Until Al Sharpton apologizes for his crimes against racial harmony in the Tawana Brawley case and pays the court-ordered restitution to the prosecutor he defamed (or publicly reimburses the friends who got him off the hook), there's no reason to pay attention to anything he says. Sharpton is a black George Wallace, and needs his Wallace moment in front of the congregation.

As vile as it was, Brawley is far from his only crime. He was the DLC-contracted hit man who stuck the knife in Howard Dean's back during the last debate before the Iowa Caucus in '04, with unfair and unfounded charges about Dean's "racist" campaign staff. It was that, not Fox's phonied-up "scream," that cost Dean his momentum, the caucus and ultimately the nomination. If you remember that, his attack on Obama is no surprise. Sharpton is to African-Americans what Alberto Gonzales is to Hispanics: a national figure who hires out to do or say absolutely anything for money and power. They're both a disgrace to their people, which means our people, and the country as a whole.

And then there's Al's friend Dickerson. In several months of writing for Salon, she's never had a good, minimally defensible, or, as pointed out by several other writers, even a comprehensible idea. Maybe we could regard her as a cartoon, but she's about as funny as Ted Rall.

With her, Camille Paglia, and Walter Shapiro (farewell Manjoo, I guess, and can we count Rebecca Traister as among the walking wounded?), Salon continues its downward swoop. If this represented progressive political and cultural commentary in this country, we'd be in big trouble. But it doesn't. It's just Salon.

Too bad that the (understandable) racial component of the "tar baby" phrase obscures its very real descriptive use.

In the original story, the tar baby was something that, when you first touched it, you got stuck, and the more you struggled, the more stuck you got.

If there's a better description of what's happened to us in Iraq, I'll use that instead.

I'd feel like crap, too. Based, that is, on your previous writings.

Welcome to the real world. Slingback feminist postmodernism, of the kind where you attack/make fun of anyone who doesn't share your narrow values, works only if you have the advantages of youth, friends in the right places who think just like you, and affirmative action. As you age, you become more like Deborah Dickerson, or Camille Paglia. Just as objectionable, but no longer Sex In the City cute.

Take some comfort, though. Judging from its Camille/Hillary/Deborah worship, Salon is aging right along with you.

Whenever I find I absolutely have to fly somewhere, I go "awww...."

Was it the American Airlines employee who threatened to arrest me for trying to go back on the plane to look for my lost bag at a hub where my arrival time for plane one and departure for plane two were the same, the TSA trainer who threatened to step on my bare toes, the planes that are smaller and more uncomfortable than the average school bus (can you say Emhauer?) or the godawful price you have to pay for the privilege of surrendering your dignity and human rights? I don't know, but the ol' thrill just isn't there anymore.

Oh yeah, I miss the stewardesses, too. The new style of help, men and women, remind me of my mother. Just about as useful, and as pleasant.

This reminded me of something, and this morning I got it.

When I worked in a bookstore at the beginning of the Reagan era, a bestseller among neo-Republicans was something called "Spend Yourself Rich," a self-proclaimed mystical tome with dollar signs like swastikas on the cover. It peddled the idea that by leading an outrageously materialistic, overconsuming lifestyle, money would be attracted to you, partly through the mysterious rules of like attracting like featured in "The Secret," and partly because rich people would be so impressed by your desire to emulate them that they would give you great jobs and, well, lots of money.

I'd call it a mental "Dress For Success," except the people buying the book, often half a dozen copies at a time, dressed in the colors of the book jacket, apparently on advice from the author: white, bright green and gold. With the necklaces and medallions. Worn by men. It was the 80s.

Not hard to figure out what the philosophy really attracted. Debt, and lots of it, very quickly. The book is out of print (surprisingly), but Amazon does have a few copies, and the author is still active. These days, she specializes in evangelical Christian self-help.

So there's the connection: materialism, "mysticism," fundamentalist religion, and a strong personality to do the hawking. Some things don't change, they only look different.

"Let's just not set up nude or pornographic modeling as a normalized rite of passage for all coeds."

That's it.

Sorry to correct, but the 1956 bus boycott was in Montgomery. Birmingham was where the protesters were met with dogs and fire hoses. All shameful; Montgomery was also where they burnt the Freedom Riders' buses.

One correction to my earlier posting on Clinton. I said that what she did was like crashing a funeral; actualy, it was worse.

It was akin to hijacking a funeral, holding a competing memorial at the church next door to further your own selfish interests.

Short of murder, I can't think of anything worse than that.

The Democratic Party is supposed to be the party of principles; we shouldn't be competing in the race to the bottom, and we definitely shouldn't support anybody who does.