your own).

10.  ”Impossible Germany”–Wilco (Album: Sky Blue Sky) 

I have no idea why I love this song so much. All I know is that when I listen to it, I’m in a good mood. And some days, that’s really all I need to know. But I also know that this song has some amazing guitar work, and some days, that’s all I really need to know as well.

I’m a relative late-comer to Wilco, although I’ve been aware of them since they were formed in the mid-’90s from the ashes of Uncle Tupelo. And frontman Jeff Tweedy and I grew up in towns that are an hour apart and have a teeny-tiny, so-infinitesimally-small-that-it-doesn’t-really-exist connection to each other that’s a long story for another post. Anyway, Wilco = awesome, and I’m glad I finally came around to them.

9.    ”Euro-Trash Girl”–Cracker (Album: Kerosene Hat)

I’d forgotten that this song even existed until a friend (the other friend who was dared to put together a Top Ten of All Time list, actually) reminded me. I think I heard this song on the radio so much in 1993 that once its popularity faded away, my memories of it faded as well. But I probably appreciate “Euro-Trash Girl” even more now than I did then. I don’t know if that says something about the song or something about me.

“Euro-Trash Girl”, about what sounds like the craziest European backpacking trip ever, is just awesome from start to finish. Personal highlights for me are the guitar solo (listen at about 5:40) and the lines “Called my mom from a pay phone/Said I’m down to my last/She said “I sent you to college”/”Now go call your dad.” Just terrific.

8.   “All I Need”–Radiohead (album: In Rainbows)

I’ve waxed enthusiastic about In Rainbows before, and I still can’t stop listening to it. In fact, it’s nearly impossible for me to choose a favorite song from this disk because it’s practically flawless from start to finish. But today, “All I Need” is the winner. Today. Tomorrow, something else perhaps. 

“All I Need” is one of those songs that I put in the category of “Songs You Think Are Gonna Be Love Songs But Turn Out to Be Something Very, Very Different” (the two best songs in this category being The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” and Elvis Costello’s “I Want You”). “All I Need” is a beautifully sad song that builds to an even more beautiful, crashing climax. And I’m a sucker for a beautiful, crashing climax.

7.    ”Train in Vain”–The Clash (album: London Calling)

Perhaps one of the most upbeat songs ever written about getting dissed by someone you love, “Train in Vain” is one of the songs on this list that would probably make my all-time Top Ten list. I’ve loved this song since I was a kid, and I love it so much that I even gave it a role in my first-novel-that-will-probably-never-exist-anywhere-other-than-my-computer’s-hard-drive.

One thing in particular that I love about this song is that the drum beat actually sounds like a train chugging down the tracks, and I just think that’s cool. And the drum track is the backing loop to another song I was obsessed with for a time–Garbage’s “Stupid Girl” (a song I was obsessed with for reasons that should be obvious, given the title). And I think that’s cool, too.

6.   “On Your Side”–Pete Yorn (album: musicforthemorningafter)

For me, trying to choose a favorite Pete Yorn song is like trying to choose between my favorite kinds of ice cream–it just sort of depends on what I’m in the mood for at the time. But “On Your Side” is a song I always come back to.

Some songs evoke memories or landscapes, and “On Your Side” always evokes clouds and rain for me because the first time I heard this song was on a rainy day. I can listen to this song when the sun is out, but somehow the song doesn’t have the same effect on me (and I can listen to the live version of this song at almost any time and not be moved in quite the same way as I am when I hear the recorded version-weird).

5.    ”Two Step”–Dave Matthews Band w/Tim Reynolds and Bela Fleck (Worcester’s Centrum Center, Worcester, MA, December 7, 1998)

Please–you knew I wasn’t going to get through this list without including at least a few DMB songs, right?

If I showed up at a DMB show and found out that they would be playing the same song over and over for three hours, I would vote for “Two Step.” And if I could go back in time to witness one version of this song, I would vote for this version.

This “Two Step” is so good I hardly know where to start. I love the fact that the mix is such that you can hear the crowd singing along. And a definite highlight of this sixteen-minute-plus behemoth is the guitar/banjo duel between Tim Reynolds and Bela Fleck that begins at about the 7:30 mark.

But if you’re in a rush and can’t listen to the entire song, then listen to about the last six minutes or so. I can’t even begin to know how to describe them–they just fall into that category of ineffable music moments that have to be experienced to be understood. I’ll just say that the first time I listened to this version of “Two Step,” I thought those last six minutes were going to take my head clean off, they’re that good. And then at the end, Dave just calmly says “Thank you very much” as if he has no idea that he and his band and his guests have just totally fucked everyone up.

4.    ”The Grudge”–Tool (album: Lateralus)

Man, I love me some Tool. And I want to emphasize that “The Grudge” is currently my favorite Tool song, which is sort of like saying that “My second child is currently my favorite child.” Because all of Tool’s angry little children are good, but the “The Grudge” is the one that’s showing up the most on my iPod at the present moment.

This song, which opens Lateralus, is so musically and lyrically phenomenal that most of the time I forget that there are twelve other songs on this album (And what songs! “Schism.” “Parabola.” “Ticks and Leeches.” This album is just a freaking beast.). And if you’ve ever held a grudge against someone, the kind of grudge that slowly eats you alive, you’ll be convinced that Maynard James Keenan is looking into your soul.

3.    ”It’s a Lie”–Fiction Plane (album: Left Side of the Brain)

Fiction Plane is one of those bands that was pretty much screwed from the beginning, because even though they started out as a four-piece band, they eventually evolved into a three-piece and lead singer/guitarist Joe Sumner assumed the role of lead singer/bassist. While their mere evolution wouldn’t be enough in and of itself to doom a band, in this case, Joe Sumner is the son of Gordon Sumner, aka Sting, who was also the lead singer/bassist of a little band that you may have heard of. I don’t know if Joe’s familial connections are what’s keeping Fiction Plane from reaching critical mass or not, but I’m guessing that some people can’t get past the relationship. Plus, Joe Sumner happens to look and sound a lot like Sting (Some people don’t agree with me on this. These people are wrong.), which probably doesn’t help matters much.

I’ll be honest–part of the reason I like “It’s a Lie” is that it’s a bit filthy. Sample lyrics: “Wish I could tell you I’m a better guy/That love is all around/And only real men cry/But all I wanna do is jump your bones/Slam dance all night to the music of your moans. So we’re not exactly in “Every Breath You Take” territory here. Actually, I can think of a few relationships I had back in the ’90s that would have gone a lot better had the guys in question gotten the previous sentiments out on the table right when we first met–stories that are perhaps best left for another time.

And whether or not he sounds like Sting, I have to admire Joe Sumner’s use of “jump your bones” in a song released in 2007. I don’t think I’ve heard that phrase since college, and I’m assuming all parties involved were very, very drunk at the time. 

2.    ”American Baby Intro”–Dave Matthews Band (Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, Charlotte, NC, September 19, 2007)

I hate to be one of those DMB fans who always says stuff like “Dude, you so had to be there to appreciate this version of the song.” But, Dude, you kind of had to be there to appreciate this version of “American Baby Intro.” And I was.

“American Baby Intro” is a neat little summation of what people both like and hate about DMB. The song has almost no lyrics (She said a hundred times/She said a thousand times/Yeah…) and is rarely followed live by the song that it is an introduction to. And this particular version of the song was the longest ever played at that time (nearly twelve minutes), while the version of the song on Stand Up clocks in at just over two minutes–so, yes, they jammed it out to nearly six times its original length. The song, on its face, is so worthless that even some of the DMB hardcore can’t stand to hear it live.

But on this particular night in Charlotte, “ABI” was the first song of the encore to one of the best concerts I’d ever seen, hands down. I have a theory that if early on in the show, you can see Dave, Boyd, and Carter looking at each other like they want to rip each other to shreds, then you’re in for an intense DMB experience. And on this night, the three of them kept exchanging looks that clearly said, to me, anyway, “Bring it, motherfucker.” The show was wall-to-wall intense, with a setlist to match (seriously, add in “#41″ and “Grey Street” and I probably would have peed myself right there in front of everyone). By the time “ABI” came around, the band was on fire and so was the crowd.

This “ABI” rises and then slows, and then rises and slows again (thus making it the perfect workout song–I’m just saying). The first rise culminates in a heavy metal scream from Dave (at about 3:27) that was truly one of the most bizarre things I’d ever seen (his mouth was open so wide that I thought his jaw was going to unhinge and then swing around and swallow the rest of his head–that’s the only way I know how to describe it). And by the time the second rise climaxed, I felt as though my feet had left the ground several times, carried on the swirl of the music. This occasion was the only time that I can recall feeling literally lifted by music, and I was exhausted by the end of the song. The only thing that even comes close to ruining this version of “ABI” for me is the guy on the tape who keeps yelling “#41!” the whole time. I truly hope someone punched him in the face, because that’s what I would have done had he been sitting anywhere in my vicinity.

So I fully expect that almost no one will get my love for this version of this particular song unless they were in Charlotte that night (and the friend who dared me to put together my all-time Top Ten was, so the song has nice memories on another level as well). I can only hope my description has done the atmosphere that night just a little bit of justice.

1.    ”Loving Wings”–Dave Matthews Band (Saratoga Performing Arts Center, Saratoga, NY, August 27, 2003)

This song is really two songs in one. The first four minutes is a beautiful little love song with a hypnotic little guitar part repeating in the background. The next five minutes, however, build into an amazing instrumental jam featuring drummer Carter Beauford and late saxophonist LeRoi Moore at their absolute best (and I can’t help but feel a little pain when hearing this song, knowing that Roi will never play it again). “Loving Wings” is one of those songs that makes me appreciate the amazing level of musicianship in this band.

Unfortunately, this song has never been recorded, so the only versions are from live shows. Which means that no version of this song exists that doesn’t have thousands of drunk people in the background screaming “Wooo!” and “I love you, Dave!”  Try to block that out and enjoy the ride that is “Loving Wings.”

Bonus Track (because every good playlist deserves a bonus track): “Spilt Needles”–The Shins (album:Wincing the Night Away)

This song has many memorable lines, but my favorites are: It’s like I’m perched on the the handlebars/Of a blind man’s bike. I swear I feel this way at least once a day, but no one has ever quite put that feeling into words so eloquently.

 

Eating Crackers with a Ghost

Writer David Foster Wallace has died, apparently by his own hand, at the age of 46.

I’m not going to claim to be a fan (and I’m definitely not going to claim that I’ve even attempted to get through his masterwork, Infinite Jest–and I’m convinced after all these years that probably at least half the people who claim that they’ve finished Infinite Jest are lying). My usual approach to Wallace’s work was to begin it, find myself enjoying it, and then end up putting it aside about halfway through because my brain just felt too snowed under to continue.

And I always meant to come back. But I never did. Even the last thing I read by him, his brilliant essay on Roger Federer, I don’t think I ever finished. And I think my inability to finish a Wallace work–big or small–is probably due not only to my lack of intellectual prowess but also to my inability to separate the man and his work from my personal life.

I’m not big on meeting writers whose works have vaulted them to what passes for celebrity in the literary world, mostly because I’m afraid that my personal interaction with them will color my previously-held and future perceptions of their writing. This quirk of mine is a bit odd to me, because I have no problem interpreting the literature of the long-dead through a historicist lens–I love speculating, for example, how the circumstances of Jane Austen’s life may or may not have shaped her novels. But Jane Austen’s long gone, so there’s no chance of a conversation with her screwing up my beliefs about how much of her personality seeped into Emma Woodhouse or Elinor Dashwood.

And at this point, I should probably note that I never actually had a full conversation with David Foster Wallace (I’m guessing the most I ever said to the man was “Thank you”), otherwise this essay runs the risk of being more than it is, of claiming some sort of sadness that I don’t actually feel, of becoming some sort of self-important “Hey, I brushed elbows with that famous dead guy” piece–which isn’t how I mean this at all. The most I can claim is that I moved in the man’s orbit–he was a professor of English and creative writing at Illinois State University during the time that I was working on my Ph.D. in English there. But any shock I feel at his death is less personal and more 1) a by-product of that weird, ineffable feeling you get when someone you once shared air space with dies and 2) the knowledge that people I know well–and a few of whom I actually despise–are feeling some measure of disbelief and sadness right now (and I should note that none of these people that I despise could be counted among Wallace’s close friends and family. I’m not that cold.).

I guess Wallace represents to me, given our overlapping time at ISU, two things: 1) he is a representation of the bizarre behavior people sometimes exhibit when they find themselves in the presence of “celebrity” and 2) he is a reminder, both in his person and in his works, of a very strange period in my life.

When I first started at ISU in the fall of 1996, Infinite Jest had been released a few months earlier and, due mostly to my intense focus on literary works released before 1900, I’d never heard of Wallace, a fact that was greeted with some incredulousness on the part of a few of my grad school colleagues who had come to Normal, Illinois, from far more glamorous places just for the shot at studying with him. Although he taught in the department, I never actually saw him until sometime in late 1997 or early 1998 (and, in fairness, ISU’s English department is the largest in the university and I wasn’t taking creative writing classes). I arrived early to a party at a professor’s house and the only guest who had arrived before my friend and me–a kind of grungy-looking guy with greasy, shoulder-length hair–offered to take my coat and hang it up. And I said, “Thank you.”

And as grunge-guy walked away, my friend gripped my arm to the point that my hand nearly popped off and whispered in my ear, “That was David Foster Wallace. David Foster Wallace just took our coats!”

I think I just shrugged to my friend, but I remember thinking, “That guy? That’s the guy everyone’s swooning over?” (and I do mean swooning–I had a student one semester who informed the entire class that she planned to marry David Foster Wallace if only she could figure out how to “get rid of” his girlfriend. I was mildly disturbed.).  Intellectually, I knew that “geniuses” didn’t have a standard look, but I couldn’t believe that this homeless-looking guy was supposedly one of the great modern literary minds.

So I didn’t run right out and buy Infinite Jest, I didn’t start reading his essays–I just took as a point of pride that I got to teach in the same department as someone who had been deemed one of the great literary lights of the Twentieth Century. And in recalling my somewhat “meh” attitude, I’m not trying to claim some moral or literary superiority over my classmates who seemed to worship him. But for my money, the Illinois State English department was filled with geniuses, students and faculty both. David Foster Wallace just happened to be the best known one, the one who had reached the pinnacle of a field that people outside academia pay attention to.

The paragraph above should not imply, however, that I wasn’t just a little bit intimidated by the guy in spite of myself. One semester, a group of grad students used to gather at Rosie’s Pub in neighboring Bloomington, and several of these students were taking a course from Wallace and would wander over once he let the class go for the evening. Those of us who weren’t in the class used to joke with the ones who were about trying to talk Wallace into joining us some evening–and we’d joke because we figured it would never actually happen. Until it did.

He sat across from me at a table, eating saltine crackers that come in those little plastic restaurant packages (I think I remember him saying something about trying to quit smoking, and knowing that he’d had a past with addiction, I’m sure a bar must not have been the most comfortable place for him), and offering them to those of us sitting around him (and despite the title of this essay, I can’t remember if I actually ate one or not). And I didn’t say a single word to him, because, knowing me, I was probably terrified of saying something stupid. Instead, I just listened to the conversations he was having with the others–mostly the students from his class–conversations I remember almost nothing about, except that at one point, in a context that I don’t remember, he told one of his writing students “No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.”

I got up to go to the bathroom shortly thereafter, and when I came back, Wallace and his students were gone, leaving only me and two of my friends (one of whom was the friend who attended the party with me that I wrote about above). My friends were in the middle of trying to remember lines from A. E. Houseman’s “To An Athlete Dying Young,” and I was curious as to why.

“We’re trying to figure out what poem Wallace was quoting,” they informed me. And I think they were both a bit stunned when I told them that the “poem” our local intellectual celebrity genius had quoted was “Time” by Pink Floyd.

I always liked Wallace after that moment (still didn’t go out and buy Infinite Jest, but…). My relationship with these two friends was deteriorating (and one of them remains in the category of “People I Despise” whom I mentioned above), and he had unknowingly handed me a brief moment of one-upmanship on a cracker-crumb strewn tabletop. The “genius” reassured me of what I’d suspected back when he took my coat at that party. Despite his celebrity, despite an intelligence that would have allowed him to quote any philosopher or poet he wanted, he decided in that moment to dole out wisdom in the form of Pink Floyd lyrics. In that moment, the “genius” was a regular guy, and any one of the grad students around that table was capable of “genius” as well. And even though I never took a class from him, I can’t help but wonder if that’s who he was as a teacher–”I did this, this writing thing, and you can do it, too.”

But even as I write these inconsequential recollections and sit here and try to imagine what Wallace was like as a teacher, I feel anger at the pain these vignettes conjure up. That incident at Rosie’s occurred during a dark period in my life, and there he is, squarely in the middle of that memory. And perhaps that’s why I can’t get through his work–his presence flits around the edges of some of my worst moments, and worship of him stands out among the most insipid qualities of someone whom I would probably still punch in the face if I met that person on the street, even ten years later. I certainly don’t blame Wallace for any of that, of course, but I just hate that in this moment after he has tragically chosen to remove himself from this earth, rather than sitting here and glorifying his work, all I can do is be reminded about anger I’d forgotten I once felt (And for the record, my time at ISU wasn’t a total wash. I still have good friends from that time, I did eventually earn my Ph.D., and I met the man I would eventually marry–who brought to our union, among other things, copies of Infinite Jest and Girl with Curious Hair, not to mention his own parcel of David Foster Wallace stories. So not a total wash by a long shot).

And I also can’t help but wonder, as I suppose everyone must when someone they have come into contact with commits suicide, if whatever darkness overtook the dead was always there. So now, that memory from Rosie’s has an extra layer of pain over it, as I sit here and wonder if part of him was gone, even then–if the seeds of whatever overcame him a few days ago were already taking root.

I can’t glorify in death someone I didn’t really know, someone whose work I’ve barely read, someone whose even tangential connection to my life doesn’t bring back the brightest of memories. But I’m human. I’m human, and I’ve lost people–to death, and to the petty arguments of life. So my sympathies are with David Foster Wallace’s friends and family right now. My sympathies are with the literary world, which has lost one of its shining stars. And my sympathies are with any of my friends, both current and former, who are feeling even a little measure of pain at his shocking loss. Because I once loved you, and loved the things that you loved merely because you loved them, your sadness is my sadness in this moment, even in its smallest measure.

Women I Can Believe In

No matter how you look at it, it’s been a rough election cycle for women, despite all those cracks in the glass ceiling.

First, we had the historic–and historically messy–candidacy of Hillary Clinton. It’s no secret that I wasn’t exactly a fan of Hill’s during the primary season (and it’s no secret to the point that I can’t link to just one post in which I was railing against her).  While her campaign was historic, I frequently found her tactics disgusting. I don’t have daughters, but I have young female cousins and I frequently work with bright young women. And Hillary Clinton is no longer the role model I would choose for them based on her do-anything, say-anything campaign.

But despite my anger, Hillary redeemed herself to me (at least to some extent) with her speech at the Democratic National Convention. Even if it was all bullshit, even if her heart was breaking, her plea to her supporters–”Was it only about me?”–was wonderful (even if it was delivered in an orange pantsuit. Yikes!). When it truly mattered, Hillary put the Democratic Party–and, given what’s at stake in this election, the country–first, and for that, she’s earned back at least a little of the admiration I had for her during her husband’s administration and her terms in the Senate.

The Republicans, not to be outdone, have also given women a historic candidate in Vice-Presidential nominee Sarah Palin. But as far as I’m concerned, the history ends at the fact that Palin has the requisite lady parts. Now, in my opinion, her candidacy is just historically bad. I don’t think I’ve ever so viscerally disagreed with another human being, from her social and economic policies right down to the way she wears her hair.

And then she opened her mouth.

Palin’s speech at the Republican National Convention made Hillary Clinton’s worst moments on the campaign trail look like an argument for her cannonization. The Pitbull with Lipstick Who Looks Like Peggy Hill But Sounds Like Judy Tenuda gave one of the most mean-spirited, hateful–not to mention, completely devoid of any substantive policy–speeches I’ve ever seen (And a close second would be the speech Rudy Guiliani gave immediately before Palin’s, but as I lived in the New York in the waning days of his administration, I already knew what a mean, opportunistic prick he was. And besides, we’re talking about the women here.). I was particularly appalled at how both Palin and Guiliani gleefully slammed the role of the “community organizer,” Palin going so far as to say that community organizers don’t have any “real responsibility.” Well, here’s some information for you, Sarah (and Rudy, who, as the former mayor of New York, which is composed of thousands of small communities, should really know better than to make fun of the work that these people do)–guess where community organizers do most of their work? Churches. That’s right–churches, you self-righteous, Evangelical, holier-than-thou crazy woman. But I’m guessing that someone who embraces the nickname “Sarah Barracuda” probably isn’t too concerned with the least among us unless we’re sending them to do “God’s will” in Iraq or trying “reprogram” them if they’re gay.

So when you’ve been let down by Hillary and Sarah scares the living hell out of you, what’s a politically-inclined girl to do?

Well, I’ll tell you which women I can currently get behind in this election–Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart.

In case you haven’t been paying attention, the McCain campaign has been using the Heart song “Barracuda” as Sarah Palin’s theme song. And even after the Wilson sisters asked them to stop using the song, they went ahead and used it again during the last night of the convention, prompting the sisters to release this statement (and note how they point out the irony in the Republicans using the song–which doesn’t exactly have the most positive message–to promote their girl). 

So kudos to the Wilson sisters for doing what the media apparently isn’t ready to do–stand up to the McCain campaign. Thanks to Ann and Nancy for showing me that there are still some females out there I can believe in. Hell–in light of the farce that this election season has become all around, let’s just go all in–Ann and Nancy Wilson ‘08, Independent Party candidates (And I just arbitrarily put Ann before Nancy–I’ll let them work out the order of the ticket for themselves). Women unite!

And considering that Nancy is married to Cameron Crowe, at least we know the convention videos will be interesting.

Choose Me for VP

Wow–what the fuck was John McCain thinking?

If this were 1972 and Sarah Palin’s name were “Thomas Eagleton,” she would have hopped the first plane back to Alaska yesterday. Instead, the scandal train just keeps rolling right along. And kudos to The Huffington Post today for putting Bristol Palin’s pregnancy far down on the list of Palin’s scandals. While the mainstream media is foaming at the mouth about whether or not Palin’s family is fair game, I’m frankly more interested in her executive experience. Or, rather, her lack thereof. And I’m far more interested in her secessionist views, her affiliations with Senator/Felon Ted Stevens, how she was almost recalled as mayor of Nowhere, Alaska, and her penchant for firing or trying to fire anyone who doesn’t agree with her or messes with her family. So while the Bristol Palin story may be great tabloid fodder (and not to mention an outstanding representative of what’s wrong with her mother’s abstinence-only sex education stance), to me, the Bristol scandal is just icing on the cake. A very underbaked, no-way-in-hell-ready-to-be-a-heartbeat-away-from-the-presidency cake.

For me, the Palin situation is very simple. If by some outside chance 1) Palin stays on the ticket and 2) she and McCain are elected to lead the country, I’m moving to Canada (where, by the way, I have no intention of ever shooting a moose, for burgers or otherwise). I can’t find a single thing about this woman that I would like or support other than the fact that I have to give it up to any woman who has the patience and stamina to birth and raise five kids. But no, Sherri Shepherd, I don’t think a woman is ready to run the country simply based on the fact that she’s had five kids (and the day I take my political cues–any cues, for that matter–from the women on The View is the day that I surrender the hope of ever having a rational thought again. Just thinking about Elisabeth Hasselbeck makes me want to kick something–her, preferably).

Sarah Palin is no more ready to run a country based on the fact that that she’s a mother of five than I’m ready to run a major corporation because I can maintain a household budget. Trust me–I can balance a checkbook but you wouldn’t want me anywhere near a shareholder’s meeting. And I don’t want Sarah Palin anywhere near the White House.

But what the hell–if the McCain campaign thinks that Sarah Palin is ready to be this nation’s second in command, then I think they should just go ahead and pick me as her replacement if she proves to be too scandal-plagued. I know I’m probably more liberal than McCain would like in a running mate, but, hey–he’s a maverick, right? Plus, I’m relatively scandal-free (assuming we overlook my college years. But at least I’ve never been arrested). While I’ve never been a PTA mom (or any mom, for that matter), I’ve done a lot of babysitting and kids like me. And although I’m no former beauty queen, I have been told that I don’t need to walk around with a bag over my head, so I guess that’s something.

And executive and foreign policy experience? I’ve got that all over Sarah Palin. She may be a hockey mom, former mayor, and fledgling governor, but I’ve been an actual, real-life, vice-president. Of a sorority. You think managing five kids is hard? Try scheduling a year’s worth of meetings and activities for fifty-five college girls and see how well you do. And while Palin may have foreign policy experience because Alaska is next to Russia, I’m willing to bet that she’s never actually had to negotiate with the Russians. So I’m up on her there, too, because one summer I lived upstairs from a family of itinerant farm workers from Mexico, and every once in a while they would block my car into the lot with theirs. So, I’d have to negotiate with them to get them to move their car so I could go to class, all while I didn’t speak a word of Spanish and they didn’t speak a word of English. Talk about diplomacy.

So there you have it, John McCain. If this whole Sarah Palin thing doesn’t work out, I’m willing to help you restore your maverick image by letting you choose me for VP. You certainly can’t do any worse, and I’m thinking that maybe you already have.