The candidate should win who can correctly spell Pinocchio. To avoid another Dan Quayle, the candidate for Vice President must take the same test.

If I were a superheroine, I would be the Bionic Woman because I am already familiar with the parts department. Yep tis I, enhanced, amplified, already faster than a speeding turtle.

Bonnie Oliver, I wish you were a TV pundit so I could enjoy television again.

Lesley Stahl and Dotty Lynch, great interview re “Who Stands to Gain the Most in Indiana and North Carolina?” I think Hillary is going to gain the most in Indiana and North Carolina. Voters seem to want Obama to practice gliding before charging forth with a motor-driven flight. The experience issue never goes away. And it doesn’t help that perception of him is far left liberal whereas Hillary is able to roll right and roll left and go down the center and reach across the aisle. This reminds me of Wilbur Wright observing how birds change angles in order to roll right and left. The inability to close out the race in Indiana and North Carolina may be partially reflected in Obama’s mishandling of his detachment from the pastor who now seems to be more like family than ever. Wilbur Wright, Orville Obama, you know, the Wright Brothers.

Without thinking about it too much, nor procrastinating about it, nor saying maybe not, no, no, well I guess I am a Doer because my philosophy is that there is no such thing as failure, there is only not doing.

If holding the Olympics in Beijing meant “predictable outbursts of protests”, where was the Monday morning quarterback when the “mistake” was made? Why do we have to politicize everything? The more open China is, the better. The more familiar we are with China, the better. Familiarity may breed contempt; however, far worse is ignorance, for intolerance is rooted in ignorance. Anybody see the New York Times Sunday book review? One book after another by authors from China. Let the games begin.

With all the serious challenges in life and all the heartache, folks seem to go forward, sometimes with a smile, with a laugh, with a song. The fact that they go forward makes each person a hero in that person’s own story because a hero and a coward both are frightened but the hero goes forward anyway.

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mugsy, happy birthday to you.

Sorry folks. I got distracted when my phone rang. My neighbor called to get me to help a turkey out of her fenced in yard. The turkey got into her yard and can’t remember how to get out. I seem to be in the same league as the turkey, i.e., I can’t remember if I hit the submit button.

Tammy, this is the first posting I’ve seen of yours recently. I missed you and your comments. I still remember your baby sticker idea.

Thank you Bonnie Oliver for sharing your love, and JMK Singer for sharing your humor, and Elizabeth Flynn for sharing your passion, and Holland Taylor for sharing your beautiful “dangles of bells poking up from the dark and fragrant earth.”

Michael Salling, I can still see the rainbow through the falling pineapple juice. I got my Masters at the East West Center at the University of Hawaii so I suppose I can legitimately say to you, Aloha.

For a man who is running on a different kind of politics, it sure feels like more of the same. Like the politician that he is, Obama disavowed Wright when he realized the consequences of not disavowing him. Obama took the title of his book, “The Audacity of Hope” from a Wright sermon. When Obama became a U.S. senator, he thanked Wright before he thanked his own family. In his Philadelphia speech on race, Obama said of Wright, “As imperfect as he may be, he has been like family to me … He strengthened my faith, officiated my wedding and baptized my children.” How sad to watch the compromise a man will make to take the throne. Prince Hal has his Falstaff; Obama has his pastor.

Yep, been trapped in an elevator. I lived in a thirty story building in New York City. On a hot July night in 1977, I got on the elevator on the 28th floor to take my Lhasa Apso outside. The elevator mysteriously lurched downward floor after floor then midway went black then stopped. I soon learned that everyone not in the elevator was dealing with the disorder of the New York City Blackout of 1977. Everyone in the elevator, which included only me and my little dog, was dealing with an elevator that was dangling suspended between the 15th and 16th floor. I rang the bell repeatedly but no one responded. I started shouting Hello Hello Anybody There? Finally a neighbor yelled to me through the wall from the 16th floor and guessed correctly that I was somewhere between floors. I asked the neighbor to try to get the fire department to come to the building to help as I rather needed to be evacuated. With all of New York City blacked out, I surmised that one person stranded in an elevator was not top of the list for attention. I laid down on the floor, reassuring myself that if I am lying flat on the floor and the elevator drops to ground level, my feet will not wrap around my Adam’s apple, which for sure would happen if I were standing. Having plenty of time, I also climbed in the dark onto the arm rail and forced the trap door at the ceiling open so my little dog who was panting like an obscene phone call heavy breather could have more air. I laid back down on the floor. Eventually some firemen did come but I had an hour and a half to think about Con Ed, the city’s financial problems, the very short Mayor Abe Beame, Son of Sam the serial killer, time travel, out of body experiences, and the lack of ventilation on a hot July night in a blackened elevator suspended between the 15th and 16th floor. The firemen who arrived were only able to pry the elevator door open slightly. They said it was too dangerous for me to try to squeeze through because if I got stuck and the power came on I would be crushed. I raised my dog up out of the darkness and handed her to the firemen. Then I said, I’m taking my chances. And I climbed back onto the hand rail, took a deep breath, and the firemen pulled me through to a happy ending.

Michael Salling, Decades ago when I was working out at Gleason’s Gym near the waterfront in Brooklyn, a tall handsome African American boxer taught me the Speed Bag (eye hand coordination). He had been scheduled to fight Mike Tyson but fortunately for him, he broke his hand before the fight (Tyson’s iron fist would have broken his head). He had noticed me working out with a former trainer of Roberto Duran and he said to me, “You have a good right for a white girl.” Being an egghead, I thought that was the best compliment I had ever received so I merely passed the compliment on to Hillary who has shown the resilience of a champion. I still have my Gleason’s tee-shirt with it’s quote from Virgil: “Now whoever has courage, and a strong and collected spirit in his breast, let him come forth, lace up his gloves, and put up his hands.” I must say there is no one gentler than a boxer. Merely hitting the heavy bag with your hands held up for three minutes takes any rage out of you. And there is something dear about your wrapped hands in the leather gloves rendering your hands useless to hold a water bottle so you count on your paternal trainer who gently squirts water into your mouth like a mamma bird feeding her young.