I’m interrupting my sorority saga to point out some of the good, bad, and ugly in today’s news. And I do this recognizing that a couple of my “sisters” who will probably be checking out this blog when they get back home do not agree with my politics:
First, the good: Bloggers offer inside view to convention
Delegate bloggers play a different role than traditional media or even other bloggers, said New York University journalism professor Jay Rosen, who is covering the convention for his blog.
“You can’t apply to it the criteria of news or even punditry,” Rosen said. “One shouldn’t expect startling new information because that’s not the point. The point is to share the experience.”
Many delegate bloggers supported Howard Dean, whose Internet-based, grass-roots campaign set fund-raising records and attracted a large following. Some say they want to keep that online effort alive even as they transfer their loyalty to John Kerry, the party’s presumed nominee

Second the bad. Well, it’s bad for the current administration but good for everyone who believes in truth and honesty:

Setting the Sept. 11 record straight
At the time, it was understood that all of the hijackers had entered the country legally and done nothing to draw attention to themselves; Osama bin Laden had underwritten the plot with his personal fortune but had left the details to others; U.S. intelligence agencies had no warning that al-Qaida was considering suicide missions using planes; President Bush had received a special intelligence briefing weeks before Sept. 11 about al-Qaida that focused on past, not current, threats
But 19 months later, the commission released a final, unanimous book-length report Thursday that, in calling for an overhaul of the way the government collects and shares intelligence, showed that much of what had been common wisdom about the Sept. 11 attacks at the start of the panel’s investigation was wrong.
Third, the ugly. The uninformed thinking of people like this 77-year old American woman really scares me. I couldn’t find a link to this brief piece that appeared today in my local newspaper:
from Voters voice
…I’m sorry that this cournty has to be the policeman throughout the world, but somebody’s got to do it…What we’ve got over there is a volunteer army, and there’s no drafting. These men and women signed up, and they’re getting paid. I’m sorry they have to be over there, beause they’re volunteers…but we’ve still got to do it.
…I’d like to see every child that can do it get a quality education but..I don’t thinkwe can realistically afford it for everyone.
…I’m concerned about Medicare and prescription drugs even though I don’t have a problem gettng insurance myself..but sometimes people abuse drugs when they’re free. They take them just because they’re there. It’s like Medicare: Some people go to the emergency room just because it’s a place to go.
When the revolution comes, I know what side I’m going to be on.

He remembers dancing with me, he says — the guy who ultimately married one of my roommates. I certainly remember him, too. He was one of the best Lindy dancers around — easy to follow, smooth and sassy. He says that what he remembers about me was that I always wore bright colors and make-up to match. Remembers that, in terms of whatever boyfriends I had, I was known to be “flighty.” A “free-spirit.”
Free spirit.
That word comes up often when my long-time friends say what they remember about me. Free Spirit. And Beatnik. That’s who I was, or at least what I aspired to. No wonder I am who I am now.
The three husbands who joined us after our dinner were all from the same fraternity. There were lots of pairings between their fraternity and our sorority over the years. If we were sisters, they were our brothers-in-law. I liked these three then and I still do. Good guys, these guys.

I liked hanging around with guys back in college in the late fifties because they had so much more freedom than we girls did. And flirting was an art we all enjoyed. But it was innocent flirting. It was all before drugs seeped onto campuses; it was when guys (at least the guys we knew) understood and accepted that No means No.
So now they all tease me about my tendency to push the envelope of expected female behavior. It was, after all, just about the timeframe of Mona Lisa Smile. I guess I was just born to be a feminine feminist.
The memories that spill out of our aging brains complement each other, fill in some blanks that we each have.
I had forgotten that I used to sit by myself and play my aunt’s old guitar. I only knew three chords but could play just about all the old Everly Brothers songs. And Web Pierce’s “There Stands the Glass.” I’m sure now that my rudimentary attempts at guitar playing were as much for effect as for any great desire on my part to actually learn to play well. Beatniks, after all, sit alone in a corner and play the guitar. We become what we imagine.
I had forgotten that, in grad school when I lived in an apartment on an inner city side street with three other sorority sisters, I was the one who called the police because we had a prowler on the roof. We lived in a three story building owned by “Aunt Liz,” an Irish washerwoman who did the laundry of others in her basement. Our shared bedroom was the attic that had a big skylight, and we would lie in our beds and night and tell each other our dreams and share dirty jokes. One night we heard footsteps on the roof. I don’t remember calling the police and laughing so hard about the whole thing on the phone that the cops thought I was joking. But my roommates remember. They also remember that, when the cops finally arrived, they found a ladder against the side of the building and someone’s sneaker left behind on the roof. They remember the cop pulling out a gun. I just remember my annoyance at having our privacy invaded and my surprise that my roommates were as upset as they were. I guess I should have felt more violated than I did, but back then, in my own mind I was invincible, untouchable, immortal.
Enough about me. What follows will be more about them, those golden girls who, I think, glow more compellingly now — and for some it’s 44 years later — than they even did in what we all remember as our sweet golden glory days.

“Beta Zeta hats off to thee. To our colors true we will ever be. Young and strong united are we………”
We did sing it, but not in the bar or in the restaurant. We sang it in a cirlce, just as we used to do forty years ago. We sang it at about midnight in one of the hotel rooms as we ended an evening of boisterous and loving reminiscences.
I couldn’t help notice that we sang it a lot slower than we did forty years ago. But it probably meant even more to us now then it did then.
There are stories to be told about this reunion of what turned out to be fourteen women and the husbands of three of them who remember the same time of innocence, that time of boundless energies. A time when we were all learning together how to figure out who we wanted to be. A time when draft beer was 10 cents and girls would be confined to their dorms at night for a week if they stayed out later than 1 a.m. (midnight if you were a freshman).
I want to get up early enough to meet them for breakfast before they leave the hotel and the past behind. But for now, I sit here grateful for all of their reminders of that girl that I was, for remembering me as I remember me. For reminding me that I am still that girl.