It’s like I’m always finding excuses to blog less around here. Is it because the current race has caused me to lose my sense of humor about our democratic process?

Partly. I have to say that the media’s ability to microfocus on things that aren’t important to us (am I wright?) and not skewer things that are genuinely bad for us (maybe I need a “gas tax holiday”) has made it… well, I’m just glad that I’m getting a hiatus from funny.

No, but seriously, remember that black-and-white video I’ve posted on this site a few times? The one that looks like an old-timey talk show? Yes, that one.

Well, you didn’t hear it from me (though, clearly, you did), but I just may be making a “presentation pilot” of it for a major basic cable network… and I just may be in it as well, as the bandleader. Maybe. Could be. And we might be taping said hypothetical pilot in two weeks time.

This is all speculative, of course.

But it’s possible.

That’s all I’m saying.

All righty, I admit that I’ve been a little stingy with the Sebastian pictures. But, see, he’s been busy.

As you can see, the boy is very concerned with hanging on to his roots, where his family comes from, who he was…

Mainly, though, he’s been pursuing his hobbies. And though I don’t always approve, I have to let him choose his own path. It’s what fatherhood is all about.

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Now that “Real Time” is on hiatus, I’ll have some real time to spend around here. Because nothing gives you spare time like a baby.

For those of you who saw this week’s finale, that attack ad against the environment was my season’s swan song.  Or… penguin song, really.  Also, look for more of li’l ol’ me on “Wait Wait”  (including this coming week), because nothing frees you up for travel like a baby.

Seriously, though, look for more posts-per-week in the coming days. Perhaps some blogging from Baz, who has some very innovative ideas about how this site could be improved. Also, I’m thinking of putting in a swimming pool.

Being an Obama supporter this morning is a little like being Czechoslovakian in the summer of ‘68.  You believe that peace, love, and transformation are possible… right up until the moment when the tanks start rolling in and let you know that while the “old ways” aren’t pretty, they sure as hell work.

Oh well.  This is far from over.  Forward, then.  On to 1989!

Obviously, I’ve become a bit partisan, so I’m looking for the most impartial way to describe tonight’s Democratic debate.

“Drive -by?” “Hit job?” “Rub out?” No, that wouldn’t be fair. I’m going to have to go with “clusterfuck.”

I’ve watched it twice now. For 40 minutes, Charles Gibson, George Stephanopoulis, and Hillary Clinton tag-teamed Barack Obama on the burning issue of “bitter” voters, the previously burning issue of the Reverend Wright, the even more previously burning issue of lapel pins, and the hitherto unburning issue of some guy Obama kind of knew who was part of the Weather Underground when Obama was in 3rd grade.

Clinton considered these all “serious issues.” The one Clinton-oriented issue that was raised in that time, the “I took sniper fire” gaffe, was not considered “serious” by Obama, who nobly dismissed it as another distraction from all the real issues (every one of which was not asked about during those first 40 minutes, no matter how many times Obama pointed this out).

Throughout all this, we were treated to reaction shots from Senator Clinton’s gallery, consisting of backers like Chelsea Clinton and Ed Rendell and Wesley Clark. They had a special light to color them in amongst the rest of the blue-lit Orwellian throng. I don’t know where the corresponding Obama gallery was, and I don’t think ABC knew or cared.

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I’m the farthest thing from a conspiracy theorist, and I won’t start now. But tonight’s convocation had all the hallmarks of one of those “special” banquets occasionally favored by mob families.

I can’t open an investigation, but I thought I’d open the floor and see what you all thought. Perhaps I’m imagining it. I’ve imagined things before, but this time I - …huh? Sorry. Someone’s at the door. At this hour? Hold on, I’ll be righ

Lost in the storm of last week (that was a tremendous “Real Time,” no?), was the fact that yes, “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me!” has won a Peabody Award!

I don’t think we panelists will receive one of those neat little round plaque/statuettes (”platuettes?”), but Peter tells me we’re welcome to visit his at any time, for a nominal fee. And with a safety deposit. And in the company of a bonded witness while wearing a heart monitor, a portable EKG, and a minimally invasive “gastric volumizer,” which apparently “detects impulse-based fluctuations” with great accuracy. I plan on taking a quick peek in May.

Congratulations to Petr, Carl, Doug, Rod, Mike, Emily, Melody, and all the rest of us, every one.

Ryan Crocker and General David “Trey” Petraeus arrive in America after their daring escape from the Mehdi Army (see Episode #536: “Out of the Green Zone, Into the Fire”), and prepare for their Senate Testimony.

CROCKER: Gee, Trey, that was close!

TREY: Well, stay frosty, Crocker, because now we’re really heading into the hornets’ nest.

CROCKER: I’m ready! What’s the plan?

TREY: By the book, kid, by the book.

CROCKER: Trey, it’s too risky! You’re a maverick! - Wait. What?

TREY: We report on what’s going right, downplay the negatives, and avoid conveying anything about the future other than a vague sense of optimism that would evaporate into dread and danger if we were asked to do anything other than what we’re doing.

[beat.]

CROCKER: Really? Again?

TREY: Yes. Anything wrong with that?

CROCKER: No, but… What about being outspoken renegades who get the job done while playing by our own rules?

TREY: No.

CROCKER: Because, frankly, these Crocker & Trey adventures kinda need a little… spicing up.

TREY: Look, Crocker, if my years in the field have taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the only way to get the job sort of done is to play by the rules, even if it means not making waves.

CROCKER: Okay.

TREY: But? You’re thinking “but…”

CROCKER: But… By stonewalling any discussion of even modifying the President’s strategy, and not even allowing speculation on the possibilities of new strategies that will almost certainly be enacted by the next administration, aren’t we effectively being turned into instruments of the handcuffing the national discussion and ultimately perpetuating the politicization of a war that has already been crippled by politics?

[beat]

TREY: Awww, cmere!

CROCKER: Hey, stop with the noogies!

TREY: You really had me goin’ there, Crocker.

CROCKER: He he!

TREY: Now what do you say we get in there and say very, very little!?

CROCKER: Let’s roll!

[They high-five and head for the Senate chamber. Cue “Theme from Crocker & Trey.”]

END OF EPISODE #537A

I know - this slow-down was as easily predictable as the economic one we’re currently mired in. Kids take work. Television takes work. But more-or-less regular blogging activities will resume shortly.

You’re skeptical. That’s good. Skepticism’s healthy. But so is Baz, and Jeanne, and - to an extent - yours truly. So I’ll be back soon.

Meanwhile, I’d like to thank the world at large for giving me an incredibly slow news week so that I could adjust to having a child. Thanks, planet, that was cool. Basra… well, there’s always one bad apple…*

[*Hopefully my li’l television show will be offering some pretty good commentary on Basra tomorrow. Stay tuned…]

I’ve been enjoying all your speculating (and your well-wishes. Thanks!) so much that I almost don’t want to explain my beamish boy’s middle name just yet. But that wouldn’t be fair, especially because there’s no way any of you could guess…

He’s named after my father, Norbert Q Felber. Who wasn’t, at birth, named Norbert Q Felber. I’ll explain.

Dad was born in Leipzig, Germany in 1931. In the late 30’s the family was forced to move, due to soaring housing costs and incipient genocide. I don’t mean to be glib about this - I lost both my grandparents and quite a lot of the extended family in Europe’s last and greatest epileptic fit. But my father and his sister made it to these shores in 1941, learned the language, and lived with a distant relative in Cleveland. By the 50’s my Dad had put himself through college and medical school. I know - an entirely impressive man he was, with giant shoes to fill. I don’t quite fill them. This is not a metaphor. Dad was a size 15. I’m a mere 14.

Anyway, when he joined the army, Dad was confronted with a problem. He had no middle name (I guess they were too expensive in depression-era Germany ), and the US Army apparently wanted him to sign “N.M.N.” or “N.M.I.” in the middle of his name every time he signed a document. My efficiency-minded father rebelled at this concept, said so, and when he found out he could choose an initial, he jumped at the chance.

Norbert Q Felber was born. He liked that he could tell people that no, it didn’t stand for anything. He liked the peculiarity of the letter. It made him laugh. And so, even years after the army, he hung onto it. I remember seeing it on various plaques and knick-knacks around his office, and my mother often affectionately called him by his “full” name.

Norbert Q Felber passed away almost a decade ago, and I still think of him every day. Hugo, Sebastian’s cousin, already has his grand-dad’s first name as his own middle name. Baz, like his grampa, and like Harry Truman, gets a simple, flexible letter as his middle name. A name that will also serve him should he choose to become an immortal, omnipotent being inhabiting an exotic continuum, manifest himself as a wrathful, winged, Aztec serpent-god, or just design GPS fountain pens that shoot poison darts for a living.

I think it suits him.