As you've heard by now, some candidates had their houses defaced by graffiti this week. Four from the GOP side, two from the DFL. "U R A CRIMINAL RESIGN SCUM PSALM 2." Let's decode this message together!
U R A? This has only two possible meanings:
The vandal was referring to the Uranus Resistance Army, which has secretly fought interplanetary conquest for decades; the "Criminal" part might refer to some inflating expense accounts. I mean, $425 for lunch? I've been to Morton's. It's pricey, but even if you have the filet mignon on a bed of grated filet mignon with a side of pureed mignon sauce and the mignon smoothie, you have to have six desserts to crack two bills. Your resignation in the morning would be appropriate. Good day.
The vandal was writing in text-speak. URA = "You are a." This sort of voluntary illiteracy is fine when you're typing on a cell phone and your carrier charges 89 cents per character, but if you're going to make your point on a garage in tall letters, it doesn't do to use the lingo of someone who thinks the GAP store name stands for Great Amounts of Pants. You can understand the need to work in haste -- the opponents of disestablishmentarianism in England usually managed to daub "ANTIDISESTAB" before a bobby clubbed them senseless -- but "U R A" lacks the heft of great political protest.
The notation Psalm 2 sent many people to the Bible, or Google -- if that's not redundant for the online generation -- expecting some damning verse with piercing pertinence: "And the Lord saith unto them, take not a tenth part of thy gold and use them to make a mark on the ears of swine, for both pork and earmarks are an abomination."
But it's not a particularly relevant passage. It means something to the miscreant, of course, but unless you're talking about the "Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?" line, it doesn't make an impression. Because the heathen are always raging. Especially if we define "heathen" as the people with whom we disagree.
Except that they're not raging, for the most part.
This was a bipartisan, ecumenical bit of vandalism -- the midnight dauber hit everyone, and it's safe to say that if you regard Norm Coleman and Keith Ellison as indistinguishable, you have issues that transcend the normal dimensions of politics. You're probably mad at either for not remaining silent on an issue dear to your heart, like a refusal to admit the peril of the Nazi Mole Men from the Earth's Core, or the parking situation at Trader Joe's in St. Louis Park. Drawing large lessons from this particular event may not be wise.
Oh, but it was tempting. Some have suggested that the bipartisan application of aerosol paint was a dodge -- why, it was just their side, which is nuts, attempting to deflect criticism, when the real target was my side, which is holy. But that sort of reaction is confined to Internet comments, where sharp elbows are commonly thrown and people delight in poking sticks in the opponents' eyes. Most people, I suspect, take it all with a bag of salt. Our neighbor may have a different sign on their lawn, but that doesn't mean they clench a fist and hiss "YESSS!" when someone drops a sandbag on your guy's campaign bus.
They're still your neighbors the day after the election, after all. Nothing looks more dated than a campaign sign on the lawn after the election's passed. It doesn't have the pumpkin slump, but it still seems like a battle flag from a contest well-settled. The signs may set you apart for the moment, but the sidewalks still join the houses in the common parade. We're Minnesotans. We may grin to ourselves when the dog relieves himself on the boulevard of a house whose yard has a sign for The Other Guy, but we clean it up just the same.
But that's not true! We're divided! Divided by mistrust, suspicion and intestinal-level dislike! Well, consider: What do we call it when someone paints hate on a politician's house?
News. For now, anyway.
jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/buzz
