Reading through The Economist magazine’s coverage of the Iraq election, I found a passage the stuck with me.

“At first, officials from Iraq’s electoral commission claimed that as many as 72% of the 13m registered voters had cast ballots. But they later backtracked, saying that perhaps around 8m, or 60% of registered voters, had turned up, and that this was only a preliminary guess. The interim Iraqi government, led by Iyad Allawi, had set itself a target of at least a 50% turnout.”

More solid figures will emerge. Still, if the electoral commission’s later guess is correct, it would tie turnout in the last U.S. election. Though it topped other presidential elections back to 1968, our 60.7 percent in 2004 shows our malaise. Would our turnout improve if people shot at us?

Management of the Absurd by Richard Farson positions itself as a book that turns other management books on their heads. In that, it succeeds and fails.

Farson uses his training as a CEO, psychologist and consultant to peek into the nature of leadership, as superior to management. He posits that most workplace “problems” aren’t problems at all; they’re predicaments to cope with rather than solve. True leadership comes from offering genuine compassion to the led.

His concept bears weight. His delivery waves a heavy hand, and barely escapes the frame of that it denies - the business book. It lacks worksheets and bulleted lists punctuating chapters, but it reads like any number of its ilk.

Still, I took away ideas to aid my climb over backs of other rats:

1. Any solution by definition contains problems. Consider the array carefully while not forgetting “gut” reactions.

2. Everything works, and nothing works. It’s about doing something, anything.
3. A good manager hosts that party. He or she takes care of the little things that drag on the mood.
4. [Insert profession here] is like being in love. That follows from a F.L. Wright anecdote related to Farson. (I couldn’t find independent verification.) In my case, editing is like being in love. Or, at least it should be.

Overall, Absurd deserves a read. For me, it was the inaugural installment of a regular book club. The 172 pages go quickly, so it doesn’t take too much time, and readers interested in leadership should take away a conceptual fruit or two as nourishment for the rat race.

One aspect of American* culture that constantly amuses - and occasionally frightens - me is the macho display.

I draw a special smirk when the display in question seems utterly pointless. For example, take automotive detailing. The prevalence of such items as spinning rims and boastful decals illustrates my point.

Don’t even get me started on those &%@/^# rims. But, I wanted to touch on decals for a moment.

Driving to the laundromat today, I got behind a blue Ford F-250 with “Big Daddy Romance” announced in script-type decals on the rear window. Impressed? I know I am.

Last summer, on the boulevard running through town, a low-end monster-wheeled pickup followed me for a stretch. The decal emblazoning the top of the front window read “My Dick’s Enormous,” backwards so it couldn’t be missed in the rearview mirror. I don’t know about you, but that’s the first thing I want to know about people tailgating me.

What causes these vulgar displays? They’re not meant ironically, are they? What goes on in the mind of a man who’d put phallic boasts on his pick-up truck? Aren’t the four-foot high tires enough?

Mankind may never fully appreciate the humor and paradox of the actions of man. These questions may never have answers

* I say “Americans” from my own frame of reference; these types of displays likely outstrip borders and ethnicities.

Nostalgia wraps one in a comfortable blanket like a mother would.

Each of us has our by-gone comforts. Or maybe I notice them now that I have 30-plus years of days to look back on.

Vinyl LPs are current favorite of mine. I used to play Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours on Sundays, but the landlord spilled a houseplant on my copy. Now, I’m back to Blue Train.

When that record starts turning, the pulse of the pitch meter lights up and the strains of John Coltrane’s title track slide through the speakers to fill the early afternoon air. It plays the perfect companion to a little yoga or reading.

Later in the afternoon, Coltrane becomes Jimi Hendrix’s Crash Landing — a total burner of an album. Chores get done. Then, it’s the honky-funk of Talking Heads or the crooning of Elvis Costello.

The drag of the needle soothes my cynic self. Yeah, I have an iPod. Ask anyone; I listen to music all the time. But a turntable has more ritual to it than an anywhere, handheld e-gizmo. A turntable gently demands that you stay with it. “Relax, read a book, and listen to some blues,” it says. At other times, more insistently: “That Kinks album isn’t going to play itself.”

I don’t mind really, because it knows.

So, take some time today to grab your nostalgia, pull it up around your shoulders and let it warm the cares of the world away. But don’t forget tomorrow’s another (possibly crappy) day.

Nostalgia wraps one in a comfortable blanket like a mother would.

Each of us has our by-gone comforts. Or maybe I notice them now that I have 30-plus years of days to look back on.

Vinyl LPs are current favorite of mine. I used to play Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours on Sundays, but the landlord spilled a houseplant on my copy. Now, I’m back to Blue Train.

When that record starts turning, the pulse of the pitch meter lights up and the strains of John Coltrane’s title track slide through the speakers to fill the early afternoon air. It plays the perfect companion to a little yoga or reading.

Later in the afternoon, Coltrane becomes Jimi Hendrix’s Crash Landing - a total burner of an album. Chores get done. Then, it’s the honky-funk of Talking Heads or the crooning of Elvis Costello.

The drag of the needle soothes my cynic self. Yeah, I have an iPod. Ask anyone; I listen to music all the time. But a turntable has more ritual to it than an anywhere, handheld e-gizmo. A turntable gently demands that you stay with it. “Relax, read a book, and listen to some blues,” it says. At other times, more insistently: “That Kinks album isn’t going to play itself.”

I don’t mind really, because it knows.

So, take some time today to grab your nostalgia, pull it up around your shoulders and let it warm the cares of the world away. But don’t forget tomorrow’s another (possibly crappy) day.

Fairness, I think, serves as a more realistic standard than objectivity as a baseline for journalistic writing and reporting.

A recent letter to the editor in my newspaper reminded me of that stance. The writer took issue with a headline I wrote - on a brief about George Carlin admitting himself to a rehab center for the twin habits of pain killers and wine.

“Stand-up potty-mouth Carlin enters rehab,” is how it read.

I thought it fair. When I wrote it, a possible perception of bias didn’t occur to me.

Still, the writer decried the objectivity of the Star-Banner directly and - since I wrote the headline - me indirectly. “In case you don’t know Carlin has been a significant force in the world of stand up comedy for 40 years,” he wrote.

I’ve never, even accidentally, suffered an accusation of puritanical bias, so this episode stuck with me. And, since I have this rickety soap box to stand on, I thought I’d toss out a defense.

Carlin sits high on my list of personal heroes. Lenny Bruce tops him, but Carlin never let his excesses get to him and lived to leave a broader, lasting impact on comedy and the concept of freedom of speech.

I have an old beat up vinyl copy of Class Clown, which features an early version of the famous “seven dirty words” routine. He recorded a variation in 1973, the year I was born, which was later aired on the radio. The resulting indecency lawsuit brought him to a new venue: the Supreme Court. Though the broadcaster going to bat for Carlin’s routine struck out there, the case effectively established the broadcast decency standards we have today.

(Incidentally, hoping my nephews don’t read this, the seven words are: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits. Try doing that in a newspaper…)

I loved Carlin’s performances in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Dogma and even Jersey Girl. If anyone deserved such high-profile introductions to yet another generation, it was Carlin.

And lastly, though I wouldn’t presume to speak for Mr. Carlin, I don’t think he would shy away from the moniker “potty-mouth.” He’s staked his career on it.

So, in writing that headline, I may have editorialized a bit. That’s what editors do; they make editorial decisions. I stand by that one. If I had a more generous space for the headline, I could have just as easily wrote: “George Carlin, one of the funniest men alive, shows uncommon strength of character by recognizing his failings and checking himself into a substance abuse treatment center.”