Sorry about the lack of updates this week — I just staved off CMS apocalypse.  Next week should see more of a return to normal.

Salon has a piece today about the David Foster Wallace suicide.  It’s worth a read.

I will not blog about Sarah Palin … I will not blog about Sarah Palin …

CNN’s Campbell Brown of all people takes on McCain spokesperson Tucker Bounds over Sarah Palin’s foreign policy experience:

Even the conservatives think this is madness.

From Ramesh Ponnuru of the Corner/National Review:

(On the other hand, as Kate O’Beirne just told me, we know that Palin will be ready for that 3 a.m. phone call: She’ll already be up with her baby.)

If the right-wing punditry is making jokes like this it can’t be good for McCain/Palin.

Wow, she sounds like a student government president.

Also, it seems like she’s setting the ticket up as a status quo shake-up. Even though, of course, they’re running to preserve the status quo. She’s not really saying anything that reveals the ticket’s conservative bent. She sounds like a Democrat, in fact, I think they’ve lifted just about everything from Obama’s speech (though somewhat inelegantly).

Will it work? Will the media come to her rescue when Biden wipes the floor with her in the debate?

I can’t help feeling an enormous sense of pride in the the Obama’s, Joe Biden, the Kennedy’s — finally, at long last, the real Democrats are in charge. Comparably speaking, the Republicans are a bunch of hollow, flaccid, losers. The intelligence, compassion, warmth and leadership they showed is just stunning.

Michelle’s speech was remarkable, just fantastic. If we lose this election, it’s not for a lack of trying, lack of sincerity, or lack of idealism. We’ve got a great team, the best team possible.

It’s now up to the Americans to see the truth through the smears and lies.

Yes, the general election is stressful for both sides, but take a break.  Kick back and relive Obama’s victory over Hillary Clinton.  Politico’s Roger Simon has a great series up which explains why Obama’s team won and Clinton’s team lost.  Not as scandalous as the recent Atlantic piece, but more comprehensive in its narrative.

Click here to read it.

My dog is dead, and my grief is limitless.

Back in 1997, Tina and I got married and bought a puppy — a black and tan dachshund we named Marshall.  Marshall didn’t live long, dying after a botched neutering.  Tina and I were heartbroken and not in the best frame of mind.  So a few days later, we went to a pet store and bought a crazy little boston terrier that the girl who worked at the store had named “Taz.”  We renamed him “Archie.”

Archie was a difficult puppy, but this is not unusual for male boston terriers.  They have a generous spirit and a kind, easygoing manner, but they are full of energy.  They get bored easily, and they love to destroy things.  But they are equally gentle and loyal.  Boston terriers aren’t right for everyone — like all purebred dogs, they have their quirks.  But Archie was right for us.

I remember at the height of my despair  one early walk I had with Archie.  I was still grieving the loss of the first dog and wondering if this new puppy was a mistake.  We were on the path behind our apartment at the time, and suddenly he stopped, closed his eyes and felt the warm sun on his face.  Then, he sniffed the warm spring air, took a deep breath and sighed.   Suddenly I realized what was happening — he was enjoying the world, the sun, the beautiful weather.

As someone who had previously only owned dachshunds, I was pleasantly surprised — dachshunds are difficult breed, high strung and obsessed with their owners.  But here was a dog that was taking it easy, enjoying the day.  It was this moment that my bond with Archie began, when I realized that his crazy puppy phase was just that –a phase.  That everything was going to be okay.

He was my dog, and I loved him.

Jump forward 11 years later.  Archie, sick and failing, his time so short.  I had no inkling of what his death would really mean to me — how intertwined he was in my life.  My whole daily schedule was centered around his needs — walks, feedings, walks.  He slept with me every night, burrowed into the space behind my knees, warm and comforting.  What would my life be like without him, my friend, my companion, my faithful dog?

Unable to walk, Tina held him on the floor in my mother’s house, our daughters flanking her,  saying their goodbyes.  I was in the kitchen, desperately trying to replace his bedding for what I knew would be his final trip in the car — my mother and I were taking him to an emergency animal hospital to have him put to sleep.

Just as the girls said their goodbyes, Archie looked into Tina’s eyes, and she would later tell me that she saw that he was saying goodbye to her.  And then his eyes rolled back into his head, and his labored breathing ceased.

“Oh my god,” Tina said.  “He’s dying, I think he’s dead.  Come quickly.”

I rushed to her side, but I was too late.  My dog was dead.  Gently, I lifted him from her arms, and placed him inside the crate on the fresh blanket.  His body was limp and still, completely at rest.   I thought about that crazy puppy so long ago who loved to feel the warm sun on his face.  And I felt the vacuum his death had opened in my life.  Never again would we walk through the streets of Adams Morgan together, across freshly fallen snow, the white streets silent and empty except for him and me.

And no longer would my beloved dog be by my side at all times — no matter what, Archie made sure I was never alone.

Now, I tell the girls the story of Archie’s life, as we try to help them make sense of his death.  Anya understands, she knows he’s not coming back.  She avoids talking about him.  But Rachel doesn’t quite get it — she thinks he’s just somewhere else, waiting to rejoin us.  And maybe she’s the one who’s right.  Maybe he is out there waiting for us, waiting for me.

I know this isn’t true.  But I like to delude myself.  Maybe someday, Archie and I will walk Florida Avenue again and stop at every tree.  Maybe he will ride along side me again when I move the car on Thursday mornings for street cleanings, and maybe when it’s late at night and I’m sad and alone, he will be there to comfort me.  To tell me in his quiet way that everything is okay.  We are a pack, a family, and we are together.

Tina’s out tonight setting up her Artomatic installation, while I’m at home with the girls.  Rachel and Anya are running around the house with buckets on their heads, singing the tune to “Here comes the bride.”  It’s kind of funny.

My dad, who died in 1993 and never heard of the Internet, is listed on a Web site of dead Airforce airmen.  There are pictures, which are credited to my mother.  It’s strange to see him there.