Why President Obama Can Babysit Our Boys

Meeting the President of the United States should be a big deal. At least, it's supposed to be. Yet, having met three, I can tell you they're all basically regular folk. No, I have yet to be invited to the Oval Office. Everyone knows, I wouldn't pass the Secret Service check even with my extensive and well documented record. My experiences took place outside the White House.

Meeting Bill and Hillary Clinton was no different.


The stock market had yet to experience the "Crash of '87," and politicians were lining up to see who would replace The Gipper. It was a tough act to follow and the smart money was betting that Poppy would waltz into the Oval Office under the watchful eyes of Barbara.

We were in Helena, Arkansas to go duck hunting. It was just three guys from the city going to visit a friend who lived in a different part of the country. We would dress up in different clothes, drink copious amounts of bourbon and kill innocent waterfowl. Guns, booze and barbecue are a combination few men can refuse.

Little did we know that our host's father was a political operative and special guests were coming to meet us. We were several rounds into the evening meal when Bill and Hillary Clinton walked in. He was the Attorney General and she was miserable. Sometimes you can just tell. What caught my gimlet eye, was that they spent no time together. Bill, who usually had his arm around our hostess' waist, told duck hunting stories and asked us how things were back in the city. Hillary sat with our host in a quiet discussion regarding Wal-Mart's future earnings prospects.

Even I could see the marriage was less than happy. Bill was a rising star with an appetite for just about everything. He asked Hillary if he could join the hunting party and received an icy stare in return. She knew it would be another excuse for Bill to be out of the Governor's Mansion and nothing good ever came of that. It was evident, even back then, that Bill was not scared of his bride.

Which Brings me to President Obama. Although I'll probably never meet the man, we share one important quality. We love our families.

Like me, The President has grown up. He may sneak a cigarette every now and then, but he does not drink to excess, do drugs or chase women. He genuinely loves his girls and fears his wife. Oh yes, I said fears. Every smart man fears his wife. It makes us straighten up and fly right.

Although our belief systems are different, our love of family and respect for our wives is virtually the same.

So, I wouldn't let Bill Clinton babysit the boys. They'd be burning down the house, while Bill would be ordering pizza, raiding my beer fridge and watching pay per view movies. I'd trust Barack Obama with the boys. I know he'd feed them, give them a bath and read a story before bed.

Barack Obama is just like me. He's a husband and father trying to make the world a better place for his family. We may share little else, but I am happy to share this common ground.

Quo fata ferunt!

I'm OK. You're OK. Now Move On!

Anyone who knows me, knows I grew up in the city. It wasn't a pretty place back then. Mayor Beame had nearly run the place into the dirt and Mayor Koch wasn't doing much better. Graffiti was called art and thieves ran wild in the streets.

The nation was just starting to move past the specter of Viet Nam, and we were learning to live with our collective selves. Time, as usual, had healed some wounds, but others were left open and festering, especially in New York.

As the city moved into the 1980s, the Dinkins administration was swept away by Rudy Giuliani, and President Carter was banished to Plains by Ronald Reagan. Wall Street was growing and even the kids shining shoes were getting rich.

Shared prosperity, even in it's usual disproportionate form, sat well in the city. By 1986, even the lowly Mets were riding the wave. Yet, below the surface, things were not all that they seemed. And it all came to a head in the town of Wappingers Falls, New York. It was the tale of a child who was allegedly kidnapped, sexually abused and left covered in fecal matter. Those of you who are not familiar with the Tawana Brawley episode need to study up. For this is not about Tawana Brawley, but the rise of her spokesperson, The Rev. Al Sharpton.

Sharpton moved quickly, blaming local law enforcement and prosecutors for what had happened. Protest marches and media events were staged. Charges of cover-ups and corruption came forth daily.

None of it, however, was ever proven.

Flash forward to today. The Rev. Sharpton is a major player on the American political landscape. He has a strong following. His words are given credence and respect. He can be seen on national, political talk shows and can be heard on the radio. Some may say he is divisive in word and deed. Others may say he is something worse, while others may say he is something better. Who is to say?

You, me, anybody! That's who! For the Rev. Sharpton, like you or me or anybody is protected by the Constitution to say whatever he likes.

We're getting to quick to condemn words these days. I am not sure why, but I believe it has to do with the way we ingest information, opinion and (occasionally) news.

Who cares! You, me, everybody should!

The only person truly forced to listen to me is Kathy and most of the time she tunes me out. Others choose to listen to me. Usually, it's because I promise to buy the next round of drinks or have taken their shoes. That, my friends, is what the Constitution provides for.

You see, my friends, we are all guaranteed the right to free speech. None of us has the right to be heard. That must be earned.

So, I'm OK. You're OK. Sharpton, Limbaugh, Olberman and O'Reilly are OK. If you like them, listen. If you don't turn them off. It's time to move on!

Quo fata ferunt!