This one is different...

There was the same sweet gray-haired lady who needed three shouts in her good ear before she could decipher my full name for polling place verification. There were the same deeply investigative news stories claiming voters were frustrated with long lines. And there were the same “I Voted” stickers that kindle civic shivers of pride within you every time you look down at your shirt post-vote.

But this Nov. 4 was different.

It was different not because the head of state switched political party affiliations or even because the first African-American was voted into office.

It was different because about 130 million of us cast a ballot, the highest voter turnout since 1968. It was different because “apathetic, self-infatuated” 18- to 29-year-olds made up 18% of the electorate, while voters age 65 and older represented only 16%. It was different because older black women at Grant Park in Chicago and twentysomething white men at Times Square in New York wept as they watched the president-elect speak.

Something different was going through our minds this time around. As Buffalo Springfield crooned, “there’s something happenin’ here.”

Out of all the rhetorical flourishes that were cascading out of commentators’ mouths after Obama reached 270 electoral votes, NBC newsman Tom Brokaw struck a chord that I think adds an apt caption to the polling numbers and tears of joy.

“When this family takes up residence in the White House and he puts his hand on the Bible and becomes President of the United States,” Brokaw said, “there’s going to be a cultural and political change in America, and I’m not sure that we fully understand how sweeping it is going to be. People are going to want to go to Washington and work for the government in a way they haven’t in the past 20 years…And that’s what this country needs. It really does need a re-enlistment of citizenship, people raising their hands saying, ‘Count on me. I’m willing to come to Washington.’”

My grade school Social Studies textbooks would gush about the U.S. as the land of opportunity, a melting pot of pluralistic virtue, using language that roused the warm-and-fuzzies in idealistic schoolchildren.

But textbook ideals most often do not carry over into real life.

Whether you love him or hate him, Obama, however, does connect these ideals with reality. He is now larger than life, a breaking point on the timeline of history, a walking demonstration of progress who breathes new life into our country’s unique ideals.

Will that repair the financial crisis? Absolutely not. Will that end global warming? Nope. Will Russia and North Korea all of a sudden sing kumbaya with us? No sir.

But the spirit he stirs is not just hot air. It’s powerful. It makes politics seem more relevant and accessible. By electing a black man president 43 years after giving blacks the unqualified right to vote, we’ve shown the world that we actually strive to apply our ideals.

With all that said, it’s easy to romanticize this story. The truth is that Obama has set some sky-scraper-high expectations for himself, and he inevitably will let down those who think he can do no wrong.

But the impromptu celebrations seen in the streets of this country and around the world crystallized for us that this Nov. 4 was unlike all the rest.

Here’s to hoping it inspires another generation whose civic satisfaction is not limited to the stickers handed out every Election Day.

Fair journalism is sexy? DGergs is a hit with the ladies...

‘Tis the season for political talking heads to babble ignorantly about Joe the faux Plumber and how Wall Street is destroying Main Street.

One man on CNN always seems to cut through the hyperbole to offer candid and tempered analysis. He is a 66-year-old political vet who has worked on the campaigns of Nixon, Ford, Reagan and Clinton. He will never admit to a thrill running up his leg or imply a certain candidate is an Arab extremist.

He is David Gergen.

I admire the guy, and I admit his native North Carolina “aw-shucks” honesty is endearing to this political junkie. However, Jessi Klein, a comedian and blogger for the Web site “The Daily Beast,” takes her admiration to another level when she confesses her passionate love for the man.

I don’t usually include other people’s work in this blog space, because, as is customary for many writers and artists, I simply feel my material is better than all other people’s. But love is the greatest muse, and Mrs. Klein’s white-hot romantic tinglings toward DGergs need to be shared. Enjoy:

The romance began late at night, with a glass of red wine and an episode of The Situation Room.

I can’t hold in the truth any longer. My feelings are too large to live just within the confines of my heart. I need everyone to know:

I am passionately in love with David Gergen.

Our (mine and Gergen’s) love story is in some ways ordinary. We were friends first. I would see him hanging around the channel — sometimes on AC360, sometimes on The Situation Room — and was always vaguely aware of a little pang of happiness whenever his large, wonderful head would appear in some kind of split-screen box.

The moment I realized my feelings were more serious was in late September, right after the first presidential debate. Gergen was on for hours, and I found myself on the couch, riveted, a glass of Cabernet by my feet, hands wrapped around my knees as I leaned forward to capture every word, every thought, every—oh, be still my fluttering heart, was that a little chuckle?

And then all of a sudden my face felt hot. I was blushing. I was loving David Gergen.

How do I love David Gergen? Let me count the ways.

I love his low, quiet voice. That unmodulated buttery whisper that sounds like it’s elbowing its way past a cough drop that’s permanently lodged at the back of his throat. You know how Bed Bath & Beyond sells those white noise machines that help you sleep? And they usually make ocean noises? I want one that’s just David Gergen gently muttering about the economy.

I love the way Gergen makes me feel calm, even when he’s making dire predictions about the future of our country. I love the way he knows everything and then formulates an opinion about everything that’s always right. I love that his eyebrows only move when he gets mad, and I love that he almost never gets mad. I love that he looks like a handsome baked potato. I want him to analyze my life with the same subtle intelligence he uses to analyze politics. How can I make my kitchen brighter? Should I email that dum-dum of a guy I know or just leave it in my draft folder? Should I get a bob or is my hair better long?

I love that his name is Gergen. Gerrrrr-gen. I don’t know the real origin of the name, but it’s a quirky, comforting sound with an onomatopoeic quality to it. Like the little pleasure noise you make under your breath when you’re home in your pajamas and you hear someone on the TV making consistent, rational sense.

Mrs. Klein’s original crush admission can be found at: http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2008-10-15/im-in-love-with-david-gergen/

The Quarter Century Address

One score and five years ago today my father and mother brought forth on this continent a funny-looking creature with a full head of black hair and a propensity to drool and nap.

Some things never change.

Conceiving him in love (suspiciously around Valentine’s Day), they dedicated him to the Mister Rogers proposition that all children are created equal, especially those who enjoy talking to a middle-aged sweater snob through a TV screen.

Now he is engaged in a personal civil war, an inner clash testing whether his boyish idealism and youthful simplicity can endure the Joneses and pressures to sacrifice adventure for stability.

He realizes success is no longer as finite as a test grade, a trophy or a piece of scrolled paper etched with calligraphy. For a few, success means reaching a certain societal status. For some, it means finding The One and starting a family. For others, it means making strides down an envisioned career path. For still others, it means uncovering an elusive truth that sets you completely at ease in your own skin. For him on his Silver Birthday, success is a “To Be Determined.”

Even with the continued uncertainty, 25 years have shown me that age tends to do two things: it installs in us an autopilot button and it instills in us a know-it-all attitude.

It’s easier as you get older to go through the motions at work, distance yourself from friends who’ve propped you up in the past and lose sight of where you came from. It’s also easier to feign omniscience to impress or bloat the ego.

What can combat these traps that foster superficiality and distance yourself from your less fake pre-25 self?

Failure.

It’s harder to deal with it when you get older, but that’s when it becomes the most meaningful.

Approach the fun gal at the barbeque and ask her on a date. Suggest your new product idea to the boss. Join that community group without knowing anyone in it. Explore that new career option. The worst that can happen is failure, but out of it comes a risk and a challenge that continually stretches you and keeps you vital and hungry.

Fellow October 18er Mike Ditka, the screws-chomping, WD-40-drinking former coach of the Chicago Bears, once said: “Success isn’t permanent, and failure isn’t fatal.”

Iron Mike wants us to fail.

My Quarter Century resolution is to fail more often and not shy away from situations where failure is possible. How else can you grow, while staying true to who you are, in the next 25 years?

Has Clark Kent degenerated into a blithering idiot?

It’s less than one month until the most pivotal presidential election in recent memory, all you Joe Six-Packs, Change-oholics and coveted ones in between.

With an economy on the brink of a dark recession, with Social Security and Medicare costs guaranteed to skyrocket as the boomers retire (leaving today’s twentysomethings to pick up the tab), with a damaged reputation on the world stage, why is it that our first reflex when digesting political TV news is to grab the popcorn and not the thinking cap?

As a former newspaper reporter, I will admit that I am harder on my journalistic brethren. But we all should be. They shape our opinions of the candidates. What they talk about on camera is what we talk about around the water cooler. And it seems they are more interested in provoking fights, massaging their egos and selling their brands rather then informing voters. TV journalists need to press the candidates on the tough issues, such as how they will afford what they effortlessly promise, not wave poms-poms or hoist high-fives.

When Fox News personality Sean Hannity sat down with John McCain and Sarah Palin recently, the anchor acted like he was shooting a campaign ad:
HANNITY: But think of how this war has been politicized through the prism of your experience in Vietnam. The leader in the Senate, Harry Reid, said, “the surge has failed, the war is lost.” Dick Durbin compared our troops to Nazis. John Kerry said our troops are invading Iraqis’ homes in the dark of night, you know, terrorizing women and children. These are verbatim quotes. And Barack Obama said they are “air-raiding villages and killing civilians.” My question is, you know, what does that — that’s poisonous rhetoric, but it goes on, what does it mean? How do you stop that if you’re elected president and vice president?

The war has been politicized, Mr. Hannity, because you and other biased cable news “reporters” keep framing questions with an “us versus them,” “I know the answer before I ask it” attitude. It’s like crediting a home run to candidates before they have even stepped up to home plate. How does that make them better or keep them accountable?

MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, who fluctuates between Jon Stewart fake journalism and Tim Russertism based on his mood, is just as guilty of brownnosing with certain candidates and fostering a toxic perception that journalism divides along political party lines.

OLBERMANN lollipop question to Obama: Let me switch over to Iraq and people's reaction to you and Iraq and Iraq as a subject in general. Your predictions about the surge, your language about the surge, seem to have turned out to be just about 100 percent on the spot. Simple facts: whatever is done to lessen violence against American troops and others in portions of that country, the Iraqis are still not paying for this war fully, either with money or personnel. And Mr. Bush has just been advised not to bring any more of our troops home this year…If you are right, why have the Republicans and the conservative media been so effective in suggesting that you were wrong and somehow you need to atone for that?

Journalists’ mission is not to be chummy or accommodating, but Olbermann and Hannity are among the best at it. How do they even introduce their careers at dinner parties? They’re too newsy to be entertainers, yet not objective enough to be journalists.

Helpful political journalism does not need to wow with intellectualism or amaze with theatrics. Journalists should be persistent and cut through the memorized stump speeches, but they don’t need to quote Socrates or sprinkle in SAT words to do it.

Rob Caldwell of WCSH-TV in Portland, Maine, would not let McCain escape with clichés during the candidate's reasoning for selecting Sarah Palin as his running mate.
NBC’s Matt Lauer proved he is not only good at preparing turkeys and petting kittens when he pushed Obama to be honest about how he is going to pay for improvements to health care, education and energy with an economy spiraling toward Great Depression severity.

To sum it up, valuable journalism that you can take to the voting booth involves firm, common-sense questions. Are they sexy? No. Will they get your face festooned on a Times Square billboard? Unlikely. But they will send the right candidate to the Oval Office.

Disastrous dates anonymous...

We’ve all been there.

Whether you’ve showcased your two left feet while climbing doorsteps, your wine glass swatting skills as you spill onto her lap or your tumbleweed-attracting, foot-in-the-mouth conversation starters, odds are you’ve had a bad date or two.

Sometimes the “A” game disintegrates into a “D.”

Fess up to it. Get it out in the open. Practice your version of disastrous date therapy, Casanova-you-ain’t. Babe Ruth struck out 1,330 times, and people still seemed to tolerate him.

Besides, what’s the alternative? Dating hubris may turn you into Darth Vader, and I don’t think he was too popular with the ladies.

Harnessing this spirit of dating humility, the following ditty is one such colossal dating failure involving this guy I know. Or maybe I saw it in a movie once. Yours truly has definitely never been a part of something so embarrassing…

Jack mustered up the guts to ask fun-loving, karaoke diva Jane out to dinner to get to know her better. He decides to take her out to a nice South African restaurant. They sit outside.

Conversation was flowing, fun was in the air and then the waitress brought out the entrees.

Jack ordered the lamb kabob dish, which featured massive hunks of meat.

As Jack was in the middle of telling a story, he forked a piece of the succulent baah-beque and shoved it in his mouth.

Breaking news: lamb meat is chewy.

Jack might have been too ambitious with the fork job.

Before long, he starts choking on the piece, so much so that he’s having trouble coughing and breathing.

With headlines whizzing through Jack’s mind that read “Man dies on first date,” he stands up, grabs his chair and gets ready to perform a self-Heimlich. CPR-certified Jane scurries over and positions herself to pump the piece out of Jack.

Seconds before the moment of truth, Jack is able to work out the chunk and spit it into a napkin.
Luckily, their table was tucked away in a corner, so other diners were oblivious to the made-for-Hollywood theatrics.

Geez, Jack.

Momma always said not to chew with your mouth full. Who knew that tidbit would come in handy more than 20 years later in your adult dating life?

Sketchiness defined: Where does Facebook curiosity end and stalking begin?

This is the wrong era to be a fan of the blind date.

Facebook, MySpace, Googling and a cascade of online dating sites have made anonymity almost impossible. Mark Zuckerberg and his tech friends are turning chance encounters at the barbeque or local bar into scavenger hunts for facts and photos.

Call it the social networking background check, an exercise few will admit to but many perform.

Perhaps you and Betty had a mind-blowing conversation that thrusted you into a state of nirvana, or maybe you adored the way Billy stretched his coat over the puddle for an old woman. “If only I had some way to see him/her again,” you ponder longingly from your Monday morning quarterback recliner.

For better or for worse, now you do. And Mr./Ms. Interest doesn’t even know about the probe you’re performing.

John Rolfe had to ask Pocahontas for her longhouse address. Kevin Arnold had to ask Whinny Cooper for her phone number. I’m sure at some point, Cory Matthews asked for Topanga’s Instant Message screen name.

Nowadays, no question is needed, and the Web becomes a convenient crutch for the less bold.

But when does a backup option for the more cowardly date initiators start to veer toward the “To Catch a Predator” realm of sketchiness? When does innocent curiosity become morbid?
Unfortunately, there is no set rulebook except the one written into your conscience.

Old schoolers will say: “If you are interested, if you want to know more about him/her, if you want the date, suck up your anxiety and ask for the number and the date face-to-face.”
Zuckerberg, who — for the record — has a lady friend (!?), and his tech cronies would probably say: “Facebook is a digital-age version of the Yellowpages. It’s there to connect people.”

So is the Facebook look-up the easy way out or the easiest way in for the reluctant? Will “how we met” stories told at weddings soon include “we first got to know each other on Facebook?” Or will Facebook and its relatives spark more romances and leave less people lonely on a Saturday night?

Let the angel and devil standing on your shoulders weigh the issue, but from this guy’s recliner, there’s something not organic about the whole thing.

The fun in dating is gradually getting to know someone as you sit across from Interest at your favorite Italian bistro and stroll through conversation with some wine and marinara sauce. Discovery sans a profile check is exciting, and it prevents stereotypes from creeping into your head that can taint your understanding of someone before you actually know them.

Maybe I can friend Kevin Arnold on Facebook and ask what he thinks…

Cram Nation

We are what we eat, the adage goes.

So what happens if we nibble on bare-bones news from CNN tickers, broken-sentenced text messages and iPod mixes featuring singles sung by whatshername?

In an Information Age where the mindless wiggling of fingers across a pad conjures up any answer instantly, are our so-called “efficiencies” rotting our originality, creativity and ability to think deeply?

A recent trip to a local watering hole sparked an avalanche of questions…

After all, pubs used to be a place where everybody knew your name, a spot where mustachioed Cliff the Mailman and pillow-bellied Norm the Accountant packed work away and swapped stories.

However, as I turned my gaze to the couple next to me, I saw a thirtysomething guy and gal fidgeting with their iPhones from their bar stools. The couple was checking e-mail, comparing song lyrics and looking up directions for tomorrow’s trip.

I used to get scolded when I played my GameBoy too much in the presence of people, but now it seems like everyone has their head down, engrossed in their own game of ‘tinker with my technology.’

Yes, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, we are more plugged in to information than ever before. But what is it doing to us?

Over the course of a year, one-third of college-educated Americans do not read one novel, short story or poem, according to the U.S. Department of Education.

Before the term “condescending bookworm” materializes in your thoughts about the author of this entry, consider the evidence…

“I cannot live without books,” Thomas Jefferson said.
“I discovered books and read forever,” John Adams wrote.
Without these men, I probably would have played cricket across the pond in high school instead of baseball. I feel safe in calling them ‘free thinkers.’

My point?

We’re avoiding book-reading and in-depth thought, chowing down on intellectual fast food and outsourcing our cerebral freedom. Cable news talking heads tell you how to think. iTunes tells you what music you like. Is life good or is your brain too numb from information bombardment to evaluate it?

New York Times columnist David Brooks wrote that in today’s “outsource your brain” culture, “young people are forgoing memory before they even have a chance to lose it.”
In fact, Wired columnist Clive Thompson cited a 2007 study that found that one-third of the 3,000 subjects who were under 30 could not recall their own cell phone number from memory.

Yikes.

Thomas Jefferson laid the bricks for our individual freedoms by thinking freely. Are Google, BlackBerry and Wikipedia enslaving that individuality?

Maybe a book will tell me…

Going corporate...

I used to think that all members of the corporate world were money-grubbing, slippery lords of excess who played poker with Lucifer and Darth Vader. ‘How could these people auction off their souls to settle for less than what would truly get them up in the morning?’ I would ask myself.

But then, I started to pay bills. As it turns out — and this pains me to concede — passion and self-will can’t always pay them. After the rush of post-college zeal to launch a career, settling for less than what you expected or envisioned for yourself is tough to accept, but necessary.

Raised by Sesame Street and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood in suburban bubbles, the Millennial crowd was told repeatedly, ‘You can grow up to be anything you want. The sky’s the limit.’ Actually, student loan payments and the need for a consistent cash flow are the limits these days. Sorry, Big Bird.

In a period when you’re still fumbling around, trying to align your strengths and passions with a fulfilling career, taste-testing professions is encouraged, maybe even required. Millennials will have — on average — eight jobs before they turn 32, according to the U.S. Department of Labor.

With taste-testing in mind, I — a former corporate-world basher — joined the realm of quarterly bonuses and elevators with 10” TVs. I enlisted in “the dark side.”

I had imagined myself as the Clark Kent of sports writing, strutting around the Yankee Stadium clubhouse uncovering the next big back-page splash. Instead, I got a gig covering education for a small-town Virginia newspaper, and then a spot as a high school sports stringer, a.k.a. a glorified secretary who wrote the occasional story. Not quite Bronx, N.Y., in October.

A good man named Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” So true. Times of frustration and regret are inevitable — unless you insulate yourself in a no-risk bubble, and what kind of fun is that? Was the job that I just accepted ever a pipe dream of mine? No. Are my “corporate” co-workers soulless blood brothers with Satan? Absolutely not.

Leveling rosy expectations with pragmatism is a tough balancing act, and it doesn’t mean you should let a job define you or surrender your passions for it. After all, talent is figuring out what you do well and finding a career where you get to do that every day. The search can be nomadic and fraught with letdowns. It may also require a sacrifice you can only truly appreciate after you've lived through it. C'est la vie.

I’m finding that the key to sanity amidst the question marks is to accept and embrace the uncertainties and weird twists and turns. You might see that those Darth Vaders are actually interesting people…

Not just jug handles and Jon Bon...

I have heard the jokes…
Q: Why are New Yorkers so depressed?
A: Because the light at the end of the tunnel is New Jersey.

I have read the remarks…
“New Jersey is like a beer barrel, tapped at both ends, with all the live beer running into Philadelphia and New York.” –American everyman Ben Franklin

I have even withstood the blasphemy from statemates…
“New Jersey is a great place to be born in, but it’s best to get out of here before you die,” a balding Garden State bartender once advised me, as if we lived in a hospital that was about to burn down.

Whether in Manhattan for a night out, in Virginia during college or in Europe during a semester abroad, it’s hard to ignore how everyone seems quick with a zinger about exit-oriented New Jersey. 135 off of the Parkway, if you must know, wise guy.

At first I laughed along. Then I started to defend our women and fine coastline, like a good tourist bureau chief husbanded to his state. Now I smile, nod and ignore. New Jersey is much more than jug handles, Jon Bon and a balding mobster named Tony, and it’s about time someone challenged the Garden State haters with compelling truths, not gelled-hair fits of rage. Prepare to be educated, BFrank.

MISCONCEPTION: New Jersey breeds unmotivated bums.
TRUTH: Inventor Thomas Edison, underground railroad leader Harriet Tubman, astronaut Buzz Aldrin, writer Toni Morrison, actor Jack Nicholson, coach Vince Lombardi, superstar Shaquille O’Neal, legend Yogi Berra, crooner Frank Sinatra and rock star Bruce Springsteen were all born in New Jersey. I dare you to find a more dynamic cast.

MISCONCEPTION: Successful people flee New Jersey as soon as they can.
TRUTH: More millionaires live in The Garden State than in any other state in the nation, according to a 2008 story by the Associated Press. Call it Hollywood East.

MISCONCEPTION: New Jersey is home to mostly bitter, callous cynics.
TRUTH: According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, New Jersey residents have the lowest rate of depression in the United States. It makes you want to reconsider that vacation to Honolulu, doesn’t it?

MISCONCEPTION: New Jersey sports fans mooch off of the NYC sports scene.
TRUTH: The first recorded baseball game was played in Hoboken, N.J., and the first college football game was played in New Brunswick, N.J. Also, the New York Giants and New York Jets hike their footballs in East Rutherford, N.J. Who is mooching off of whom here?

You might think that I’ve developed a state inferiority complex and that I’m harping on this topic to self-medicate. Untrue. When you see someone at the JFK Airport in New York with a “Friends don’t let friends live in New Jersey” T-shirt, you know that it’s time to play defense. For few good reasons, The Garden State has become the butt of state jokes, the can’t-miss punch line for bombing comedians and mediocre Founding Fathers. It’s about time people knew the truth.

Can you "ace" the bar?

For those spooning with Ben & Jerry and not the other half this February 14, kudos to you for beating back the advances of the temptresses Hallmark, Godiva and all those hypothetical dates. As it turns out, being single takes a lot of work. Those couples have it easy.

Looking back, college was a summer camp, a hub for all things social, where a party was a phone call away and a date was a few fun conversations away. Little do you know that when handed the diploma, you are given a passport to uncharted waters with Facebook, co-ed intramurals, bars and E-harmony (for the desperate) there to keep you afloat.

Plenty of fish in these waters, eh?

For those in years 0 to 3 of a post-college job, you are most likely on the dirt level of the totem pole. Work is heaped on you, some of which can be cranked out by a sixth-grader. But you eagerly pull extra hours and dutifully salute your boss because you’re a soldier and you want a top-notch performance review. So where does that position you in the dating world, great warrior of the workplace?

The options seem limited…

- The bar: a jungle of bodies, mixed drinks and Eighties power ballads. Are some bars fun? Absolutely. At times, however, it feels like you’re searching for something amidst "Journey" and tonics that will never be found.
- The office: Water cooler conversations and ‘working under the same roof’ pride could spark something, but once the embers go chilly, the fallout can be tricky.
- Facebook/E-harmony: ‘I really like you, so I’m going to click my mouse and 'poke' you with a 2-d rose or a pixelated box of chocolates.’ [Cue sarcasm] Nothing seems more chivalrous. And if you’re a knight of the online world, plunk down the dough, Romeo, and discover your soul mate, a.k.a a 60-year-old man posing as an attractive kindergarten teacher, through an Internet dating service. Does that indirectly make Al “I created the Web” Gore your wingman?

The millennial crowd seems to favor text messaging over talking, Facebook ‘group-forming’ over dinner parties and ear buds over eye contact. How are you supposed to date with all that distance? Should you couple up right after college like your parents to avoid the hassle? Or delay until self-discovery is complete and the loans are paid off?

For most of us who take bachelorette/bachelorhood into the “real world”, there is that struggle to enjoy the single life while craving something deeper, especially with engagement announcements and wedding invites making out in front of our faces.

The wait is surely all worth it in the end. But in the meantime, any tips, Mr. Gore?

The shop teacher sage

“You can’t make a fuss if you don’t become a part of it,” said 86-year-old retired shop teacher Don Van Blake as we walked through the streets of Plainfield, N.J., canvassing for Barack Obama.

Five years ago, the only reason I would have watched C-SPAN was if I had trouble falling asleep. Recently, however, I have been following the political scene as closely as the sports page. And one presidential candidate’s challenge to hope and maximize potential has captured my attention.

So I called up “Obama for New Jersey” and volunteered my services on “Super Tuesday,” hyped as the most explosive day in politics since the Burr-Hamilton duel. I wanted to see what this “movement” was all about.

I was assigned to Plainfield and was paired with Mr. Van Blake, a good-humored man who inspired me with his eagerness to climb front steps and engage people at his advanced age. It was an unlikely pairing: an 86-year-old black man going door-to-door alongside a twenty-something white guy in a town that is 60 percent black. Mr. Van Blake reminisced about his work on the 1948 presidential campaign of Henry Wallace, who advocated giving full voting rights to blacks.

What I will take away from Mr. Van Blake was his insistence that he was making a difference. “Never get old,” he kept telling me as he clutched his cane, though his age – or any other supposed impediment – hadn’t seemed to deter him so far.

The rainy weather could have left him saying when he climbed out of bed, ‘I’ll let the next guy handle it,’ but his attitude seemed to be, ‘I am the next guy.’

In my first taste of political activism, Mr. Van Blake showed me that passion and persistence toward a cause trumps any personal uncertainty, uneasiness or doubt. And at a time when few things seem certain, shunning the doubt and insisting on being ‘that next guy’ just might get you through it all. Mr. Van Blake has been through it 86 years and counting...

Not so much...

The college degree is advertised as the elixir to the naiveté and hardship of youth, the golden ticket to life’s amusement park, the key to all those doors that will be swinging open. After commencement, everything’s a cakewalk, right?

After all, you’re a suave communicator capable of wooing any job interviewer, who will immediately unroll a carpet stitched with Benjamins, right? And also a masterful doctor of dating with charm outdone only by the size of your big black book, right?

Not so much…

If only that degree bought you the ideal first job, the charm to rope in The One and the luxury to live anywhere and have anything you want. But it doesn’t. And that’s a jarring truth.

The script to date has been finding that prom date, choosing that college, deciding on that major and landing that first job. The rest - as I'm finding out - is improvisation. Sure there are your goals and aspirations that fuel your days, but this script is less defined and more complicated than ever.

Now I am a decent jazz improviser on my tenor saxophone, but the irony is that I still haven’t mastered how to improvise to the chord changes of life.

It’s unsettling, it’s exciting, it’s frustrating, it’s interesting.

I hope to channel some of the interesting stuff on this blog, without sounding angst-ridden or Saved-by-the-Bell schmaltzy. So for all it's worth, cheers to enjoying the ride…