I’m a little hung over from the pre-debate-debate-post-debate binge. And afterwards, I lay awake thinking of "if only" zingers Obama could’ve used. Me and half the country, I’m sure.
But whatever political points both candidates scored last night, whatever differences they were able to articulate, the most obvious difference in this presidential campaign remains unspoken. Skin color. Only a few pollsters and columnists are even mentioning it. So I have a dream.
Barack, you know how you did the red-blue-purple thing in 2004? About how we’re all the same America, united and all that? It’s time for the race talk in 2008. I’d like to see you hit us with some good-ol’ consciousness raising. Aim it at white guilt. Aim it at Christian guilt. Aim it at Jewish guilt. Aim it at those who should "know better" but are holding back out of ancient, latent fear. We have to be carefully taught. And now is a teachable moment.
I grew up in an all-white suburb and believed blacks, Negroes, as we called them in the early 1960s, were people who lived in Harlem or Africa. Occasionally, I heard the term schwartze at home and learned to lock the car doors and turn my rings palm-side-down when driving above 96th Street in New York City. I remember visiting my grandparents in Florida and seeing "colored" and "white" drinking fountains.
I remember MLK and the civil rights movement and the Black Panthers and Malcolm X, and I believed in equality. But until I became a social worker, I didn’t really have to dig into my own racism and learned prejudice. I remember in my first year of graduate school, we studied "differences." With clients of a different race, ethnicity, class, sexual orientation, or ability, we were taught to name that difference, bring it into the session, and work with it. Barriers existed, but barriers could be overcome, or at least acknowledged. Naming it is the first step to connection and mutual understanding.
So, Barack Hussein Obama, I’d like to see you look right into that camera and name it:
"Look, folks. I get it. I get that many of you, when you look at me, see only the color of my skin and that scares you somehow. You see someone who looks different from you and you say, ‘I can’t vote for him. I may agree with his policies and ideals. I may disagree with the Bush administration and the Iraq war and the mismanagement of our economy, but I simply can’t imagine pulling a lever for a black man. For president?’
"I also get that, for many of you, nothing I say or anyone else says in the next few weeks will change your mind. I get that you believe a black man simply shouldn’t be in the White House, the White House, because of his skin color. So be it. I concede your vote.
"But I know there are many more of you out there who are still struggling to decide. You’re smart, thoughtful Americans who care about our country. I get that you’re still worried about my first name, my middle name, and my last name, and the name it rhymes with. You’re still worried about my religious background, about whether I agree with Reverend Jeremiah Wright, whether I’m elitist or out of touch, and whether I love my country. You know as well as I do there’s a lot of name calling going on, rumors tossed about by some stubborn folks who have some outdated ideas and hateful tactics. You know better. You’re too smart to fall for that ‘sticks-and-stones’ playground silliness.
"This is not the old America, the segregated America. You’ve seen a lot of change. I know. Change is hard. I feel your growing pains. But, deep down, in your heart of hearts, I know you believe in freedom and equal rights for all Americans. You are fair-minded, patriotic, God-loving people. You can spot injustice and cheer the underdog. Were you raised to believe that people who look different from you and your family are less than equal? Probably. Maybe even, without knowing it, you began to believe it was true. That’s the nature of racism. I get it. That’s part of all our history. But you’re smarter than that now, in 2008. You can see past the biases you had no choice but to inherit—you can think freely now. America needs change. We agree on that.
"So, I ask you to think, really think. I believe you’re smarter than those narrow-minded, old-fashioned people who would judge a man simply by the color of his skin, rather than the ‘content of his character.’ You know the speech. You know the truth. You know it’s time for change we can believe in. Yes, I'm black. We're different. But you’re smart and fair and thoughtful. And, if you have the courage to stop and look inside, I believe you know the answer. Together we can change history and change America."
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Me and My Momentum
I’m having my tonsils out in a couple of weeks. "At your age?!" everyone asks. Yes, at my age. They’ve always been impressively large but of late, one of them has morphed into the Matterhorn. I can’t swallow, breathe, sleep, sing, eat, or drink comfortably. It took ten months and three ENTs before someone finally said not only are my tonsils the reason for my woes but they’ve got to go.
To prepare, I’m consuming the holistic literature on mind-body approaches to surgery, including positive affirmations, relaxation, meditation, and guided imagery. I'm identifying my inner sanctuaries and selecting a mellow playlist for the procedure.
I’m also cleaning house. Yesterday, I decided, in the spirit of Rosh Hashonah and renewal and all that clean-slate stuff, plus wanting a pleasant recovery environment, I'd get started.
The last time I vacuumed, I hate to say how long ago, instead of sucking up the dirt, the machine started spewing it from the roller brush and from some unidentified hole in the back. It glided smoothly enough when I pushed it, but on the return trip a spray of debris shot out.
Power: Off. Diagnosis: Trouble.
It was only the third time I’d used the thing. I’m not a big vacuumer, despite having two cats. I figure the dust mites and other little microbes that are growing in my rugs have the right to life, as long as I can’t see them. And I just hate the noise, not to mention the trauma inflicted on Sophia and Sascha, who cower under the bed, wide-eyed and trembling, until I give them the all-clear.
My vacuum is a Bissell Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Bagless. Sounds so promising. It’s one of those inside-out-type models with a transparent Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup in the front and a twisty series of external hoses secured with plastic brackets in the back. It boasts "Continuous Suction for Constant Cleaning." But it wasn't sucking at all.
I emptied the Dirt Cup, then flipped the Momentum on its side and spun the roller around, pulling a few hairs off the brushes. That should do it. But the more I pushed and pulled, the more it moaned and splashed filth in its wake.
I must’ve bought a lemon, I told myself. Well, maybe my mechanically minded neighbor will troubleshoot with me sometime. Or maybe I’ll have to return it. But not today. Back in the closet with you, Momentum. Let the mites live a little longer. I can’t deal.
That was the last time. So yesterday, when I tried again, same thing. As if it would have spontaneously healed in the closet without intervention? I dug out the manual and ended up talking to Stephanie, a Bissell tech support woman. I could barely understand her as she speed-read from her tech script, but as I lay Momentum down, I noticed for the first time a Filter Tray, which I removed. The sponge inside and the entire slot were chunked full of cat hair.
"Stephanie? I think I see what the problem is." She didn’t hear me and kept reading.
"Stephanie?" I told her of my discovery. She advised rinsing out the filter and, before we hung up, twittered something about cleaning out any stopped-up hoses with a broomstick.
The filter rinsed, I plugged Momentum in once again. It's better! Oops. Wishful thinking. The spewing resumed halfway through the living room rug.
Down you go. I unwound one big, ridged plastic hose and stretched it out on the floor. Empty. I wiped the dust off a second filter with a damp paper towel, then shoved my hand in the "Continuous Suction" orifice and pulled out more hair globs. By now I had filled a Shaw’s shopping bag about three inches high with thick gray gunky feline residue.
Ready? Let’s roll! Nope. Another Sahara sandstorm.
OK. Now I’m seriously committed to solving this myself, mechanically minded neighbor be damned. I flipped the thing over and closely examined the back, wondering why I hadn’t done this months ago. Besides the big, obvious ridged hose, I found solid hoses, soft hoses, nifty links, and U-joints, like under the bathroom sink, a mini-maze of interconnected piping, all removable. Snap, release. Cat hair. Twist, unwind. Cat hair. Two tubes were 100 percent blocked with, yes, more cat hair. I tried Stephanie’s broomstick technique, which worked perfectly. The Shaw’s bag was now overflowing with an enormous gray furball the equivalent of six cats.
At last, I stood up my Momentum—and it worked. Instead of coughing and sputtering, it roared a clear Cyclonic roar as it slid easily back and forth, inhaling the original plus the regurgitated dregs right into its Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup. Sweep, suck, slurp, swallow. Done.
I plopped on the bedroom floor, peeked under the bed, and purred, "It’s OK, girls. You can come out now. No more noise. You’re safe." They blinked appreciatively.
I felt cleansed. And declogged. And I couldn’t help thinking about my tonsils. It’s time. I’m ready. And, after the recovery, which is supposed to be hell (quick! replace that thought with a positive "My recovery will be quick and easy!"), I'll be free! No more Matterhorn. No more adjusting my jaw or rearranging my tongue. No more snoring. Pretty soon I’ll be singing again, open and clear and unobstructed. Yeah, it took a while to diagnose the problem, but with my brand-new Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Tonsil-less Throat, soon I’ll be good to go.
To prepare, I’m consuming the holistic literature on mind-body approaches to surgery, including positive affirmations, relaxation, meditation, and guided imagery. I'm identifying my inner sanctuaries and selecting a mellow playlist for the procedure.
I’m also cleaning house. Yesterday, I decided, in the spirit of Rosh Hashonah and renewal and all that clean-slate stuff, plus wanting a pleasant recovery environment, I'd get started.
The last time I vacuumed, I hate to say how long ago, instead of sucking up the dirt, the machine started spewing it from the roller brush and from some unidentified hole in the back. It glided smoothly enough when I pushed it, but on the return trip a spray of debris shot out.
Power: Off. Diagnosis: Trouble.
It was only the third time I’d used the thing. I’m not a big vacuumer, despite having two cats. I figure the dust mites and other little microbes that are growing in my rugs have the right to life, as long as I can’t see them. And I just hate the noise, not to mention the trauma inflicted on Sophia and Sascha, who cower under the bed, wide-eyed and trembling, until I give them the all-clear.
My vacuum is a Bissell Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Bagless. Sounds so promising. It’s one of those inside-out-type models with a transparent Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup in the front and a twisty series of external hoses secured with plastic brackets in the back. It boasts "Continuous Suction for Constant Cleaning." But it wasn't sucking at all.
I emptied the Dirt Cup, then flipped the Momentum on its side and spun the roller around, pulling a few hairs off the brushes. That should do it. But the more I pushed and pulled, the more it moaned and splashed filth in its wake.
I must’ve bought a lemon, I told myself. Well, maybe my mechanically minded neighbor will troubleshoot with me sometime. Or maybe I’ll have to return it. But not today. Back in the closet with you, Momentum. Let the mites live a little longer. I can’t deal.
That was the last time. So yesterday, when I tried again, same thing. As if it would have spontaneously healed in the closet without intervention? I dug out the manual and ended up talking to Stephanie, a Bissell tech support woman. I could barely understand her as she speed-read from her tech script, but as I lay Momentum down, I noticed for the first time a Filter Tray, which I removed. The sponge inside and the entire slot were chunked full of cat hair.
"Stephanie? I think I see what the problem is." She didn’t hear me and kept reading.
"Stephanie?" I told her of my discovery. She advised rinsing out the filter and, before we hung up, twittered something about cleaning out any stopped-up hoses with a broomstick.
The filter rinsed, I plugged Momentum in once again. It's better! Oops. Wishful thinking. The spewing resumed halfway through the living room rug.
Down you go. I unwound one big, ridged plastic hose and stretched it out on the floor. Empty. I wiped the dust off a second filter with a damp paper towel, then shoved my hand in the "Continuous Suction" orifice and pulled out more hair globs. By now I had filled a Shaw’s shopping bag about three inches high with thick gray gunky feline residue.
Ready? Let’s roll! Nope. Another Sahara sandstorm.
OK. Now I’m seriously committed to solving this myself, mechanically minded neighbor be damned. I flipped the thing over and closely examined the back, wondering why I hadn’t done this months ago. Besides the big, obvious ridged hose, I found solid hoses, soft hoses, nifty links, and U-joints, like under the bathroom sink, a mini-maze of interconnected piping, all removable. Snap, release. Cat hair. Twist, unwind. Cat hair. Two tubes were 100 percent blocked with, yes, more cat hair. I tried Stephanie’s broomstick technique, which worked perfectly. The Shaw’s bag was now overflowing with an enormous gray furball the equivalent of six cats.
At last, I stood up my Momentum—and it worked. Instead of coughing and sputtering, it roared a clear Cyclonic roar as it slid easily back and forth, inhaling the original plus the regurgitated dregs right into its Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup. Sweep, suck, slurp, swallow. Done.
I plopped on the bedroom floor, peeked under the bed, and purred, "It’s OK, girls. You can come out now. No more noise. You’re safe." They blinked appreciatively.
I felt cleansed. And declogged. And I couldn’t help thinking about my tonsils. It’s time. I’m ready. And, after the recovery, which is supposed to be hell (quick! replace that thought with a positive "My recovery will be quick and easy!"), I'll be free! No more Matterhorn. No more adjusting my jaw or rearranging my tongue. No more snoring. Pretty soon I’ll be singing again, open and clear and unobstructed. Yeah, it took a while to diagnose the problem, but with my brand-new Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Tonsil-less Throat, soon I’ll be good to go.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Rewind
Jon Stewart was on hiatus this week, so I missed my 11:00 sanity fix. Instead, I entered the surreal world of 9/11 on Thursday night. Do you remember, really remember, that morning seven years ago? I thought I would never forget, that the images and sequence of events were forever imprinted. But I was wrong.
I was flipping channels, looking for light fare, when I stumbled upon MSNBC’s "9/11: As It Happened." It was simply a rebroadcast, with some editing, of NBC’s original coverage from the morning of September 11, 2001, as it unfolded, with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer in New York. At first I tried to resist—no, no, watching the footage and seeing the towers would be too upsetting. I'd seen the tributes earlier in the day. I know what happened. But after two minutes, I was frozen. Just as frozen as I had been when it was live. What’s going on? What will happen next?
As the first tower burned, they speculated about a small errant plane that might have caused the explosion and fire. Remember? They alluded, not casually, but not alarmingly, to the 1993 WTC bombing. It was so strange, the sight of the billowing smoke from that initial blast. Then a reporter on her cell from a nearby neighborhood saw the second plane crash—not a small plane but a jumbo jet, live, as it happened. Could the air traffic control system have failed? Why would a pilot fly into a building? No, this is no accident. Terrorist attack. A declaration of war? The report of a hijacking. Tom Brokaw joined Matt and Katie in the studio, and Jim Miklashevski was on the phone, safely harbored in the Pentagon, until the Pentagon itself shook from another unknown blast. What’s going on? What will happen next?
This compulsion, this exercise of watching the rebroadcast, was almost like rereading a tragic novel, one I’d read repeatedly, knowing the outcome but forgetting the details. Wishing, hoping that if I read it with fresh eyes, it might yet have a happy ending. As the emerging facts were recounted, Katie added, "And, of course, who knows the human toll?" Remember? They guessed 50,000 people could've been inside but hoped most had been evacuated safely. I remember seeing that live, hearing the estimates. It was a third plane that hit the Pentagon, they announced, not a bomb on the heliport.
Some of the story is locked in my memory. Yet now I struggled again to string it all together. Which flight came from where? It was two from Boston, right? Was it the north tower that was struck first but fell second? Or vice versa?
By now, it was long after midnight and I had to sleep. I hit the VCR and watched the rest on Friday. How could the coordination have been so perfect? Were more planes being transformed into missiles? Air traffic across the country had been grounded and transatlantic flights diverted to Canada. I’d forgotten that. The first tower fell. The second tower fell. A fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania: United Flight 93.
While smoky footage rolled from Lower Manhattan where the towers had been vaporized, Tom Brokaw said, in his twangy, comforting way, putting the pieces together, slowly and confidently: "It is hard to overstate the consequence of all this, and this is just the beginning. We’ll be living with this story and dealing with the consequences for some time. It will cost us in loss of life and cost us in terms of the psychological security that we have in this country. America has been changed by all this."
What was it the beginning of? Had we not felt vulnerable before? I don't remember. And who would have imagined Iraq and more needless reckless loss of life and Bush 2004 and the sickening spectre of McCain-Palin? Are we back to sleep? What’s going on? What will happen next?
I hit the button to rewind and the video played backwards, the story reversing. Transfixed, I watched the smoke billowing in, not out. The towers uncollapsing, one by one. The scene of a single fire in a single building. We interrupt this broadcast. And back to the beginning. A sunny September morning when the sky was safe and azure.
I switched off the TV, took a deep breath, and went about my day. Unlike the 9/11 families, I have the luxury of putting the story away, until I need to remember again how it began and ponder how it will end.
I was flipping channels, looking for light fare, when I stumbled upon MSNBC’s "9/11: As It Happened." It was simply a rebroadcast, with some editing, of NBC’s original coverage from the morning of September 11, 2001, as it unfolded, with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer in New York. At first I tried to resist—no, no, watching the footage and seeing the towers would be too upsetting. I'd seen the tributes earlier in the day. I know what happened. But after two minutes, I was frozen. Just as frozen as I had been when it was live. What’s going on? What will happen next?
As the first tower burned, they speculated about a small errant plane that might have caused the explosion and fire. Remember? They alluded, not casually, but not alarmingly, to the 1993 WTC bombing. It was so strange, the sight of the billowing smoke from that initial blast. Then a reporter on her cell from a nearby neighborhood saw the second plane crash—not a small plane but a jumbo jet, live, as it happened. Could the air traffic control system have failed? Why would a pilot fly into a building? No, this is no accident. Terrorist attack. A declaration of war? The report of a hijacking. Tom Brokaw joined Matt and Katie in the studio, and Jim Miklashevski was on the phone, safely harbored in the Pentagon, until the Pentagon itself shook from another unknown blast. What’s going on? What will happen next?
This compulsion, this exercise of watching the rebroadcast, was almost like rereading a tragic novel, one I’d read repeatedly, knowing the outcome but forgetting the details. Wishing, hoping that if I read it with fresh eyes, it might yet have a happy ending. As the emerging facts were recounted, Katie added, "And, of course, who knows the human toll?" Remember? They guessed 50,000 people could've been inside but hoped most had been evacuated safely. I remember seeing that live, hearing the estimates. It was a third plane that hit the Pentagon, they announced, not a bomb on the heliport.
Some of the story is locked in my memory. Yet now I struggled again to string it all together. Which flight came from where? It was two from Boston, right? Was it the north tower that was struck first but fell second? Or vice versa?
By now, it was long after midnight and I had to sleep. I hit the VCR and watched the rest on Friday. How could the coordination have been so perfect? Were more planes being transformed into missiles? Air traffic across the country had been grounded and transatlantic flights diverted to Canada. I’d forgotten that. The first tower fell. The second tower fell. A fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania: United Flight 93.
While smoky footage rolled from Lower Manhattan where the towers had been vaporized, Tom Brokaw said, in his twangy, comforting way, putting the pieces together, slowly and confidently: "It is hard to overstate the consequence of all this, and this is just the beginning. We’ll be living with this story and dealing with the consequences for some time. It will cost us in loss of life and cost us in terms of the psychological security that we have in this country. America has been changed by all this."
What was it the beginning of? Had we not felt vulnerable before? I don't remember. And who would have imagined Iraq and more needless reckless loss of life and Bush 2004 and the sickening spectre of McCain-Palin? Are we back to sleep? What’s going on? What will happen next?
I hit the button to rewind and the video played backwards, the story reversing. Transfixed, I watched the smoke billowing in, not out. The towers uncollapsing, one by one. The scene of a single fire in a single building. We interrupt this broadcast. And back to the beginning. A sunny September morning when the sky was safe and azure.
I switched off the TV, took a deep breath, and went about my day. Unlike the 9/11 families, I have the luxury of putting the story away, until I need to remember again how it began and ponder how it will end.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Jon Stewart, Will You Be My Sponsor?
I don’t drink. No big reason, no rehab ghosts, no vows of temperance, just not a fan. I guess I don’t like feeling loopy, although I used to sip an occasional glass of wine or, in my college waitressing days, a ladylike apricot sour or tequila sunrise. Maybe it’s another one of those control things, I’m not sure.
Instead, I’m addicted to politics, and my life has become unmanageable. For the past ten days, it’s been CNN and MSNBC and NYT, slate.com and the huffington post, and even Fox News for a peek behind enemy lines. It started with The Royal Clintons, Michelle’s sassy glam and Barack and Biden’s gleaming smiles, mile-high fireworks, tears and historic exhilaration, red-white-and-blue hope. Then came Sarah Barracuda and the Beehive, Bristolgate and moose, Gustav and vetting and sex-lies-and-videotape. Hype and hyperbole and hypocrisy. I feel sick.
Finally, during McCain’s Thursday speech, I nearly blacked out from the excess brain activity involved in debunking falsehoods and resisting the powerful forces of Rovian manipulation. All of a sudden, I felt dreamy. Yes, bipartisanship, what a lovely thought. Let’s stop shouting. How nice. Strength and honor. What’s not to love? The surge? Sure, a tidy success. Oh my God, I’ve hit bottom. Take away the keys to the remote. I am not safe to watch.
OK, I realize I could turn off the TV or ignore the newspapers and blogs but I consider myself an informed person and, as the child of a news junkie, I am genetically programmed for current-events immersion. Growing up, it was multiple daily papers and the TV plus one, if not two, radios going all day and sometimes into the night. That would be Dad. A relentless media barrage, sometimes in different languages. I respect my father’s curiosity and knowledge and multitasking, but now I’m hooked too.
I wake up in the morning and even if I have a channel-changing hangover, I need to know what’s going on in the world. Drag me to the Situation Room. Give me a Keith Olbermann rant with a Campbell Brown chaser. Not good enough. Larry King, hit me up. Anderson Cooper, spin me around on the 360. I really should stop. But I’ve tried. I can’t. I am powerless over my disease.
That’s where Jon Stewart comes in. Nauseous and vibrating by 11:00 at night, I need detox. The Daily Show detox. My 30 minutes of cold, hard truth—the fake news. Tell me really what’s going on in the world, not what they want me to think is going on. Give me a dose of those video clips. Like last night, I came to during a jaw-dropping juxtaposition of the Bush 2000 and McCain 2008 acceptance speeches. Or earlier in the week, I sobered up watching Karl and Bill O’s double-talking rhetoric. Better than any slap on the face or jolt of espresso. Jon Stewart, you restore me to sanity! Will you be my sponsor? I’m ready to quit real news, I promise.
On second thought, cold turkey sounds tough. The withdrawal could be painful. What about cutting back? No, not before the debates. Oh, I know! I’ll find a substitute, something to take the edge off, just temporarily. That’s fair, isn’t it? Yes. First thing tomorrow, I will get down on bended knee and pray: Dear God, please guide the Red Sox to the playoffs. Bring me Soxtober. If you do, I swear I’ll kick politics for good, on November 5.
Instead, I’m addicted to politics, and my life has become unmanageable. For the past ten days, it’s been CNN and MSNBC and NYT, slate.com and the huffington post, and even Fox News for a peek behind enemy lines. It started with The Royal Clintons, Michelle’s sassy glam and Barack and Biden’s gleaming smiles, mile-high fireworks, tears and historic exhilaration, red-white-and-blue hope. Then came Sarah Barracuda and the Beehive, Bristolgate and moose, Gustav and vetting and sex-lies-and-videotape. Hype and hyperbole and hypocrisy. I feel sick.
Finally, during McCain’s Thursday speech, I nearly blacked out from the excess brain activity involved in debunking falsehoods and resisting the powerful forces of Rovian manipulation. All of a sudden, I felt dreamy. Yes, bipartisanship, what a lovely thought. Let’s stop shouting. How nice. Strength and honor. What’s not to love? The surge? Sure, a tidy success. Oh my God, I’ve hit bottom. Take away the keys to the remote. I am not safe to watch.
OK, I realize I could turn off the TV or ignore the newspapers and blogs but I consider myself an informed person and, as the child of a news junkie, I am genetically programmed for current-events immersion. Growing up, it was multiple daily papers and the TV plus one, if not two, radios going all day and sometimes into the night. That would be Dad. A relentless media barrage, sometimes in different languages. I respect my father’s curiosity and knowledge and multitasking, but now I’m hooked too.
I wake up in the morning and even if I have a channel-changing hangover, I need to know what’s going on in the world. Drag me to the Situation Room. Give me a Keith Olbermann rant with a Campbell Brown chaser. Not good enough. Larry King, hit me up. Anderson Cooper, spin me around on the 360. I really should stop. But I’ve tried. I can’t. I am powerless over my disease.
That’s where Jon Stewart comes in. Nauseous and vibrating by 11:00 at night, I need detox. The Daily Show detox. My 30 minutes of cold, hard truth—the fake news. Tell me really what’s going on in the world, not what they want me to think is going on. Give me a dose of those video clips. Like last night, I came to during a jaw-dropping juxtaposition of the Bush 2000 and McCain 2008 acceptance speeches. Or earlier in the week, I sobered up watching Karl and Bill O’s double-talking rhetoric. Better than any slap on the face or jolt of espresso. Jon Stewart, you restore me to sanity! Will you be my sponsor? I’m ready to quit real news, I promise.
On second thought, cold turkey sounds tough. The withdrawal could be painful. What about cutting back? No, not before the debates. Oh, I know! I’ll find a substitute, something to take the edge off, just temporarily. That’s fair, isn’t it? Yes. First thing tomorrow, I will get down on bended knee and pray: Dear God, please guide the Red Sox to the playoffs. Bring me Soxtober. If you do, I swear I’ll kick politics for good, on November 5.
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