There are 16 acres of debris and under-construction land fenced off in lower Manhattan. Is that Ground Zero? It depends on who you ask:

The evolving boundaries of Ground Zero have informed — or misinformed — the debate about its proximity to the planned [Islamic mosque] Park51 community center. The farther away from the place, the bigger it seems.

“It’s constructed as hallowed ground when people don’t actually have a clear boundary for it or a clear sense of what’s within the boundary,” said Kathleen Hall Jamieson, a University of Pennsylvania communications professor who studies political rhetoric. “What you have is a classic instance of people responding to a symbol whose meaning is physically divorced from the actual space.”

Ironically, as symbolic of American imperialism as the World Trade Center towers were to al-Qaeda, the site of their remnants has become just as potent a symbol of resistance and remembrance for Americans. And in both cases, perhaps to a greater degree than they ought to be.

The name Muntadhar al-Zeidi probably won’t go down in history. But, improbably, the former Iraqi journalist’s George W. Bush-seeking missile of a shoe might:

Throwing shoes at the mighty has become a global phenomenon that shows no sign of fading away.

Since that infamous Baghdad press conference on Dec. 14, 2008, shoes have flown at the prime ministers of China and Turkey, the chief justice of Israel’s Supreme Court, the managing director of the International Monetary Fund, a Ukrainian politician who favored joining NATO, and a string of Indian politicians…

Rare are the memes — the bits of viral behavior — that truly take root in the real world. Throwing shoes at world leaders has joined the club. But what makes shoe-throwing more lasting than, say, the Old Spice Guy?

Throwing a shoe is pure slapstick — aggression and humor blended, violence in which no one really gets hurt. It’s stronger than a sign, or shouted slogan, but short of actually harming a leader.

Validity of symbolism aside, I’m thinking that the political-pie-in-the-face crew is feeling ideologically upstaged.

Looking to challenge an unacceptable status quo, Wyclef Jean is seriously considering a run for president of his native Haiti.

And the former Fugee doesn’t even need to outline his campaign platform, because his body of song lyrics already does that.

Speaking of which, let’s hope that his previous presidential speculation doesn’t jump from melodic fantasy to grim reality:

If I was President

I’d get elected on Friday

Assassinated on Saturday

And buried on Sunday

That was semi-satiric musings from the pre-Obama era. Ironically, Jean really is more prone to experience that fate in the Haitian Presidential Palace, versus a highly improbable (make that impossible) ascent to the White House…

Let’s take note of the contrasting spectacles this past week from the scions of two American political families:

- Chelsea Clinton, daughter of the liberal bogeymen that are Bill and Hillary, got married in a traditional (if opulent) wedding.

- Bristol Palin, the unwed teenage baby-mama offspring of conservative standard-bearer Sarah, broke it off (again) with her child’s father, Levi Johnston.

And this left-right behavioral contrast jibes with the seemingly paradoxical higher divorce rates in red states versus blue states. So, remind me again which end of this country’s political spectrum has the credibility to spout off about “family values”?

The following statement intrigued me enough that I copied and saved it shortly after coming across it online recently:

“The oil wells dried up in the Middle East, new ones popped up in China. Islam got real soft after that. Everyone did, actually.”

Unfortunately, I didn’t bother to take note of the source of this enigmatic quote. And it turns out to be yet another example of the ephemeral nature of the Web: There’s no trace of it, or even fragments of its text, online. I’m guessing I came across it either on or via Twitter, but there’s no sign of that now.

I’m guessing that whoever originally jotted this down took it offline, for whatever reason. Probably wasn’t counting on me preserving it for (some measure of) posterity. But a succinct description of geopolitical futurescapes is darn hard for me to resist, so there you have it.

Until recently, a “sugary beverage tax” of one-penny-per-ounce seemed destined to become law in New York State. But apparently, counter-lobbying by the American Beverage Association killed the proposed bill, and supposedly more persuasive advocacy by the industry turned the tide:

Next, this TV ad from New Yorkers Against Unfair Taxes, a name calculated to make the blood boil. A mother unpacks groceries in the kitchen as her son mixes a powdered lemonade, one of the drinks that would be taxed. “Tell Albany to trim their budget fat and leave our groceries alone,” the mother says…

It is too early for a final tally of the money spent on advertising and lobbying by either side in New York. But by most accounts, the beverage industry has outspent the pro-tax side and has succeeded in painting the soda tax as a naked money grab cleverly disguised as a health policy.

I question how convincing the ABA’s advertising was, at least with the general public. I caught their commercials a few times; frankly, I wouldn’t have been aware of the tax if hadn’t. I found the ads — including the one referenced above — to be particularly grating and transparently self-serving. In fact, I came away from them more in favor of the tax, just because the industry opposition was so blunt. I think this is more a case of the state legislators getting swayed by their corporate constituents, prompting the burial of this bill. Democracy at work, right?

I guess that’s just me, though. I don’t froth at the mouth every time a new tax is proposed. Plus, I don’t consume all that many soft drinks. So that makes me the silent minority in this arena.

While the eleven alleged Russian spies just nabbed by the FBI didn’t seem to dig up much sensitive information, one of them is finding another brand of blown-cover success:

Anna Chapman cut a wide swath in New York even before her arrest on charges of spying for Mother Russia, judging by the sultry shots and videos suddenly popping up everywhere, starting with her own Facebook page.

Now, thanks to her penchant for seductive poses, she’s an international star. You’d hardly know her real pose, according to U.S. officials, was deadly serious: seducing government officials and businessmen into providing state secrets.

Seems like a roundabout way to generate some online buzz. If Chapman had wanted to make it big on the Web, she could just as easily have exposed herself on Chatroulette…

As if there weren’t enough strife-fronts in the Gaza Strip these days, summertime children’s venues are now fair game:

Rival day camps by the United Nations and Gaza’s Islamic militant Hamas rulers compete for the hearts of the next generation, the roughly 700,000 children under 15 who make up nearly half of the Gaza Strip’s population. Hamas camps teach an anti-Israeli doctrine and military-style marching, along with horseback riding, swimming and Islam. U.N. camps try to instill hope in a better future, a message wrapped in fun and games…

In Monday’s vandalism, two dozen masked men broke into a U.N. camp before dawn; children were not present. They tied up four guards, then slashed and burned tents, toys and a plastic swimming pool.

To the extent that ideology factors into young Palestinians’ camp preferences, the U.N. program outdraws that of Hamas by two-and-a-half to one. I’m sure the raids on the kiddie pool will level the playing field.

Given how many hours per year the average Californian spends staring at the gridlocked traffic in front of him/her, the Golden State’s scheme to install electronic ad-enabled license plates on cars is probably a sure moneymaker:

[State Senator] Curren Price, a Democrat from the Los Angeles area, said the technology will resemble traditional license plates, with plate numbers visible at all times. However, digital ads and public service announcements would flash on the plate’s screen when the vehicle is stopped for more than a few seconds.

The technology could provide an additional source of revenue for the cash-strapped state, according to Price, the bill’s author, as advertisers and technology companies contract with the Department of Motor Vehicles. He said the plates could also aid small businesses and add jobs to the ailing economy in the technology, sales and marketing, and service industries.

Seems like California’s drivers should get a cut of that advertising income — if nothing else, in the form of lower annual registration costs, etc. Unlikely, I know.

Scholarships collide with semantics in the Golden State, where colleges and universities officially don’t charge the natives with tuition, but rather “fees”:

The state’s renowned master plan for higher education, which in 1960 established separate roles for the University of California, California State University and the community colleges, also declared that the public institutions “shall be tuition free to all residents.” Since then, even as the amount students pay for their education has soared, campuses here have stubbornly insisted on using the word “fees” for the instructional charges that other states call tuition.

Now, however, a movement is underway to drop what many education experts consider an outdated, even dishonest term. It’s high time, they say, to adopt the “T-word” in registration bills and campus discussions.

For example, with UC’s basic undergraduate educational cost now topping $10,000 a year, three times more than a decade ago, “tuition” is the accurate term, they say. They also note that in 2009, California’s confusing terminology nearly kept the state’s veterans from receiving certain federal education benefits and financial aid.

I’m sure Mom and Dad will feel less of a sting now that their checks are going toward the “T-word”, versus the “F-word”. The “F-word” still being appropriate for when Junior winds up incurring dorm-damage charges…

According to some, liberalism travels on its stomach:

…The idea of being in a city without a decent Thai restaurant drives [liberals] frantic. As long as they can point to a Cambodian eatery or a Syrian café in their town they can reassure themselves that they are among the civilized. Their greatest fear is to be stuck in some flyover burg where the only food available is exactly like the stuff they were raised on in their bland, white, upper middle class childhoods.

Well, yeah — if you were, in fact, raised on bland tripe, I’d think you would want to branch out culinarily once you’ve grown up. Sticking with the same meat-and-potato options your entire life — including what goes into your head, as well as your mouth — doesn’t seem all that appealing to me.

Anyway, demographic shifts are helping that traveling army of thought infiltrate even flyover country. If Oklahoma City can boast of an Ethiopian restaurant (sub-Saharan cuisine being an apparent marker for diverse discourse), there’s no telling where the dining/thought experiment will end.

In response to an investigative journalist moving in next door, Sarah Palin is walling off her Wasilla homestead:

“[Husband] Todd and his buddies started a fence yesterday and it’s looking good,” Palin said. “It’s about 14 feet high. That’s what we’re going to have to do this summer, I guess.”

The real tragedy here? The hit to Caribou Barbie’s foreign policy preparedness. Because with this fence in place, Palin obviously won’t be able to see Russia from her house anymore.

While around town today, I saw at least three young women sporting what looked like ballpoint-pen markings on their hands and forearms. From my vantage point, these markings looked like random letter- and number-scribblings — not at all like tattoo or henna patterns, or anything else that might have stylish permanence.

Is this some new trend? I haven’t seen extensive pen-marks on skin since sometime in grade school. Hard to believe they could be making a comeback in this day and age, with so many other, more reliable (mainly digital) ways of recording random information. Maybe they’re emulating Sarah Palin?

Perhaps compelled to represent Athens’ renowned population of stray canines, the enigmatic Rebel Dog has made himself a fixture during the regular stream of Greek protests:

Amid the turmoil of the Greece financial crisis, photos and videos of street protests have turned up a kind of canine “Where’s Waldo” figure: a mutt that may have some German shepherd genes, and clearly has a strong interest in civic disorder.

While one can’t be certain that it’s the same pooch at every protest… this mutt does sport a distinctive blue collar, which may indicate that, while he’s a stray, he’s also current on his shots.

Rebel Dog (or “Riot Dog” or “Protest Dog”) is more commonly known as Louk — which is short for “loukanikos”, Greek for “sausages”, which are his preferred food. (Cue the “use The Force, Louk” jokes?) He’s been confused with Kanellos (“cinnamon”), another famed Athenian streetdog who died a couple of years ago.

Actually, more than a few of the photos — most especially the riot-action pics — look suspiciously Photoshopped to me. Maybe Louk was in on the action during protester-police clashes; but in a prime photogenic position? I’m thinking a good number of these are faked. How long before we see Rebel Doggie’s image inserted into all manner of situations, both serious and absurd? I can see him making “appearances” in Bangkok any time now…

Still, I guess the Euro demonstration scene could use a four-legged mascot. Just the thing to provide a warm, fuzzy face to civil disobedience.

This week featured some prime political irony in the UK: After televised debates and sound-bite slips brought criticism that British national elections were becoming too Americanized, the poll results delivered the most un-American outcome of all in a no-majority “hung Parliament”.

So I guess this is the right time for Stateside gloating over our much-maligned two-party system. Except that, of course, its electoral underpinnings are the same as those of Britain’s:

Under the current system, voters in 650 parliamentary districts, called constituencies, choose a favorite from a slate of candidates. The candidate with the most votes wins the seat, regardless of how small a percentage of the overall vote the winner attracts, or the size of the margin between first and second place.

The system is similar to that used in most Congressional races in the United States, where there are fewer viable parties to contend with.

The alternative is proportional representation, which is favored in most of Europe and elsewhere. It allows regional and fringe parties to get seats at the table, although their main function is to build coalitions once they get there. And really, it still doesn’t prevent two or three main national parties from attracting the most votes, and ultimately calling the shots anyway.

The reason that’s not the case in the U.S. is because the Democrats and Republicans are “big-tent” parties, each encompassing left- and right-wing elements. The bipartisan approach is so ingrained into the political system here that divergent interests recognize that the only way to effect governmental action is by going through established party channels. That’s why a Tea Party movement doesn’t simply set up shop as a third party, and instead attempts to take over the existing GOP apparatus.

The alternative is the present UK situation, with the Liberal Democrats basically owing their king-maker role to protest votes against Labour. The Lib Dems now have the unenviable, but unavoidable, task of forming a ruling majority coalition with the Conservatives — a party with which they are philosophically opposed (save on a few tactical points). As the next few months of this disjointed joint government should demonstrate, it doesn’t make a convincing case for making third-party penetration more possible.

It worked for the Greeks once before, so why not try the oldschool Trojan tactic on this present-day crisis?

Finance ministers from sixteen EU nations awoke in Brussels this morning to find that a huge wooden horse had been wheeled into the city center overnight.

The horse, measuring several stories in height, drew mixed responses from the finance ministers, many of whom said they would have preferred a cash repayment of [the EU's $145-billion bailout of Greece's economy].

I can’t imagine that modern European technocrats are any brighter than their ancient predecessors in Troy. So I wouldn’t bet against this new gift horse. Given the home country’s broke status, I doubt there’s anything ominous lurking inside anyway.

Consider the above photo to be my contribution to today’s boobquake experiment. Not that that’s my rackage wrapped in a Life Savers bra — my Y chromosome, combined with a general lack of estrogen, leaves me without enough breast tissue to fill even an A-cup. But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to re-use this stock image, in the guise of a feminist-sanctioned designated pinch-hitter. (If this set doesn’t trigger a tremor or two, I don’t know what will.)

Yes, it’s a silly and gratuitous display. But no less so than the nonsensical declaration that inspired all this boobery:

After Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi claimed last week that “immodest” babes cause earthquakes, Purdue University senior Jennifer McCreight responded by declaring this day “boobquake.”

She’s asking women nationwide to show a little skin today, hoping to prove to the sheik that a little shake never killed anyone. What started as an Internet joke has morphed into social media mayhem with more than 50,000 women expected to join the “movement” through McCreight’s website blaghag.com.

And in addition to McCreight’s blog, a #boobquake hashtag on Twitter is generating ample activity.

Maybe too ample, as today’s seismic shift in Taiwan suggests. Could that crackpot theology actually be correct? If so, I’d be willing to endure a shakier tectonic existence, in exchange for regular displays of “immodesty”.

Not only is today Earth Day, it’s the 40th anniversary of the observance. Four decades is long enough for the movement to have evolved, from single-focused eco-green to a green philosophy infused with more pragmatic blue-sky thinking — a so-called “turquoise” approach.

I offer no such tempering for my own blog-based Earth Day tradition, which is simply the annual re-telling of my college prank call, turned spurious environmental protest. But it just so happens that my freshman-year stunt happened exactly 20 years ago today — the midway point in Earth Day history. Entirely coincidental, but the juxtaposition has gotta count for something.

And with that, here’s the much-repeated story. The details: It’s 1990, in a dormitory lounge at my alma mater, with my 18-year-old self gawking at an old TV with over-the-air reception only (no cable on campus back then). The perfect ingredients for spontaneous save-the-planet action!

My favorite Earth Day memory is a prank I played 13 16 17 18 several years ago. I was sitting in my dorm lounge with a dormmate. We were flipping through the channels (no cable TV in the dorms back then -– the dark ages!!), and catching a couple of news reports telling us it was Earth Day. Then we land on Home Shopping Network, just as they start rolling out their fur collection for display and sale.

It hit me: Furs? They’re hawking freakin’ furs on Earth Day? Come on!

Now, I wasn’t then, nor am I now, a hard-core environmentalist or animal-rights advocate. I’m sympathetic with those philosophies, to a point, but I eat meat, wear leather, etc. Nevertheless, some part of my sensibilities was offended by seeing such a bizarre juxtaposition. I think I was offended by the stupidity, or more likely ignorance, on display by HSN.

So, I decided to do something. I got my phone, dialed up the HSN order line, and as soon as the customer service drone answered, I yelled, “EARTH DAY! FUR IS MURDER! BOYCOTT! BOYCOTT!!”. I did it a couple more times after that. Then I got my dormmate to call too, on his phone; he did a very low-key version of same spiel (sans yelling –- that was my schtick).

We had our fun, and decided to keep watching the channel to see if our childish actions had any on-air effect. Lo and behold, about 10 minutes after the last of our calls, the show host mentioned, “By the way, folks, today is Earth Day”, and then abruptly switched from the fur display to something else. We laughed our asses off! It looked like we had stuck it to the man!

And, since the above seems to bother modern-day Home Shopping Network employees/fans who stumble this way, here’s some further clarification:

It seems to be eluding some that the episode above happened in 1990. When I was 18 years old, btw — so the “childish” insult doesn’t faze me, as I practically was still a child at that point. Also, whatever call-center procedures that are in place now most likely weren’t in effect back then. So don’t bother citing current SOP because it probably doesn’t apply.

Secondly, I never state that the operators somehow relayed those crank calls to the broadcast booth. However, you can bet those calls were being monitored from a higher source, and from there filtered to what was going on on-screen.

Lastly: Whether or not my imagined cause-and-effect really happened, the sequence is where the humor is. It still makes for a funny story, which is why I look forward to recycling it yet again next year.

Since I’m soon going to be attending an informal Eckerd College reunion to celebrate a few of my classmates’ personal 40-year ripening, the timing for this year’s iteration seems perfect. Consider it an early birthday gift, to both my fellow alums and to Mother Earth.

The full-court press to get out the count for this 2010 Census is especially marketing-oriented when compared to the usual governmental calls to action. The notable Super Bowl commercial kicking off the campaign seemed to set a consumerist approach toward Constitutional enumeration, and that focus on the to-be-apportioned Federal lucre is rubbing some the wrong way.

No doubt, the economic benefits are being expounded to the hilt, and not just by the bureaucrats: Among others, the president of Univision is pushing Census participation as a dollars-and-cents benefit for its target audience. When stacked up against mere civic duty, it’s easy for the money concerns to grab the spotlight.

I’m not so sure that the Federal dole is being oversold, though. The messaging I’m seeing is certainly unconventional, but it’s definitely couched more in themes of participation and representation more than compensation. Perhaps the injection of any talk of governmental funding obscures the main point, for better or for worse.

One of the more persistent legends in baseball lore concerns a young Fidel Castro and his flirtation with a Major League Baseball career in the 1950s. The story goes that his pitching performance for his college team in Havana attracted the notice of a New York Giants (some say Washington Senators) scout, who promptly offered Castro a Standard Player’s Contract to play in the Giants’ system in the States. Castro, of course, turned down the offer in favor of continuing his law school studies, and the rest is history.

The implications are obvious: Had Castro opted for the life of a professional ballplayer, he wouldn’t have become a guerilla soldier in Cuba, and the Cuban Revolution never would have happened, or else never have succeeded, or else would have taken a different form (depending on how much you subscribe to the Great Man Theory of history). Speculation on Castro’s personal trajectory favors his ascension to the Majors, making his baseball-diamond pursuit a favored subject of alternate-history fiction, notably in John Kessel’s 1993 short story “The Franchise” (in which he faces off against a similarly-alternated George Herbert Walker Bush in the 1959 World Series).

It’s all an entertaining what-if scenario. Unfortunately, according to Yale professor Roberto González Echevarría, author of “The Pride of Havana: A History of Cuban Baseball”, it doesn’t hold up because there’s no evidence to support it:

Let it be known here that Fidel Castro was never scouted by any major-league team, and is not known to have enjoyed the kind of success in baseball that could have brought a scout’s attention to him. In a country where sports coverage was broad and thorough, in a city such as Havana with a half-dozen major newspapers (plus dozens of minor ones) and with organized leagues at all levels, there is no record that Fidel Castro ever played, much less starred, on any team. No one has produced even one team picture with Fidel Castro in it. I have found the box score of an intramural game played between the Law and the Business Schools at the University of Havana where a certain F. Castro pitched and lost, 5-4, in late November 1946; this is likely to be the only published box score in which the future dictator appears (El Mundo, November 28, 1946). Cubans know that Fidel Castro was no ballplayer, though he dressed himself in the uniform of a spurious, tongue-in-cheek team called Barbudos (Bearded Ones) after he came to power in 1959 and played a few exhibition games.

Echevarría attributes the MLB story to “a fabrication by an American journalist whose name is now lost”. I’m guessing that Castro’s post-revolution Barbudos appearances spurred some speculation about his baseball prowess, which led to the tall tales. Thus, a legend (more properly, a myth) was born.

I’m disappointed. I’d accepted the Castro baseball story, having come across various manifestations of it over the years. I even recall reading quotes from the alleged scout who tried to recruit Castro, with him noting that it was “unusual” for a Latin American prospect to turn down an MLB offer in those days. As unusual as the entire account, apparently.

Who knows why I spontaneously started humming the tune to the old Schoolhouse Rock “Preamble” song earlier this afternoon? I suppose that, with as many times as I watched those animated Saturday morning shorts back during my 70s childhood, the edutainment-themed rhythms burrowed their way permanently into my brain. (It’ll be interesting when senility hits.)

And indeed, any creative effort that makes a catchy ditty out of fusty 18th-Century legalese is worthy of an encore performance:

Nostalgia, courtesy of Constitutional indoctrination. Only in America!