Dammit, LBJ, you captivating sonofabitch.

I'm trapped in part two of the American Experience documentary. We've started recording all of these programs, which cover each president's term with extreme detail and first-hand interviews. Last week we watched his senate career, the assassination of Kennedy, the odd mistreatment and disprespect of him as Vice President by the country. Today I'm watching his second term, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the War on Poverty, the Great Society. Vietnam.

What, of course, is most interesting about Johnson is his dual-sided presidency. How does a president initiate programs like Medicaid and Head Start--how does a Southern president meet with civil rights leaders and work toward equality in the entire nation--yet still lie to the country about the war in Vietnam? How does a president change the homefront for the democratic better, yet send thousands of troops to Southeast Asia to die? How does he lie to the country about it? How does he get power hungry and allow a war to escalate, a war against a country that escalated because of fear of losing an election? How does a man choose which areas of a country to bomb, with fear that the bombing of the wrong No. Vietnam city might aggravate China or Russia and lead to WWIII? How does a president not have a plan for victory--and how does that last question change mistakes in history? Ah, yes. It's like a great train. You can't suddenly put it in reverse. You have to take it to a slow stop.

It's easy to love and hate Johnson. It's easy to admire a man who issues a war on poverty. It's hard not to want to playfully tossle the hair of a man who says I just need to get in a room with Ho and talk to him. I know we could come to a deal. It's hard not to understand, somehow, his remorse while still hating him. He fell asleep every night feeling physically tied down, hearing voices. Once some men died in vain, he couldn't feel they died for "his" mistake. He felt they died with honor. They were noble men. They died for a cause. He had to send more men to defend that honor. He said anything I do, they're will be more killin'.

Poor LBJ. That tall man. That insecure, paranoid Texan. He thought the Northern communists would fold after just a couple of bombs.What if hundreds of thousands of men died because you were that naive? What if your goal was peace and you caused the biggest peace battles in the United States?

Why. Why am I so addicted to this, when I should be reading homework, when I should be preparing something for class, when I should be writing the three reflections that were due a week ago. Why I am watching this, when I should be running outside, letting the cold air shock my lungs, when I should be blowing puffs of warm air into the cool dark.

I should be blogging about the weekend, but for some reason I won't let myself think about it. I just feel like I should still be with Jenny, the most darling bride I'll ever see, that I should still be having meetings of the porch society with Christina, Bevin, Liz and Darren. I can't think of white flowers in a clear, square vase in the center of a table, I can't think of pasta bars and amazing desserts and angora sweaters with beaded nipples and golden runways, or falling asleep in another room to the voices of my best friends outside the door, laughing and sighing and teasing. I can't think of the drive home, in the warm car, sleepy, as the first snowflakes of the season melt on the windshield.

I can't think of school right now, either, that conversation I had with Mr. O today, my parnoid nature, worried that things are going too well, and if things are ever bad, worried what I can do to make them better. That's the thing, of all of this: I worry that things aren't going bad right now, so when will they go bad? Why do I love going to work everyday, why do I look forward to the days that make me nervous because I know I'll be learning something? I'm going crazy. I overthink everything I do--this program, how I spend my days after school. I hate that I'm not running. I hate that I procrastinate so well. I hate that I bug Mr. O with some of these weird paranoid thoughts, that I wonder if Mr. O regrets me or if I'm failing. I worry that I'm going to step on the wrong toes, bomb the wrong city.

I have no answers. Sometimes I wake up and forget I'm where I am. Sometimes I'm sad for no reason, no reason at all--and I find odd comfort in that sadness. Not scary comfort like the sadness I had last year with no job, but, um, comforting comfort. Why does it feel good to be sad sometimes, to hate myself sometimes? Why do I sit in class when I'm not teaching and despise who I am--but still love what I do everyday? I've lost it. Why today? What will tomorrow be? Will I have motivation to do anything, will I stay after school and finish what I need to, will I teach a good lesson on haiku poetry, will I come home and sleep, will I pack my lunch, will I hit the snooze button?

Johnson was such a sad man. He lived on the ranch after the presidency, grew his white hair long, into a curled mullet in the back, drank himself to death. Wondering every day if the country would remember him as a good man. At least he felt bad. At least he had the heart to feel like a failure. A depressed man on that ranch, initiating staff meetings with the Mexican ranch hands every morning, just for a sense of routine, asking for progress reports just so he could sleep at night, feeling like he had control over something, that the status update gave him something to improve upon tomorrow.

And the war that ruined him ended with a treaty in Paris, 5 days after he died in 1973. Goddamn, goddamn.