The New York Times reported today that parents in Florida are bitching and moaning over standardized tests. Kids are taking Xanax to cope. They can’t sleep. They can’t eat.

One parent told the Times that her son who is a high school junior is so test-weary, “I have had to take him to his doctor.” She added: “He can’t sleep, but he’s tired. He can’t eat, but he’s hungry.” The Times said in Florida “many schools this year will dedicate on average 60 to 80 days out of the 180-day school year to standardized testing. In a few districts, tests were scheduled to be given every day to at least some students.”

Wow. Welcome to the Republic of morons who created the politics of educational testing. When it was discovered 30 years ago that sometimes Johnny could not read, politicians rose from the ether. They passed laws requiring Johnny be tested. And so it came to pass. Mandatory tests were imposed. Standards were created. If students passed, then OK. If not, kick their asses from here to John Dewey. And the schools and teachers, too.

Doris Kerns Goodwin points out (in “The Bully Pulpit”) that publisher S.S. McClure said at the dawn of the 20^th century that the “ ‘vitality of democracy’ depends on ‘popular knowledge of complex issues.’ ” If we have such popular knowledge, it is well hidden amid the avalanche of 30-second TV commercials and nonexistent or cursory debates that dominate every election. This democracy is in desperate need of some political Geritol.

Imagine, if you possibly can, the format of the Lincoln-Douglas debates of 1858 being applied to today’s politics: One candidate spoke for 60 minutes; the other spoke for 90 minutes. The first candidate was allowed a 30-minute rebuttal. There were seven such debates. THREE HOURS EACH! Thousands of Illinois voters showed up.

And just think of all the progress we’ve made since then.

JC Martin responded to this post thus:

As one of the six or seven identified readers of A Mountain I have several comments: I rather like the idea of cherry jam and sauerkraut and  poetry based on the stock market but then, I haven’t “gotten,” poetry with the possible exception of Billy Collins for years.

Sometimes a thing doesn’t seem quite right, makes you a little squirmy. You scratch your head and look at your feet, kick a little dust. Some people call it the willies. I get that way when I think about spreading sauerkraut with cherry jam. Don’t ask how such a thought occurs to me. There’s no answer. I think weird.

As the six or seven regular readers of this wobbly little virtual corner know, I dabble in poetry. Don’t misunderstand. I don’t write it, could never presume to do so — save a limerick of questionable taste. Or two. I circle poetry.

To be sure I am no critic, having only a passing — fleeting, really — acquaintance with iambic pentameter. I was never properly introduced.  Nonetheless, my timbers were shivered when I received notice that the University of Arizona Poetry Center was to host what seems to me an unusual event: A presentation that will offer “insights into the relationship between poetry and the financial world. Come listen to what happens when the stock market becomes your muse!”

I can say that if the stock market were my Muse, I would suffer from an enduring sense of loss. It’s the sort of loss you are permitted to write off your income tax at a rate of three grand a year. The crash-bang-thunk you hear is not onomatopoeia.

Does this not have the feeling/appeal of French cherry preserves being slathered on sauerkraut?

To be fair, I might find some poetic charm in options, rather than expiring worthless, quadrupling in value and instilling the joy of rolling the hard eight at the craps table. I might even put some fancy dance steps to that sort of poetry. And there might be serious sonnets inspired by pork belly futures. Don’t get me started on gold, the Euro-dollar pair, Exchange Traded Funds or swaps. It all rhymes with greed.

For those who read poetry with a British accent, the ticker crawl at the bottom of the Greed Channel screen might parse in a way that nuzzles — even caresses — the ear. But it seems at best a remote possibility.

In any event, I shall try to keep an open mind. I am always open to moolah, iambic or free verse. Perhaps it is a good way to get in touch with your inner Gekko.

Let us today pause to give thanks for the National Rifle Association.

If it weren’t for the NRA, the Second Amendment might be in tatters. Governments in this country might just suck up the guns and prevent gun murders in Seattle.

In Virginia.

In Tucson.

At the Navy Yard.

In Texas.

In Columbine.

At the Holocaust Museum.

In an Aurora, Colorado theater.

In Kansas City.

In small town Connecticut (God bless the children).

Thank our LUCKY Stars. You betcher sweet Charlton Heston.

Happiness is a Warm NRA.