Barack Obama is reading this space, as G.A. points out. In accepting the Democratic nomination the other night, Obama paid homage to the previous post and said: “On November 4th we must stand up and say, ‘Eight is Enough‘! ”

With that in mind, I’ve taken the liberty of writing Obama’s next speech. Here’s a sneak preview:

What’s Happening?

This race for The West Wing is getting Too Close For Comfort.

I represent Working Stiffs. My opponent is all about Silver Spoons.

They call him a Maverick? That’s Incredible! Joe Millionaire, more like it.

He’s got Thirtysomething Cribs. Who Wants To Marry a Multi-Millionaire? He did.

I’m Real People. I Rhoda Taxi here.

The $64,000 Question is: Which of us is The Greatest American Hero?

If elected, I promise Good Times, Happy Days, A Different World.

If my opponent is elected and has an Emergency! and requires a Newhart, then Who’s The Boss? That Girl, Sarah Palin, that’s who. She’s what — 24?

Gimme A Break.

Though it hardly needs me to do so, I feel compelled to defend “Eight Is Enough,” a television show that still inflames the senses 30 years after its debut — if you judge by the charges of torture levied against it in the previous comments section and saw the headlines that ran in every newspaper in the world after Michael Phelps won his last gold medal:

“Eight Is Enough: Phelps Clinches Record With Relay Gold“–USA Today

AND

“For Phelps, Eight Is Enough — For Now“–Minneapolis Star Tribune

AND

“Eight Is Enough“–Philadelphia Inquirer

AND (my favorite)

“Eight Is Enough“–Manila Standard Today

It’s enough that “Enough” is still a muse for editors, Filipino and otherwise. “Eight Is Enough” appeared in worldwide headlines in August even before Phelps won his first gold, when the Olympics opened on 8/8/08 and superstitious couples — and Yogi Berra disciples — chose that date as their wedding day.

Though I only realize it now, the show surely had something to do with my becoming a columnist with a combover, like Tom Bradford of the Sacramento Register. (Prior to that, for most of my childhood, I had Adam Rich’s haircut.)

And while I can’t explain how one mother could give birth to eight children, six of whom are the same age — without a single set of multiples, mind you — I do know this: To me and all of my childhood friends, a Volkswagen bus will always be known as a “David Bradford van,” in honor of the most compelling van on television. Excluding, of course, the patriarch of this dynasty, Dick Van Patten.

All of which is to say that I won’t tolerate any “Eight”-hating from you Ogar-backed Octowussies on this interweb thing. I’ll continue to spend my days like bright and shiny new dimes — while remaining ever puzzled by these changing times.

In a reply to my previous post, Ogar writes:

“OK, Mr. Bringdown. You sure know how to clear out a room in a hurry. Not to stray too far off-topic, but I was wondering if anyone would care to extend this updated bit (with a nod to the great Joe Flaherty):

ABBOTT: The Who’s on first, The Band’s on second, Ludacris is on third.
COSTELLO: You know the musicians’ names?
ABBOTT: Well, I should…
COSTELLO: Then tell me who’s on first.
ABBOTT: That’s right.
COSTELLO: I wanna know the band on first.
ABBOTT: Oh, no, The Band’s on second.
COSTELLO: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
ABBOTT: Who’s on first.
COSTELLO: That’s ludicrous!
ABBOTT: No, he’s on third. We’re not talking about him.
COSTELLO: When you pay off the opening act every month, who gets the money?
ABBOTT: Every dollar of it. Why not? They’re entitled.
COSTELLO: Who is?
ABBOTT: Sure.
COSTELLO: So who gets it?
ABBOTT: Of course. Sometimes their wives come down and collect it.
COSTELLO: Whose wife?
ABBOTT: Uh-huh.
COSTELLO: Tell me, who’s on tomorrow?
ABBOTT: No.
COSTELLO: Whaddya mean, no?
ABBOTT: Tomorrow, Who’s not on.
COSTELLO: Who is?
ABBOTT: Yes…”

Today was the 10th anniversary of the bombing in Omagh, Northern Ireland that killed 29 people – the very young, the very old, Protestants, Catholics, Spaniards, a woman seven months pregnant with twins – all of whom were going about their business on a Saturday afternoon when a red Vauxhall Cavalier exploded on a crowded street.

Among the victims were 12-year-old Sean McLaughlin, 21-year-old Julia Hughes, 18-year-old Gareth Conway, 48-year-old Ann McComb and 20-month-old Breda Devine.

If you don’t know much about Omagh, you might know the bleak, strangely beautiful U2 song “Peace on Earth,” from “All That You Can’t Leave Behind”:

“They’re reading names out/Over the radio/All the folks the rest of us/Won’t get to know/Sean and Julia, Gareth, Ann and Breda/They’re lives are bigger than/Any big idea/Jesus can you take the time/To throw a drowning man a line/Peace on Earth.”

There’s another lyric that goes: “She never got to say goodbye/To see the color in his eyes/Now he’s in the dirt,” an apparent reference to Donna-Maria Barker. She lost her 12-year-old son, James, in the bombing and told BBC documentary filmmaker Iain Webster about having to identify her son’s body: “I could see this green blood-stained sheet over him and a piece of cloth covered his face. It was taken off and James’ eyes were wide open. Beautiful green eyes. I wrapped my arms around his head and he was very cold. I never knew how green his eyes were until that moment.”

I played golf yesterday and was struck by how many signs there were on the course, and how many of those signs were universally ignored. Where’s the one place you’ll never find a bunker rake with a PLACE RAKE IN BUNKER sticker on it? In a bunker.

Scant attention was paid to the sign that said NO COOLERS ALLOWED, or to the cans in those fugitive coolers, cans that carried the plea: PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY.

Near as I could tell, every golfer before me declined to REPAIR ALL BALL MARKS — or to repair any ball marks — even as they were ignoring the signs to KEEP ENTIRE BODY IN CART.

And speaking of carts, when’s the last time you saw anyone heed the printed plea in a supermarket parking lot to RETURN CARTS HERE instead of leaving said cart in the middle of a parking space, usually the best space in the lot, usually the one I’m about to pull into?

These are the same people who pull on every door marked PUSH and push on every door marked PULL.

Some signs exist exclusively to be ignored: SPEED LIMIT 55, for instance, or LATHER, RINSE, REPEAT. I personally have failed to CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING when lighting a match, though that match is at least not lighting a cigarette, as I do believe the SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: SMOKING MAY CAUSE CANCER.

And then there are the signs that I want to believe in, even though — in my heart of hearts — I know they’re widely ignored. And so I’m always reassured when I see, in a restaurant bathroom, EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK. It’s only a placebo, but I don’t care. The sign itself is more important than the act it signifies.