John B. Judis, a senior editor at The New Republic, seems to be the only pundit who realizes that while Obama is still being carried by African American and young Democratic voters, he is losing support among essential segments like moderates and conservatives, voters who prioritize the economy above the war and so-called “values” voters.
This result is not unexpected because it’s the essential conundrum of Presidential primaries: the candidate has to risk the general in order to win the base.
While a slight majority of the Democratic party seems to have lost its collective mind, the country as a whole would have to be in pretty sorry shape to put a glib Chicago pol and his what’ll-she-say-next wife in the White House instead of a bona fide war hero with over two decades of high-profile federal government experience.
Anywhere else in the world, this scenario would be a joke. That it has devolved to this, in the most powerful country in the world, is unfortunately not a joke; rather, it’s alarming and sobering.
As the creeping (and creepy) male chauvinism in unexpected places (Russert, Kerry, Olbermann, McGovern, Moore, Carter, etc.) will probably stifle another female candidacy for the Presidency at least 50 if not 100 years, the inevitable Obama defeat in November will put back the cause of a truly viable Black candidate for at least that length of time.
What a hideous, heartbreaking spectacle, and it could all have been avoided if the anti-female element in the Democratic party had simply kept their mouths shut and waited until 2012 to promote their golden child’s political bandwagon.
Bad Retail Karma
There is something about our local supermarket that causes my blood pressure to skyrocket.
It’s an unpleasant business to shop there. Their bakery and produce are poor compared to their competitors, and their deli staff are consistently nasty and snotty.
Plus, there is something about the overall feel of the place that is depressing, even a little tawdry.
As bad as retail generally is, I think it must be toughest to work in the grocery biz, especially if you’re a manager. For one thing, it seems easy to make mistakes that have hideous consequences, like customers getting sick because you sold them perishables beyond their time or some poisonous food additive from China.
Sympathy for the plight of workers aside, at quarter to nine last night, I stood in line at the service desk for over ten minutes trying to get a refund that the cashier at the checkout should have been able to issue, but couldn’t because of the store’s stupid rules.
I had to wait for numerous transactions that had nothing to do with the actual selling of food or sundries, including the endless processing of an overseas money order.
I’ve been shopping at that place for years because it’s convenient, but in the context of money being life energy and life being too short, don’t think I’ll be going back there again.
Common Sense, from Paul
Paul Krugman’s article in today’s NYT cuts yet another hole in Barack Obama’s mantle of perfection.
Hating Your Job
I don’t like most of the places I’ve worked, and considering that I’ve been earning a living for over 40 years, that’s a huge, massive chunk of a mortal lifetime to be spent doing something you really dislike.
With the passing of my good friend Carolyn, who also spent a good part of her all too short life in jobs she really hated, I find that the little tolerance I had for bad situations is gone.
Word Problem
My degree is in Mathematics, but I’ve never been good at word problems, like this one:
Suppose there are two trains on parallel tracks but heading in opposite directions.
The first train is headed East, and leaves the station at 6 PM going 40 miles per hour.
The second train is headed West, and leaves the station at 7 PM going 50 miles per hour.
If the stations are 400 miles apart, when will the trains meet?
Wishing He Would Just Go Away
I really wonder if my neighbors share the political preferences of the 90% of Black Democrats who supposedly voted for Barack Obama.
I wonder if the obviously well-off, albeit dark-hued pundits who claim to speak for “the community” do, in fact, speak for the folks of means as modest as my own who I trade with, live near or who send their kids to the same school as my grandchildren.
If they do, then I’m inclined to want to avoid them, people I’ve considered friends and associates for years: who needs to spend time, do business or socialize with anyone who has fallen into that oh-so-familiar pattern of whineyness, petulance and race-based hostility.
I did my penance in the 60’s. I don’t want to live through times like that again.
I am one data point to support the following premise: Barack Obama and his so-called liberal advocates have done more damage to the cause of race relations in the United States than 1,000 David Dukes, George Wallaces or for that matter, Rudolph Hesses ever could.
No Stamina
I thought when I improved my health habits this year that I’d have more energy than I’d know what to do with, but that, regrettably, has not been so.
Last Monday I got back from a 4-day business trip, not to Spain or Asia, but to New Orleans. After the trip, I couldn’t seem to pump enough fluids into myself, and just going to work, taking nourishment and sleeping was more than enough activity.
This was school vacation week, so yesterday, I picked up the kids for an overnight at the local Holiday Inn. I figured we could take in a ball game and/or maybe a ride to Battleship Code, but we decided to just enjoy the pool, spend some time at a nearby playground and take our meals at the excellent in-house restaurant.
So, for the last 24 hours, I haven’t had to cook or clean, but I’m totally wiped out.
This is just not a state of affairs that I’m used to, and I’m wondering if I was healthier when I was unhealthy. If you know what I mean.
Big Easy
I don’t know how New Orleans got that nickname, but for sure, it has the most unique combinatorics of any city this traveler has ever visited.
Not that it matters, but contrary to movie and TV stereotypes, natives pronounce the name of their city “New Orleans”, not “Nawlins”; those parts of the city through which the Mississippi flows are above sea level; and violent criminals do not lurk on every corner. I walked around unaccompanied during daylight hours, and saw plenty of other people doing the same.
The downtown area seems to have recovered from Katrina. We stayed in a hotel across the street from Harrah’s, and that part of the city, the Warehouse/Arts District, is dedicated to tourism, with hotels on every block.
We got to “the Quarter”, Bourbon Street, took the free ferry across the Mississippi River and back, and in a deliberate homage to New Orleans as literary muse, I made it a point to ride on one of her famous streetcars to the Garden District.
The cuisine is fabulous, out of this world, especially for fish lovers. Every meal, including the Rotary food festival across the street from the hotel where I took supper one evening, was savory and delicious.
The city is very walkable because it’s so flat, but it was hot and humid enough even in mid-April that a half-hour stroll left me totally drenched.
I came back so exhausted that when we got to Boston, I couldn’t find my car or house keys, which it turned out had lodged in the previously undiscovered bottom liner of my overnight bag.
My sympathetic boss, who had volunteered to schlep three of us from Logan, went out of his way to drop me off at a local motel. I insisted on this because of the late hour; by the time I checked in, it was after midnight, and I figured a better plan than the one that was suggested on the way back (pound on my son’s door for a ride to my house, at which point I would gain entrance by breaking my least-favorite window) would present itself after a decent night’s sleep.
I have never quite been convinced of an afterlife, but two things happened on the trip back home, which followed my friend Carolyn’s passing, and they’ve given me pause.
Perspective
I’ve often heard it said that people gain perspective when a loved one dies, but having had that experience this past weekend, I don’t think that’s accurate.
Rather, it’s a reaction to the fact that a catastrophic event has just blasted into smithereens every ounce of your soul’s psychic energy at the rate of about 1,000 metric tons per second. You are simply unable to care about whether a waiter botched an order or someone gave you the evil eye because you have been depleted of the ability to do so.
In other words, the so-called perspective isn’t wisdom, but exhaustion.
The Elephant in the Room
Last evening, I visited a very dear friend who was diagnosed with cancer in November 2006. At this point, not only is she confined to her home, but she’s unable to eat or from the look of it last night, unable to keep down liquids as well.
I hadn’t planned on it, but at one point, I told her how much I will miss her. It was totally spontaneous and while it certainly made sense to acknowledge that most gigantic of elephants, it feels like I’ve betrayed my friend by giving up while she is still battling to remain with us.