I have been profiled my entire life as innocent. When disruptive in class, I was told that I was eccentric, that I needed to work on my focus. Growing up, I looked for fights and conflicts yet I never fit the profile of a juvenile delinquent. The chip on my shoulder never signified a thug; I was just a kid with a bad temper who needed to mature and grow out of it.
The results aren't in yet, but it's becoming increasingly clear from the exit poll data and the glum mood on Fox News that Barack Obama is probably going to win re-election tonight. And the excuse-making from Red America has begun, and it basically comes down to: The Whites lost.
Pat Robertson is the ancient evangelical leader who said natural disasters befell New Orleans and Haiti because the people there were living in sin. As you might imagine, Robertson has been mum about what the Republicans did to conjure the wrath of Hurricane Isaac at their glorified Tampa church potluck this week, but that didn't stop Ol' Pat from saying something else wildly wrong.
If you were the editor of Utah Valley Magazine, and you needed a headline to accompany your editor's note for the "Women's Issue," and you had selected this photograph of your female staffers to illustrate it, what would you pick for a headline? How about the one thing the photo most certainly does not depict?
Not to be outdone by the New York Times' Ubermenschtastic profile of the Brant Brothers, the New York Observer is doing the world one better and introducing us to the world of... the Gatsbabies, three "preening prepsters" whose flamboyance is taking New York by storm, except that it's not taking New York by storm and I already hate them with the power of a thousand 747 engines.
From the outskirts of Harrison, Ark., take Highway 7 North about seven miles. Take a right by the Conoco, down Zinc Road, past the green cow pastures and the farmhouses and four low-slung churches. After seven miles, the road appears to head straight into a wall of trees, before veering left and plunging down a long hill. Over the railroad tracks, where the paving gives way to a dusty, rock-strewn rutted path, bear left on Lead Hill Road. Your pace will slow. This is a road for pickup trucks, not a rented Ford Fusion. Pass a few scattered mobile homes with turkeys and geese wandering, and some poor cows stuck navigating a farm placed on a steep hill. Mostly, pass scraggly trees. At three points, a tiny creek cuts across the dirt road, and you'll have to gun it through a flowing puddle to move ahead. After a couple of miles of this, arrive at a steep, rocky driveway flanked by a gate and a lone American flag.