Launching Operation OYEAH

PLEDGE: The following is not an economic recovery plan. I know it's rare to see anything else these days, but I promise this isn't.

Instead, it's a proposed way of supporting whatever economic strategies President-elect Obama and his team come up with. Kind of a recovery amplifier.

It goes like this:

Lots of people are handy with tools. In fact, it's almost unAmerican to admit that you couldn't, for instance, whip together a pretty decent shed in a couple of hours, given the proper materials.

So we make an offer to these millions of handy Americans. Instead of sitting around drinking beer all day Saturday, why not volunteer some time to help fix up your neighborhood? Why not bring your tools and work on improving the disintegrating houses / barns / train stations / schools / whatever in your town?

What's in it for you? For each hour you pitch in, you earn (or can gallantly decline) a certain amount of tax credit. You also get a strong jolt of that wonderfully American barn-raising spirit, with hearty overtones of accomplishment, community closeness and civic pride.

And your returns keep coming because your efforts have long-range impacts. Your neighborhood starts to look better and become more desirable, which increases the value of your home. Uninhabitable houses become habitable, creating more affordable housing, helping young families get their first shot at home ownership, and making your town more vibrant.

I know I'm still a little drunk on the good feelings uncorked by Obama's victory, but I believe that this project can work and can help bring about the closer, stronger America so many of us are hoping to see.

One more benefit: It's a chance to get involved in the process. Rather than just sit back and hope for the best from the new administration, this project will let us invest some sweat to help make it come true.

All that remains, other than putting it in action, is to give it a catchy name. I propose OYEAH, for Organize Your Efforts And Help, but I'm hopeful it will be more popularly known by its homonym: OYAA (Off Your Ass, America).

*FITNESS NOTE: In terms of exercise, an hour of shoveling is worth at least an hour in the gym, and you don't have to pay for it.

J. Mudcat Miller

What? You've missed Miller's columns in the LIBN?

It has been sadly pointed out to me that many people, for one reason or another, have been hideously deprived of my columns all about the East End in Long Island Business News. Mainly, the problem is that they don't get the damn paper. I understand this. Shrinking economy, other selfish uses for the money, blah blah. So here's a solution: simply Google jdmiller49 and prepare to be bathed in a gushing torrent of milk and honey, unless that metaphor in any way disgusts you.

At the bottom, after gorging yourself on the first couple pages of columns, it will say lots of other similar pages are available with a click. FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T HESITATE. These columns purport to be about business, but really they're subtle jewels encapsulating life on our wonderful twin forks and, to extrapolate just a bit, our planet.

Good hunting.

Obama campaign's 'Operation Stargag' revealed

Fascinating details keep emerging about the diligence of the Obama campaign. Here's the latest: A share of the candidate's stunning success was due to a concerted effort to muzzle celebrity endorsements.

It was called "Operation Stargag."

Sources inside the campaign indicate that the gambit was hatched in secret meetings shortly after Oprah Winfrey issued her glowing endorsement on Larry King way back in May of 2007. Almost immediately, Obama and his closest advisors agreed the Hollywood fawning might give traction to the Republicans' elitism charge and could scuttle the campaign.

"Barack's feeling was, OK, it's Oprah, that's cool," said a well-placed but unnamed source. "But let's nip it right there."

Ms. Winfrey vowed to back off, but trouble soon arose elsewhere. "It was like a goddamn Hydra," said the source, referring to the mythological beast that grew two heads for every one chopped off.

A big concern was Madonna. "She's a bomb waiting to explode," said an e-mail intercepted by another unnamed source. The reference possibly harkened to the star's 2003 "American Life" video, in which she tossed a grenade at a George W. Bush look-alike.

Stargag enforcers allegedly had the Material Girl under control, but she slipped the leash in August with her infamous equating of McCain with Hitler and Obama with Ghandi. "We were lucky," said the source. "The Olympics were on. Nobody paid much attention."

Another huge area of worry, of course, was Michael Jackson. "You know, the rock-star thing, the part-black, part-white thing," said the source. "It was scary. We were sure he was going to try to get around us with another 'We Are the World' eruption." It is testimony to the vigor of the campaign that Jackson was somehow kept under wraps.

But of course there were slips. And when they came, they came fast and furious.

"AAGGH!" blistered an e-mail from a top campaign official. "Clooney! De Niro! Abdul-Jabbar! Hulk freaking Hogan, for god's sake! Can't you stop these people?"

"We're trying!" replied a flustered Stargag lieutenant. "It's like trying to cap a firehose!"

In desperation they hatched a scheme to divert some celebrities to McCain. That tactic, code-named "Operation Starshift," was only marginally successful

"OMG, you guys HAVE GOT TO DO BETTER!" screeched yet another e-mail from a top Obama aide. "Who's McCain got? Like, Lou Ferrigno? Pat Boone? Wilfred Brimley, fer cryin' out loud?"

"Now wait a minute," came the clearly miffed reply. "We got Eastwood to go over. And Victoria Jackson. And, uh, Erik Estrada."

The reply was unprintable.

Eventually the Obama campaign began raiding its massive war chest to finance various distractions. Funds were diverted to help produce the film "Max Payne," on the proviso that a role be found for Ludacris. For a generous donation, the hurricane relief effort in Haiti agreed to take on Matt Damon.

No doubt their greatest coup came next. In return for massive appearance fees and a new Bentley, A-Rod agreed to squire Madonna around until mid-November.

The rest, as they say, is Hollywood history.

J. Mudcat Miller

New columnist debuts; evildoers tremble

Let the universe take note of the debut of our new columnist, WT Davidson of Nashville, Tennessee. WT will be covering the neuroscience/funkadelia beat. His first dispatch appears below.

Innovation At Home - Branding and You

Let's face it - innovation is the heart and soul of our economy, our country, and our very lives. How many times, at the bitter end of a failed relationship, have you said "Sure, we got along, but she [or perhaps he] just wasn't innovative enough." I know I have. That's why, in these tough economic times, it's so important to innovate (never say invent) new complex mechanisms for enhancing value producing monetary multipliers.

Specifically, I'm thinking about branding. Branding in new, innovative ways.

Indeed, we all love watching football with new, innovative enhancements like the Chevrolet Player of the Game, Clorox Fan of the Week, and the Toyota 43 yard line. And we all know that some people, in new and innovative ways, are being paid to tell their friends and families how much they love their new cell phone, their cell phone plan, or their hamburger. While clearly an advancement for humankind, is this truly innovative enough?

Here's my idea. Brand your own, personal possessions - even if they are previously branded (retain an attorney). It won't be easy, innovation never is. Who would care, you ask, about some random trade name assigned to the antique hutch given to me by my aunt Gwendolyn?

This is where the faint of heart often fail to see the the need for more innovation. Marketing ... you must in fact market your own personal brand to the larger, more important brands. They must believe you to have a wide range of friends, family and general social contacts. It won't be necessary to actually have them. Once you seal the deal, the beauty of market-driven brand reinforcement will become an unstoppable force for boundless innovation in your future - and you'll get paid!

Say it's Thanksgiving; when cousin Roscoe asks, "Hey, can I get you a beer?" you could just reply in the old, calcified way, "Yes, please." Or you could venture "You bet. The Citigroup Thrill of the Chill fridge has got all the perfectly frosted malt beverages we could ask for." (If you spotted an unrealized branding opportunity - you're on your way to a new, more completely branded tomorrow!)

"Can I use your bathroom?"

"Of course. Make sure to hold down the handle of the Poulaner Weedeater toilet for at least four seconds, though."

See, it's not that hard. And best of all - you're a part of the innovation economy. Remember, it's not about producing things, saving things, knowing things, or recycling things. In these difficult days, it's all about continuing to live in a monetarily enhanced environment while not using your own personal energy.

Now you and I know the media elite will scream bloody murder "It's Orwell on consumer steroids..." - you know who I mean. But aren't these the same folks who whined and moaned about the innovative war in Iraq?

In this unprecedented and challenging era, if we buckle down, if we keep our wits, if we know in our hearts that we can get paid for doing nothing, I think we just might come out all right.



WT "I'm not bitter" Davidson

Daily Beast report from Ohio

Dispatches From the Swing States

Ohio: Jeff Miller

Obama footsoldiers in southeastern Ohio are now battling two foes: McCain and complacency. “I sense a lot of over-confidence,” said a campaign organizer. “People feel sure he’s going to win, so they don’t have to get involved.”

That’s not acceptable to the Obama faithful, so efforts are redoubling. And yet, some campaigners are shifting their focus and their efforts from Ohio to Pennsylvania, feeling it might be more of a toss up. Nevertheless, fervor is still running high. “Someone with six kids went out with the kids and knocked on 200 doors yesterday,” said the organizer. “And an 88-year-old man knocked on 70 doors. People are working hard. Really hard.”

Another sign: Obama campaign headquarters, which seemed so roomy last week, is getting crowded. More rented tables have been set up, stacks of donated bottled water are growing tall, and volunteer numbers have jumped 50 percent from last week to this. And reinforcements are on the way. The next few days will bring a swarm of volunteer lawyers to combat election day mischief.

“Excitement is bubbling,” said the organizer. “There’s a little more stress in the air.” How do they manage to stay afloat above a rising tide of canvassers? Simple: When they return to the office, “We send them right back out.”

Back to Ohio for Obama

"Hi. I'm a volunteer with Barack Obama's Campaign for Change here in Youngstown. I was born and raised in Ohio and I drove four states to come back this week because I believe in this cause."

That was the heart of the little speech I delivered many times during my stay in Youngstown last week. My friends and fellow East End Long Islanders Barbara and Jim have a dynamo of a daughter who took a semester off from college to help run an Obama headquarters in Youngstown. She put out a call for volunteers and we drove west. It's not easy to refuse her.

We arrived on Monday, Oct. 20, at an hour I usually think of as dinnertime. Instead, the dynamo showed us how to make "persuasion" calls, gave us some lists, sat us down at the phone bank and turned us loose. It was an instant lesson in geopolitics.

I was raised in a Republican household in Cleveland. Growing up, political identity never seemed to be a matter of choice. Everyone liked Ike and that was that. Until recently I was a "blank," a member of no party, which helped in my career as a journalist. But in this election I'm a devoted Obama supporter, which is why I got in the car heading for Youngstown.

It's quite a different city from Cleveland as I remember it. In my very first phone calls, I picked up some attitudes and even some accents that sounded southern, although we were only 30 miles below Cleveland and about 60 miles east. But there are plenty of similarities too. Most importantly, both are historically steel towns, and, with the decline of the economy and the auto industry, both are hurting.

The level of that pain registered clearly in the first phone calls. "We just can't keep going like we've been going," said one man. "Even my racist friends are coming over to Obama."

There were sentiments on the other side too. "I'm a proud Democrat but I won't vote for him," one woman told me. When I asked why, she said, "I just don't trust him."

That line, I've read, is often code for racial fear, but in some instances I think it was a genuine concern. Obama IS relatively new to the scene. I countered with the argument that he has more experience than Abe Lincoln had going in, which drew silence.

I also heard the familiar litany of Obama scares: He's a Muslim, he's a Socialist, he's not a U.S. citizen, he pals around with terrorists, his wife isn't proud of her country. I parried them with what I believe to be the truth, and as a trump card I asked if they'd seen Colin Powell's endorsement. Almost without exception, the general's glowing remarks were acknowledged to be a powerful persuader.

The next day Jim and I were sent on the road as a canvassing team. We went to a working-class neighborhood in northwest Youngstown. There were some abandoned, disintegrating homes here, but most were well kept, and many were decked out with lavish Halloween decorations. Since it was a Tuesday during working hours, lots of houses were unoccupied, but when someone did answer the door an interesting thing happened: People were friendly.

That impressed me. I don't appreciate solicitations over the phone, and I like them even less in person, but these people were generally pretty nice about it. That's the Ohio I remember.

Even those who are backing the Republican ticket weren't particularly rude about it, for the most part. The worst was the Norman Mailer look-alike who peered at me through his closed storm door with an ironic grin permanently in place. When I told him I was a volunteer with the Obama campaign he said, "You are?" When I asked if he was voting for Obama, he just grinned. When I asked if he'd made up his mind, he said, "I just told you, didn't I?" When I spun out my line about driving four states to volunteer, he said, "You oughta get in your car and drive back those four states." Then, still grinning, he closed the door.

A few houses later I had an exchange of a different kind. No one answered when I rang the bell so I prepared to knock, but the door opened just as I did and I almost rapped the occupant on the forehead.

It was a black man who was totally unruffled by his close encounter with my fist. I explained that I was canvassing for the Obama campaign and, well, suffice to say it was a nice visit. Then, when I was two houses away, I heard the man urgently calling me back. I returned, bending against the frigid afternoon wind. "Here," he said, reaching down from his porch. "You need a hat. It's cold out there."

The next day we canvassed in Lowellville, a riverside village in southeastern Youngstown. Demographic: 99 percent white and largely Italian-American. We were warned that it could be a tough day for us, but that's not what I found. Yes, some doors were closed but some were flung open enthusiastically, especially by the goateed man who trumpeted for me and all his neighbors to hear, "I'm a union man and there are five votes for Obama in this house!"

Back at headquarters, in between our forays onto the streets, fervor and camaraderie built steadily day to day. Among the crew were people of all ages and colors, locals and visitors from all over the country, all descended on this former mattress outlet to help swing the crucial Ohio vote. There was even a Legal Aid lawyer from Brooklyn who was involved in the fight against the Shoreham nuclear plant, and who in fact got arrested during a protest over it.

Even though you're never supposed to feel optimistic during a campaign, at one point toward the end of our stay I looked around the room and couldn't help taking heart. Maybe every campaign generates such moments, but I hadn't felt that kind of buoyancy since the Kennedy era. For that instant it didn't matter if our candidate won or not; just the amazing fact of this campaign was a victory in itself. Somewhere, amid all the turmoil and debate and sheer effort, the awful issue of race had simply become insignificant. Something much more important was going on, and there we all were, fighting for it.

That, I reflected, is the way life should be.

J. Mudcat Miller

Imaginary friends

My mother walked into the bathroom and saw an odd sight. Her two-year-old son was lying on the floor whispering fervently into the heat vent.

"Who are you talking to?" she asked.

"The monkeys," I mumbled.

"What monkeys?"

I didn't answer.

"What monkeys?" she repeated.

"Figgy and Guffietz!" I said brusquely.

"There are monkeys named Figgy and Guffietz in there?"

I nodded, very seriously.

"What are they doing in there?" my mother asked.

But there was a note of amusement in her voice. I recognized it and was wary. Yes, they were monkeys, but there was nothing silly about them. I didn't want them to become playthings for the whole world. "They're just bein' there!" I said loudly. Actually, they did swing around on pipes occasionally, but I didn't want to let that key bit of information out.

Soon the whole family knew of the monkeys in the heat vent, and to the great credit of my mother, father and sister, they never made fun of me, and tried not to intrude when I was conferring with Figgy and Guffietz, despite the fact that there was only one bathroom on the second floor and I was frequently tying it up, deep in discussion with my imaginary friends.

There are several reasons young children create imaginary characters like my two monkeys. This book will touch on those reasons, but most of the pages will be devoted to the friends themselves -- the children and the amazing creations that spring from their fertile imaginations. For instance...

Well, Figgy and Guffietz were only my first two. Soon there was also Hank, a cowboy who lived in the downstairs coat closet. Sometimes, when all four of us humans were sitting in the living room of an evening, I would suddenly stand up, march across the room, step into the closet and close the door. My family would then hear the sounds of muffled conversation and try very hard not to laugh too loudly. Hank, by the way, always stood at attention next to the American flag that was rolled up on its flagpole and propped into a corner of the closet, awaiting the Fourth of July.

My last and, according to my family, greatest creation was Darling Beauty. She lived in the Spanish moss hanging from the trees in St. Petersburg, Florida. She was long and slender and gorgeous, and she had long, gorgeous black hair and a long red dress. Everything about her was long and gorgeous and flowing, the better to drape herself amid the graceful moss. We drove from Cleveland, Ohio, to Florida every other year or so, and, for a wonderful while, Darling Beauty would always be there waiting for me when we returned.

"Do you see her yet?" some family member would ask.

"No," I would say grumpily, always on the lookout for amusement on their parts. But finally the excitement would build too high and I would forget to be wary, and then I would yell, "There she is!"

More than a quarter of all children have imaginary friends in their lives at one time or another. If you were one of them (the children, not the imaginary friend), please consider sending me a note about the experience (jdmiller49@yahoo.com). Your story might become part of a real book someday.


J. Mudcat Miller

Way to go

Wise are the
fruit flies
who choose
to die
in wine.

A Conversation With My Dog Whilst Raking

“I see you’re urinating on the leaf pile again,” I said.

“Yes, I am,” said Elmo. He didn’t say the words so much as he thought them. His thoughts come directly to me and vice versa.

Now he was finished urinating and was in his proud hound stance: head and ears thrown back, nose sniffing the breeze, eyes peering deeply into the faraway.

“You do this every year,” I said.

He said nothing.

“I rake and rake, make these giant mounds of leaves, and you come along and urinate on them.”

“That is my nature,” said Elmo.

“Well, it’s getting a little annoying. Year after year.”

“The leaves returneth every year.”

“Yes, and I have to rake them up every year.”

“That is your nature.”

“It is not my nature. I hate raking.”

“Then why do you rake?”

“Because the yard would be full of leaves if I didn’t. You couldn’t even walk through it.”

“What man rakes the forest?”

“No one rakes the forest.” I knew where this was going.

“And yet, you have seen me walk there.”

I moved to a new spot and kept raking. Elmo followed.

“Autumn comes and the leaves falleth,” he said. “I walk among them. I urinate upon them. Then comes another autumn, and more leaves. Then another and another. The forest does not fill up. The Earth welcomes the leaves. That is its nature.”

“Do you have to use the biblical verbs?”

“For the purpose of this conversation, it pleaseth me.”

“Well, it annoyeth the hell out of me.” I picked up a stick and threw it onto the stick pile. He watched calmly.

“This Lord Elmo routine,” I said. “You stand around, sniff the wind, piss on the leaves, while I do all the work.” It was a losing battle, like urging him to help around the house instead of just lounging until mealtime.

He said nothing. The new leaf pile grew. Elmo walked up beside it, sniffed once and then urinated on it. He looked right at me while he did it.

“Your problem,” he said, “is you are out of harmony with the leaves.”

“Well, please help me to harmonize, o wise one.”

“First you must understand their nature. They fall and the Earth welcomes them. Then they returneth.”

I moved to a new spot and kept raking. Elmo followed.

“They will fall again next year,” he said. “And the year after that. And the year after that. And one day I too will fall, and I will become leaves. This is not sad. I have been leaves many times. The leaves are my brothers.”

I glanced at Elmo. He was peering into the distance again. I checked the view. Nothing there but wind and branches and horizon.

“One day you too will fall, man of leaves,” he said.

Stubbornness kept me raking.


J. Mudcat Miller

Game

New racquet?

Yeah, I need all the help I can get.

Love 15.

*

Wow. You've been working on your backhand.

Got lucky that time.

Love 30.

*

You sure about that call?

Take it over if you want.

Never mind. Love 40.

*

Out of breath? Wanna rest?

Nah, I'm fine.

15-40.

*

How's the bankruptcy going?

It's going fine, Ralph.

30-40.

*

Heard from your wife recently?

Let's just play, okay?

Sure. Deuce.

*

Couldn't hear that, Bill.

I said, "Bloody hassle."

Oh. Sounded more like "Lucky asshole." Ad in.

*

You're playing really well, Bill.

Fuck you, Ralph.

Game.

A. Relationship, socialite, dies at home, age 14

A. Relationship, a noted participant in the local club scene, died unpleasantly at its fashionable Upper East Side apartment Tuesday evening. Relationship was 14.

Relationship was born in the Senor Frog's bar in Playa del Carmen in February 1994. Its parents, Jack and Jill Partner, were vacationing separately at the time, met, shared an estimated five giant Senor Frog's margaritas and conceived A. Relationship later that night. Friends described it as a "joyful" and "slaphappy" birth, although details were hazy.

Upon returning to the city, the Partners and their infant Relationship traveled back and forth between Mrs. Partner's studio apartment in Chelsea and Mr. Partner's pigsty in Washington Heights before deciding to pool their resources and move to the trendy East 80s. This led to the usual haggle over furnishings, which was decided by having all of Mr. Partner's trappings hauled to the Brooklyn landfill except for his classic rock CD collection and a somewhat attractive Queen Anne highboy he had inherited from his mother, the late Molly Coddler of Hempstead, Long Island.

Once settled, the spunky Relationship quickly became ubiquitous in the UES social arena, seen almost nightly at Iggy's, Hooligan's, Aces and Eights and other in-spots. Photos often appeared in the tabloids, not always in the most flattering poses, such as the 2002 public urination incident and the resulting garbage pickup shot that was used by the city to advertise its Creative Sentencing campaign.

"A. Relationship can't be judged from the outside," UES celeb/sex authority Sally Jesse Raphael told Tickled Pink magazine last September. "The Relationship you see might appear to be reeling, spinning madly out of control, passing out in cabs, but inside there may be genuine caring and mutual respect." Last night she was reportedly "stunned" and "saddened" by Relationship's demise.

Insiders say the downward spiral began a few months ago, when the Partners began to grow apart. "She wanted more, more, more," said close friend Liza Minelli. "More bright lights, more fun, more everything! And more fun! He lost his job. What can you say? It wasn't easy to sustain A. Relationship in that whatever. Environment."

Mr. Partner was a broker for the hedge fund VisionAerie Technologies, recently hit with fraud and conspiracy charges by the SEC. He is as yet unindicted. Mrs. Partner is currently residing at the home of billionaire financier Jeffrey Epstein.

A. Relationship is survived by the Partners and Ugh, their pet Puggle. A memorial service will be held tomorrow at Smithers Rehabilitation Center, 58th and 10th. Donations may be made to Dr. Phil McGraw's Rescue Retreat and Smile Factory.


J. Mudcat Miller