Obonix

This past week the presidential candidate everyone likes to talk about made a speech. It was not exactly your typical stump speech. It was carefully aimed at the audience in front of him.

Everything this man does is careful. That's what makes him so successful as a candidate - historically it is also what makes men less effective as presidents.

In this speech Mr. Obama was blunt about some of the problems facing black men in the 21st Century. He talked about the long odds against making it as a pro athlete or entertainer. His message is the same message I heard from my father; the same many of these men - the older attendance to be sure - heard from their fathers. The problem is not the message, for some it is the way he spoke it.

Words mean much. And in the course of my day I may embrace several different dialects. It's not just for show, though when talking to my friend Jim Wilson there is inevitably a slide into a real street-speak of black comedians and family I have known. It's fun and there is no better way to tell a story about crazy people doing silly things. It goes back to my mother, one of the smartest people I have ever known. Mary Collins could tell a story better than anyone. And though she spent her life teaching kids in their most impressionable years the importance of knowing "the king's English," she could talk trash.

That is not what Senator Obama did. He simply let his guard down some and added emphasis in a way that was more natural and accepted among black folks than perhaps at a meeting of the Santa Barbara Camber of Commerce. There's nothing wrong with knowing your audience. Yet Jesse Jackson and others have accused the candidate of "speaking down" to young black men. Whatever.

Dr. Michael Dyson and others have embraced the music of our language, our gestures and our willing adaptation of the language. At the same time we understand when it is appropriate and when it is not. There is nothing wrong with that and should Senator Obama succeed to the Whitehouse, it will be just as real as George W. Bush's occasional fall into the homespun Midland Texas tone or the John F. Kennedy Massachusetts missing R's. If we are to make anything of Barack Obama's way of talking, let's remember the following. It might just be the most important words, the most historic words of this or the last century:

I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners - an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.

Nuff said.

Guilty Pleasures
There are many things we enjoy that are not front page news; those things we hide, even from our spouses.

There was a time not long ago when I enjoyed going to the shooting range and exploding a few $20's by ripping up silhouettes 30 feet away. There was no real reason for being what amounts to a gun nut. It's not like I was in the witness protection program or pursued by aliens. Besides, aliens are impervious to bullets. Aren't they?

So having come to my senses sometime in 2006, I packed up all my guns and headed to Dick's Gunroom in The Falls to sell back this self-indulgent habit. So much for the erstwhile soldier of fortune.

Lately it's been more passive pleasures, like certain reality shows. I will leave the deep, philosophical reasons why we like these experiments in human deviance to my fellow blogger Ryan Haidet. I just know what I like. These shows include "So You Think You Can Dance" and "Hell's Kitchen." No problem there. They are among the most watched shows this summer.

But something happened this Tuesday night that, frankly, is embarrassing. I watched TV. Nothing odd about that, but while I was watching I was laughing almost uncontrollably, to the point where my mother-in-law, Omi, became angry and wanted me to stop. Then Monika came in and she started laughing, too. What were we watching? "Wipeout."

If you don't know about "Wipeout" it is about as stupid a show as one could imagine. Twelve players are turned into human pinballs in one a sloppy obstacle course after another; the sloppier the better. There's mud and padded shapes just made to mess with the human body and things move, slip, swing, fall, slime, punch, roll and even poof, as in a pit filled with flour just because the contestants look funny when they climb out. It makes the humiliation that much better.

The show's hosts are the best and worst of Sports Center, including the attractive Mercury pitchwoman who somehow is not quite as charming when she's talking to a guy covered in mud as though she were interviewing LeBron. Even the contestants are fitting the model of ridiculous and sublime. The winner last night, for example, was a 6'4" surfer, I think, who took over the role of "color commentator" as his fellow competitors slid off a giant top, bounced off waterborne trampolines - not in a good way - and finally fell short of his wining time. I was in stitches.

I will probably never watch Wipeout again. It's one of those shows that you enjoy once knowing full well it will never be the same. But just like the guy who was eliminated on the "dreadmill," sitting there lost, forlorn and covered with sweat-soaked baking products, I'm ashamed. But it was great fun.