A final requiem for Whitney

Whitney Elizabeth Houston was a pop diva that indeed changed the game.

After selling millions of copies of her rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, her cousin, Dionne Warwick recalled joking with her, asking, “What’s next? The phone book?”

But Whitney in her prime had that kind of command of an instrument so pure and so powerful that it could move masses to tears and pride with singular notes. She rose to become a national treasure, making her tumble from grace that much more Shakespearean, and her latest comeback effort all the more American. If anything, we love a great come-from-behind redemption story.

She embodied all that modern Western society says a woman should be in order to be beautiful – tall, thin, slender facial features and a light-the-room smile. To boot, she was caramel brown, an even tanner version of that idealized beauty that led to more exotic fantasies. Plus there was the voice that could enrapture.

A pop singer that could actually sing. Imagine that in today’s Auto-Tune music universe.

That was the Whitney that the world mourned last Saturday, as millions of fans, music and pop culture critics as well as pundits from across the globe tuned into the internationally witnessed homegoing services, filing Facebook status updates, tweets on Twitter and news accounts, including this one.

Even when she wasn’t a fixture on a Billboard chart or at an awards show – both synonymous with Whitney for close to three decades – she was still a presence. Easy listening or R&B stations. Proms or anniversaries. And of course, the supermarket tabloids, especially in her later years.

She was peerless vocally for more than a decade, blessed with what many will continue to proclaim as a  “once in a generation” voice. The div-ettes  that rose to prominence in the years since her 1984 emergence all trace their influence to her, days of prancing with hairbrushes to their lips, pretending to be her. They, too, wanted command of a voice that size, poise on stages that seemed so infinite.

Of course, those who knew her more intimately understood her personal struggles, the inner doubts and demons that never stopped whispering in the ear of what turned out to be just a regular Jersey girl. She often tried to smile it away, best her fears by lodging a brave face. When that didn’t work and weariness rose and wore her down, in came the nasty, snappy attitude – a common byproduct of substance abuse.

They were desperate defensive tactics to ward off the 25/8 pressures and costs of celebrity for someone who grew up before the eyes of the world in a pre-set princess mold whose corset demanded perfection.

“We got to give a little back to all our entertainers,” Ray Watson told those assembled at her funeral. For 11 years, he stood by her, as her uncle, bodyguard and friend. And he was among those who discovered her body when she died of an apparent accidental drowning in Beverly Hills on Grammy night 2012.

“They give their lives to you, just so we can have some entertainment,” Watson exhorted. “We have to treat them with love. And stop ridiculing them. Let’s give them some love, other than just a ticket to their show.”

His pleading is not uncommon, particularly after such a death leads to reflections on what more could have been done to recognize and mitigate the pain that was inflicted and throbbing. To save someone.

Her downward trajectory and tragic end hearkened to that of another pop megastar, Michael Jackson.

But unlike MJ, Whitney was packaged and designed for Mainstream America from the start, and then found an embracement in her black roots later in her career. It was the complete 180 of MJ, whose golden pipes and amazing moves dazzled Afro-adorning crowds years before the likes of American Bandstand ever caught wind.

Whitney’s handlers, by contrast, crafted her image with Dick Clark in mind, not Don Cornelius.

That allowed an easier acceptance of the now mythologized tale of her downfall, that she was somehow swept up by a “bad boy” named Bobby Brown, an ill-refined black brute who turned out the lovely damsel and dragged her into his sewer of foul manners and behavior. It made for a more convenient narrative of how a churchgoing, God-fearing girl could wallow so low, as depicted on infamous scenes of the reality show, Being Bobby Brown, and highlighted in confessional interviews with Diane Sawyer and Oprah Winfrey. It also made for plenty of guilty-pleasure reading of the celebrity tabloids and web sites.

Bobby Brown became such the villain that his own pain of losing a woman to whom he was married for 15 years and raised a daughter had been belittled and dismissed. Recently, more thoughtful analysis has emerged, and even sympathy for his version of events that led to him leaving Whitney’s funeral early and abruptly.

There will be an endless series of stories about Whitney, along with more chart-topping hits now that her music has re-entered the Billboard charts and this summer’s release of the film remake of Sparkle will once again bring her to the fore. Biopics, unauthorized biographies, tell-all books – everyone will want to get in on the act, to be a part of the legacy, to grab a bit of pixie dust and glory.

What often can be missed are off-shoot stories, like the response by Newark’s violent street gangs. For years, Brick City has been emblematic of all that is wrong with urban America, with its gangs leading the list. But last Saturday, they called a moratorium. This, they would do, to honor their sister’s homegoing.

From global guardians to corner thugs, the power and impact of a voice, of a life, can be witnessed in the unlikeliest of places, proving that they really are chartless.

Here’s hoping that Whitney finally has found her comfort and joy.

Of politics and polarization: South Carolina edition

The road to Tampa Bay was never going to be dull, not given the cast of characters that have populated this reality show called the 2012 Republican Presidential Primary.

The flavor-of-the-month frontrunners. The seemingly endless debates -- and it's only January, making the August nominating convention seem like a farther stretch than the sands of the Sahara. Then came the deluge of ads descending upon the diminutive early primary states, with all the pull of La Brea tar.

Now that the field has winnowed, Team Romney has been furiously spinning the cloak of inevitability -- and banking on vast amounts of Citizens United-enabled ads in favor of the former Massachusetts governor.  A 1-2-3 order of the early primaries would demonstrate his dominance and claim as sole heir to the GOP's Excalibur, able to slay the Evil One oppressing freedom from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Lurching toward that sword in the stone has been labyrinthine travel for Romney, though. The latest obstacle in this odyssey to unseat the president is the pudgy pugilist Newt Gingrich, self-appointed guardian of the nominating gate.

True, the former speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives has had some competition for his current title of Primeval Dark Lord, primarily from a roster of Ricks -- as in Santorum, the former U.S. senator, and Perry, governor of Texas. Both have unabashedly flailed at Obama via proxy: debasing African Americans to the delight of a narrow band of the party.

PA Rick opined among a snowy crowd in Iowa that he'd prefer that black people improve their lives by earning their own money, as opposed to giving them someone else's money. After all, black people don't work, pay taxes toward promoting the nation's general welfare, help provide for the common defense or any of that other lofty idealism.

Texas Rick enjoys time unwinding with a hunt at his Niggerhead Ranch. Sure it's a shameful name, which is why in some alternate universe, a benevolent Perry had that name painted over and banned, though everyone refers to the sprawling expanse by its delightful title. Besides that, the S.C. primary's single-digit candidate seems prone to secessionist overtones, painting pictures of states "under siege," evoking a resurrected Robert E. Lee and the Confederate flag of which he is so fond.

Gingrich, in full attack-dog mode

But then there is Gingrich, the Machiavellian maestro of polished polarization, positioning, and politics.

Undone in the previous contests by shock-and-awe ads funded by super PACs for whose existence he once advocated, he vowed to make South Carolina his beachhead. And the fastest way to mount that GOP bedrock seems to be inserting a knowing wink-nod while lighting the near-translucent racial powder keg.

After all, Gingrich is not only a native Georgian, he's also a student of history, with a focused eye on scorched earth approaches of past demagogues.

His thesis was on full display Monday night, aptly enough the federal holiday commemorating the life and work of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. It was the perfect backdrop to pay homage to the arrogant authority embodied by South Carolina's late native son, the nefarious U.S. Sen. Strom Thurmond.

Conservative black political analyst became
unwitting political pinata for the get-'em crowd

Referring to Obama as the "food stamp president" just started the party. When veteran newsman Juan Williams dared to ask Gingrich about his stated assertions on black work ethic and sense of responsibility, his dismissal pandered so patently you could almost hear Thurmond applaud from the grave.

Gingrich, the would-be statesman, has embraced the complete caricature of the populist Southern Republican, with flair -- convenient since his conservative credentials remain under fire.  And he was richly rewarded for the reincarnation.

The Myrtle Beach Convention Center erupted when he refused to even restate -- or, as it is known in politi-speak, "clarify" -- his comments. The PeopleMeters rocked off the charts, and those fuzzy feelings are still sending supporters swooning.

"I would like to thank you, Mr. Speaker, for putting Mr. Juan Williams in his place the other night," one woman cooed at a Gingrich gathering on Wednesday. "His supposed question was totally ludicrous."

In his place.

Because that black man -- a veteran newsman, celebrated political analyst, and frequenter of the center-right position -- had stepped out of line. Much like the one in the White House they're working ever so hard to defeat. Surely the next descriptor would be "uppity."

But not from Gingrich. He just stokes the flames. Then, like Nero, watches Rome burn.

That incendiary passion, a momentum shifter, is partly what has Team Romney nervous as they canvass the Palmetto State, with a little more than 72 hours until the primary.  Polls have had Romney in a 10-14 point lead, but the most recent Public Policy Poll showed the so-called frontrunner at 29 percent, with Gingrich snapping at his heels at 24 percent.

Iowa was a squeaker, now termed a split decision, with PA Rick. New Hampshire proved a better outing. That makes South Carolina the crucial third leg of the creaky inevitability trifecta, and that could be slipping away. Gov. Nikki Haley may not prove to be Romney's Lady of the Lake, either. Her early endorsement looks less golden since it's now known that her tea party sheen has dulled and conservative troops in the state are getting restless, if not disillusioned. 

Meanwhile, Gingrich dog whistles and dances his jig, ready to push his poison like Jim Jones, sloshing it among the all-too willing. With a finish of 25 percent or better, he'll fly to Florida, a hellhound on Romney's trail as the Barry Goldwater of the 21st century.

A new purpose on this fifth day of Kwanzaa

As a child of the post-revolutionary era, “Nia” isn’t as unusual a name today as it was, say, 30 or 40 years ago. Then, the biggest proof of overcoming and “living the Dream” was doing almost everything in your power to prove you were just as plain Jane as your white counterparts. So those exotic names, hairstyles, and dress that would make them uncomfortable were frowned upon by blacks of “better breeding.” After all, why waste all that good education as a pariah when you could “advance the race” by blending in?

Those were the years when celebrating Kwanzaa was almost clandestine, conspiratorial. There were the clothes that most people didn’t have, explicit lessons on collective responsibility to neighbors and elders, discussion on world affairs and how to make a difference from your own corner of the globe. It was a time filled with a sense of importance and legacy, of fortifying your presentation to the ancestors and future generations. The circle was completed, with seniors, adults, and children, as equals in the dialogue.

As a kid, nothing was more appealing than the thought of being part of a grand conspiracy.

The stealthy Jamila Bond, 008, waving a red, black, and green liberation flag – serving her people!

Tomie Lee "Pop-Pop" Meeks and the author

That private fantasy conflicted mightily with the somewhat shy kid that actually was Nia Ngina Afi Meeks, the girl whose name held a sizable charge, as “server of her people whose purpose is divine.” Then, the least little thing would inspire mortification, burning caramel skin to candied apple complexion.

And the one thing that invariably would evoke such a feeling was the annual Kwanzaa gatherings.

Yes, the intellectual and cultural fires of the week-long observance were nothing short of exhilarating. But the singing of Kwanzaa songs planted a deep terror. People would gather around, in significant numbers, and extol the virtues of unity, self-determination, collective economics, work and responsibility, creativity and faith with musical accompaniment.

Of course, they’d also sing about purpose. About Nia. And they would point. And laugh. Especially my peers. The more they’d see me squirm, the louder they would sing.

Though it seems nearly inconsequential now, it was often too much, and I would cringe inside, despite trying to put on face of bravery, pretending to laugh and ignore what felt like a flood of attention.

In minutes, relief would come. The song would be over. Snacks would be served. Some years, however, surviving those minutes felt like enduring the green mile. For years, that defined Dec. 30. Until 2004.

That was the day the hospital called to say Pop-Pop suffered major cardiac arrest. That he was brain dead, subsisting on machines that helped push blood through his fractured heart and air through his limp lungs.

Getting to Hahnemann Hospital seemed like sleepwalking, as if everything moved in slow motion. I remember my mother beginning to crumble as we crossed the street. Her Daddy was gone, is what the doctors basically said. In my head, on that Dec. 30, I realized a new terror. I had to be the strong one.

The prostate cancer had worked its evil on his body, compromising many of its functions. It had been his secret for five years until we finally discovered what was driving him to imbibe, what was robbing his one-time sound memory, his sense of impeccable dress, his passion for political theater.

Walking to his bed to say that final good-bye, looking at that body on the table, shook me. That wasn’t Pop-Pop, who always teased about “eating like Sonny Boy,” hummed everywhere he walked, and had more hats than most women had shoes.

Growing up, there was no greater cheerleader. He thought that this browngirl could take over the world, and often begged her to at least take Paula Zahn’s chair. “She don’t know nothing! She ain’t nothing! YOU should be doing what she’s doing!” he would grouse, in between cussing out Lou Dobbs and President Bush on some policy. Every policy.

And if that was not fated, he insisted a political office was, that this browngirl was smart enough, cared enough, and was clever enough to make a system work for the people.

Pop-Pop seldom slowed down long enough from running the streets, jaw-jacking with his Mason brothers, or catching ling on his fishing excursions to attend any Kwanzaa gatherings. Thankfully, my mom and grandmom filled that void.

But what he shared with me helped reinforce those principles that we reviewed every year: building stronger communities through people of productive minds, undying pride, and unyielding determination. Pop-Pop didn’t require a kinara or a mat or fruit (he’d eat it all before the Karamu feast, anyway) or the other Kwanzaa trappings. He told me to live it. Without embarrassment.

And I did. And do. Particularly on Dec. 30, with full purpose.

The year that was: 2011, vol. 1

Another year has come and gone, and it’s been a doozy. Protest perfumed the air, from funky Occupy encampments to centre squares throughout the Middle East. From natural disasters to political ones, 2011 was fraught with moments that pumped and tugged at our heart. Here’s a recap of the year that was, in alphabetical order:

On the front lines for freedom.
Photo credit: Lionel Bonaventure/AFP

Arab Spring

Dictatorships across the Middle East began falling like retail prices after Christmas. What began in late 2010 snowballed into 2011 with force. Television screens were filled with images of young people leading protests and revolutions in Tunisia, Algeria, Jordan, Yemen, Bahrain, Egypt, and, finally, Libya. And one by one, entrenched strongmen realized they had clay feet. Some were smart and acceded to reforms, though grudgingly. In the case of Moammar “Man-with-too-many-variations-on-spelling-his-name” Gadhafi, that realization came far too late, and attached to a bullet. Armed with fliers, social media, and sheer determination, a new generation of Arabs declared themselves – and victory. Now the world awaits next steps as the conflicts prove far from over, with ongoing clashes in Egypt and outright battles in Syria. Freedom truly is not free, and bloodshed remains the going rate.

College kids crowd in front of the White House
to rejoice in taking out Public Enemy No. 1
Photo credit: Toledo Blade

Bin-Laden, Osama

It was the news dispatch heard ‘round the world – literally – as President Obama stepped to the mic and announced that Navy SEALs had dispatched and disposed of America’s No.1 boogeyman, once and for all. For the 9/11 generation, the collective sense of relief and retribution was palpable, from college campuses to high school locker rooms to a spontaneous gathering outside the White House and in New York. For many of them, the man they elected to office did what he promised he would: track down and kill the mastermind of the most heinous crimes ever committed on U.S. soil. The normally hawkish political right’s response ranged from muted to pouty-mouthed – with few giving props to the president. Surprise.

Cain, Herman

So much has been written about the former corporate executive who entered the Republican primary bent on selling his autobiography and wound up the accidental frontrunner. Up-from-the-country-black-man-by-his-bootstraps pizza magnate. Allegations of serial sexual harassment and affairs. Egoism that would make Freud blush. Let us let him go gently into that good night, a wilderness of post-primary hype known as the bargain books bin.

Debt

Whether it was the central excuse for an inane standoff in Washington or the crushing pressure on the Euro across the pond, the staggering amount governments owe their creditors (read: China) blared across headlines worldwide. Which would seem to push people to action. And it did. Just not action that would actually do anything. Congress has been limping along like formerly middle-class families, paycheck to paycheck, only in this case, it’s called “continuing resolutions.” Compromise was out of the question, according to the tea party crowd. Overseas, the outlook wasn’t much better, as everyone flocked to their NIMBY corners and wrangled for weeks to . . . agree to keep wrangling. Leadership. Ain’t it grand?

End of the World

At least that’s what Harold Camping preached. May 21, 2011 would be it. Kaput. A Pennsylvania outfit called eBible Fellowship even helped sell the campaign by posting creepy billboards everywhere. The Rapturous stood ready. The rest stood puzzled. And then partied. Media went cuckoo for Camping. The end was near. Except it wasn’t. He forgot to carry the “1”! It was supposed to be October 21, 2011! That’s it . . . er, oops. Oh, the end of our world? That’s not until 2012 – silly rabbit!

Fukushima

Families battered by earthquake and tsunami destruction
had to add potential nuclear poisoning to their list of fears. 
Photo credit: FukushimaTragedy.com

Ever since seminal events like the Three Mile Island and Chernobyl meltdowns and 1983’s made-for-TV flick The Day After, nuclear destruction has taken on a visceral new meaning. For generations of Americans, it cemented what a nuclear attack would mean, would look like. For the Japanese, there was no need for such external horror shows; they lived the history. The meltdown of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant served as the third fatal blow to an area battered by both an earthquake and a tsunami. Almost a year later, blame is still being assessed. Meanwhile, parents fear sharing a painful future witnessed by Ukranian families just a generation before, or that of their own grandparents.

Giffords, Gabby

Christina-Taylor Green, the youngest
of Loughner's victims

Just when the political rhetoric emanating from D.C. couldn’t seem nastier, something even more disgusting took place in the midst of a constituent service day – a lone gunman hauled off and wounded 13 people and killed six others, including a federal judge and a Congressional aide. Jared Loughner was nearly successful in mortally wounding U.S. Rep. Gabby Giffords. Early reports proclaimed that she had been assassinated, only to quickly offer a reversal and report a miracle – Giffords had survived the attempt on her life. President Obama traveled to Tuscon and spoke passionately to a packed house and the nation about tempering the rancor, which brought tears to the eyes of even the hardened. But even that paled in comparison to when Giffords returned to the House floor to cast her vote to end the gridlock on raising the debt ceiling.

Hackgate

The term “-gate” has been attached to every notable political scandal since Nixon orchestrated the Watergate Hotel break-in, but in this case, it’s deserved. The world witnessed enough deviousness, callousness and subterfuge within the Murdoch media empire to fuel a few John Grisham plots. (Refresh yourself here.) Lawyers are still sorting out what was sanctioned by whom, but before Parliament, Murdoch, the man who could make presidents and prime ministers whimper, looked frail and doty. His son and heir apparent, James, looked not much more competent than Arthur Carlson of WKRP in Cincinnati fame. And the latest testimony has crumbled any crust of courtesy credibility Parliament may have offered.

Iraq

U.S. troops head for Kuwaiti border. 
Photo credit: AP

War ends, officially. Chaos continues, unofficially. Reams have been and will be written about America’s elective war. Honoring the pact President Bush made with Iraqi officials, U.S. troops finally headed home, as tanks rolled into Kuwait with embers of desert operations in their rearview. More than 4,500 U.S. fighters paid with their lives, and tens of thousands more remain wounded and scarred, physically and psychologically. In the macro, after the billions spent, most Americans wonder whether the cost of toppling one dictator in a region so far away was ever worth it. But in the micro, for many military families, it was one of the brightest holiday seasons in nearly a decade.

Jamal, Mumia Abu-

In the decades since the one-time radio journalist-cum-cabbie was accused of slaying Philadelphia Police Officer Daniel Faulkner, he’s been a visceral symbol for a shaky, if at times, corrupted, American judicial system. At least as it pertains to justice meted to black and brown defendants. After a nearly 30-year stay on Pennsylvania’s death row, court after court has reviewed, rescinded, remanded, and revoked. Finally, the case was sent back to Philadelphia District Attorney R. Seth Williams to either re-file for the death penalty or settle for life in prison. Surveying the surviving witnesses (after all, many have died), the cost of mounting a fresh case, and the feelings of Faulkner’s widow, Williams opted for life in prison. Mumia supporters vow to press on for his freedom. Still, with the death penalty off the table and the murky facts of the case, the “Free Mumia” clarion has dropped an octave on college campuses and the general populace. So have T-shirt sales.

King Memorial

For children today, it may seem incomprehensible that there had been so much backlash and hand-wringing about setting aside a day to honor the spirit and legacy of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. For those too young to recall the decades-long battles that led to the historic 1983 creation (and 1986 national recognition) of King Day, touring the towering sculpture on the National Mall will do. A labor of love led by King’s Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity brothers, the much-anticipated addition to the nation’s pantheon of heroes faced its own obstacles – from fundraising to weather. In the end, the three-hour dedication stirred souls, despite the dust-ups about the architect and inscription that flared.

Long, Bishop Eddie

The oh-so-tight tops had long been a joke among black people when it came to the Atlanta area megachurch leader. But the laughter subsided when reports of child molestation and abuse at his hands boiled over last year as victim after victim found his voice to speak his truth. What bubbled out the pot flowed into 2011, affirming those who had accused Long of homophobia. Lawsuits flew and were settled. Mrs. Long announced, retracted, then filed for divorce. Bishop Long went on “sabbatical.” And the fate of New Birth Missionary Baptist Church remains cloudy, with hints of Matthew 3:10 lingering.

Manned space flight, U.S.

In this 50th anniversary of man entering the stratosphere, there were fewer whistles and balloons of celebrations. That’s because the return voyage of the Space Shuttle Atlantis marked the end of a 30-year program of manned space flight forAmerica. The nation who was the first to put a man on the moon and lost and lauded intergalactic heroes for generations opted to mothball the program, citing a need to reexamine the goals of the program (read: budget axe). Locals in states like Florida and Alabama feared the future, equating a scrapped shuttle program to shoving scores of engineers and other related NASA support staff  into unemployment lines. Instead, they flocked to entrepreneurial whiteboards and private industry space ventures. 

North Korea

Shrouded in mystery and plunged into poverty by the eccentric excesses of its leadership, the Asian nation teeters on a precipice few even knew was about to reveal itself. So clandestine are the comings and goings in the country that not even superpower intelligence agents knew when the Supreme Leader Kim Jong-Il had died; they got the word like the rest of us, via an official dispatch. North Korea often has been depicted as a desperado nation – ill-tempered but dangerously armed. Its fickle policies keep its southern neighbors in fits and D.C. on the phone with Peninsula leaders. With the elevation of 20-something Kim Jong Un, its fuzzy as to whether a new brand of leadership will emerge or if he’ll be little more than a puppet of the established – and itchy-fingered – military regime. Game theorists will be up late on this one.

Photo credit: Marc Cooper

Occupy, multiple entries

It started out as a band of disgruntled citizens soured on the fact that the American Dream seemed to be a fantasy concocted by wealthy overlords who were content in pimping the democracy the rest of us toiled to support. A handful of folks plopped down in a public park in New York expressed the disgust, outrage, and frustration with power brokers on Wall Street and the D.C. politicians they roll. They were sentiments felt by millions aka the “99 percent.” Soon, the urban outbackers were joined by hundreds, and then thousands. The Occupy encampments spread from city to city, and a few college squares between. And then things just got weird. The Occupy crowd started turning off natural allies. A focused agenda was about non-existent. Splintering took place, as did criminal allegations that proved titillating to media. Occupiers mostly wound up being hosed down and chased away by the end, with some ugly incidents in the middle. The image of the campus officer pepper spraying a peaceful crowd harkened to the Bull Connor years of policing. If only there had been a cohesive (a) message or (b) agenda. Castigate the tea party at your peril; at least they recognized a need for organizing and parlaying civic discontent into political power.

Penn State

Forever, the only images “Penn State” conjured were a sea of chanting blue and white fans from Happy Valley, led by their NCAA football Moses, Joe “Joe Pa” Paterno. All of that turned on its head when allegations of child sexual abuse by a once-beloved assistant coach erupted. Worse, grand jury testimony charged that coach, Jerry Sandusky, had been caught in the act of abusing a boy in the shower by another assistant, but that assistant did nothing to save the boy being brutalized. And the waves of shame continue to shock Nittany Lion land and all its minions begging to return to life as normal. But for the nearly dozen alleged victims, life has been anything but since encountering Sandusky through a nonprofit to help economically challenged boys. The PSU president and Paterno both were tossed and the investigation continues. To their credit, PSU alum moved to do their part to aid the victims. Meanwhile, child sex abuse has received a new spotlight, and victims of all ages are having their say. Expectations are that 2012 will bring an explosive trial, and heads aren’t finished rolling.

Quake – the East Coast edition

Those on the Left Coast are always bracing for the Big One. But in New York? Philly? D.C.? Virginia? An earthquake is as rare as a snowstorm in Arizona. The August 5.8 quake rattled more than the china on the shelves as people reflective on Fukushima nervously eyed nuclear power plants along the Eastern Seaboard. Damage to the Washington Monument closed the tourist attraction and the National Park Service recently offered a repair assessment, providing Congress a new football to kick around. In all, it broke up the monotony of talking about the heat and all the flurry and fluster kept Californians in stitches.

Photo credit: Shannon Stapleton, Reuters

Republican debates

The greatest sideshow on Earth – all to posture, er, audition, for the most powerful job on                                                                            the planet: president of the United States of America. Yet, the cast of characters that came and went, rose and fell, would give any thinking person whiplash. Then again, the debates weren’t necessarily fashioned for thinking people. The flavor-of-the-month chronology went: Trump, Bachmann, Perry, Cain, Gingrich, and most recently flirtations with Ron Paul and Rick Santorum for the heart of the conservative base that just is not that into Romney. The former governor of Massachusetts must figure chances go around; he’s been steady – if not boring – at about 24 percent in polling for months. Maybe they’ll grow to love him.

Solyndra

It was a green power company that went under, and Republican operatives hoped it would take the Obama Administration with it. The recap: a firm that created solar power panels for commercial complexes sounded promising. Records show that not everyone on Obama’s team was sold, but forces within the White House were pushing for a win. Solyndra received a $528 million loan backed by the Obama Administration, as part of its efforts to create green-collar jobs and boost the economy. Solyndra’s leadership couldn’t keep it together, and the company fell apart. The name became a GOP rallying cry as Republicans in Congress howled about sweetheart deals for Obama supporters and defrauding the American people. Minions began conjuring fantasies of an Obama impeachment. Administration officials stuck to their story. The company is “reorganizing” and an auction is pending. The saga continues.

Tahrir Square

When most folks think of freedom and democracy and iconic spaces, their minds drift to Gettysburg, Faneuil Hall, Independence Mall and the like. This year, it was all about the vibrancy and glow that emanated from Cairo’s central town square. Men and women converged to protest the Hosni Mubarak regime. For months, they endured bullies and bullets and emerged as victors. Mubarak and his cronies were driven from power, new elections were set, and euphoria could be felt. But when the military seemed too slow to relinquish its custodial role, the protestors returned to Tahrir. Women continued to face abuse, but have been gaining ground, with many more miles to go.

Unemployment

When the stimulus was launched in 2009 – formally known as the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act – Obama prognosticators proclaimed that the jobless rate would jump. They were just wrong on the depth and direction. Hovering around 9 percent for most of 2011, the die for GOP ammunition was cast, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. The stimulus failed! Government waste! Obama – hapless hack! With history showing no incumbent president holding onto the White House with those kinds of numbers, you could hear the glee from RNC headquarters – and if the conspiracy theorists are correct, from the House leadership caucus that’s been thwarting the Obama Administration’s legislative remedies. As the dial clicked down toward 8.6 percent by the end of the year, Obama boosters grew reinvigorated, especially African-American ones who need change they could believe in. Black jobless rates have been steadier than prospects, a soaring 16 percent.

Voter ID bills

A signature piece of sinister legislation that has infected GOP-led statehouses is breaking out across the nation. After the electoral tsunami that pushed Republicans into majorities, an odd coincidence occurred. Suddenly, an outbreak of ghost voter fraud sent people into a panic. And by people, that referred to GOP legislators dying to flex their might (for a recap, click here), especially among those old folks and young people who dared to exercise their franchise. While more progressive-minded legislators -- usually in the minority -- have been fighting back, citizens aren't solely relying on those efforts, opting to craft their own solutions.

  

Wisconsin

Democrats in unity:
Wisconsin union members and neighbors
stood and delivered

Who would have thought the state known for beer, cheese, Packers and Cheeseheads would be the political linchpin of the year? That's what happens when political intransigence and willful workers (and voters) collide. Gov. Scott Walker, crowned prince by homie and RNC Chair Reince Priebus, thought he could bully his way into stripping unions of their rights and powers. It’s been part of a national diffuse-the-Obama-vote strategy, and Scott may have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for that meddling AFSCME. And teachers. And firefighters. And so on. A gubernatorial recall campaign ramped up quickly, encouraging grassroots activists that smell blood in the water.


Without a doubt, it's been an eventful year, and 2012, with the upcoming presidential contest, among others, will prove equally memorable. Did this jog your memory -- or dig up memories you were trying to forget? Learned anything new here? Was something missed? Drop a line and update the record.

Left at the "alter": Christie 2012 ends

Broken hearted.

That about sums up the GOP electorate these days as their hopes for a Great Savior have yet again been dashed, forcing them  to turn their attentions to the reality at hand: this year’s contest is shaping up to be a grudging and belated coronation for the oft-spurned but ever-ready Mitt Romney.

Of course, Gov. Rick Perry and his crew will declare that they’re in it to win it, that they’re prepared for a battle at the OK Corral. And coming from oil-and-gas rich Texas, they plan to have the multimillion dollar backing to finance their endeavor, despite a relatively late start.

They probably aren’t counting on Donald Trump’s money, though, since he’s taken a fancy to meeting with all of his former would-be rivals in the splendor of Trump Towers, where he can flaunt his assumed wealth and media pull. The list of the groveling not only includes Romney and Perry, but also Mr. Pepperoni himself, Herman Cain. With his spicy comments (since recanted) and, in case you were blinded by his rhetoric, dark skin, Cain has been the most exciting thing happening in the 2012 Republican contest as of late.

Until New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie.

Christie was love unrequited. As a near John Candy double, Christie’s girth gained almost more attention during this short courtship than his policies or politics in the Garden State. But he mastered the attention, raising the adulation level.

Christie’s the tough-talking, imperfect, get-things-done governor from a super blue state. He knows and could tame the voracious New York-Philly media markets, charm those suburban soccer moms, cozy up to the beer-swilling blue-collar guys – the ones President Obama (not multinational corporations in search of dirt-cheap labor) put out of work with his “job-killing policies.” 

He could be that knight from the City on the Hill, so the thinking went. He would alter the trajectory of the race.

Still, Christie consistently told folks he wouldn’t run. That didn’t stop a draft-Christie movement from bubbling. Or keep media from tittering. Big money donors pursued him like frat boys after a vestal virgin. Really, there was more begging going on behind closed doors than at a blue-light basement party.

Bordering on foul-mouthed, brash and a self-proclaimed conservative, he was going to be that “fresh face” on the national stage for which the base has been clamoring. And they were panting by the door.

No attention was to be paid to the apparent fickle nature of this electorate, a strange amalgamation of tea party patriots, anti-abortion obsessionists, war hawks and a sprinkling of last-gasp dinosaurs known as moderates or intellectual conservatives (as opposed to the thriving John Birch Society variety). 

They were only fooling around with Sarah Palin (or, she was fooling around with them; according to former NBA star Glen Rice, she does that well).

The Donald? Just a flirtation. U.S. Rep. Michele Bachmann? A summer romance. Perry? A pretty face, but not who you take home to Uncle Sam. Not when he flubs debates and stumbles with that race thing.

In the end, Christie stood up (or missed, as some pundits have said) his date with destiny. That collective groan from his cheerleaders you just heard started along the Jersey Turnpike, scoured the Rust Belt, shook across the Rockies and then shivered in the Great White North.

He said simply that he wasn’t ready – a not so subtle nod to those who have assailed Obama on this charge. Even at face value, that level of candor is refreshing. It almost made folks swoon all over. Almost.

He has significant right-sided criticisms. And given a history of fairly moderate ideals – a must, actually, for any successful Northeastern Republican, which may be why so few fare well nationally – it’s likely he, too, would have been another carcass on the side of the GOP road to the White House, 2012 edition.

No, Christie opted to live to fight another day. Maybe knock some more heads in New Jersey. Maybe transform historically underperforming and under-resourced urban school districts in places like Camden and Newark. Maybe shed a few pounds. Do all of that, and maybe he comes in a winner in 2016. That was said to have been his plan all along.

That is, if he doesn’t opt for a veep slot this go ‘round.

In the meantime, the battle royal for the GOP crown continues. Stay tuned.