Testing. Testing. Testing.
Is this thing on?
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Friday, April 26, 2013
Graham and McCain Call Syria "Pre-Napalmed 'Nam" / Urge President to "Nut Up" on Wars of Choice
Senator John McCain (R-AZ) took to the podium yesterday to denounce his former Senate colleague and 2008 presidential campaign foe, President Barack Obama, for his "lax approach to the vital national security interests of the United States and its defense contractors."
Citing the burgeoning crises in North Korea and Syria, Senator McCain lectured the press gathered for his daily dose of Straight Talk about the importance of "battlefield testing the literally dozens of untested weapons systems sitting idle due to sequestration," hastily adding, "which our esteemed colleagues in the House had nothing to do with."
Looking on like a proud great-grandfather as his son makes his first senility-laden rant, McCain nodded vigorously and approvingly when his wingman, South Carolina Republican Senator Lindsey Graham added: "We Grahams know war. A Graham completed two tours of duty before coming home safely in 1865, after evading capture by hiding out and keeping it loose for a few weeks before Appomattox. When Senator McCain and I voted to go to war in Iraq in 2003 while pushing through the Bush tax cuts, we acted responsibly. We very, very carefully read the Terms and Conditions of that Platinum credit card China sent us in the mail, and it clearly states that it is good for up to three wars of choice. Afghanistan doesn't count, bitches."
 |
| "We didn't choose the thug life. The thug life chose us." The Senators rep-ruh-sent. |
Senator McCain noted that his war hawk caucus and he had been reasonable in presenting options to the President: "Bomb-Bomb-Bomb-Bomb-Bomb Iran is still on the table. Syria. North Korea. France after the gay marriage vote. Hell, Syria is basically a pre-napalmed 'Nam, so what the hell is this President's problem? We're pre-approved by Beijing, and we'll earn Capital One points on every mile. Nut up, Mr. President, and pick a war of choice! If I had been elected, we'd be better than halfway to a legacy by now."
Bringing the presser to a close, Senator Graham bent down to give Senator McCain a piggy back ride back to the Russell Senate Office Building. Giddying up Graham with the cry of, "Benghazi! Yah!" Senator McCain cut - well, not quite the figure of a Rough Riding Roosevelt - but quite a figure indeed. Quite a figure indeed.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Well, I Didn't See That Coming Five Years Ago
At first blush, this looks like a political post. It isn't. Skip the next two paragraphs. [How often does an author write that as an introduction?]
Five years ago today, I sat down at my desk and typed this out at Democratic Underground: What My 35 Years Have Taught Me.
I was a little more than miffed at Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton over her disingenuous dodges on The Clinton Foundation donor lists (which some other loyal supporters and I were urging her to reveal, neutralizing the issue for the General Election once she was the nominee). I was incredulous at her assertion that she had "finally found her voice" - after 35 years in public service - after the New Hampshire primary.
About to turn 36, I was already in a personally reflective and introspective mood. I get that way every January. Between New Year's Day and my birthday on the 16th, I take stock. So, I fused the catalyst of her colossally stupid utterance with my own life milestone, and that sarcastic little piece was born. But if you strip away the snark, there were some very real and very heartfelt life lessons in there.
I ended the post with: "P.S. Find someone who truly loves you for who you are, and love them back with your whole heart and soul."
*******
The desk I sat at to wrote that is literally sitting out on the curb today, out by the dumpsters. It is taking all of my willpower not to bring it back inside.
Here it is back in 2008, in its heyday. This is roughly what my home office looked like for much of the campaign season that year.
That home office was located in the condo I shared with Patrick, and the P.S. meant him.
*******
I have always been what my grandmother - my Maw Maw - called "an old soul." I felt the truth and the heartache in world-weary songs of love and loss more acutely than most kids my age, and my understanding of that ache was profound, personal, and deep: would I ever find love, given that - well, you know (and *I* knew from before kindergarten) that I like boys? I changed the pronouns of love songs, secretly, under my breath. I didn't wish that I had Jesse's Girl. I wished that I was Jesse's Boy, and I sang it that way, softly, silently.
But I have also always been uncommonly happy. Maw Maw also said I was the happiest baby she had ever seen. The science of the "set point" - the baseline to which most people's moods return after major life events (both good and bad) - is interesting to me. I would hazard to say that I am hardwired for happiness.
*******
The last four years have not been ones - to paraphrase another Queen - "on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure." Her annus horribilis happened in 1992. Mine was 2009.
As Obama's swearing-in neared, I was resting in West Virginia, recovering from an accident on the highest internet bridge in the U.S., just minutes from home. It happened two days before Christmas. I am terrified of bridges and heights over water, and if that ice-capades (which totaled my Pathfinder just months before it was paid off) had ended in my plunging into the canyon, it would have been hilarious Irony to launch me into my next life.
I was stuck at home for about a month, healing, helping Mom around the house, and waiting for a break in the weather to travel back to DC.
As it turns out, that month spent apart was sort of the beginning of the end for Patrick and me. The toll of the whistleblowing against State Street and Halliburton began to show. Even as the first weeks of the Obama Administration began to show significant movement on the Halliburton issue, and even as we were being hailed for the fruits of our labor, it was simply too little, too late.
As anyone who has watched A Civil Action or The Insider knows, it's not uncommon for these sorts of battles to have collateral damage. Looking back, I made some of the classic mistakes those guys did. I could write a book solely on how not to let a noble fight intrude or trespass overmuch on a relationship. Suffice it to say that the fault was mine.
The actual split came in June.
Nope. Didn't see that coming, sitting at that desk back in 2008.
*******
Patrick and I were always an unusual (gay) couple. Of all the things we did right (which were many), one of the things I am most proud of is how we split. We salvaged everything that worked - our friendship, our mutual admiration, our shared history, our inside jokes - and chucked what didn't.
Time has healed the wounds. I've returned to my set point of happiness, and I've even learned to forgive and like myself again.
*******
So, here I sit, five years to the day after writing that post of What My 35 Years of Experience Has Taught Me, and I guess I should sort of take stock of what I have learned in the interim.
The problem is, one of those wise, slightly melancholy, world-weary songs that caught my ear years ago pretty much sums it up, and any attempt I'd make to disguise it would be derivative, bordering on plagiarism. Instead, my own take on the lyrics appear in brackets. It's well worth the listen if you've never heard it before, or if you've not heard its message in a while. It is my go-to song when I need to give myself a kick in the ass.
Baz Luhrman for the win: Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen) was released in 1999. I was all of 27 then, and felt completely simpatico with the elderly man reciting the lyrics. (I was an old soul long before I got Crohn's, but the associated symptoms and pains sometimes makes me as crotchety as any senior citizen. Maybe that has something to do with it?)
*******
Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’97: If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience ... I will dispense this advice now.
[This completely justifies how little time I spend outside. Note to Self: Spend more time enjoying the beauty of the outdoors these next five years, while you're still young.]
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you imagine.
[My body image issues at 40 - about to turn 41 - are so very different than they were even just five short years ago. The one upside to the Crohn's (which first began to manifest at 16) was that I could pretty much eat anything I wanted, and yet I struggled to tip the scale at anything higher than 150. Being the skinny kid, the kid who couldn't seem to put on muscle, the - well, doesn't he sort of *look* stereotypically gay? - kid, defined my body image from my teenage years until just a couple of years ago. I still think of myself as that kid. But I also look back at pictures of myself when this song first came out, and - yeah, OK - I may have had it goin' on once upon a time. : p ]
Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
[Ain't that the truth?]
Do one thing everyday that scares you
[What's the point of life if you're not taking chances?]
Sing
[However badly ... and don't give a damn about who sees you rocking out in your car with the stereo cranked. You'll probably never see that person again in your life anyway.]
Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.
[Ouch. When asked to pick which Titan I'd be, I chose Prometheus (who defied Zeus to bring secret fire and secret knowledge to mere mortals). When asked which Olympian, I chose Apollo (the healer and light-bringer). When asked which Hero, I hedged: Jason - he of the Argonauts, he who was inclusive of all in his quest - but minus the betrayal of his beloved. The Irony is too deep for words. I fucked up.]
Floss
[Note to Self: schedule a dentist appointment.]
Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind ... the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.
[I'm not immune to this emotion, but - as an INTJ - I'm far less prone to it than most. It's simply not ... logical. The lyric is right here. Success (on any metric) is not a zero-sum game. There is plenty of success to be had in this world, and it's ultimately up to each of us to define what success means. The flexibility to redefine success at different phases of our lives is one of the greatest freedoms we can award ourselves. Also, it's not a straight-line trajectory. Trite as it may be, the detours in life matter, and can sometimes land us in places where we find unexpected new forms of success. If Life is like Mario Brothers, then there are a lot of "One Up Mushrooms" out there. Sometimes you gotta bang your head into some bricks over your head to find them. (This may be my favorite new awful metaphor.)]
Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
[Very few people have the power to get under my skin. I know my mind, and I know my motives. The likelihood that an insult resonates is directly proportional to the aptness of the assessment. I am, however, susceptible to flattery about my dimples, my eyes, and my ... nevermind. Or ask me sometime. : p]
Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.
[No, keep both. Just digitize the latter. Good record-keeping comes in handy in Life. Trust me on this one.]
Stretch
[I just stood and stretched. You should too. Do it. You'll feel better, and we'll have shared this bit of interactive time travel. I did it when I wrote it; you did it when you read it. Go on. Big stretch. Better, huh?]
Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.
[Guilty as charged, but I have formed an inkling of what it is I want to do with the rest of it.]
Get plenty of calcium.
[Cheese! Glorious cheese!]
Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.
[Note to Self: See if Dick's Sporting Goods gives a birthday discount, and buy yourself some kneepads. *snicker*]
Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.
[Yes. All true. Re-read that last bit. Getting up every morning, and buying a lottery ticket for Life - just by trying, putting one foot in front of the other, plodding on when you don't feel like it - gives you the "half chance" part. Like any other lottery, if you don't play, you can't win. Try. Fail. Repeat. Try. Fail. Repeat. Try. Succeed! (However you define Success.)]
Enjoy your body, use it every way you can…don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.
[It helps that I've always been a semi-nudist little exhibitionist, but I can now proudly parade through a locker-room with a towel slung over my shoulder, whistling after a workout. I've finally sort of made peace with that whole skinny kid thing, plus the objective, rational, logic-bound measurement of the bathroom scale tells me it's time for me to change how that newfound weight is redistributed. The Skinny Kid trapped inside me can go to hell. We're going to the gym this year and molding all that extra clay into something worth taking pictures of ... and then looking back on them in 20 years the same way as those pictures from our 20s.]
Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.
[I do that ***all*** the friggin' time. In fact, pretty much like this, and often while dancing to it to get motivated.
Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.
[I have this down to an art form, especially when reading from cookbooks.]
Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.
[Pffft. I have bedroom skills. What do I need magazines for? : p ]
Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good.
[*sigh* I dedicated the auto-biography I had to write at 17 (while living in a yurt on the tallest mountain in West Virginia for a month) to my dad, and to my unborn children. The premise was simple: I did not - and still do not fully - understand my father. I thought maybe if I captured a snapshot of what I was like at 17, my kids would have a better sense of who I am, or was at their age. I intended to give it to them on their 17th birthdays. One of The Great Unknowns of my life remaining is whether I will manage to still have kids. I love kids. I love fostering their creativity and helping them to learn and grow. I digress. My relationship with Mom became surprisingly complex beginning in my Senior Year of high school. At the time, we thought her erratic behavior was early menopause, or related to the endometriosis, or empty nest syndrome (as her firstborn son prepared to leave for college). In the 20 years or so since that time, more and more details have emerged about the reasons why, but Mom struggles with mental illness. I sometimes feel slight pangs of Jealousy (see, not entirely immune to it) for friends my age who have robust, healthy adult relationships with one or both parents. It is what it is, and I have to continue to find ways to have whatever relationship I can with her.]
Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
[I am extraordinarily proud of both my sister and my brother. They are good people. I have really, really, really got to make this a priority in the second half of my life.]
Understand that friends come and go,but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.
[Amen, and I am eternally grateful for the friends "who knew me when" who have stuck by me over the years. Conversely, there are a few who I thought for sure would be lifelong pals who bailed when I really needed them to be there. I'm the sort of person who will gladly give multiple chances for redemption, and who will forgive and forget. I guess that means I'm especially perplexed by those who don't share that same core value. Ah, well. I'm also enjoying making new friends, adult friends, friends whose paths have crossed with mine later in life.]
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
[I lived in Boston for eight years. I'm going to count that as equal to one year in NYC, although I don't rule out living in NYC if my book publisher really needs me to be nearby for revisions, or if I can put myself up in a quaint little penthouse with a view of Central Park. As for Northern California: maybe, although my second grade teacher terrified me that California would one day go sliding off into the ocean, and - rational though I am - that image stuck in an irrational synaptic cluster, and I have not yet beered it out of existence. Maybe Oregon. Or British Columbia. Better weed.]
Travel.
[I am woefully behind on this. This will change. It must.]
Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
[Lies. Painfully and growingly familiar lies, every bit of it. : p ]
Respect your elders.
[The upside of this is that there are fewer of them every single day. I'm nothing, if not an optimist.]
Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.
[Note to Self: There's always law school and student loans, if all else fails.]
Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40, it will look 85.
[My ballcap and I agree. All you need is a little gel for fancy occasions.]
Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.
[Hence, this nostalgic post.]
But trust me on the sunscreen…
[It's a rough post, but I can live with this. I reserve the right to edit later, which I rarely, rarely do. It's stream of consciousness, and it's far too pretty outside today to spend it indoors all day writing. And - look! - I even have some sunscreen. The only prediction I'll make for five years from now? I bet I'm just as pale ... unless I've up and moved somewhere sunny and tropical, with hot island boys. Then I'll trust them ... with the sunscreen.]
: )
Five years ago today, I sat down at my desk and typed this out at Democratic Underground: What My 35 Years Have Taught Me.
I was a little more than miffed at Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton over her disingenuous dodges on The Clinton Foundation donor lists (which some other loyal supporters and I were urging her to reveal, neutralizing the issue for the General Election once she was the nominee). I was incredulous at her assertion that she had "finally found her voice" - after 35 years in public service - after the New Hampshire primary.
About to turn 36, I was already in a personally reflective and introspective mood. I get that way every January. Between New Year's Day and my birthday on the 16th, I take stock. So, I fused the catalyst of her colossally stupid utterance with my own life milestone, and that sarcastic little piece was born. But if you strip away the snark, there were some very real and very heartfelt life lessons in there.
I ended the post with: "P.S. Find someone who truly loves you for who you are, and love them back with your whole heart and soul."
*******
The desk I sat at to wrote that is literally sitting out on the curb today, out by the dumpsters. It is taking all of my willpower not to bring it back inside.
Here it is back in 2008, in its heyday. This is roughly what my home office looked like for much of the campaign season that year.
That home office was located in the condo I shared with Patrick, and the P.S. meant him.
*******
I have always been what my grandmother - my Maw Maw - called "an old soul." I felt the truth and the heartache in world-weary songs of love and loss more acutely than most kids my age, and my understanding of that ache was profound, personal, and deep: would I ever find love, given that - well, you know (and *I* knew from before kindergarten) that I like boys? I changed the pronouns of love songs, secretly, under my breath. I didn't wish that I had Jesse's Girl. I wished that I was Jesse's Boy, and I sang it that way, softly, silently.
But I have also always been uncommonly happy. Maw Maw also said I was the happiest baby she had ever seen. The science of the "set point" - the baseline to which most people's moods return after major life events (both good and bad) - is interesting to me. I would hazard to say that I am hardwired for happiness.
*******
The last four years have not been ones - to paraphrase another Queen - "on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure." Her annus horribilis happened in 1992. Mine was 2009.
As Obama's swearing-in neared, I was resting in West Virginia, recovering from an accident on the highest internet bridge in the U.S., just minutes from home. It happened two days before Christmas. I am terrified of bridges and heights over water, and if that ice-capades (which totaled my Pathfinder just months before it was paid off) had ended in my plunging into the canyon, it would have been hilarious Irony to launch me into my next life.
I was stuck at home for about a month, healing, helping Mom around the house, and waiting for a break in the weather to travel back to DC.
As it turns out, that month spent apart was sort of the beginning of the end for Patrick and me. The toll of the whistleblowing against State Street and Halliburton began to show. Even as the first weeks of the Obama Administration began to show significant movement on the Halliburton issue, and even as we were being hailed for the fruits of our labor, it was simply too little, too late.
As anyone who has watched A Civil Action or The Insider knows, it's not uncommon for these sorts of battles to have collateral damage. Looking back, I made some of the classic mistakes those guys did. I could write a book solely on how not to let a noble fight intrude or trespass overmuch on a relationship. Suffice it to say that the fault was mine.
The actual split came in June.
Nope. Didn't see that coming, sitting at that desk back in 2008.
*******
Patrick and I were always an unusual (gay) couple. Of all the things we did right (which were many), one of the things I am most proud of is how we split. We salvaged everything that worked - our friendship, our mutual admiration, our shared history, our inside jokes - and chucked what didn't.
Time has healed the wounds. I've returned to my set point of happiness, and I've even learned to forgive and like myself again.
*******
So, here I sit, five years to the day after writing that post of What My 35 Years of Experience Has Taught Me, and I guess I should sort of take stock of what I have learned in the interim.
The problem is, one of those wise, slightly melancholy, world-weary songs that caught my ear years ago pretty much sums it up, and any attempt I'd make to disguise it would be derivative, bordering on plagiarism. Instead, my own take on the lyrics appear in brackets. It's well worth the listen if you've never heard it before, or if you've not heard its message in a while. It is my go-to song when I need to give myself a kick in the ass.
Baz Luhrman for the win: Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen) was released in 1999. I was all of 27 then, and felt completely simpatico with the elderly man reciting the lyrics. (I was an old soul long before I got Crohn's, but the associated symptoms and pains sometimes makes me as crotchety as any senior citizen. Maybe that has something to do with it?)
*******
Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’97: If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience ... I will dispense this advice now.
[This completely justifies how little time I spend outside. Note to Self: Spend more time enjoying the beauty of the outdoors these next five years, while you're still young.]
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you imagine.
[My body image issues at 40 - about to turn 41 - are so very different than they were even just five short years ago. The one upside to the Crohn's (which first began to manifest at 16) was that I could pretty much eat anything I wanted, and yet I struggled to tip the scale at anything higher than 150. Being the skinny kid, the kid who couldn't seem to put on muscle, the - well, doesn't he sort of *look* stereotypically gay? - kid, defined my body image from my teenage years until just a couple of years ago. I still think of myself as that kid. But I also look back at pictures of myself when this song first came out, and - yeah, OK - I may have had it goin' on once upon a time. : p ]
Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
[Ain't that the truth?]
Do one thing everyday that scares you
[What's the point of life if you're not taking chances?]
Sing
[However badly ... and don't give a damn about who sees you rocking out in your car with the stereo cranked. You'll probably never see that person again in your life anyway.]
Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.
[Ouch. When asked to pick which Titan I'd be, I chose Prometheus (who defied Zeus to bring secret fire and secret knowledge to mere mortals). When asked which Olympian, I chose Apollo (the healer and light-bringer). When asked which Hero, I hedged: Jason - he of the Argonauts, he who was inclusive of all in his quest - but minus the betrayal of his beloved. The Irony is too deep for words. I fucked up.]
Floss
[Note to Self: schedule a dentist appointment.]
Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind ... the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.
[I'm not immune to this emotion, but - as an INTJ - I'm far less prone to it than most. It's simply not ... logical. The lyric is right here. Success (on any metric) is not a zero-sum game. There is plenty of success to be had in this world, and it's ultimately up to each of us to define what success means. The flexibility to redefine success at different phases of our lives is one of the greatest freedoms we can award ourselves. Also, it's not a straight-line trajectory. Trite as it may be, the detours in life matter, and can sometimes land us in places where we find unexpected new forms of success. If Life is like Mario Brothers, then there are a lot of "One Up Mushrooms" out there. Sometimes you gotta bang your head into some bricks over your head to find them. (This may be my favorite new awful metaphor.)]
Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
[Very few people have the power to get under my skin. I know my mind, and I know my motives. The likelihood that an insult resonates is directly proportional to the aptness of the assessment. I am, however, susceptible to flattery about my dimples, my eyes, and my ... nevermind. Or ask me sometime. : p]
Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.
[No, keep both. Just digitize the latter. Good record-keeping comes in handy in Life. Trust me on this one.]
Stretch
[I just stood and stretched. You should too. Do it. You'll feel better, and we'll have shared this bit of interactive time travel. I did it when I wrote it; you did it when you read it. Go on. Big stretch. Better, huh?]
Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.
[Guilty as charged, but I have formed an inkling of what it is I want to do with the rest of it.]
Get plenty of calcium.
[Cheese! Glorious cheese!]
Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.
[Note to Self: See if Dick's Sporting Goods gives a birthday discount, and buy yourself some kneepads. *snicker*]
Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.
[Yes. All true. Re-read that last bit. Getting up every morning, and buying a lottery ticket for Life - just by trying, putting one foot in front of the other, plodding on when you don't feel like it - gives you the "half chance" part. Like any other lottery, if you don't play, you can't win. Try. Fail. Repeat. Try. Fail. Repeat. Try. Succeed! (However you define Success.)]
Enjoy your body, use it every way you can…don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.
[It helps that I've always been a semi-nudist little exhibitionist, but I can now proudly parade through a locker-room with a towel slung over my shoulder, whistling after a workout. I've finally sort of made peace with that whole skinny kid thing, plus the objective, rational, logic-bound measurement of the bathroom scale tells me it's time for me to change how that newfound weight is redistributed. The Skinny Kid trapped inside me can go to hell. We're going to the gym this year and molding all that extra clay into something worth taking pictures of ... and then looking back on them in 20 years the same way as those pictures from our 20s.]
Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.
[I do that ***all*** the friggin' time. In fact, pretty much like this, and often while dancing to it to get motivated.
Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.
[I have this down to an art form, especially when reading from cookbooks.]
Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.
[Pffft. I have bedroom skills. What do I need magazines for? : p ]
Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good.
[*sigh* I dedicated the auto-biography I had to write at 17 (while living in a yurt on the tallest mountain in West Virginia for a month) to my dad, and to my unborn children. The premise was simple: I did not - and still do not fully - understand my father. I thought maybe if I captured a snapshot of what I was like at 17, my kids would have a better sense of who I am, or was at their age. I intended to give it to them on their 17th birthdays. One of The Great Unknowns of my life remaining is whether I will manage to still have kids. I love kids. I love fostering their creativity and helping them to learn and grow. I digress. My relationship with Mom became surprisingly complex beginning in my Senior Year of high school. At the time, we thought her erratic behavior was early menopause, or related to the endometriosis, or empty nest syndrome (as her firstborn son prepared to leave for college). In the 20 years or so since that time, more and more details have emerged about the reasons why, but Mom struggles with mental illness. I sometimes feel slight pangs of Jealousy (see, not entirely immune to it) for friends my age who have robust, healthy adult relationships with one or both parents. It is what it is, and I have to continue to find ways to have whatever relationship I can with her.]
Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
[I am extraordinarily proud of both my sister and my brother. They are good people. I have really, really, really got to make this a priority in the second half of my life.]
Understand that friends come and go,but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.
[Amen, and I am eternally grateful for the friends "who knew me when" who have stuck by me over the years. Conversely, there are a few who I thought for sure would be lifelong pals who bailed when I really needed them to be there. I'm the sort of person who will gladly give multiple chances for redemption, and who will forgive and forget. I guess that means I'm especially perplexed by those who don't share that same core value. Ah, well. I'm also enjoying making new friends, adult friends, friends whose paths have crossed with mine later in life.]
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
[I lived in Boston for eight years. I'm going to count that as equal to one year in NYC, although I don't rule out living in NYC if my book publisher really needs me to be nearby for revisions, or if I can put myself up in a quaint little penthouse with a view of Central Park. As for Northern California: maybe, although my second grade teacher terrified me that California would one day go sliding off into the ocean, and - rational though I am - that image stuck in an irrational synaptic cluster, and I have not yet beered it out of existence. Maybe Oregon. Or British Columbia. Better weed.]
Travel.
[I am woefully behind on this. This will change. It must.]
Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
[Lies. Painfully and growingly familiar lies, every bit of it. : p ]
Respect your elders.
[The upside of this is that there are fewer of them every single day. I'm nothing, if not an optimist.]
Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.
[Note to Self: There's always law school and student loans, if all else fails.]
Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40, it will look 85.
[My ballcap and I agree. All you need is a little gel for fancy occasions.]
Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.
[Hence, this nostalgic post.]
But trust me on the sunscreen…
[It's a rough post, but I can live with this. I reserve the right to edit later, which I rarely, rarely do. It's stream of consciousness, and it's far too pretty outside today to spend it indoors all day writing. And - look! - I even have some sunscreen. The only prediction I'll make for five years from now? I bet I'm just as pale ... unless I've up and moved somewhere sunny and tropical, with hot island boys. Then I'll trust them ... with the sunscreen.]
: )
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
From The Hills to Harvard: Gay Back in The Day
Yup, that was pretty much me, on an early Autumn Friday night in Boston, all of 18, and away from home for my first semester of college - sitting on a barstool in the The Ramrod, wearing penny loafers, chinos, and a pale blue button-down Oxford. (I promised in my status last week that the story of how this came to be was a tale for another time. Today feels like another time. After all, it's Pride Month, not just a single weekend.)Frosh Week, there were lots of jokes in the dorms about what went on in The Science Center basement bathroom. As it turns out, I had a class in the Science Center - Evolutionary Biology with E.O. Wilson - and I really had to take a leak after class one day. I looked for a men's room on the ground floor. There was none. From the open atrium, however, the basement men's room door was clearly visible. With plenty of foot traffic and crowded computer labs on both sides of it, it seemed like maybe this whole basement bathroom business was just another myth Frosh were told by upperclassmen ... sorta like The Swim Test.
Still, I was nervous as I entered through the squeaky door, moving cautiously forward through the double switchback, heart pounding, bladder aching. I heard distinct sounds of hurried recombobulation. As I turned the final corner, a couple of guys bolted past me. I thought they looked guilty. One had exited a nearby stall. A few guys remained behind. They looked at me. Growing up in Southern West Virginia, I had learned in gym class and in practice to keep my eyes front and center. I bolted into the vacated stall and bolted the door, wondering if my screams for help would be heard by the people in those computer labs. Now, from inside the men's room, those computer labs seemed a world away.
I listened. The sounds of silence were deafening. There should definitely be more sound. Then, I realized I was just standing there, too, and I REALLY had to take a leak. So, I chanced it and whipped it out, trusting to the little metal latch to keep me safe for however long this was going to take. I regretted having so much coffee that morning. As things got started, I kept glancing back, a little worried and a little wondering about those too-quiet guys out there.
A shuffle of a foot to my right brought my glance wildly down to the floor, and there it was: a gay newspaper, as bold as bold can be, lying on the floor of my stall. The blue masthead and page one stories of Bay Windows seemed to confirm every rumor I'd heard about this bathroom during Frosh Week.
Suddenly, I had to sit, and now I was wondering whether the guys out there would be able to see if I picked up that newspaper. Were they waiting to see if I picked it up? Why was it there in the first place? Was this some sort of ongoing practical joke played on first-semester Frosh? I picked it up and started reading. There were no gay newspapers in West Virginia in 1990, and the temptation to learn something - anything! - about what other gay guys thought and wrote about was too much to resist. I knew that little metal latch would never hold them back if it was a practical joke, but I had to know.
Nobody banged on my door.
I couldn't begin to tell you what any of the articles were about. I don't remember. In the adrenaline-fueled fuzziness of this whole surreal experience, I memorized the name of the publication, thumbing through the pages, speed-skimming headlines and ads and ... and then I gasped. There, in the centerfold, was an ad for Glad Day Bookstore, and a map to all the gay bars in Boston and Cambridge. I felt like I had discovered The Rosetta Stone.
The ad for Glad Day Bookstore mentioned that they were located directly across from the main branch of the Boston Public Library in Copley Square, and carried all manner of books, newspapers, and magazines concerning gay issues. I remember thinking that this seemed like an odd place to put a gay bookstore. Copley Square is the heart of respectable Boston. I mean, the first public library in the nation is right there - the main branch! I had already visited that area a few times as a tourist and a Frosh. To think that I had passed by a gay bookstore seemed inconceivable. I was pretty sure that would have stood out.
I forgot everything else I had tried to remember so far. Carefully placing the newspaper back down, I sped out of that men's room as fast as seemed polite. I resolved that I would go seek out Glad Day Bookstore that very Friday evening. I resolved that I would go check out a gay club. I surmised that they probably carried this Bay Windows newspaper, and that I could probably find that map of the gay bars and clubs there again. I resolved to bring a pen and some paper to write down an address.
Friday seemed never to arrive. When it did, I had a hard time deciding what to wear. I wanted to look nice. A gal pal back home once told me that I looked nice in those chinos and that pale blue button-down Oxford and those penny loafers without the socks. So, I went with that.
By the time I got to Copley Square in those sockless penny loafers, my feet were sore and a little scuffed. Boston is a walkable city, but I should have worn sneakers.
I walked back and forth past the address given for Glad Day Bookstore three times, more and more disappointed with each pass. Oh. The newspaper in the bathroom was a fake after all. I was just about to give up, jump on the T to cross back over the river to Harvard Square, and call it an evening, when a guy walked out of a walk-up set of stairs at the address in question, holding a suspiciously opaque black plastic bag. I looked up. In the second story window, there was a rainbow leading to a sign that read: "Glad Day Bookstore: Welcome!"
My heart went from zero to a hundred in a nanosecond. I don't remember climbing the first flight of stairs, but I do remember the bulletin boards on the first landing, crowded with ads for gay poetry readings, and nightclubs, and ... it was all too much. I walked in to the bookstore itself, and was gobsmacked. There were shelves and shelves of books about all sorts of things related to being gay. There were guys of all ages - from college kids to grey old men - perusing those books and those periodicals like they were in B. Dalton or Waldenbooks, the mall bookstores back home.
I was suddenly terrified that someone I went to school with might see me. It didn't dawn on me at the time that if they were there, it was probably because they were gay, too. Rushing up to the guy at the sales counter, I whispered, nervously: "Do you have Bay Windows?!?"
He smiled at me, leaned over the counter, and pointed near my foot. There, neatly stacked, stood a whole pile of Bay Windows.
I whipped out my pen and paper, and tore right to the centerfold map.
"You can have that. They're free," he said, at a conversational volume.
I shook my head vigorously, not appreciating the attention he was drawing, and worried anew (and irrationally) that one of the heads turning in our direction might be a classmate. My whole plan to carefully scope out the choices of clubs went to hell in a handbasket. Instead, I triaged my selection process, picking the nearest club I could find. I jotted down the address.
"No, thanks!" I sort of hissed at him, clumsily folding the paper back into a hopeless mess, flinging it back on top of the stack. I pretty much ran out the door, back down those stairs, and at least half a block before I slowed down.
It was about 7:30 by this time. It was dark. I felt more or less sure nobody I knew had seen me.
As I later found out, I had one hand covering up a number of nearer, more "mainstream" gay bars. The club whose address I wrote down? The Ramrod.
When I limped in the door of The Ramrod at 8 that Friday evening, I stood still in utter shock. The thought that passed through my mind? "Holy Shit! I've walked into The Blue Oyster from Police Academy!"
There was leather everywhere. There were posters of leather everywhere. Thankfully, there was only one other person actually there. Like the men on those posters, he was wearing leather, and he laughed at me from behind the bar, motioning with his finger for me to come over to him, pausing in his bar-back work before the place opened.
When I got to the corner of his bar, he was still chuckling: "So? What's your story?" He poured me a ginger ale, and smiled sincerely, still chuckling, though.
It was definitely the kind gesture of pouring me the ginger ale that caused me to sit. I sat down on a wooden barstool, and told him the whole damn story of how I'd ended up here, starting with the stories about The Science Center basement bathroom. Somewhere along the way, I mentioned I was from West Virginia. I remember he interrupted me, and said that was almost as bad as being from Kansas, and that I was a loooooong way from Kansas.
That was the first time I had ever heard anyone use Wizard of Oz as a gay metaphor. I thought it fit, and I laughed with him when he said it.
: )
When I'd spilled everything, he pulled out his worn copy of Bay Windows from behind the bar and placed it on the counter, opening it to the map. Grabbing a pen, he started circling other bars - it was at this point I realized I'd covered them up in my haste during my trip to Glad Day - and then told me: "These bars are probably more your speed."
Now, that pissed me off. First off, I thought he was making a comment about my being from West Virginia, and gay Mountaineer or not, ya just don't go putting down West Virginia to a West Virginian. Secondly, the way he said it sounded like he thought I couldn't hack this place. To paraphrase Daffy Duck: "I may be a coward, but I (was a) horny little coward!"
I asked him what he meant by that, sort of indignantly, adding that I could handle being here, now that I knew what the deal was with this place, and what kind of place was this anyway, with no customers? He started laughing again.
"Well, first off, most clubs don't really get going until around 11. Tell you what: if you want to come in tonight, I'll tell the bouncer to let you in. Why don't you write these addresses down, though, just in case. If you walk around and decide not to come back, fine. But you can get in here tonight just to see what's what."
I wrote down those other addresses. I walked around. I killed time. My feet were killing me in those penny loafers. But I walked back around 11. From the street, I could hear a lot of voices, and loud music. I walked up to the door, suddenly nervous that maybe my bartender buddy had forgotten to tell the bouncer, or that maybe there was more than one. The Harvard Square clubs always seemed to have more than one.
The bouncer took one look at me, laughed, and said, "Go on in."
The sight that awaited me was Blue Oyster from Police Academy on steroids.
Still. I had something to prove to that bartender. And myself.
Making a beeline for the corner of his bar, I got his attention. He laughed again, pouring me another ginger ale: "Wasn't sure you'd show."
Indignant again, I answered, "Of course I was gonna show."
I immediately wondered how long I had to stay to prove my bravery to him. One ginger ale? Two?
He whispered something to the other bartenders behind the counter, and then took up position right beside me. He kept me engaged in conversation, pointing out some of the anthropological features of the interactions. I felt like Jane Goodall - Gayrillas in the Mist. I started asking questions. He encouraged me to walk around a bit - daring me to do one complete circuit of the perimeter (which was how the crowd moved there). He promised he'd keep my seat open for me, and said he might introduce me to a couple of the regulars when I got back.
So my sockless penny loafers and I did one complete circuit (clockwise or counterclockwise around the perimeter mattered, I later found out). All those leather boots, and my penny loafers with the shiny pennies in them.
True to his word, he kept my seat open for me. He poured me another ginger ale. I smirked at him triumphantly. Well, I'm sure I actually had one of my goofy dimpled grins on my face, but it felt like a smirk. It felt like a smirk that said, "I may never come back here again in my life, but don't tell me this isn't my speed! See?!? I came back, and didn't turn tail and run!"
He definitely smirked. I read it as, "OK, OK, Dorothy. You proved your point. Now drink your ginger ale."
I drank my ginger ale, surrounded by men in leather, on a barstool. The first time I saw this picture on the cover of Rolling Stone, I howled with laughter. That was me, about 22 years ago.
That night, I met a very nice regular, while my bartender was otherwise occupied. This regular was dressed in a business suit, and was in his early 30s. Catching sight of me, he introduced himself. He was an office manager for a large Boston law firm. It turns out The Ramrod was his local gay watering hole, and he had stopped off for a nightcap after a very long Friday at work. He talked me into coming back to see his place. I waved to my bartender on the way out. He looked a little bit miffed that I was leaving with the hot office manager in the business suit.
I got back to my dorm room on Sunday. My roommates were about to call the campus police and my mom to report that I was missing. When they asked where the hell I had been since Friday, I reported: "Out and about."
It became my refrain whenever I would sneak across the Charles River, to gay clubs that really were more my speed, and not get home until the following day or later that weekend. In my most recent Class Report, I told my old college roommates that - among other things - I am still "Out And About."
Sadly, Glad Day closed its doors in 2000. The Internet and the real estate bubble killed it. The Ramrod is still open. It was an unlikely first for me, but a fond memory, and a fond first brick in my own personal Yellow Brick Road.
Happy Pride!
: )
- David
Saturday, March 15, 2008
True Confessions: I Swing Both Ways
That is to say, I have cast my vote for both Democrats and Republicans.
There, I've said it. I'm out of the closet: I'm a progressive, rational, thinking voter.
No, I will not conform to even an LGBT orthodoxy. Neither will I stand idly by and be vilified for failing so to do.
Once upon a time, on a discussion board that has long since gone off the rails, I posted An Argument for Dem/GOP Bridge-Building.
When I got "tombstoned" from that board, (in large part, for failing to adhere to the prevailing clique's views on Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton and LGBT rights), I was vilifed, thumbscrewed, tarred, and feathered for having admitted, candidly and truthfully, that I'm not a registered Democrat.
As Irony would have it, those yammering loudest post as anonymous cowards, without revealing their voting history or their thought process on this year's race.
Whereas, I patiently and candidly explained the rationale for my prior votes in Presidential races ...
... many of those anonymous, groupthinking potshotters used my own truthful and candid disclosure as fabricated fodder to denounce me for my - gasp! - heresy.
Freethink is hard; groupthink is easy.
In American Politics of the 21st Century, there are Dittoheads on the right, with Rush as their ringleader.
And then there are DU Dodos (TM) on the left, with The Three DUges* P.T. Barnumming that particular three-ring circus.
However, just as some former Dittoheads have had their eyes opened to what Rush is really all about, so too are many former DU Dodos awakening to what The Three DUges* are really all about.
So, yes, Gentle Reader: I sometimes swing both ways. But just as I honestly and candidly revealed my past votes, let me honestly and candidly reveal my thought process this political cycle, in brief:
The GOP Race
* John "I'm Proud to Be A Merkin for Bush" McCain (TM) lost his maverick stripes long ago, in my book (and my Oppo Research book, on McCain, goes back more than a decade).
* Twit Romney didn't have a prayer, but he was fun to watch, and fun to mock.
* Aw Shucks Huckabee worries me, especially if he's the Veep pick (he worries me enough that I started Oppo Research on him months ago).
* Ron Paul inspired a whole new generation of conspiracy theorists to purchase tin foil in bulk. Seriously, his campaign single-handedly moved the aluminum and bauxite commodities markets!
* Frederick "FauxRhetoric" Thompson (TM)? *eyeroll* Puh-leeze. The GOP tried this once: Bob Dole says just ask Bob Dole.
* Tootie Fruity Rudy? Oh, Judy! What a comedown from Saturday Night Live (but I say, bring him back on SNL, again and again and again).
* Duncan "Resolution Trust Corporation Indictment Imminent" Hunter? That's going to be a post-candidacy story to watch. Mark my words on this one, Gentle Reader.
The Democratic Race
* Barack Obama: It's hard to find fault with how he's run this campaign, without nitpicking. I found his videotaped answers at the LOGO / Human Rights Campaign / VisibleVote event to be far superior to Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton's, but not as persuasive as Edwards'. The pastor things are sort of stupid, in my view. I am squarely in his camp now, and - barring some catastrophic revelation - I will remain there through the General Election.
* Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton: My vote and my support was hers to lose. She lost both, with an assist from Bombastic Bill and Pitiful Penn. At the aforementioned VisibleVote event, she gave jaw-droppingly dumbass answers for someone who claims to have been actively involved during the Civil Rights Era. My disagreements with her on public policy issues are too legion to mention in this particular blog entry. But suffice it to say: not only did she lose me as a supporter, she gained me as a member of her active opposition. And her "real live boi" Pennocchio and I WILL tangle, and - if he lasts beyond Pennsylvania - I'll be mightily surprised.
* John Edwards: When I departed Clinton's Camp in the late fall, I simultaneously jumped ship to Edwards. I still think he was the best blend of experience and change. If Obama offers Edwards a strong Veepship (e.g., giving him a role similar to Gore's on REGO, only focused on cross-Cabinet corporate crime work, such as environmental crimes, financial crimes, public health crimes, employment discrimination crimes, etc.), then I think Edwards should jump at the opportunity. The Veep - as a Constitutional Officer - has greater job security than the AG (the other role I've heard mentioned for Edwards). So, I'm holding out hope that Obama convinces Edwards to take the Veep spot.
* Joe Biden: When he's funny, he's funny. His sharp, sarcastic wit never fails to amuse. But it's a Presidential race, not Last Comic Standing.
* Chris Dodd: No delegates, but finally! The eyebrow trim, ear hair trim, and new 'do his Hill staffers have been clamoring and yammering for these many years! Someone went all Queer Eye for the Bushy-Browed Guy on him, and he's positively glowing now!
* Mike Gravel: Who?
* Dennis Kucinich: After dropping out, he managed to survive his primary fight, and - if he retains his House seat in the fall - is going to be a shoe-in to lead the newly-formed Kongressional Keebler Kaucus (TM) (having consistently lead among that demographic in primary season exit polls).
* Bill Richardson: Honestly? At first, this guy reminded me of an even more boring version of Horatio Sanz (who I think is, perhaps, the most boring cast member of Saturday Night Live - ever). I mean: Richardson just looked pathetic in the debates. But since he dropped out, he's gained a few coolness points, and has now surpassed Sanz; that's not really saying much, but it's progress.
My bottom line?
As I said earlier in this entry ... I'm out of the closet: I'm a progressive, rational, thinking voter.
That means:
1. You can lose my support. (sHrillary and McCain)
2. You can earn my support. (Edwards and Obama)
3. You can gain my notice. (Biden, Huckabee, Kucinich, Richardson)
4. You can gain my laughter. (Rudy, Twit, Dodd, Paul, Gravel, Kucinich)
Oh, and one more thing: I'm not a single issues voter, but I understand the importance of the third branch of our Federal Government. That's largely why I voted for Gore in 2000. My partner of nearly 14 years and I would like to see greater - if not full - equality in our lifetimes. That means wise judges who respect America's traditions, but who also have an eye on helping her to remain true to progressive principles. Good judges are among the most important change agents in our Democracy. They stand at the intersection of preserving the best of our past, and catalyzing change that improves upon that past, in order to help deliver a better present and future.
So neither the weathervane that is Billary (who've proven their fecklessness time and again), nor McCain (who's carried much too much water for Bush) can count on this voter's support.
I may swing both ways: but I have taste, and I have standards.
- Dave
* Depending on the region and usage: pronounced like "douches" or "dooges," FYI.
There, I've said it. I'm out of the closet: I'm a progressive, rational, thinking voter.
No, I will not conform to even an LGBT orthodoxy. Neither will I stand idly by and be vilified for failing so to do.
Once upon a time, on a discussion board that has long since gone off the rails, I posted An Argument for Dem/GOP Bridge-Building.
When I got "tombstoned" from that board, (in large part, for failing to adhere to the prevailing clique's views on Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton and LGBT rights), I was vilifed, thumbscrewed, tarred, and feathered for having admitted, candidly and truthfully, that I'm not a registered Democrat.
As Irony would have it, those yammering loudest post as anonymous cowards, without revealing their voting history or their thought process on this year's race.
Whereas, I patiently and candidly explained the rationale for my prior votes in Presidential races ...
I voted for:
1992: Bush 41 (I thought Baker had a decent shot at a comprehensive Middle East deal; I plead youthful indiscretion)
1996: Clinton
2000: McCain (primaries); Gore (general)
2004: Kerry
... many of those anonymous, groupthinking potshotters used my own truthful and candid disclosure as fabricated fodder to denounce me for my - gasp! - heresy.
Freethink is hard; groupthink is easy.
In American Politics of the 21st Century, there are Dittoheads on the right, with Rush as their ringleader.
And then there are DU Dodos (TM) on the left, with The Three DUges* P.T. Barnumming that particular three-ring circus.
However, just as some former Dittoheads have had their eyes opened to what Rush is really all about, so too are many former DU Dodos awakening to what The Three DUges* are really all about.
So, yes, Gentle Reader: I sometimes swing both ways. But just as I honestly and candidly revealed my past votes, let me honestly and candidly reveal my thought process this political cycle, in brief:
The GOP Race
* John "I'm Proud to Be A Merkin for Bush" McCain (TM) lost his maverick stripes long ago, in my book (and my Oppo Research book, on McCain, goes back more than a decade).
* Twit Romney didn't have a prayer, but he was fun to watch, and fun to mock.
* Aw Shucks Huckabee worries me, especially if he's the Veep pick (he worries me enough that I started Oppo Research on him months ago).
* Ron Paul inspired a whole new generation of conspiracy theorists to purchase tin foil in bulk. Seriously, his campaign single-handedly moved the aluminum and bauxite commodities markets!
* Frederick "FauxRhetoric" Thompson (TM)? *eyeroll* Puh-leeze. The GOP tried this once: Bob Dole says just ask Bob Dole.
* Tootie Fruity Rudy? Oh, Judy! What a comedown from Saturday Night Live (but I say, bring him back on SNL, again and again and again).
* Duncan "Resolution Trust Corporation Indictment Imminent" Hunter? That's going to be a post-candidacy story to watch. Mark my words on this one, Gentle Reader.
The Democratic Race
* Barack Obama: It's hard to find fault with how he's run this campaign, without nitpicking. I found his videotaped answers at the LOGO / Human Rights Campaign / VisibleVote event to be far superior to Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton's, but not as persuasive as Edwards'. The pastor things are sort of stupid, in my view. I am squarely in his camp now, and - barring some catastrophic revelation - I will remain there through the General Election.
* Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton: My vote and my support was hers to lose. She lost both, with an assist from Bombastic Bill and Pitiful Penn. At the aforementioned VisibleVote event, she gave jaw-droppingly dumbass answers for someone who claims to have been actively involved during the Civil Rights Era. My disagreements with her on public policy issues are too legion to mention in this particular blog entry. But suffice it to say: not only did she lose me as a supporter, she gained me as a member of her active opposition. And her "real live boi" Pennocchio and I WILL tangle, and - if he lasts beyond Pennsylvania - I'll be mightily surprised.
* John Edwards: When I departed Clinton's Camp in the late fall, I simultaneously jumped ship to Edwards. I still think he was the best blend of experience and change. If Obama offers Edwards a strong Veepship (e.g., giving him a role similar to Gore's on REGO, only focused on cross-Cabinet corporate crime work, such as environmental crimes, financial crimes, public health crimes, employment discrimination crimes, etc.), then I think Edwards should jump at the opportunity. The Veep - as a Constitutional Officer - has greater job security than the AG (the other role I've heard mentioned for Edwards). So, I'm holding out hope that Obama convinces Edwards to take the Veep spot.
* Joe Biden: When he's funny, he's funny. His sharp, sarcastic wit never fails to amuse. But it's a Presidential race, not Last Comic Standing.
* Chris Dodd: No delegates, but finally! The eyebrow trim, ear hair trim, and new 'do his Hill staffers have been clamoring and yammering for these many years! Someone went all Queer Eye for the Bushy-Browed Guy on him, and he's positively glowing now!
* Mike Gravel: Who?
* Dennis Kucinich: After dropping out, he managed to survive his primary fight, and - if he retains his House seat in the fall - is going to be a shoe-in to lead the newly-formed Kongressional Keebler Kaucus (TM) (having consistently lead among that demographic in primary season exit polls).
* Bill Richardson: Honestly? At first, this guy reminded me of an even more boring version of Horatio Sanz (who I think is, perhaps, the most boring cast member of Saturday Night Live - ever). I mean: Richardson just looked pathetic in the debates. But since he dropped out, he's gained a few coolness points, and has now surpassed Sanz; that's not really saying much, but it's progress.
My bottom line?
As I said earlier in this entry ... I'm out of the closet: I'm a progressive, rational, thinking voter.
That means:
1. You can lose my support. (sHrillary and McCain)
2. You can earn my support. (Edwards and Obama)
3. You can gain my notice. (Biden, Huckabee, Kucinich, Richardson)
4. You can gain my laughter. (Rudy, Twit, Dodd, Paul, Gravel, Kucinich)
Oh, and one more thing: I'm not a single issues voter, but I understand the importance of the third branch of our Federal Government. That's largely why I voted for Gore in 2000. My partner of nearly 14 years and I would like to see greater - if not full - equality in our lifetimes. That means wise judges who respect America's traditions, but who also have an eye on helping her to remain true to progressive principles. Good judges are among the most important change agents in our Democracy. They stand at the intersection of preserving the best of our past, and catalyzing change that improves upon that past, in order to help deliver a better present and future.
So neither the weathervane that is Billary (who've proven their fecklessness time and again), nor McCain (who's carried much too much water for Bush) can count on this voter's support.
I may swing both ways: but I have taste, and I have standards.
- Dave
* Depending on the region and usage: pronounced like "douches" or "dooges," FYI.
Friday, March 14, 2008
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