Paco’s Diary

The ostentatious policy-wonkishness of the Obama administration is something that I now have the misfortune of living with every day at my own agency. The primary feature of this bureaucratic fantasy world is an unprecedented number of political appointees solidly committed to carrying out Obama’s big-government agenda, but not having the first clue as to how to go about it (or even what “it” is). These people have an insatiable need for information, a congenital inability to effectively process it, a misplaced sense of urgency, and a naïve belief in their ability to influence national policy from within the bowels of a small federal agency that exists pretty much at the margin of economic activity. They are like piano tuners who, through some extraordinary mix-up in communication, have been called in to do a plumbing job, but are not about to let their ignorance of the difference between an elbow fitting and a drain trap prevent them from tackling the assignment; and they are perfectly willing to run the risk of flooding your basement, secure in the knowledge that, by the time you discover your pool cues and your tax papers floating about like so much debris after a hurricane, they will have moved on to do the Lord’s work elsewhere.

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I’ll never get around to reading even a quarter of the books in my library, since my reading time is limited, for the most part, to my train rides to and from work. I try to read a little on the weekends, but I’m reaching an age when I start dozing off over even the most enthralling book after a half hour or so. I’m just about finished with Willa Cather’s volume of short stories, Youth and the Bright Medusa, and, as always, her stuff is completely absorbing. These stories deal with talent and ambition and the choices people must make in order to pursue their dreams (and the nagging worry - sometimes constant, sometimes occasional - about whether the achievement is worth the sacrifice). One thing that particularly struck me is the gentle humor that emerges in some of her stories – e.g., this brief snapshot of Hedger, the artist, and his bulldog, Caesar:

So Hedger had the roof to himself. He and Caesar often slept up there on hot nights, rolled in blankets he had brought home from Arizona. He mounted with Caesar under his left arm. The dog had never learned to climb a perpendicular ladder, and never did he feel so much his master’s greatness and his own dependence on him, as when he crept under his arm for this perilous ascent. Up there was even gravel to scratch in, and a dog could do whatever he liked, so long as he did not bark. It was a kind of Heaven, which no one was strong enough to reach but his great, paint-smelling master.

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I confess to enjoying two contemporary television shows: White Collar and Psych. I mention this only because the goofball protagonist on Psych said something on a program last week that reminded me of our president. He was referring to a man with big ears, and said that the guy’s head looked like a cab with the front doors open. Since I’ve introduced the theme of quips, I’ll also note one that I saw at Are We Lumberjacks? the other day: “Wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a really weak guy, all day.” I have always felt that way about turtlenecks (and neckties, for that matter), but nothing summarizes the feeling quite like that line.