From Language Log:

Fox News…has decided to count first-person pronouns in every speech Obama gives. Thus “The I’s Have It: Obama Hits 34 I’s in Washington D.C.”, FOXNews.com, 2/7/2010:

Much attention has been given to President Obama’s persistent use of “I” when giving speeches to sell his administration’s agenda. Is he taking responsibility — or, as his critics say, is he still in campaign mode? FoxNews.com is tracking the president’s speeches all this month and will report back after each to see whether The “I’s” Have It.

The article goes on to show that Fox News and their Anti-Obama cohorts left one little nugget of info out of their “analysis”:

Obama’s use of ‘I’ is far lower than Palin, Boehner, and a whole slew of Republicans; And, his use of ‘We’ is far higher than theirs.

Read the entire article.

In other, completely unrelated news, since I’m having difficulty updating the previous post, the update will have to go here:

This afternoon, Greg Aymond “attacked” me for (apparently) “attacking” Steve Coco for, I guess, “attacking” the Mayor, who must’ve also somehow “attacked” Steve Coco. So, I guess any response to Greg would be an “attack.” For the record, I don’t think I’m attacking anyone; I thought the post about Mr. Coco was snarky, for sure, but not an “attack.”

Anyway, I’m only mentioning this because Greg wrote something unintentionally hilarious. No, no, not his line about how I don’t understand journalism because I didn’t link to one of his posts a few weeks ago. Here Greg, a LINK! And no, I’m not talking about how, despite his criticism of the way I write, he STILL managed to misspell my name in the freakin’ headline (Larmar?). Haha.

I’m referring to this gem:

So go back to work Lamar, and write some more to appease the hippy finger snapping liberal beatnik society of young people who mostly live out of town, and leave the real stuff to those that have a clue as to what real life is all about, like Steve Coco.

Maybe I should take him up on his advice:

Lamar: Put out your Lucky Strikes everyone!

Sunshine and Dharma, put some clothes on.

It’s time for a poetry reading.

Dim the lights, Bhagavan Das.

Before we get started, does anyone need a refill? There’s still half a bottle of grain whiskey over here.

Our featured poet is the one and only Gary Synder. Far-out, huh?

Take it away, Gary.

Gary: This is far-out, Lamar. Without further adieu:

Smokey the Bear Sutra

Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago,
the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite
Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements
and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings,
the flying beings, and the sitting beings — even grasses,
to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a
seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning
Enlightenment on the planet Earth.

“In some future time, there will be a continent called
America. It will have great centers of power called
such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur,
Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels
such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon
The human race in that era will get into troubles all over
its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of
its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature.”

“The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings
of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth.
My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and
granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that
future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure
the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger:
and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it.”

And he showed himself in his true form of

SMOKEY THE BEAR

• A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and
  watchful.
• Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless
  attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war;
• His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display — indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma;
• Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a
  civilization that claims to save but often destroys;
• Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains –
• With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of
  those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind;
• Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her;
• Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and
  totalitarianism;
• Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes;
  master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten
  trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash.

Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will
Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or
slander him,

HE WILL PUT THEM OUT.

Thus his great Mantra:

Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana
Sphataya hum traka ham nam

“I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND
BE THIS RAGING FURY DESTROYED”

And he will protect those who love woods and rivers,
Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick
people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children:

And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television,
or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR’S WAR SPELL:

DROWN THEIR BUTTS
CRUSH THEIR BUTTS
DROWN THEIR BUTTS
CRUSH THEIR BUTTS

And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out
with his vajra-shovel.

• Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada.
• Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick.
• Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature.
• Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts.
• Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at.

AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT.

thus have we heard.

Lamar: Wow, that was crazy, Gary, a poem about Smokey the Bear!

Gary: It’s more than a poem, man. It’s a sutra.

Lamar: Well, I know all of us hippy, finger-snapping beatniks are so thankful for you coming here. What a blessing.

Just some housekeeping notes before we break up. Next week, we’ll be doing our annual reading of Big Sur and then the week after next, we’ll be welcoming another special guest, Harvard professor Richard Alpert, who I hear recently changed his name.

Last night, New Orleans felt like the center of the universe.

I watched the game in a friend’s house in Uptown and afterward had to make my way back to my hotel room at the end of Poydras. We sat in traffic in front of the Superdome for twenty minutes. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I doubt I’ll ever see anything like it again. I was there when the Braves beat the Indians in Atlanta in 1995, and believe me, Atlanta went crazy… but not nearly as crazy and ebullient and joyous as New Orleans was on Sunday night. I saw Brett Favre and the Packers win the Superbowl and felt, at the time, like it was more of a television spectacle than anything else. I don’t remember cheeseheads erupting in joy or shaking the earth. At least not in New Orleans, where the game was played.

Eventually, we gave up on any attempt at driving to our destination and decided to walk it. The streets were packed with people. I think I caught a glimpse of Morten Anderson at Lucy’s on Julia. Strangers were giving one another hugs and high-fives. By the time I reached my room, I could hear the celebration, loud as day, from the eleventh floor.

The cameras may have been on Bourbon Street and the French Quarter, but the celebration was everywhere. And I imagine it spilled across the State of Louisiana and all along the Gulf Coast. This was an historic and magical weekend for the City of New Orleans and the State of Louisiana.

Congratulations to Mayor-elect Mitch Landrieu and to the World Champion New Orleans Saints.

My terrible photo of Mitch’s victory speech, taken, obviously, on my cell phone camera.

The Spirit of New Orleans

by Wynton Marsalis

Down on the Bayou where the mighty Mississippi kisses Lake Pontchartrain and spills into the Gulf of Mexico. There sits that jewel of the Southland. What the French lost to the British who gave it to the Spanish who lost it back to the French who sold it to America for….. Well, some folks say Jefferson conned Napoleon in a card game and won it for some jambalaya and a chicory coffee.

New Orleans, N’Awlins, the Crescent City, the Big Easy, the northern capitol of the Caribbean, Groove City. Man, they have things down there you wouldn’t believe. A mythic place of Mardi-Gras and mumbo, Voodoo and the moss-covered alligator-spiked pathways of back-country swamp drained and sprinkled with gris-gris dust to house a wild, unruly population. A city with they own cuisine, they own architecture, they own music..streets with names like Dorgenois and Tchoupitoulas.

People in crazy costumes parading talkin ’bout “throw me somethin’ mistah”, dressed like Indians chanting ’bout, “Madi,Madi-Cudifiyo”, sittin in the young twilight on the ‘poach’ of they camelback shotgun house eatin po’ boys bout to ‘make’ groceries for the crawfish ‘burl’ they gon’ have on ‘Sadday’. They sing through horns down there you know. Yeah Padnah! Something called Jazz, started by a cornet man named Bolden. They say Bolden could play so loud the sun was scared to set. Some folks say the air is so thick down here you, can eat it with a spoon.

Drummers drag rhythms in dirgey solemnity down neighborhood streets as horns moan, mock and moo. Man, hot notes echo against the sky with such weight as to be objects. Objects of sorrow so passionately played that the dead begin to cry. Then that trumpet calls and everyone falls in behind the band for a second line parade and those musicians get to hollerin and shoutin and folks get to struttin and steppin and the living let go of the dead and sorrow soon becomes laughter. In New Orleans, we bury our dead above ground.

They always walk amongst us…. but that music. It always ends happy. So when a strong rain brings angry winds howlin’ down the Mississippi or up from the Gulf,
those misty winds carry the dreams of ghosts, yes, but not just the goblins of Marie Laveau the Voodoo queen, or the tortured spirits of the legendary lascivious lovelies of Storyville sporting houses, or even the undead demons of corrupt politicians who have steeled our idealism over three colorful centuries. They also bring the spirits of Saints, of those who have lived here in quiet dignity and sanctified religiosity, of those who have raised kids in the shadow of the St. Louis Cathedral and Sundayed in Jackson Square or of the River Walk lovers holding hands… of many who have fallen in love here, proposed here, honeymooned here. Not just the howling ghouls of the frat-boy drunks on Bourbon street, but they also bring the angels of all who have romanced in and with this beautiful land on the Delta.

Yes, the ‘haints become more famous but the Saints endure. Where were you when 85,000 people gathered in the last open seated stadium in professional football to witness John Gilliam run our very first kickoff 94 yards for a touchdown? When Tom Dempsey kicked that 63 yard field goal with half-a-right foot? When Tom Fears, Hank Stram, and Jim Mora prowled the sidelines? Were you there when Howard Stevens, Danny Abromowicz, Rickey Jackson, and Archie Manning donned the black and gold? Ahhh..those New Orleans Saints! Confined to a purgatory of their own making looking for the fast track to hell. Maybe a brand new dome would appease the gods of football—a Superdome.

Fathers bounced kids on their knees while explaining how we would certainly blow our 30 point halftime lead by game’s end…..and the Saints did not disappoint. Where you there when the Dome Patrol brought us to the upper chambers of purgatory in search of playoffs, playoffs..playoffs? Yes, ‘haints become famous but Saints endure. Just ask Deuce. If 4 years is a long time: (your high school years, your college days, the length of the Civil War..WWII)…then 43 yrs is an eternity. You ever wait for something so long that waiting for it becomes the something? You ever see grown folks put bags over their heads in public, covering up to hide from themselves like an old alcoholic who won’t admit? We can’t help it. We’re with our Saints even when we ‘aint. New Orleans people are stubborn and hate to leave home.

Down here, people like to brag about how they handle tragedy. Epochal hurricanes like Betsy and Camille are discussed as if they’re people. “Betsy was bad but Camille, ‘Lawd Have Mercy’, the water was up here to my neck.” Nobody brags on Katrina. She swept through here like death on a high horse. Those flood waters seemed to run all the demons, goblins, AND saints away forever. There goes old Jean Lafitte the pirate relocated to Houston, there goes old Jelly Roll Morton off somewhere in Memphis with that diamond still sparklin in his front tooth.

But quick to return is the unbending will and irrepressible spirit, sin-dipped in Tabasco sauce and spiced with file’ in possession of an unshakable, unbreakable soul that Louis Armstrong first announced to the entire world through a red hot trumpet, that Danny Barker broadcasted on a burnished banjo, and Sidney Bechet shouted and screamed through a scorching horn said to be a soprano saxophone. And here comes that chastened Noah’s arc of a dome rising from ignominy to become again a beacon of community. And, oh yes, they are still down here marching in those funny-named streets blowing history AND the present moment through singing horns. And people still dance with abandon, exuberance, and unbridled human feeling because that music tells ‘em “what has been may be what is, but what will be cannot possibly be known.”

We live the moment. Laissez les bon temps rouler! –Let the Good Times Roll. I think I hear that trumpet calling the children of the Who Dat Nation home–not Gabriel’s or the horns that blew down the walls of Jericho–that jazz trumpet conjuring up the spirit world with a Congo Square drum cadence. Ghosts, goblins, and ‘haints aggravate. Saints congregate. I hear them now bringing that 43 year second line to a glorious crescendo. “Who Dat Say What Dat When Us Do Dat?” It’s like waiting 43 years to hear somebody say ‘I Love You’ back. And they do. Let the tale be told ’bout how the black and gold won the Super Bowl.

And those jazzmen still play sad songs but they always end happy…..they always do.

Wynton Marsalis

It looks like those of us in Central Louisiana may be jumping aboard your ongoing battle against the Army Corps of Engineers and FEMA.

From The Town Talk:

Many homeowners in Alexandria, Pineville and throughout Rapides Parish could be staring at mandatory flood insurance with an annual premium costing as much as $5,000.

….

Joe Sloan, an insurance specialist with the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s National Flood Insurance Program, told a gathering of more than 100 local residents, business leaders and elected officials of potential upcoming “insurance ramifications” after FEMA de-accredited the north, south and eastbank levees along the Red River in Rapides Parish.

…

The questions ranged from the process of de-accreditation by FEMA and decertification by the Corps of Engineers to how much the problem will cost to fix, who is responsible for the cost of the repairs and how much money local residents will have to pay for flood insurance.

The flood insurance would be mandatory for anyone in the new flood plain who is still paying a mortgage on a house, officials said.

Sloan advised residents that it’s still too early to tell specifically how much money they’ll have to pay for flood insurance because a new map hasn’t been drawn and the costs will differ on a case-by-case basis.

However, he said that a preferred risk policy can be purchased before the new maps are drawn for between $120 and $350 per year. That coverage then can be “grandfathered in” after the maps are finished, albeit at a higher cost ranging anywhere from $750 to $1,200 per year.

This should be an issue that all of us in Central Louisiana, regardless of our political beliefs or views on social issues, can agree on: This could be a major body blow to Central Louisiana. It could hurt small businesses, big businesses, and every nearly single homeowner in and around Alexandria. And we simply cannot afford it, both in the short-term and the long-term.

More than eighty years ago, the feds built our levees to their standards, then, recently, they changed those standards without any funding in place to ensure the structures they built could meet their new standards– which means that all of us who relied on those assurances provided by the federal government when deciding where to invest, where to raise our families, and where to buy our homes could now, suddenly, be left paying a high premium for our right to own property– in a place in which the levees have never been breached, even when the Red River rose over ten feet in 1973.

While this may hurt the vast majority of Alexandrians, many of whom have an income significantly below the national average, it would likely help boost the profits of the insurance industry and, believe it or not, engineers.

Maybe I’ve gotten this all wrong, and if you know better, then please educate me.

But either way, it is clearly time that we all write our members of Congress to let them know how this will affect us as individual citizens.

Lizz Gardner from Alexandria, Louisiana: