When I arrived at my doctor's office this morning, I walked into a waiting room so jam-packed with gay men that, for a brief moment, I thought I'd stumbled into a time warp and found myself returned to Sunday Tea Dance at the Sea Monster. But then again, the whole day has had that sort of "Twilight Zone"-ish feel to it. I awoke in a foggy shmear this morning, stumbled out of bed and into the shower, where I tried, without much success, to wash the weariness away. At least I smelled good when I climbed into the van and headed for my tri-monthly bloodletting at the medical lab (conveniently located inside my doctor's office). After fighting my way through an interminable brigade of heavy traffic, I made the eight mile drive to the doctor's office in 35 minutes. Luckily, as soon as I entered, a man was called back to see the doctor, and I was able to grab his seat before anyone else could react. Apparently, my reflexes were working better than I'd imagined. After determining that I hadn't been previously acquainted with any of the waiters in the waiting room, I thumbed through a copy of the Advocate. Suddenly, the door opened and a vaguely familiar figure entered the office and walked to the reception desk. He spoke his name in a loud, clear voice and I stopped reading. Surely, that name was ringing big time bells, but what...when...where? And, soon enough, it came to me, and the comparison to the Sea Monster seemed like a premonition that I should have heeded. He had put on a few pounds, in muscular bulk, not fat, had grown a neatly trimmed beard, he had a few more wrinkles, and had his hair colored the same unlikely shade of dark brown that I remembered from before, but--it was, indeed, the man with whom I had a history that was not something I looked upon with much fondness. I'd often wondered what had become of him. It had been six long years since we'd last seen one another, or by mutual consent, even spoken. And here he was. Still mortified by several unfortunate incidents that cut brief what had looked to be a promising series of one-night stands, I buried my face behind the Advocate and prayed that my name would soon be called to come back to the lab. And, indeed, a name was called, but it wasn't mine, so I peeked surreptitiously over the Advocate and watched the man approach the seat that had just been vacated, right next to mine! Holy Mary, Mother of God, I thought, get me out of this mess! You see, our history, and the memories thereof, do not serve me well to this day, and I thought I'd die if he said anything at all to me. He could have said hello, and I'd have fallen flat on the floor from horror and shame.
To make a long story short, and to eliminate some of the messier details, we had a monumentally fantastic first encounter one night when he picked me up at the Ft. Lauderdale Eagle, which, thanks to the homophobic, piece-of-shit mayor of Ft. Lauderdale, has moved on to provide a more incognito-like, private membership service in an inconspicuous location in Pompano Beach. At any rate, we had a really good time, but then, it was a given that we were both taking a walk on the wild side and not inclined to attach any romantic expectations on the situation. A few days later, we arranged for another rendezvous at his apartment. Suffice it to say that the action was a lot of steamy fun until it got rather out of hand and his uber-expensive comforter became a repository of all manner of accoutrements and bodily fluids that I managed to upend. He was clearly not pleased but tried to put on a game face. However, the fun was finished. We went ahead and had lunch at a local eatery, after which I expected never to see him again. BUT...he apparently had some silly notion of chivalry. I'd arranged for him and several of his friends to have front row seats to a performance of "Mamma Mia" (on its first of many subsequent go-rounds in Ft. Lauderdale) and he insisted that I accompany them. So, to break the ice, we got really stoned, had dinner at a Thai restaurant in Wilton Manors, and attended the show--which was, of course, a lot of fun--especially for two stoned queens. Expecting to be taken home, I was, instead, taken back to his apartment, where it soon became evident that his chivalry was not going to extend as far as he'd hoped. If we'd had a crane, he wouldn't have been able to get that big boy to rise. Feeling a bit chivalrous myself (and stoned again, to boot), I offered to top him to see if that might make things better. He quickly ix-nayed my offer, saying he was simply too fucked up to get it up. However, I was pretty sure that the horrific memories of our last encounter was still lurking not far below his way-too-pretty surface. So I slunk home, thinking that was that, and glad that things didn't end too badly. I mean, we hardly knew each other, really, but still, I hate it when you wind up being on bad terms with someone you barely even know. We had a lot in common, after all, and there could have been a decent friendship come out of it. Could have been. If I hadn't been hanging on to a deep sense of humiliation and content never to see the man again. However, the Fates, as is so often the case, were not kind.
I was at the Sea Monster one night, tagging along with my then-roommate, who was only marginally less drunk than I. At some point, a man walked up to me, got right in my face, and accused me of fucking his boyfriend. I was appalled and declared that I didn't know what he was talking about. When he mentioned the name of the man from the above paragraph, my face must have immediately registered, oh yeah, hiiiimmmmmm. And then, thwack! He slapped me right across the face, the same way that Faye Dunaway/Joan Crawford slapped Diana Scarwid/Christina Crawford in "Mommy Dearest". At that moment, my eyes flew open with such fury that the doors of the club simply must have slammed shut as the fire hoses unwound themselves and prepared to hose down the unrepentant mischief-makers a la "Carrie". I flung myself onto the unfortunate drunkard and down we went, with me pummeling him in the sodden heap we'd become. Immediately, two burly arms wrapped around me, dragging me off the man, lifting me off the floor, and carrying me out the door, where I was deposited rather gingerly, all things considered, on the stoop by the bouncer, who told me to go home. I won't delve further into the events that followed. Let's just say that the police were involved, profanities were exchanged, guns were drawn, and it was only due to the intervention of my now-sober roommate that I wasn't carted off to the hoosegow.
I don't know exactly when my "friend" was informed of my fisticuffs with his "boyfriend" (not), but it didn't take long for the gossip to make the rounds. He called me to explain that the guy was crazy and that they weren't lovers. Oh yes, and to ask if I could meet him at the softball tournaments on the following Sunday. Well, being the ass that I sometimes am, I figured that he just wanted to have a friendly chat and, perhaps, buy me a hot dog or something (which was probably the case), so I didn't think much about it when I went out the Saturday night prior and engaged in some unsavory (but very satisfactory) activities that left me profoundly relieved and with a neck covered in hickies! I managed to drag myself home at 11:00 a.m. on that Sunday, showered, and was at the softball field by 12:00. I still didn't think that this was going to be much of anything, so I didn't make any efforts to hide the hickies. It wouldn't have done much good, anyhow, since it looked like all the Brides of Dracula had feasted long and hard on my neck. Yet, when he finally walked over, his smile quickly evaporated in... shock? ...horror? disgust? I'll never know. He said a few curt, pseudo-friendly words and was off with his friends. And, at that moment, I felt, once again, totally humiliated in his presence. And I vowed, then and there, that that would be the last time. And it was. That was the last time I saw him. Until today.
As I sat in my chair in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying to somehow fold the magazine over my face, I could feel his eyes on me. In fact, I gave a rapid eye dart in his direction, and caught him looking, but he quickly returned to the magazine that he was pretending to read. I haven't changed much physically, so I'm sure he was trying to place me. Who is that guy? I could almost hear the words going through his mind. I'm not sure if he'd figured it out or not, but when the receptionist did, indeed, finally call my name, I glanced over to see him peek, wide-eyed over his magazine. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought, he remembers! I fled from the waiting room in such haste that I'm surprised I didn't leave char-broiled footprints behind in the carpet. Luckily, I was escorted to another smaller waiting room in the back, to wait with the other candidates for blood withdrawal, so it took even more time before I was called up. Afterwards, I took my time getting back to the waiting room, sashaying past various examination areas with the desultory insousiance of Prissy singing "Just a few more days for to tote the weary load...". Dear God, don't let him still be sitting out there! When I ascertained that he was nowhere in sight, I hurried through the door and raced down the hallway to the elevator. Of course, the elevator that I first summoned was out of order, according to the woman waiting for another, so I stood with her, glaring grimly at the UP/DOWN button and hoping that the man I was hoping to avoid wouldn't arrive before I was able to depart. The elevator doors swung open and I leapt in with the grace and speed of a gazelle, shortly being deposited on the ground floor, where I made my way to the van with a mixture of high adrenaline, relief, and a certain puzzlement at my behavior. For God's sake, it's been six years! If he's still upset about that stuff--admittedly not my best moments--then it's his problem, not mine. And yet, it was my problem--it is my problem. Otherwise I wouldn't have reacted like a moose in Sarah Palin's rifle scope when confronted with this man's presence in the doctor's office. I have to say that I was definitely shaken (not stirred). Humiliation can be profoundly humbling, but it can also be silly and needless, and I wish now that I'd reacted in a more civil way to someone who once tried to make the best of an (increasingly) bad, albeit (mercifully) brief situation. Maybe I'll see him again sometime in my doctor's office and maybe I'll try to be gracious and not act like the lunatic that he almost certainly thinks that I am. Of course, acts such as that always seem to backfire in these type of situations. For me anyway. By trying to put my best foot forward, it will undoubtedly wind up in my mouth. Maybe it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
From My Amazon Review of "Zack & Miri Make a Porno", Nov. 3, 2008
Kevin & Co. Make a Turkey Dinner
The operative question for "Zack & Miri Make a Porno" seems to be how many times Kevin Smith can utilize the word "FUCK" (and all variations thereof, plus every conceivable term for the male and female sex organs)and still keep his material fresh and funny. The answer: zero. The script and dialogue seem like stale leftovers that have been reheated one too many times.
The titular Zack and Miri are a pair of male/female roommates barely scratching out a living in the Pittsburgh area. Having known one another since early childhood, the pair have long sublimated any physical or romantic attraction they may have, and are, seemingly, content to be roomies and best friends. That is, until the runaway expenses of their unpaid utility bills prompt Zack to click on the improbable idea of the two of them producing and starring in a porno movie. Gathering a stereotypical (and largely unappetizing)cast and crew, Zack and Miri realize their porno dream with unconvincing determination, thereby causing a rift in their, heretofore, unbreakable bond.
As Zack, Seth Rogen assays, essentially, the same character he did in "Pineapple Express", "Knocked Up", and pracically every other thing else I've seen him in. At his best, Rogen has a hangdog quality that can be amusing and touching, if he's reigned in. Otherwise, he's the acting equivalent of a bull in a china shop; in "Zack and Miri", his antics quickly become tiresome and not remotely amusing. Elizabeth Banks, on the other hand, is cast, not only against type, but against believability, as the hard-livin', hard-lovin' good-time girl, Miri. I didn't buy that bit for a second, nor did I buy the romantic developments that occur later on in the film.
The supporting cast, which includes Smith regular, Jason Mewes, Traci Lords, and Jennifer Schwalbach, do their best but their characters aren't believable or funny, either.
Everything about this film, right down to the camera work, is repetitive and ugly. According to IMDB, Kevin Smith is approaching forty, but "Zack & Miri" seems as if it was made by a 14 year old boy. It certainly seems designed for that particular audience, even though they aren't old enough to see it. It's a shame that Smith doesn't use his evident skill and intelligence to broaden the scope of his talent, and to mature as a filmmaker.
The operative question for "Zack & Miri Make a Porno" seems to be how many times Kevin Smith can utilize the word "FUCK" (and all variations thereof, plus every conceivable term for the male and female sex organs)and still keep his material fresh and funny. The answer: zero. The script and dialogue seem like stale leftovers that have been reheated one too many times.
The titular Zack and Miri are a pair of male/female roommates barely scratching out a living in the Pittsburgh area. Having known one another since early childhood, the pair have long sublimated any physical or romantic attraction they may have, and are, seemingly, content to be roomies and best friends. That is, until the runaway expenses of their unpaid utility bills prompt Zack to click on the improbable idea of the two of them producing and starring in a porno movie. Gathering a stereotypical (and largely unappetizing)cast and crew, Zack and Miri realize their porno dream with unconvincing determination, thereby causing a rift in their, heretofore, unbreakable bond.
As Zack, Seth Rogen assays, essentially, the same character he did in "Pineapple Express", "Knocked Up", and pracically every other thing else I've seen him in. At his best, Rogen has a hangdog quality that can be amusing and touching, if he's reigned in. Otherwise, he's the acting equivalent of a bull in a china shop; in "Zack and Miri", his antics quickly become tiresome and not remotely amusing. Elizabeth Banks, on the other hand, is cast, not only against type, but against believability, as the hard-livin', hard-lovin' good-time girl, Miri. I didn't buy that bit for a second, nor did I buy the romantic developments that occur later on in the film.
The supporting cast, which includes Smith regular, Jason Mewes, Traci Lords, and Jennifer Schwalbach, do their best but their characters aren't believable or funny, either.
Everything about this film, right down to the camera work, is repetitive and ugly. According to IMDB, Kevin Smith is approaching forty, but "Zack & Miri" seems as if it was made by a 14 year old boy. It certainly seems designed for that particular audience, even though they aren't old enough to see it. It's a shame that Smith doesn't use his evident skill and intelligence to broaden the scope of his talent, and to mature as a filmmaker.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Gratitude
It is the day after what was, arguably, the most important election in American history. And though I argued against causing myself further stress by watching the proceedings, I relented at 8:30 p.m. (EDT), plotzed down in a rocking chair in front of the television set, and remained there long after President-Elect Barack Obama gave his victory speech before a crowd numbering in the hundreds of thousands in Chicago's Grant Park. I watched history being made, an historical event that ranks right up there with the first moon landing; it's importance cannot be underplayed. For the first time in American history, an African-American man will become our president. It is an unprecedented event in this country that many thought unlikely ever to happen, at least in the forseeable future. The racism upon which our country was built, and which has remained steadfast, however subtely, in many quarters is, at long last, being run asunder by a new, vital voting majority that has chosen to eschew the fear-mongering and hate, arrogance and belligerance that has characterized the interminable Bush years. We have a changing populace that has been very open to Barack Obama's message, and to his massive efforts to reach out to them: a growing Hispanic population, the re-emergence of a once-disenfranchised Black community, a whole slew of young people who are voting for the first time, a sizable and supportive gay community, and those middle-class, white voters, both blue- and white-collar alike, who, because of the current economic disaster, have found themselves in reduced circumstances they'd never foreseen. And there were those who were, finally, just sick and tired of the neverending, self-serving, All-White Good Ol' Boy's Club that has dominated the American political scene from the beginning. Those days are gone, at long last, gone, hallelujah, praise the Lord, AMEN! Let us learn from the shameful, painful past so that we never, EVER, revisit it!
I received an e-mail from a good friend this morning, and in it, was a link to an article in which the author declared that his overwhelming post-election feeling was one of immense gratitude. And that summed up so perfectly exactly what I felt the moment that Barack Obama was declared the winner. Like that author, I also felt relief that the election--this long, draining journey--was having a happy ending. But mainly, it was gratitude, enormous and complete, that filled me up and caused my eyes to brim over with tears. Gratitude to the majority of Americans who, for whatever reason, chose to forge their alliances and stake their futures with a young Black man, largely untested, who, nevertheless, is our best hope for a better America, and a break from a past that has destroyed our credibility and reputation in the world. Gratitude to a higher power that I fervently prayed to last night, even though I gave up believing a long time ago. Gratitude for being alive in this country, in this time of change, when there is a renewed belief that anything is possible if you believe in it strongly enough.
Florida's anti-gay Amendment 2 managed to pass, as did California's Proposition 8. These are victories for the right-wing extremist hate- and fear-mongers, but these victories are temporary because, if last night's presidential election results show us anything, it is that, in the end, what is right and what is just will triumph. And we gay Americans will come back from this. We got shoved to the back of the bus, but our time will come, just as sure as Barack Obama's time has come. He gives me such hope for the future that I can't feel bitterness or disappointment over a temporary setback. For that, I owe my gratitude to Barack Obama, the man himself.
I received an e-mail from a good friend this morning, and in it, was a link to an article in which the author declared that his overwhelming post-election feeling was one of immense gratitude. And that summed up so perfectly exactly what I felt the moment that Barack Obama was declared the winner. Like that author, I also felt relief that the election--this long, draining journey--was having a happy ending. But mainly, it was gratitude, enormous and complete, that filled me up and caused my eyes to brim over with tears. Gratitude to the majority of Americans who, for whatever reason, chose to forge their alliances and stake their futures with a young Black man, largely untested, who, nevertheless, is our best hope for a better America, and a break from a past that has destroyed our credibility and reputation in the world. Gratitude to a higher power that I fervently prayed to last night, even though I gave up believing a long time ago. Gratitude for being alive in this country, in this time of change, when there is a renewed belief that anything is possible if you believe in it strongly enough.
Florida's anti-gay Amendment 2 managed to pass, as did California's Proposition 8. These are victories for the right-wing extremist hate- and fear-mongers, but these victories are temporary because, if last night's presidential election results show us anything, it is that, in the end, what is right and what is just will triumph. And we gay Americans will come back from this. We got shoved to the back of the bus, but our time will come, just as sure as Barack Obama's time has come. He gives me such hope for the future that I can't feel bitterness or disappointment over a temporary setback. For that, I owe my gratitude to Barack Obama, the man himself.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Election Day 2008
I have refrained from delving into the ongoing political campaigns that have consumed most media outlets for the past two years, simply because I don't feel that I possess the political astuteness required to speak (or to write) forcefully about the subject. However, today is the day that the long process at last draws to a close, and so I am choosing this special day to make a few comments about what this election means to me.
To anyone with the slightest attachment to reality, the past eight years with George W. Bush & Co. have been an unmitigated and appalling disaster. Their engagement in an unholy war, with the resultant loss of thousands of lives and billions of dollars notwithstanding, the Bush Administration has also led America down a very dark path of government duplicity, lies and coverups, flagrant disregard of the law (both domestic and international), and helped foster an atmosphere of arrogrance and greed that now has us in the grips of an economic meltdown that has left tens of thousands of Americans unemployed, broke, and homeless. And yet, according to an article in today's issue of Newsweek, President Bush is viewing his bad rep with equanimity and "characteristic good cheer", believing that history will absolve him of his dalliances with the darker side of power and human nature. It's easy to see that Mr. Bush is a man with no true moral compass, a man who, long ago, sold his soul to the power brokers who control him. It's even easier to paint Bush as a functional moron, boosted and manipulated by an ambitious family and a political party chock-full of calculating sycophants. Maybe it's a little of both, although I tend to doubt the "moron" label. Many years ago, right after Bush 41 left office, I was sitting in a private booth in the Astrodome at a playoff game between the Texas Rangers and Houston Astros. Since it was a playoff game, the stadium was mostly empty, and as my friend and I watched, here came GHW Bush, surrounded by a phalanx of secret service men, and trailed by his two sons, George W. and Jeb. The elder Bush proceeded to climb up from the field into the box with an athleticism that belied his age; the two sons were not quite so agile, but the entire group made their way up the steps into our box. GHW Bush smiled warmly, shook our hands, and began talking to us like we were nephews he hadn't seen in a long time. In fact, he sat down right next to me and chatted amiably throughout the game. The two sons sat directly behind us and since the box was virtually empty except for my friend and I, and the presidential party, conversations were easily heard. At this point, I can't recall the conversation that took place behind us, but I do remember leaving with the distinct impression that both of these Bush sons were arrogant and cold, with Jeb being the more intelligent of the two. However, I did not leave with the impression that George W. was especially stupid. Less educated or "willfully ignorant", maybe, but not stupid. Hence my reasoning that, whatever his flaws, W is more apt to be in league with the forces of political darkness than being a brick short of a full load. But whatever the case, he's definitely NOT in touch with the reality of his sorry administration and the legacy that they are leaving behind. Historians may lie and attempt to burnish the reality of this era, but as long as there are those still around who lived through these trying times, the truth, as Fox Mulder stated, is out there.
Despite attempts to negate the connection, the road from George W. Bush leads directly to John McCain. As McCain himself once proudly announced, he voted with Bush "over 90% of the time". He can back away from that statement all he wants, but he can't back away from the truth. During this campaign, he has looked more and more like a desperate man latching onto anything that would keep his candidacy afloat. That includes everything from calling Barack Obama a "socialist" to accusing him of "consorting with terrorists" to bashing his "elitism". This coming from a man who owns so many homes that he's lost track of them, and who is as far removed from the "Joe the Plumber" blue-collar Americans as can possibly be imagined. And his negative diatribes have largely been mouthed by his sidekick, Sarah Palin, a venegful harpy masquerading as a cheerful hockey mom, and the current governor of Alaska. McCain's very choice of this woman as his running mate was a direct reflection of his desperation and cynicism. True, she's been embraced by the religious rightwing ultra-conservatives of the Republican Party, since she's anti-abortion, allegedly believes that God created the universe 6,000 years ago, shoots moose for sport (from helicopters, no less), and frowns upon same-sex relationships. But when was it ever in doubt that McCain would win the vote of that particular segment of his party? Many other Republicans are looking askance at his choice of this woman who may actually be as stupid as Bush merely acts. This woman who, under the right (or wrong) circumstances could wind up being President of the United States. McCain is an angry, war-mongering fossil whose arm gestures during his stump speeches remind me of old newsreels of Hitler or Kruschev hyperventilating during their spooky rants. He is also clueless about how to turn this economy around (witness his grandstanding behavior when he suspended his campaign to fly back to Washington to assist in the bailout negotiations, all to no avail). Still, the thought of a Palin presidency is, well...unthinkable, and I don't want to even go there unless, of course, I wake up tomorrow morning to find that something beyond my wildest fears has happened, and the McCain/Palin team has somehow co-oped the Oval Office. In that case, it would NOT be unthinkable for me to consider Europe or Canada as home, at least for the next four years.
There are a thousand reasons why I voted for Barack Obama and Joe Biden in this election, and most of them are readily apparent in the statements made on Obama's website and in his televised infomercial last week, so I'm not going to recount them all here. Suffice it to say that I believe wholeheartedly in Obama's cool and calm ability to take the helm of this very troubled country and set us in a new direction that will help us recover from all the ills generated by this last bunch of hoolilgans. It will take time. Our downfall didn't happen overnight, so I don't expect a rapid recovery. But, if given the chance, I believe that, if anyone can change America's course, it is Barack Obama. He's already changed history, despite doubts that a black man could ever come this far in American politics. Yet, he hasn't given up, and he gives me hope for all of us. His motto should be something we remind ourselves of every morning when we get out of bed and hear newscasters belting out more tunes of bad news while we fret over our inability to crawl out of our own personal quagmires. Instead of flinging open the window with the angry, old white man chant of "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore", we take a look directly into the mirror and say "Yes we can!", and assume responsibility for the choices we make, and for our own destinies. This is a historic day that will never be forgotten, and, now we have to see if the majority of Americans choose to look to the future or remain mired in the past.
To anyone with the slightest attachment to reality, the past eight years with George W. Bush & Co. have been an unmitigated and appalling disaster. Their engagement in an unholy war, with the resultant loss of thousands of lives and billions of dollars notwithstanding, the Bush Administration has also led America down a very dark path of government duplicity, lies and coverups, flagrant disregard of the law (both domestic and international), and helped foster an atmosphere of arrogrance and greed that now has us in the grips of an economic meltdown that has left tens of thousands of Americans unemployed, broke, and homeless. And yet, according to an article in today's issue of Newsweek, President Bush is viewing his bad rep with equanimity and "characteristic good cheer", believing that history will absolve him of his dalliances with the darker side of power and human nature. It's easy to see that Mr. Bush is a man with no true moral compass, a man who, long ago, sold his soul to the power brokers who control him. It's even easier to paint Bush as a functional moron, boosted and manipulated by an ambitious family and a political party chock-full of calculating sycophants. Maybe it's a little of both, although I tend to doubt the "moron" label. Many years ago, right after Bush 41 left office, I was sitting in a private booth in the Astrodome at a playoff game between the Texas Rangers and Houston Astros. Since it was a playoff game, the stadium was mostly empty, and as my friend and I watched, here came GHW Bush, surrounded by a phalanx of secret service men, and trailed by his two sons, George W. and Jeb. The elder Bush proceeded to climb up from the field into the box with an athleticism that belied his age; the two sons were not quite so agile, but the entire group made their way up the steps into our box. GHW Bush smiled warmly, shook our hands, and began talking to us like we were nephews he hadn't seen in a long time. In fact, he sat down right next to me and chatted amiably throughout the game. The two sons sat directly behind us and since the box was virtually empty except for my friend and I, and the presidential party, conversations were easily heard. At this point, I can't recall the conversation that took place behind us, but I do remember leaving with the distinct impression that both of these Bush sons were arrogant and cold, with Jeb being the more intelligent of the two. However, I did not leave with the impression that George W. was especially stupid. Less educated or "willfully ignorant", maybe, but not stupid. Hence my reasoning that, whatever his flaws, W is more apt to be in league with the forces of political darkness than being a brick short of a full load. But whatever the case, he's definitely NOT in touch with the reality of his sorry administration and the legacy that they are leaving behind. Historians may lie and attempt to burnish the reality of this era, but as long as there are those still around who lived through these trying times, the truth, as Fox Mulder stated, is out there.
Despite attempts to negate the connection, the road from George W. Bush leads directly to John McCain. As McCain himself once proudly announced, he voted with Bush "over 90% of the time". He can back away from that statement all he wants, but he can't back away from the truth. During this campaign, he has looked more and more like a desperate man latching onto anything that would keep his candidacy afloat. That includes everything from calling Barack Obama a "socialist" to accusing him of "consorting with terrorists" to bashing his "elitism". This coming from a man who owns so many homes that he's lost track of them, and who is as far removed from the "Joe the Plumber" blue-collar Americans as can possibly be imagined. And his negative diatribes have largely been mouthed by his sidekick, Sarah Palin, a venegful harpy masquerading as a cheerful hockey mom, and the current governor of Alaska. McCain's very choice of this woman as his running mate was a direct reflection of his desperation and cynicism. True, she's been embraced by the religious rightwing ultra-conservatives of the Republican Party, since she's anti-abortion, allegedly believes that God created the universe 6,000 years ago, shoots moose for sport (from helicopters, no less), and frowns upon same-sex relationships. But when was it ever in doubt that McCain would win the vote of that particular segment of his party? Many other Republicans are looking askance at his choice of this woman who may actually be as stupid as Bush merely acts. This woman who, under the right (or wrong) circumstances could wind up being President of the United States. McCain is an angry, war-mongering fossil whose arm gestures during his stump speeches remind me of old newsreels of Hitler or Kruschev hyperventilating during their spooky rants. He is also clueless about how to turn this economy around (witness his grandstanding behavior when he suspended his campaign to fly back to Washington to assist in the bailout negotiations, all to no avail). Still, the thought of a Palin presidency is, well...unthinkable, and I don't want to even go there unless, of course, I wake up tomorrow morning to find that something beyond my wildest fears has happened, and the McCain/Palin team has somehow co-oped the Oval Office. In that case, it would NOT be unthinkable for me to consider Europe or Canada as home, at least for the next four years.
There are a thousand reasons why I voted for Barack Obama and Joe Biden in this election, and most of them are readily apparent in the statements made on Obama's website and in his televised infomercial last week, so I'm not going to recount them all here. Suffice it to say that I believe wholeheartedly in Obama's cool and calm ability to take the helm of this very troubled country and set us in a new direction that will help us recover from all the ills generated by this last bunch of hoolilgans. It will take time. Our downfall didn't happen overnight, so I don't expect a rapid recovery. But, if given the chance, I believe that, if anyone can change America's course, it is Barack Obama. He's already changed history, despite doubts that a black man could ever come this far in American politics. Yet, he hasn't given up, and he gives me hope for all of us. His motto should be something we remind ourselves of every morning when we get out of bed and hear newscasters belting out more tunes of bad news while we fret over our inability to crawl out of our own personal quagmires. Instead of flinging open the window with the angry, old white man chant of "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore", we take a look directly into the mirror and say "Yes we can!", and assume responsibility for the choices we make, and for our own destinies. This is a historic day that will never be forgotten, and, now we have to see if the majority of Americans choose to look to the future or remain mired in the past.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
