Tonight, in a nearly perfect speech, Hillary Clinton established herself as human adhesive. With clear words and a calm, sturdy demeanor she united the Democratic Party. While the media's claims of a fractured coalition may have been overstated, it will be difficult to continue playing that same tune now. The Senator from New York urged her followers to "keep going" and reminded them that they were not simply Hillary devotees, but supporters of the causes she and Barack Obama both embody.
With a steady dose of grace and a clever line about George Bush, "her friend, John McCain," and the Twin Cities Hillary established herself as the anti-sore loser. Where Ted Kennedy faltered in 1980, Mrs. Clinton succeeded in 2008. With a strong place in America as one of New York's most powerful politicians and a respected national voice, she doesn't appear to be fading. In fact, the former first lady's husband was often called The Comeback Kid, but it's clear the rock behind President Clinton during his many tribulations remains as dangerous as the Bronx Bombers in the late innings at Yankee Stadium. Hillary's performance in Denver was her rendition of God Bless America.
While the expected order may have been reversed, once Barack Obama has finished with his segment of Change in either 2012 or 2016, look for The Midnight Maiden to reach the White House once again. Barack Obama may not have waited his turn, but don't be shocked if Hillary Clinton gets hers when his clock strikes twelve.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Michelle Obama Is Bomb
About a week ago my life wasn't running so smoothly. Unemployed, uninsured, recently found 100% culpable in a car accident, hampered by a degenerative disc bulge in my lower back, worried about delaying a sinus surgery that I still need, struggling to find the necessary money to pay my bills, and generally stressed from the inevitable end of college life and the formality of moving to a new section of town, I decided enough was enough. It was time to cry.
The only problem was, I couldn't.
When I was much younger crying usually eased the pain of the many stressors the world flung in my direction. Tired of being called "Butt" in lieu of my nickname "Buzz," or more to the point considering my long hair and decision to sell lunch ladies scrunchies my mother had made, "Faggot," by classmates in elementary school, I cried. On my thirteenth birthday, when I should have had a Bar Mitzvah according to tradition but instead received a crisp $100 bill from my father in his little apartment, I told him I hated him and cried. After a shouting match with my mother and seemingly no support from my friends watching television downstairs, I headed to the basement for a salty pity party.
But, somewhere along the way toward young adulthood, crying stopped working. The frequency with which I resorted to tears dropped dramatically, to the point where even as the exit from college and the necessary smattering of "real world" reality that comes with it had taken me back to the level of stress that prematurely turned patches of my hair white during a sophomore year of high school in which I learned a pair of wrist surgeries would essentially put my life on hold for enough Xs to fill an entire calendar, crying wasn't even an option.
Monday night, when Michelle Obama presented herself to the nation for the first time, her words resonated. In fact, she resonated. America in its purest idealism comes down to family values, freedom of expression, and the unity of disparate groups. Mrs. Obama's speech spoke of these same concepts: the stoic heroicism of her father as he refused to allow a crippling disease to cripple him, her mother's instillment of a sense of duty to one's community, Hillary Clinton's work in shattering glass ceilings, each carefully crafted to portray just what America needs--not change, but a return to the concepts that the world's greatest document, the one a Tea Party in Boston allowed to shape the future of the world, dictates we must follow.
Yes, each element of the night's events was perfectly planned to attack weaknesses and emphasize strengths in the Obama campaign, be it the newly reformed motherly image of Mrs. Obama or allaying fears that Barack is un-American with the substitution of his wife's biography for his own. However, unlike the night's guest of honor, the magnanimous Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy, Obama was not born to be a politician and he has never involved himself in scandal, such as The Chappaquiddick Incident or cheating at Harvard. He made himself into perhaps the world's next most powerful man by playing the game well, and he and his squadron of spinmeisters continued to pitch a shutout on Monday night. But, this just felt different.
When the prospective first lady took the stage, following an introduction from her older brother, she started off a bit slowly. An opening joke missed, drawing only courtesy laughs, and her words came out a bit off rhythm. But as she progressed deeper and deeper into her speech, she began to sense the mood of the crowd and learned to use both her emotions and those of a sea of supporters to express herself in a truer, more heartfelt, much brighter light.
In that light her daughters entered the stage, radiating beauty, happiness, pride in their parents, and a hopeful future. In that light throngs of convention attendees surged to their feet in support of an enthralling woman and her perhaps equally inspiring husband. In that light countless enthused listeners couldn't help but allow the flow of tears to leave their eyes, eyes that had seen failure, disappointment, and disillusionment, and in that moment glimpsed relief and the return of belief.
And it was in that light that a gentle trickle finally fell southward from the corner of my right eye.
The only problem was, I couldn't.
***
When I was much younger crying usually eased the pain of the many stressors the world flung in my direction. Tired of being called "Butt" in lieu of my nickname "Buzz," or more to the point considering my long hair and decision to sell lunch ladies scrunchies my mother had made, "Faggot," by classmates in elementary school, I cried. On my thirteenth birthday, when I should have had a Bar Mitzvah according to tradition but instead received a crisp $100 bill from my father in his little apartment, I told him I hated him and cried. After a shouting match with my mother and seemingly no support from my friends watching television downstairs, I headed to the basement for a salty pity party.
But, somewhere along the way toward young adulthood, crying stopped working. The frequency with which I resorted to tears dropped dramatically, to the point where even as the exit from college and the necessary smattering of "real world" reality that comes with it had taken me back to the level of stress that prematurely turned patches of my hair white during a sophomore year of high school in which I learned a pair of wrist surgeries would essentially put my life on hold for enough Xs to fill an entire calendar, crying wasn't even an option.
***
Monday night, when Michelle Obama presented herself to the nation for the first time, her words resonated. In fact, she resonated. America in its purest idealism comes down to family values, freedom of expression, and the unity of disparate groups. Mrs. Obama's speech spoke of these same concepts: the stoic heroicism of her father as he refused to allow a crippling disease to cripple him, her mother's instillment of a sense of duty to one's community, Hillary Clinton's work in shattering glass ceilings, each carefully crafted to portray just what America needs--not change, but a return to the concepts that the world's greatest document, the one a Tea Party in Boston allowed to shape the future of the world, dictates we must follow.
Yes, each element of the night's events was perfectly planned to attack weaknesses and emphasize strengths in the Obama campaign, be it the newly reformed motherly image of Mrs. Obama or allaying fears that Barack is un-American with the substitution of his wife's biography for his own. However, unlike the night's guest of honor, the magnanimous Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy, Obama was not born to be a politician and he has never involved himself in scandal, such as The Chappaquiddick Incident or cheating at Harvard. He made himself into perhaps the world's next most powerful man by playing the game well, and he and his squadron of spinmeisters continued to pitch a shutout on Monday night. But, this just felt different.
When the prospective first lady took the stage, following an introduction from her older brother, she started off a bit slowly. An opening joke missed, drawing only courtesy laughs, and her words came out a bit off rhythm. But as she progressed deeper and deeper into her speech, she began to sense the mood of the crowd and learned to use both her emotions and those of a sea of supporters to express herself in a truer, more heartfelt, much brighter light.
In that light her daughters entered the stage, radiating beauty, happiness, pride in their parents, and a hopeful future. In that light throngs of convention attendees surged to their feet in support of an enthralling woman and her perhaps equally inspiring husband. In that light countless enthused listeners couldn't help but allow the flow of tears to leave their eyes, eyes that had seen failure, disappointment, and disillusionment, and in that moment glimpsed relief and the return of belief.
And it was in that light that a gentle trickle finally fell southward from the corner of my right eye.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Biden an Uninspiring Choice
In an article in the New York Times, David Axelrod, Barack Obama's chief campaign strategist, spoke about the addition of Senator Joe Biden to Obama's D.C. ticket as VP. “It’s a very personal decision,” Axelrod said. “He approached it in a very serious, sober and reasoned way.”
Well, yeah. I'm not entirely familiar with the living situation once in the White House, but you can be sure that choosing a VP you can get along with is a good idea. But, in this case, perhaps Big Barry should have taken a couple shots before choosing his running mate, because Senator Biden seems to be an altogether too sober selection. Where Obama "falls short" according to most (experience, age, gray hairs, white skin, etc.), Biden helps--he's essentially the liberal parallel to Dick Cheney (although to my knowledge Biden has yet to shoot anyone hunting). But, in terms of fitting the Illinois Senator's calls for change, Biden fits about as well as "mom jeans." (Check out Dad Jeans while you're at it.)
Well, yeah. I'm not entirely familiar with the living situation once in the White House, but you can be sure that choosing a VP you can get along with is a good idea. But, in this case, perhaps Big Barry should have taken a couple shots before choosing his running mate, because Senator Biden seems to be an altogether too sober selection. Where Obama "falls short" according to most (experience, age, gray hairs, white skin, etc.), Biden helps--he's essentially the liberal parallel to Dick Cheney (although to my knowledge Biden has yet to shoot anyone hunting). But, in terms of fitting the Illinois Senator's calls for change, Biden fits about as well as "mom jeans." (Check out Dad Jeans while you're at it.)
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Almost 23
Groggy, hungover, his eyes open.
Nothing happens.
His bed is empty, as is his mind. The previous night's festivities meld into one blurry encounter not easily recalled. Outside is disorder and refracting light; inside there is no light, but otherwise the equation balances.
He has no goals, no direction, just a desire for movement and salubrity. Food, water, cleanliness--they will return him to cogency, normalcy. False words without meaning, like proper grammar, syntax, diction.
He alternates between worlds, a butterfly floating lightly after years in a cocoon. He knows who he is, but cannot see what he is, or what he is to become. It's disarming, relaxing, enraging, stressful, aging, and countless other adjectives. (So post-modern.)
No new line emerges, so he accepts himself, unsure, and leaves labor and love for later. He's off to play in the sand and watch waves wash away castles and dreams.
He's almost twenty-three.
Nothing happens.
His bed is empty, as is his mind. The previous night's festivities meld into one blurry encounter not easily recalled. Outside is disorder and refracting light; inside there is no light, but otherwise the equation balances.
He has no goals, no direction, just a desire for movement and salubrity. Food, water, cleanliness--they will return him to cogency, normalcy. False words without meaning, like proper grammar, syntax, diction.
He alternates between worlds, a butterfly floating lightly after years in a cocoon. He knows who he is, but cannot see what he is, or what he is to become. It's disarming, relaxing, enraging, stressful, aging, and countless other adjectives. (So post-modern.)
No new line emerges, so he accepts himself, unsure, and leaves labor and love for later. He's off to play in the sand and watch waves wash away castles and dreams.
He's almost twenty-three.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Message to Spain: Time to Grow Up
At least they're not throwing bananas at soccer players of African descent. Recently, the Spanish Men's Olympic Basketball Team posed for a full-squad photo. An act that should have been innocuous enough, especially considering the frequency with which it occurs, went slightly awry--as some of you may have heard. The photo, shot for an advertising campaign run by Li-Ning Footwear, featured the entire team pulling its collective eyelids to the sides to play on the "slant-eye" appearance of the Chinese company's billion-strong consumer audience.
Henry Abbott, author of the widely-read basketball blog TrueHoop, shared his opinion on the matter yesterday:
"To my way of thinking, that photo was the exact kind of callous, stupid, and juvenile behavior that used to take place all over the world, but has slowed dramatically now that people have begun to realize that different kinds of people all over the world are complex humans with emotions, too. Call it political correctness if you want, but here, in the United States of 2008, I think just about everyone knows this photo would hurt feelings.
"But I really don't know much about the frame of reference from which these young Spanish men made the call. By their comments in response, the players all seem to think of themselves as innocent and open-minded. They were being 'affectionate' said one. The idea that it was racist was 'absurd' said another."
Quite simply, Abbott is dead on. It's the inability to see the effects of your actions on others that marks immaturity. Why not have a food fight? Someone else will clean it up. Who cares if I make fun of her acne? She should get it fixed if she doesn't want us to laugh.
In my somewhat limited experience with Spanish culture (I've spent about two months in the country), immaturity on racial issues seems to be a serious problem. Absurd advertising that demeans entire cultures is nothing new. While in Spain I saw countless products featuring chocolate babies who couldn't possibly be misconstrued as anything other than a caricature of a monkey infant. Just take a look for yourself.
Deeply disturbed after my first viewing of such repugnant packaging I asked an educated, elegant, enlightened world traveller, Pedro, who hails from Leon, how such a product could sell?
"We don't think like you Americans here," he replied. "We don't think everything is racist."
Now, not thinking like an American is nothing to be ashamed of, but employing willful ignorance is. In short, this train of thought is stupid--we ought to know better.
So how could this possibly happen just in time for the world's most international event? As Chris Chase writes, under the auspices of Yahoo.com's Fourth Place Medal blog, it's nothing short of incredible:
"It's baffling that nobody involved in the picture -- from the photographers to the players -- even seemed to consider that this ad would be looked at negatively. Did it not occur to somebody that it might not be a good idea to mock a large portion of the continent before the world's largest athletic competition that, by the way, happens to take place on that continent. Were they not aware of an invention called "the Internet" that allows pictures taken in Spain to be transmitted all over the world for the eyes of everyone?"
So, for the untold number of people involved in planning and implementing this advertising campaign, as well as those who claim to look past racial differences so far that racism isn't racism, I think it's time to grow up. After all, it's the 21st century, and at least where I'm from, 21 means adulthood.
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