Buttermilk & Molasses

The Great Unraveling: The New College Guide

As a former special ops guy, student of war and prognosticator on the future of peace, John Robb has garnered quite a bit of attention in recent years for his view on an increasingly unstable global future and how resilient communities are one of the few things that can hold it all together.

Robb turns his attention back to the future today with some advice for the younger set.

Learn to be an entrepreneur, and how to make things, he says. Go to college -- but a state or community college will do. Learn to sell. And while you're at it:

Learn to make/repair things.  Learn computer aided design CAD/CAM.  Ride the wave in learning laser etching, 3D printing, and other fabrication techniques.  Learn how to use traditional tools and explore materials science and basic electronics/circuit design.  Hack existing products (copy what others have done to spool up on the process) to improve them or put them to unintended uses.  Add some biohacking to the mix if you are so inclined.

Learn how to communicate/collaborate with others online.  Better yet, learn how to use a scripting language and design/operate an interactive Web site.  Learn how to build a database and structure/share data (xml).  Get the hang of publishing online and building/growing an audience -- it's a great way not only to market product/yourself, but find collaborators on ventures.

It's the pathway to becoming a one person company, he says.

In reflection, this recipe is also a route to become a one man/woman army.

Say It Ain't So, Necco!

Four billion pieces of artificial flavor can't be wrong. Or can they?

The New England Confectionary Co. is going all-natural with its namesake, the chalky Necco wafers that few of us have put in our mouths (in public, at any rate) since we were six and at our grandmother's house. I say few because my mother still uses Necco wafers for the slate roofs on her gingerbread houses at Christmas...

The Associated Press has the low-down:

The 162-year-old Massachusetts company is taking its venerable Necco Wafers all-natural, making them the largest mass-produced candy line in the U.S. to shed artificial flavoring and colors.

Necco, short for New England Confectionary Co., cranks out about 4 billion of the roughly quarter-sized wafers each year, packaging them in large rolls (36 wafers) and junior rolls (nine wafers). Beet juice, purple cabbage, cocoa powder and turmeric — a spice often used in curries — are some of the natural ingredients in the new wafers, which will be phased in at retail stores before and after Halloween.

Going all-natural may be the smartest marketing move in several generations for the makers of the Necco wafer.

Losing green, on the other hand. A disaster.

"We lost green," she [marketing VP Jackie Hague] said.

Green, one of eight original wafer colors, was too hard to duplicate in the all-natural process. It seems the lime flavor could be reproduced naturally, but the color lacked consistency so it was scrapped.

You couldn't go with "almost all-natural"?

The Hat Stares Down the Post -- And Richmond's Government

If I wore a hat, I'd tip it to Harry Kollatz, Richmond Magazine's man about town and longtime urban observer.

Kollatz was quick to leap to downtown Richmond's defense last week after the Washington Post published a Mark Anthony travel story:

But this really got me:

“We set out for dinner one night bound for a restaurant and art gallery west of the Hilton. The hotel staff advised us not to walk, but we thought, how bad could seven blocks in Richmond be? Soon we saw that most businesses along this stretch of Broad Street were vacant, save for a few pawnshops. A passing pedestrian advised us to turn around and take a taxi. We did.”

Now wait a minute. Can I tell you how many times I’ve walked this stretch of Broad, day and night, and never felt this kind of nervousness that the Hilton staff transmitted — bad form — to Ritzel?  So OK. I’m a 6-foot-tall, fedora-wearing guy, but still.

“Farther down the desolate street we found pockets of night life, including an opening at the 1708 Gallery …”

This one got my blood up. A whole series of galleries and restaurants are dismissed.

But Kollatz doesn't stop by defending downtown from the Post. He goes on the offensive against what is beginning to feel like an awfully cautious administration led by Mayor Dwight Jones:

Nonetheless, I hope this and the New York Times articles got zipped around City Hall. While we hem and haw about how to create a downtown arts district, national media is coming down here and showing the world that we’ve got a case of the slows, as Lincoln said of McClellan. Staunton — Stahnton! — managed to get this done already.

Look, I’m not expecting this to occur overnight, or even within a year, however, how is it that after almost a decade of First Fridays, an official arts district was somehow never accomplished? Is Richmond not big enough, or does the city not possess the proper discipline, wherewithal and will to do more than one project at a time?

Go, Harry, go!

The good news is that after a decade of nothing, there are a host of entities -- CultureWorks, First Fridays/Curated Culture, the mayor's office and a bevy of Broad Street businesses -- finally sitting at tables talking.

Unfortunately, we're too damn good at talking in these parts. Let's hope someone brings some institutional dynamite to one of these meetings and gets the bumps off the logs.

Remembering Baghdad, When It Matters Most

Has it really been seven years since the U.S. Congress was embroiled in a war of silence over the possibility of an American invasion of Iraq? I use the phrase "war of silence" because -- with the exception of Senator Robert Byrd of West Virginia, who angrily took to the floor on February 12, 2003, to take his colleagues to task for their quietude.

In many ways, Iraq is back to its pre-war condition -- minus the dictatorial restraints of Saddam Hussein -- and in many quarters, life could almost be described as normal.

And yet Iraq finds itself teetering, even as January's planned elections promise to move the nation forward yet another step. As American troops prepare for a dramatic draw down (a more than 50% reduction in force is scheduled in 2010), the Obama administration will make a serious mistake if it allows Afghanistan to grab hold of the debate in the months to come.

Forgetting Iraq now is as serious a mistake as the Bush administration made when it distracted the world from Afghanistan -- by pressing for an invasion of Iraq.

Two American journalists who know Iraq -- and the Middle East -- as well (or better) than most are the Washington Post's Anthony Shadid and columnist David Ignatius.

Shadid's reporting on the region has shadowed my own interest for years -- he began studying Arabic the same time I did; we shared mutual friends in Cairo. While my mastery of the language was laughable, Shadid has been navigating the region's linguistic maze ever since -- primarily reporting from Iraq and Lebanon.

He has returned to Iraq, and his story today on the tragic bombing of two Baghdad ministries is a demonstration of how solid language skills can bolster serious writing and reporting skills:

The blasts, which the Interior Ministry said were carried out by suicide bombers, detonated under a pale gray sky, shattering windows more than a mile away. Broken water mains sent water coursing through the street, strewn with debris. Pools of water mixed with blood gathered along the curbs, ashened detritus floating on the surface.

Cars caught in traffic jams were turned into tombs, the bodies of passengers incinerated inside. The smell of diesel mixed with the stench of burning flesh.

"Bodies were hurled into the air," said Mohammed Fadhil, a 19-year-old bystander. "I saw women and children cut in half." He looked down at a curb smeared with blood. "What's the sin that those people commited? They are so innocent."

Shadid's reporting on today's blast also demonstrates -- in sorrowfully gruesome detail -- just how serious elements in Iraq are about destabilizing the political process.

Whie Shadid was on the ground, Ignatius was in the air -- describing how the city of Baghdad has returned in so many ways to a far better state:

From the air Sunday morning, this looked like a city restored. You could see paddle boats skimming the pond at Zawra Park, and go-karts and waterslides. And in every direction, new schools and soccer fields and bustling warehouses -- all taking shape under the canopy of the new Iraq.

But down below, it turned out to be a morning from hell. Terrorists exploded two massive car bombs at the Justice Ministry and the Baghdad provincial administration, killing more than 100 and wounding more than 500. It was the worst day of violence this year, and it was, as the terrorists intended, a reminder of the fragility of Iraqi security.

Around the time the bombers struck, I was flying over the city in a Black Hawk helicopter with Gen. David Petraeus. As commander of U.S. forces in Iraq from 2007 to 2008, he helped restore stability here. He was returning Sunday as Centcom commander, and he decided on his way in from the airport to conduct one of his careening airborne tours of the city, which he used to make so frequently that the helicopter pilots gave them the code name "Purple Rain."

The signs of recovery seemed to be everywhere. "See, the houses are occupied again," Petraeus said, pointing to a neighborhood that several years ago was a virtual ghost town. "Always good to see a crane," he said, motioning to a new construction site. "Traffic jam, that's good to see."

Petraeus pointed out the evidence of normality -- the schools, the police stations, the sports stadiums, the bus and train stations, the parks and markets and riverside restaurants. And, to be honest, the city, seen in panorama, reminded me of the Baghdad I first visited in 1981, big and burly and, for an Arab city, fairly well organized.

Normality in Iraq -- as in so many other places -- is a precarious place. As today's bombing reminds those of us who continue to pay attention, the mission in Iraq -- one that delivers on seven-year-old promises of stability and security -- is not yet accomplished.

Mark's Positive Throw Down on the City Parks (TV6)

 

There are a few things I love about this TV-6 clip from former print reporter Mark Holmberg (I wonder how long he'll carry that tag?):

• He's wearing jeans. His shirt tail is hanging out. He's sporting his shaggy mane.

• The City of Richmond's Department of Parks and Recreation is moving ahead with some great projects.

• The Director of Parks and Rec -- J.R. Pope -- is all about combining low-key and transformation.

The piece focuses on $3 million in work happening at city parks, many of which have been long overdue for a face lift. Thanks for the update, Slim.

Dear House Republicans: What Took So Long?

For some reason, when I learned that four Republican lawmakers have submitted a formal request with the House of Representatives' sergeant at arms to investigate interns who might be Muslim spies, the remake of the Dead Kennedys' "California Uber Alles" came to mind.

I think because its title -- "We've Got A Bigger Problem Now" -- reminds me that the congressional Republicans are dramatically more unhinged and conspiratorial without a Republican president in office.

Talking Points Memo has more:

The lawmakers charged at a press conference last week that Muslim "intern spies" from CAIR [Council on American Islamic Relations] may have infiltrated national security committees on the Hill.

... The Republicans also sent a letter to Attorney General Eric Holder, requesting that the DOJ brief each member of Congress on why CAIR was listed as an unindicted co-conspirator in the Holy Land Foundation case. The group was in a controversial list of co-conspirators in case, which involved funding of Hamas.

Please. Someone get a grip. Don't we have some real work to do in Washington?

Are You Freaking Kidding Me, Mr. Chairman?

We're in the midst of the largest recession in almost a century, barely faced down the unraveling of the global economic system and watched a $8 billion housing bubble settle down around the heads of 16 million unemployed Americans, and the friggin' chairman of BB&T Corp. has the gall to blame all of it on the government?

Here's BB&T's John Allison at yesterday's Virginia Chamber of Commerce conference:

"All were misled about housing," he said. Residential real estate was overbuilt by $8 billion, and prices rose on average 30 percent more than the market could bear.

"Without Fannie and Freddie, we wouldn't have had the housing bubble," he said. "Only government can make a mistake of this magnitude possible."

Way to take accountability -- for anything. It's good to see people washing their hands and pointing their fingers, especially after they benefited so directly from the mistakes and warnings they blindly ignored.

The real irony? Earlier in his talk, Allison talked about "a lack of personal responsibility."

Maybe John Allison could issue a loan for a slice of humble pie.

#MediaFail with Hands On Day Coverage

What happens if 1,000 people engage in more than 40 community projects supporting Richmond's nonprofit community, schools and parks -- and the region's major newspaper and TV stations don't show up? Does anyone hear about it?

A quick scan of the Richmond Times-Dispatch and all three television news sites shows zero coverage of yesterday's Hands On Richmond event, the second annual day of service that connects hundreds of area volunteers with community projects.

Maybe the HandsOn Richmond folks dropped the ball and did a horrible job with their PR and media relations efforts, or maybe the local news media didn't see the day-long event as being particularly newsworthy.

Whatever the reason, the lack of news coverage is disappointing. And perhaps an indication of how we're all going to get news in the future -- from each other.

Fortunately, Twitter and Flickr and RVANews and Church Hill People's News and Buttermilk & Molasses all gave the masses vehicles to share their stories and spread their images.

24 Hours in Richmond: A 1993 Caffeine Retrospective

The NYTimes' recent 36 Hours in Richmond travel story reminded me that my friend Jim Johns and I had penned a similar article way back in the August of 1993 issue of Caffeine magazine. Well, not actually similar at all.

In contrast to the generally positive spin in the NYTimes, our "We tried to do everything there is to do in Richmond in 24 hours" story was filled with all the angst you might have expected from a couple of Twenty-something hipsters during the first year of the Clinton administration. I'm a bit taken aback to read through it and get a sense of what a frustrated crab apple I was at the age of 25.

It ran in the first issue of Caffeine magazine, which is the only issue that we forgot to save electronically. Here's the 24 hours in Richmond piece, re-keyed for your reading pleasure. If anything, it's a great lesson in why every writer needs an editor...

We tried to do everything there is to do in Richmond in 24 hours

Our plan was to sweep through this poky Southern town in 24 hours, from Carytown to Shockoe Bottom, Jackson Ward to Oregon Hill. We started out confident. The sun was bright, we were young.

Then Richmond scorched our karma. Our hometown kicked us in the teeth.

Carytown was the first stop in our quest to enjoy the city. The shining shopping district is one of several employment centers responsible for keeping many of our friends struggling just above the poverty line. You won't be served by minimum wage workers in this stretch of Richmond. No, sir. This is the $4.50-an-hour part of town.

1:00 p.m.

The remodeled Christie's was our lunchtime haven. Thumbs up to the Fugazi bread -- what an alternative scene! Good sandwiches, good limeade. The curried rice tastes like battery acid. Like everything in Richmond, even this charming cafe has its downside. I wasn't sure if it was the rice or the overabundance of polished furniture.

Carytown Seafood exudes an odor that makes patio dating at Christie's feel like a working man's lunch. A variety of relatively fresh fish lined the cases, including some fine looking Red Snapper. "Usually I have a bigger selection," we were told by the fish monger behind the counter, "but the fish are a little off right now." We thought of "The Old Man and the Sea." The first grey cloud floated overhead. An ominous sign.

Just 45 minutes into our day and our spirits were high. The girls at The Phoenix helped buoy us even further. Not connoisseurs of women's clothing, Jim and I still feel reasonably confident enough to touch on a few specifics. Nice hats. Great counter stools, made from actual train springs. But if a girl we dated came out of the bathroom in some of the lingerie displayed, we'd be out the door in a second.

What size is that canvas hightop shoe displayed in the window of Hyman's, the shoestore owned by Mr. Hyman Hyman Hyman? A lovely pair of orange, yellow and blue platform shoes on display behind the counter. Overhead whilst browsing, "It works for me every time in the warehouse, Ma! Come back here and I'll show you!"

At Luxor's, young Lars and his Dinosnaps were the second glint of sun on our journey. Lars and countergirl-nee-babysitter Natalie slaved away at crafts -- glue, glitter and colored paper scattered across the counter -- while two suburban chicks browsed the racks. Luxor's is blessed with a great selection of ties, and costume jewelry fills the glass cases. A portrait of Colonel Sanders hangs above the sales floor.

We were escorted to the risque section of Cards Cards Cards in search of "the funniest card you have." The place is quintessential Carytown. Where else can you buy the tiny boxes with two Chicklets? This place has it all. Hand puppets. Garish items for your pets. Funny cards, expensive cards, stupid cards, recycled cards, cards, cards. Plan on buying in bulk.

At Plan 9 -- the busy season. Aisles filled with compact disc fans. Shrugging off peer pressure, I bought an old Jawbox tape, avoiding the new clerk from Minneapolis who told me a week earlier that Jawbox was "all right, but they're too white bread live." Great. How we have to judge our musical selections on ethnic lines. Musical districting -- where is Joe Morrisey these days?

Store manager Mary escorted us through the bulk section of Integral Yoga, but even the bulk foods manager couldn't tell us what the most popular items were. We admired the almost-home feel of accumulated raisin gunk on the raisin scoop. Mmmm, free samples. Organic produce is wrinkled, tiny produce. Eat healthy, be strong.

After I walked headlong into a door at Rite Aid, we hurried from Carytown and headed for Main Street.

3:00 p.m.

Images. Scheduling a hair appointment with Laura, we are accosted by Melanie, the store's owner. "This isn't going to be some adolescent male publication, is it?" We soon diverted her and began discussing new hair coloring product. You can now shampoo that color right in. Another miracle of the twentieth century. Lord knows, we've little enough time left for those. I schedule an appointment to have my own tousled scalp pruned.

3:15 p.m.

The sun has reached its apex by the time we sit down to chat with the cutest coffee girl in Richmond, Amy at World Cup. Little do we know that this is going to be the last bright moment of our long journey into the night.

We ask Amy if she is concerned about franchising. What if World Cup suddenly becomes Maxwell House's World Cup with a drive through and uniforms for the employees? She doesn't seem worried. Both of us are on the verge of asking Amy to run away with us when a man walks in wearing very short, very tight cut-offs. Flustered, we leave.

3:45 p.m.

At Novel Futures, we discover that subtle humor doesn't always work. "Do you think the Klingons at Kings Dominion can speak Klingonese?" I ask the woman behind the counter, as I fondle a cassette that is guaranteed to have you speaking Klingonese in 30 days or less.

She looks perplexed for a moment, and then says she will ask her friend who works there. She tells us when the actors from Kings Dominion go on promotional tours, they aren't allowed to drive because they are from another century. We stare blankly at her, look at the new comics and leave.

For some reason, we are not drawn to Buddy's. We head for the car. Five minutes later, we are at Stuart Circle Pharmacy, where Penelope tells us we are too late for limeades. They also have espresso. And great omelets. And we miss it all. The pharmacist announces that Southern Living is recognizing the counter as having the best limeade in the South for the second year straight. And we can't even celebrate.

4:30 p.m.

The Slave Pit, home to GWAR. It's off the beaten path, but we need to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately, the toilet is broken. We watch a GWAR slave ink animated stills for the upcoming GWAR flick and wonder why Disney hasn't tried to buy the rights to stuffed GWAR Babies. The McDonald's across the street has fine restrooms and we see Danielle -- aka GWAR dancer Slymenstra -- climb into her car with a bag of burgers. Our brush with fame.

5:00 p.m.

Unavoidable. We are at the Village, wondering why I decided to order a bowl of sauerkraut with my coffee. Attractive girls walk by, our eyes meet, they glance at the bowl of sour cabbage on the table before me and burst out laughing. Our waitress won't remove the kraut-filled bowl from the table. I cover it with newspaper.

The rain begins in earnest.

At Station Break, we play of NBA Pro and are easily trounced, 52-29, by two old hands. Very unrealistic: Charlotte would never stumble so badly against Utah.

A quick stop through Exile's to glance through the racks. We leave in a hurry when the girl behind the counter snaps at us. Our mood sours. We'd hoped to make a purchase. And the gallery is closed to make way for World of Mirth. A toy store on Grace Street. I can almost get excited about the concept.

A glance through the window of the Grace Street Theatre does nothing to make us believe it will ever open. Another Richmond lie.

Dashing through mud puddles to Absolute Art Tattoo, where tattooist Jeff Eden turns out to be in a surly mood. We browse through photos of his work. Impressive. We head downstairs to Bidder's Suite.

Damn fine coffee, even better salads. Still, we knew the city had turned against us when the waiter caught me using the house phone. I should've asked first. Once again, I feel like the idiot. Beaten, we trudge back to the car and head up Grace Street.

7:00 p.m.

On Monument Avenue, chasing away bad memories of Easter Parades and Croquet Tournaments. We try to revitalize ourselves at a friend's apartment, but ultimately decide to head for Shockoe Bottom. I'm in a foul mood. I figure the Bottom can only drag me down.

After stopping by Central Fidelity's out-of-order cash machine in Carytown, we head east on Cary Street, straight for Hell. Straight for Shockoe Bottom.

8:15 p.m.

It is a deluge outside. On the 1500 block of Cary Street, a car pulls out in front of us. Jim hits the brakes and we breathe a sigh of relief when we come to a collision-free stop. Then my forehead hits the dashboard.

Stumbling out of the car and into the rain, rubbing our necks. A car has hit us from behind. The girl driving leaps out and looks at the crumpled front of her car. I look at Jim's completely unwrinkled bumper. That's something going our way, I think.

"Why did you stop!?" the girl yells, mildly rattled by the incident. "Why didn't you?" I wonder. As Jim seeks to straighten things out, I walk across the street to call the police. I step up to an occupied porch.

A jaundiced man sits in a wheelchair with an IV in his arm and a scraggly young girl clutches a cat and a portable phone. She holds the phone out. I call 911, only mildly taken aback when the operator fails to ask me if anyone is injured.

Back across the street and under the ledge of a building. Jim and Amanda -- our partner in collision -- stand damp and discouraged. It takes the police 15 minutes to arrive, and then the cop drives right past the scene and stops two blocks down the street. Jim sets off down the sidewalk to retrieve him only to watch him pull off when he's just feet from the car. Dejected, he stumbles back to the scene of the accident.

The cop returns, and finally finds the right location. He's big. He's white. He lumbers over, looks at the cars, looks at Amanda and says, "This must be your fault." Still shaken, she tries to defend herself. Officer John Morgan would have none of that. "What is it was a young child that ran in front of your car?" he asks. I sigh and look at Jim. This is going to be a long night.

An hour later, we lurch out of Officer John Morgan's car, the three of us exchanging looks of amazement and annoyance. No wonder crime is through the ceiling in this town.

We drive Amanda back to her work and -- finally -- arrive at the Memphis Grill. Our friends are still there, drunk and angry.

9:45 p.m.

The Memphis Grill. If I had to spend time in the Bottom on a regular basis, it would be here. The menu is sparse. But they have pork chops and applesauce. And beer is beer. It lies off the beaten path and the lighting is dim. Still, I'm sure someone will soon open Jimmy Buffet's Caribbean Buffet Bar next door. I'm sure of it.

Wiping blood off my chin (one bite into my well-done burger), my mood simmers to hateful levels. Richmond has done it again. I am crumbling.

My ugly course is set like Jason and his Argonauts. I pay the steep tab, overtip the waitress and head for the Floodzone. Jesus Lizard can't disappoint. Sure.

The rain has ended. For some reason, that just makes me more angry.

11:00 p.m.

Jesus Lizard is on stage and the place is packed with too many attractive people. I expend a lot of energy hating them all. After enjoying a lively performance by Jesus Lizard, I stand on the balcony, hoping for the best from Helmet. The Floodzone's best attribute is its balcony and other multiple-level platforms. Even the dullest shows can be enhanced by the mobility provided by this cavern.

But even the 'Zone can't save Helmet. They fulfill other people's expectations, I later learn. They barely dent mine. Jim is also grimacing.

12:20 a.m.

The monotony, the beer, my accident-weary neck, my mood -- they all suddenly collide. I'm living in Richmond. I can't be happy. I begin to hope that someone just beats me up.

Embracing exhaustion and frustration, I grab Jim and we head home.

It's no shocker that Richmond managed to grind me down in a few hours. After all, I made the mistake of planning to have a great time traveling through the city.

Since my first solo trip downtown at age 15, Richmond has been throwing surprises in my face. Inevitably, the Richmond police are somehow involved. Without fail, I head home cursing.

Still, there was so much left to do. Dumpster-diving at Pizza Hut for a late night snack. Chatting it up with police officers and 7-Eleven clerks. Alley shopping for some furniture for my apartment. We didn't even make it for drinks at the Old Dominion Club.

Of course, the following week everything flowed as smoothly as the James River when we hit the streets. Until the sound system at Club Colours blew and the show started late. It was all uphill from that point, of course. Ah, Richmond.

Bono Explains Obama to America

There are times when I am embarrassed by how much affection I have for an Irish rock star who looks more and more like Robin Williams.

But then he goes and explains -- and so succinctly -- exactly why much of the rest of the world sees President Obama in an entirely different light than America's irate conservatives and disillusioned liberals do.

I'm talking about Bono, of course, and his latest editorial missive in the New York Times. It's titled, "Rebranding America," and it makes a lot of sense (if you can stop being irate or disillusioned).

Bono concentrates on 36 words President Obama uttered at the United Nations last month. “We will," Obama said, "support the Millennium Development Goals, and approach next year’s summit with a global plan to make them a reality. And we will set our sights on the eradication of extreme poverty in our time.”

Many have spoken about the need for a rebranding of America. Rebrand, restart, reboot. In my view these 36 words, alongside the administration’s approach to fighting nuclear proliferation and climate change, improving relations in the Middle East and, by the way, creating jobs and providing health care at home, are rebranding in action.

These new steps — and those 36 words — remind the world that America is not just a country but an idea, a great idea about opportunity for all and responsibility to your fellow man.

All right ... I don’t speak for the rest of the world. Sometimes I think I do — but as my bandmates will quickly (and loudly) point out, I don’t even speak for one small group of four musicians. But I will venture to say that in the farthest corners of the globe, the president’s words are more than a pop song people want to hear on the radio. They are lifelines.

In dangerous, clangorous times, the idea of America rings like a bell (see King, M. L., Jr., and Dylan, Bob). It hits a high note and sustains it without wearing on your nerves. (If only we all could.) This was the melody line of the Marshall Plan and it’s resonating again. Why? Because the world sees that America might just hold the keys to solving the three greatest threats we face on this planet: extreme poverty, extreme ideology and extreme climate change. The world senses that America, with renewed global support, might be better placed to defeat this axis of extremism with a new model of foreign policy.

Bono goes on to talk about two equations that have the potential to reshape our world.

The first is a negative. It is a simple matter of arithmetic: poverty + ideology + climate.

The second is more affirmative. It also focuses on sums. The sum of security + development = stability.

The rest of Bono's NYTimes piece explains why those equations matter, and why many have their fingers crossed that Obama can work the numbers:

But the idea of America, from the very start, was supposed to be contagious enough to sweep up and enthrall the world.

And it is. The world wants to believe in America again because the world needs to believe in America again. We need your ideas — your idea — at a time when the rest of the world is running out of them.