Let's take a quick break from politics for a mo'. Although I'm sure I'm developing an aneurysm, so eager am I to vent about the recent Pennsylvania Democratic Primary and various views from the Left side of the street, it's going to have to wait. Just for a little while. At least until I get beyond some travel fatigue and obsessing over what new car I might actually be on the verge of buying, after three years of saying I'm on the verge of buying a new car but not actually . . . well, you get the idea.
Let's turn our attention to what I seem to like to talk about best (or most) of late: pop music. Which I will remind you is not a crime but rather a fantastic plastic distraction from the daily doubleshot of dread and doom, hold the foam, that hisses and sputters from the overheated espresso-maker in this overpriced, down-in-sales coffeehouse known as . . .
Admit it--you'd really rather have me talk about pop music, now wouldn't you?
* * *
First up, my new favorite group--the Ting Tings.
Video #1 is for the first song I heard by them, played on NewNowNext on Logo, the queers-r-us channel:
(You'll have to view this one the old-fashioned way by following the link, rather than using the YouTube embedded player.)
This is as I guess iTunes would put it, the "explicit" version. The band actually sings the word (brace yourself) "high" in the video, referring to some pharmaceutically induced stupor that hippies used to strive for way back in the Sixties but which, like greed and intolerance, has fallen by the wayside in this progressive era. Thank goodness!
On a recent showing of NewNowNext, it sounded as if the censors dropped the word, not quite bleeping it out but erasing it from the soundtrack. Why, I don't rightly know. To prevent impressionable young teens from thinking about drugs? C'mon, they're watching Logo already, the Homo Queerectus Network; if your kid's tuning into Logo, you've got a whole 'nuther set of issues to ponder.
Video #2 is from their, appropriately enough, second single release, "That's Not My Name":
Yeah, they call me Stacey. Maybe Joleesa. It sure beats the heck out of Rap Licious.
This video is embedded for your viewing pleasure. Regarding embedding versus linking, there is no logic to YouTube or the corporate overloads of popular music who sometimes legally supply it with culture fodder--both videos are from the same source, TheTingTingsTV, or, if you prefer, their alternate identity, Sony BMG Music Entertainment (UK) Limited.
Very limited, apparently.
The Ting Tings get my vote for best new group heard in April 2008. Their tunes are very catchy, quite clever, and their look is pretty dazzling, too. Musically and visually, I think they do a good job of paying homage to the 1960s and the 1980s, while not being stuck in those decades, still managing to project a very contemporary image.
Oh, Democratic Party USA, are you listening . . . ?
* * *
Second up, my favorite new singer, Lykke Li, from Sweden:
I was driving home from a party on Sunday and heard this song, "I'm Good, I'm Gone," played on WRCT-FM, the alternative station from the one of those universities in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh, which, so far, is a cut above most college stations. No endless hours of angry young man rock-and-roll but instead, truly alternative sounds, from classic, pre-1970 country and western to Southern soul to contemporary indie, the latter label of which definitely applies to little Lykke Li.
I heard this song as I was pulling into my garage after an evening of too much cake and cappuccino at a friend's house. At first, I thought, OK, it's the sugar talking, this song cannot be as good as it sounds. (Forget about the words--I'm all about textured sound. Although good lyrics and textured sound? As good as too much cake and cappuccino.) Rather than slouching toward home, I decided to wait the song out in my car; it was too good not to listen until the end. I figured, too, that the DJ would announce the artist after the song concluded. So I would know, go inside and blow another $0.99 of my retirement fund on iTunes, and sleep a very peaceful sleep.
But nothing doing--the DJ didn't announce the title or the artist, but instead played another tune. Rather than risk carbon monoxide poisoning, a dead battery, and calls to my local municipality's police station by concerned (or nebby) neighbors, I shut off the car and dashed into the house, turned on my computer, went to radio station's website to view the playlist . . . and discovered that, due to technical difficulties, the playlist wasn't available.
Cripes. Why are all the important things in life so difficult?
I maybe remembered may one full lyric from the song, one of the ones starting with "If you say," and something about a phone. After 45 minutes of Googling, I managed to come up with the lyrics, the artist, and then the YouTube video for "I'm Good, I'm Gone," as well as another hit of hers, "Little Bit," one I like almost as much:
So that's why I was late to work (again) on Monday.
Again, it's that whole "the hits of the Sixties, the Eighties, and today" thing with me. Lykke Li is produced by Peter, Björn, and John, another Swedish pop/rock group (who, stupid, stupid, stupid me missed when they were in concert in Pittsburgh last December), which, too, exemplifies that sound I seem to love of late:
Admittedly, that video is a bit Partridge Family-meets-the-gang-from-Scoobie-Doo to say the least. So make that "the hits from the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, and today," but thank the gods, no Nineties.
* * *
And finally up, my Electro Funk All-Stars mix has been troubling me for weeks now. I just haven't been able to let it go, feeling that some of the songs didn't blend together very well and that a couple of the transitions were decidedly wonky.
So, as a result, I've spent part of the last couple of weekends trying to give it a new listen and an honest appraisal, which has culminated in my cutting two songs from the mix, adding three more, and trying to make seamless some of the transitions.
It now sounds like so:
Morcheeba featuring Big Daddy Kane--"What's Your Name?"
Olive--"This Time" (Mel B. has been voted off Dancing with the Stars and now this mix)
Toni Braxton--"He Wasn't Man Enough" (extended version)
Kylie Minogue--"Obsession" (produced by Kurtis Mantronik)
Etienne Daho--"Me manquer" (new! besides where would I be without at least one French cultural reference in the things I do)
Pizzicato 5--"Love's Prelude"
Army of Lovers--"My Army of Lovers" (Concrete Ghetto Mix)
Vanessa Williams--"Happiness" (samples Nu Shooz's "I Can't Wait")
Mantronix--"Got to Have Your Love"
M.I.A.--"Galang"
Peter Brown--"Do You Wanna Get Funky with Me?" (this is a dodgy leftover at best, but who was I kidding thinking that I could stomach a Mariah Carey song for more than two listens?)
Nu Shooz--"I Can't Wait"
Kurtis Mantronik--"Push Yer Hands Up"
The Orb--"Little Fluffy Clouds" (Orbital Dance Mix)
Röyksopp--"Eple"
Richard X vs. Liberty X--"Being Nobody" (samples "Being Boiled" by the Human League while featuring the lyrics of "Ain't Nobody" by Rufus and Chaka Khan)
Annie--"Chewing Gum"
Change--"Change of Heart"
Jamelia--"Superstar"
The Human League--"Life on Your Own" (again with the Eighties!)
Mylo--"Emotion 98.6" (and today--or at least 2005, when I picked up this CD in the UK)
It's still not a perfect mix yet; the transition between Etienne Daho's "Me manquer" and "Love's Prelude" by Pizzicato 5 is still a little bit clunky, despite my efforts to sample a note from the latter and repeat it every few bars as a refrain in the former. It sounds good in the former; I'm just not sure it makes the necessary connection to the latter.
Ah well, I'm sure even Picasso and Fatboy Slim have had their off days. I'll go along for a couple of months like this. Then something will happen, I'll hear a new tune or become reacquainted with an old one, and bam, voilà, ándale, gesundheit, I will figure out a fix.
Or it may just be time to let it go and come up with some new inspirations for a mix. Maybe something like the Sixties . . . meets the Eighties . . . and today. Ándale.
Clearly, I had too much time on my hands last week because I spent the better part of the week on Facebook, playing Scrabulous (which kind of goes without saying) and Superpokin' everyone (again, without saying), but also forming an official Facebook group dedicated to "celebrating Bitter Pride Week."
As you may know, especially if you live in the United States and are generally considered a sentient being by others, U.S. senator, presidential candidate, and all-around great speechmaker Barack Obama made what some consider to be a serious gaffe on the campaign trail when he said that small-town Americans, specifically Pennsylvanians, were cynical and bitter and, as a result, "They cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations" (quoted from the Meet the Presstranscript, 13 April 2008).
Many in the U.S. were shocked and angered by his statement, and someone whose family earned more than $109 million over the last few years even claimed that the statement indicated he was an elitist who condescended to the country--just not as well as she did.
In fact, his statement made some of us so angry, we prayed to Godfor even more weapons for our home arsenals.
For the record, yours truly did not join in the prayer group nor the arms build-up. In fact, after being initially a little shocked myself by the impoliteness of the statement--made in front of an audience in America's smuggest city, San Francisco no less (must give credit where credit is due--it's neck and neck with Seattle at this point)--I've come to realize the following:
a) Obama's probably not wrong, although perhaps he should have thought a bit harder before he spoke
b) Nobody in this country appreciates honesty, even if honesty is limited to one population group (that is to say, I would argue that all of us--except those perhaps in the $100 million income club, and even then--might be considered bitter regardless of geographic location or lifestyle choice)
c) I really could care less about this "controversy," which strikes me as just another tempest in a teapot
Never mind that the teapot is cracked and seriously leaking--by all means, let's not hurt the teapot's feelings! Instead, let's shake the teapot around and toss it back and forth like a football. Then let's look the teapot in the eye and tell it how it should be feeling about what one of the brewmaster's said about it. "You're feeling queasy from being thrown around by him, aren't you? And bitter--he brewed you too long!"
Ayayay. It's so nice to know that with two wars under our belt, $3.51 per gallon gas in our tanks, and our homes on the foreclosure block, we can focus on the big issues--like America's wittle feewings.
After a few days of this playing out in the media before the April 22nd Pennsylvania Democratic Primary, I was feeling quite bitter myself. (In fact, I'm constantly puzzled how you can live in this country and not be bitter about the way things have gone the last 30 years, but that's another diatribe for another day.) And punchy, 'cause that's what happens to me when social and political absurdity reaches new heights, depths, and breadths.
So in tribute to the silliness (mine as well as that of the collective we call the United States of America), I formed a group in Facebook to commemorate Bitter Pride Week. I advertised it like so:
If you feel especially bitter over anything at all--the current political situation, the price of gas, the tanking economy, the interrupted TV season, the Stanley Cup play-offs (applies to Ottawa Senators' fans only), the new Madonna single, the new Madonna video, your continual losses at Scrabulous, whatever!--join us in commemorating what is sure to become an annual, even daily, event--especially if things go very badly at election time in November.
Hey, what can I say? Stuff like this and making my own mix CDs keeps me entertained and reasonably sane.
I had delusions that it might keep others entertained as well, that the group would go viral in Facebook and attract hundreds of thousands of members. But by week's end, I had 10 members, all but one of them known to me. Alas and, well, I lack, apparently.
So I decided to up the ante a bit and use Facebook's Quiz Creator to develop a questionnaire entitled "Just How Bitter Are You?" in order to gauge the mood of the country (yes, that's right, it was a public service), to add a new social networking ability to my professional skill set (hey, lookit! I can create quizzes in Facebook, which [sotto voce] have no useful application to my job), and . . . to avoid cleaning the bathroom, going through several boxes of files, and editing some meeting minutes, which should have more of a priority, but, which, quel surprise, were not. (Altruism may not be dead but it has been kicked in the balls repeatedly and isn't feeling so good.)
A good idea, and a fun one, but one that has yet to enlist Quiz Creator's cooperation. I could enter my questions, lists the choices for answers, even complete the computations for determining results and, thus, levels of bitterness.
However, for the life of me, I couldn't share any of this with anyone else in my little group or the world at large.I tried at least six times to enter the questions and answers but only could see the questions. I deleted the quiz and the application to start all over, and yet, whenever I went to create a new quiz, the old one was still there, and the new quiz didn't work any better than the old one. Which, naturally, made me even more bitter.
So in the spirit of eternal embitterment and multiple choice, I'll now share with the world at large (or at least the handful who read this blog) Kitty Kurmudgeon's First Quiz, "Just How Bitter Are You?"
Take a few moments to discover your true, bitter self. (See, it really is a public service after all.) Then once you know, take the day off from work, disconnect the phone, get yourself a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, and proceed to watch back-to-back episodes of Ellen DeGeneres and Oprah, all in the vain hope to make your soul smoother and less crunchy.
And don't forget to vote on Tuesday.
* * *
The quiz
Question 1: You think children are . . .
a) Our future b) Better seen and not heard c) An unfortunate necessity for the propagation of the race d) Consumers--small, whiny consumers, but with less disposable income than their parents e) Delicious with fava beans and a nice Chianti
Question 2: Your boss would describe you as . . .
a) A model employee b) Something of a curmudgeon, but ultimately harmless c) Having the union rep on speed dial--and you with a hair trigger no less d) A horse's ass e) A horse's asshole
Question 3: The Reverend Jeremiah Wright sounds like . . .
a) He needs a hug b) A bit of a hothead but not without his valid points c) Your soulmate d) You e) Someone you could give tips to on how to tick off white people
Question 4: George Bush is . . .
a) The president of the United States b) The worst president of the United States c) The worst organism in the universe d) Dick Cheney's right-hand man e) Dick Cheney's back-door man
Question 5: Your vote in the 2008 U.S. election will . . .
a) Make a difference! b) Likely be erased by accident by a Diebold voting machine c) Likely be erased on purpose by a Diebold voting machine d) Be recorded by a Diebold voting machine--early and often--but for the candidate you voted against e) Not be recorded--you will have staged a successful coup and imposed martial law long before election day
Question 6: The phrase "the bitterest pill" refers to . . .
a) A really great punk tune by The Jam, circa 1978 b) A medication that you need to survive but that isn't covered by your healthcare plan c) Healthcare plan? What healthcare plan? d) What you hope is the taste of Viagra as compared with an as-yet-to-be-invented cure for cancer, Alzheimer's, AIDS . . . e) Something you plan to crush into a fine powder and feed to your enemies next time you have them over for dinner
Question 7: Guns . . .
a) Are incompatible with contemporary civilization b) Provide tenuous if false hope in a frightening world c) Are not a substitute for a small penis d) Nor is a motorcycle e) Will have to be pried from your cold, dead hands after you stage a July 4th reenactment of Ruby Ridge in your gated community
Question 8: Suicide is . . .
a) A sad, sad event for everyone b) Tragic but in some cases an understandable reaction to the world in which we live c) Pointless--you secretly suspect that death offers no escape from the misery of existence d) Ridiculous--you prefer to keep on living to piss off your enemies e) Annoying--paperwork, so much paperwork Question 9: The Clintons' marriage . . .
a) Shows strength, commitment, and, most of all, love b) Was once strong but now is more of a professional relationship c) Has been primarily a professional relationship from the start d) Causes you to support gay marriage because, hey, why should heterosexuals be the only miserable ones? e) Is actually a well-staged, well-funded public theater performance of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Question 10: Jesus . . .
a) Loves you, yes you know, for the Bible tells you so b) Is your homeboy c) Is the generic name George Bush uses for all his ranch hands, even if they're actually named Ricardo, Bob, or Helmut d) Got out while the getting was good e) Can't save you now
* * *
Scoring
If you chose mostly a's for your answers, you are . . . beloved children's literary characterAnne of Green Gables!
You're an innocent, a veritable babe in the woods! Some people will carp about your goody-two-shoe-i-ness and try to take advantage of you, but your sweet nature and wholesome spirit will prevail!
You are prone to flights of fancy and have unmanageable hair, but, otherwise, are a lovely soul.
Too bad your sphere of influence only extends over a small corner of Prince Edward Island, circa 1908.
Oh, and you're Canadian. And you're fictional.
If you chose mostly b's on the quiz, you are . . . early 20th-century journalist H. L. Mencken!
Oh you not-so-lovable curmudgeon!
In theory, you can be sweet (that is to say, you're not biologically incapable of it), but more often than not, you're just tart, acidic, sour, lemony, and, well, bitter. You're from Baltimore, hon, so what can we expect?
While you're an intelligent entity, you're also too full of yourself and convinced of your own superiority. Although you decry the privileges of elites, you kinda see yourself as a member of that very same special club. (By the way, the other members call themselves "snobs.")
Lucky for us no one other than TV commentators on MSNBC bothers to quote you anymore.
If you chose mostly c's on the quiz, you are . . . deposed Iraqi president Saddam Hussein!
Saddam, we hardly knew ye!
In retrospect, you don't seem half as bad as you did when you were teasing everyone with your (alleged) nuclear arsenal, gassing your Kurdish citizens, and twiddling your Snidely Whiplash mustache. Still, you might want to ixnay on the itternessbay before someone invades your country on a whim.
However, if that comes to pass, you will indeed have the last (bitter) laugh.
Unfortunately, that laugh will be from the grave.
If you chose mostly d's on the quiz, you are . . . Venezuelan strongman Hugo Chavez!
Like Maxwell House coffee, you're bitter to the last drop.
You smell sulfur everywhere you go--little do you realize it's emanating from you! We're sorry to report that your bitterness has started to rot you from the inside. As a consequence, you've gone whiffy.
Nonetheless, your bitterness is so over the top as to have a quirky, belligerent charm--like that of lop-eared pit bull pausing in the middle of a vicious dogfight to lick itself.
But there's still hope for you! Just dial back the rhetoric a little and maybe your country won't be bombed until after gas reaches $4.00 a gallon.
That sound you hear, by this way, is a clock ticking . . .
If you chose mostly e's as your answers, you are . . . Vice President Dick Cheney!
Congratulations! You've just bought a luxury McMansion near the Lake of Fire overlooking the 18th hole of the Circle of Hell Country Club! You've redlined Satan and changed the passcode for the entry to your gated community, so now he'll never get back in. Which is OK by you--you never much liked your kids anyway.
As a consequence, we have no advice for you--you're too far gone. All we can do is pull out our grandmother's crucifix from our flak jacket and slowly back out of the room while you feast on the blood of newborns, live chickens, and your political opponents' newborns and live chickens.
* * *
Ah, I slay me, don't I?
Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed the goofiness, savored the bile, and will remember to votefor change (a change in direction, a change of scenery, a change of underwear . . .) this year.
I was at the gym last night (goodness knows I needed to be), in the locker room, getting dressed for my workout and, admittedly, staring at the broad shoulders, strong back, and rather appealing derriere of a guy fresh from the shower, dressing again for the outside world. He of the Perfect Posterior has many other attributes to recommend him--and, I'm sure, a stellar personality to boot--but as this is a family blog, I'll leave the rest of my praise for the pages of the gay male equivalent of the "Forum" section of Penthouse magazine.
You're welcome.
There is a TV in the men's locker room at my gym. A very loud TV, one that hangs from the ceiling or dangles off a wall (as evidenced, I'm not looking upwards much while in the locker room) and is usually blaring a Pittsburgh Steelers game, a Pittsburgh Penguins game, or a Pittsburgh Pirates game. None of which I'm particularly interested in (except maybe the Penguins for some strange reason), and none of which I feel like hanging out in the locker room with a bunch of sweaty, naked guys in order to watch.
Wow, I've really lost the plot in middle age, haven't I?
Anyway.
Last night, though, instead of a game, they were broadcasting another kind of sporting event, the 2008 U.S. presidential election, the coverage of which, if you're been paying attention (and how could you not?), is practically indistinguishable from the play-by-play of the NBA finals or the Superbowl as proffered by ESPN.
A case in point. The news program on air at that moment--some "Smackdown to the White House"-style audiovisual juggernaut hosted by Chris Matthews of Hardball or Vince McMahon of World Wrestling Entertainment--was showing the instant replay of Bill Clinton'sgaffe du jour regarding the Missus and the what-was-once- dead-but-has-now-been-resurrected account of Mrs. C's "misremembering" of dodging sniper fire in a flak jacket in Bosnia a decade-and-a-half ago and, as a result, single-handedly bringing an end to the Yugoslav conflict through her steely determination and ability to answer a telephone at 3 in the morning.
As if it weren't bad enough to bring it up again, ol' Bill made things worse by blaming the wife candidate's "error" (an error repeated three times, rather than only once, as Bill Clinton claimed) on Hillary Clinton's age and fatigue.
Now there's a ringing endorsement for your wife's candidacy and her abilities to govern. She makes mistakes because she's a tired, old bag! No wonder I slept with a long line of White Trashy-looking interns, administrative assistants, and Holiday Inn-on-the-Bypass cocktail lounge singers! She's past it! A has-been! A never-was!
Somehow in that moment Bill Clinton made his wife seem less vigorous and more past-her-sell-by-date than John McCain, no easy feat in a youth-obsessed culture such as ours.
I was softly chuckling to myself over this latest Bill blunder, as well as over the lights! camera! drama! approach of the armchair political quarterbacking. Suddenly, Señor Culo Hermoso spoke. (To me, no less.)
"You know, I just don't think Bill Clinton wants his wife to win. I don't think he can stand the thought of her being as successful as him. It's like he has some sort of psychological need to sabotage her campaign. He just can't shut up."
Cute *and* enlightened, I thought.
"I know," I said. "They keep asking whether America can deal with a woman president. The question ought to be whether Bill Clinton can deal with a woman president--or any president who isn't him."
A simple exchange but an odd one, nonetheless. For one thing, it was odd in that the exchange occurred at all, and I was a part of it. I don't necessary find my gym--or Pittsburgh, in general--to be a warm, friendly place where one engages in conversations with strangers, let alone semi-naked ones--or even with fully clothed people you see everyday, if my workplace is any indication.
For another, the moment was odd because I couldn't agree more with Mr. Bum Beautiful's analysis of the situation. At long last, a kindred spirit of bitter cynicism and world-weariness!
Like the guy at the gym, you do just gotta wonder whether Bill really wants Hillary to win. And if she does win, you have to wonder whether her presidency will be her own--or whether it will be all about him, all the time, in every way.
Frankly, I had enough of that back in the '90s. Even though I voted for him twice, he kinda wore out his welcome with me sometime around "It depends what 'is' is," or whatever line he used to try to parse the fact that he was "hot for intern." Like Hillary, I did think there was a "vast, right wing conspiracy" to bring Bill down (see "bitter cynicism and world-weariness" above). Still, he made it so easy. And we all had to sit by and watch him do it, which, weirdly enough, he seemed to enjoy because, well, it was all about him.
* * *
This tangent, however, in no way should indicate that I am against Hillary Clinton being president of the United States, now or at some point in the future. Nonetheless, the counter-tangent to ensue forthwith should not be taken as an endorsement for Hillary Clinton's candidacy either. After much sturm und drang, angst, weltschmerz, and other German-derived concepts of inner and outer turmoil, I have made up my mind who I am voting for in the Pennsylvania primary, now less than two weeks away. Indulge me, however, a little bit longer in keeping my decision to myself--and hedging my bets in case my chosen candidate self-immolates before the primary.
I've never been one of those people who has had strong feelings one way or another about Hillary Clinton. While I won't go so far as to say I love her, I certainly don't hate her, and I am often taken aback by the strong, negative reactions she receives from so many corners. I've heard her described as "unlikeable" so many times, you almost assume it's true.
Nonetheless, I do question the assumption--nay, the conviction--that Hillary Clinton is unlikeable, and thus somehow would make a terrible president, a failure as a leader, or an all-around poor party guest or family relation. I've seen some bitter bile directed toward her over the years, the most recent example being a cartoon (see comic and commentary from March 3, 2008) in the local pseudo-alternative rag, the City Paper, which was practically orgiastic over the thought of Hillary Clinton winning the presidency, so that everyday she would have to work in the same office, sit at the same desk, and stare at the door to the very same alcove where Mr. C and Monica Lewinsky got their freak on while Rome caught fire.
After a few snide and caustic diatribes like that, you can't help but feel a little sorry for Hil. But you can past that and focus on the deeper, twisted psychology at hand. Perhaps it's that some perceive her as a "traitor" to tradition because she is a woman with an unconventional homelife and globe-spanning career aspirations. Perhaps it's the perception that she's somehow deemed a "failure" as a wife and mother because of her uncontrollable alley cat of a husband, who couldn't keep himself from unzipping his pants while on the job.
As retro and bigoted as it all sounds, I think it may be the case, at least in the minds of some in our fair-to-middlin' republic, that somehow these things make her worthy of continual and virulent scorn, as well as an unsuitable candidate for president.
Goodness knows, the job already has a long history of attracting the best and the brightest. By all means, let's not start lowering standards now.
* * *
I feel quite the opposite about Hilary Clinton. Rather than being the stern, humorless taskmistress she is often portrayed, I find her quite funny (she was a cut-up on Saturday Night Live and Ellen DeGeneres, deftly making fun of herself) and even charming at times. I like it when she cackles. At least, she can laugh. At least we know, under all that Reese Witherspoon-in-Electionwowserism, there's still a real person underneath. When I think of good times and belly laughs, maybe I don't necessarily think of Hillary Clinton. But then, I don't necessarily think of Barack Obama or John McCain either.
She is obviously very intelligent with a jones for politics and policy. Why shouldn't she run for office? I don't get why this is verboten territory for a woman, especially one who looks far better speaking authoritatively in a tailored suit rather than baking cookies while flouncing around in a pastel-colored headband and Laura Ashley prints.
And, yes, I'd even say she is an experienced leader--although I think she ought to focus on her senatorial career rather than on her years as First Lady/Very Special Vice President in her husband's administration. I do think the latter role did give her familiarity (although perhaps not quite first-had experience) with the workings of Washington and the revolutions and convolutions of geopolitics. However, it wasn't her name on the door (so to speak). Besides, the fewer connections she makes to that husband of hers, the better off she would be.
A stronger statement about qualifications could be made about her career in the U.S. Senate, which has at least been longer than that of Obama. Whether she has more qualitative experience than Obama is debatable, but, say what you will, she certainly has more political credentials than that current occupant of the White House ever did or ever will.
Nonetheless, there is something about Hillary that just never sets quite right with me. It isn't dislike. It's more like disbelief. Incredulity. A certain amount of bemusement, if not outright, well, hilarity. It's that chameleon-like quality of hers, one that makes her a political survivor but one that also never lets you know which of her many multiple personalities you're actually dealing with. I kinda don't trust her. Whenever I hear her speak, which is practically on the hour these days, I keep thinking, "Who is Hillary Clinton, and what does she truly believe in?"
Probably the simplest example of this is changeling persona is when she, a goyische woman born and bred in Chicago with a decidedly Midwestern accent, announced she was running for the U.S. Senate from New York State--and that, oh by the way, she was both part-Jewish and a longtime New York Yankees fan. Not that she was trying to court the New York vote or anything.
Perhaps the most extreme example is when she was on the Tyra Banks Showearlier this year (guess Oprah was booked, hunh?). When Tyra asked her about the whole Monica Lewinsky meshugas, Hilary explained that when she learned of her husband Bill's affair with La Lewinsky, she "never doubted Bill's love for me."
Right on, sister. 'Cause nothing says "I love my wife" like sticking a cigar up a 22-year-old intern's vagina.
It's that sort of thing--that tendency to say anything, do anything, erase any natural part of her being (and wear pastel-colored headbands to boot) in order to get elected--that's what bothers me about Hillary Clinton.
I don't think this makes her a bad person, necessarily, and I certainly don't consider this trait to make her as reviled as she often is. If anything, blaming Hillary Clinton for being willing to fight like a junkyard dog to become president is a bit like saying Bill Clinton will sleep with anything that moves. It's hardly an insult--it's just who they are, Politico and Manwhore. It's their essence.
Nevertheless, given all these somersaults of personality, these cartwheels of conscience, and the fact that she is so eager to return to the political fray after the brutal knockdowns and fierce drag-outs of the '90s, I don't necessarily feel all warm/fuzzy toward her candidacy. I can't help but think that If she's this squirrelly about her life, willing to put herself and her family through four to eight more years of Wagnerian-level insanity, perhaps her judgment is not so sharp after all.
But, hey, the same could be said for all politicians operating at the presidential tier. Seriously, who except a Mach IV-class egomaniac would want the job of president of the U.S.? To me, it just seems like the world's worst migraine of opportunity. But then, I hate managing people, and, oh yeah, let's face it, I just hate people (other than friends and family), period.
* * *
So all this is to say that I'm hesitant to select Hillary as the Democratic nominee and the president. After the last eight years of "extreme nation-building" in the Middle East and laissez faire with-a-vengeance economic policies at home, I'd really like to find a candidate who believes in something other than his or her own ego and over-eagerness. Someone who, in fact, is about something other than winning at all costs.
I suspect I'll have a long wait on my hands trying to find that candidate in this day and age, so I better pick someone.
I think what I've come to realize is that it's not so much the case that I don't want Hillary to be president because of who she is and how she acts. Instead, it's more that I'm not sure I can deal with Bill Clinton for another four to eight years. As I told Herr Golden Glutes at the gym, I voted for him twice but the thought of having him on the scene until 2012 or 2016 is just too much to bear. Unless, of course, Hillary made him Very Special Ambassador to the Republic of Hooters, and he was never heard from again.
I've heard Barack Obama criticize Hillary Clinton, saying that having the Clintons in office again would take the country back to the '90s, a period the Clintons try to tout as some sort of Progressive Era, but one which I remember more for its gridlock and infighting, not to mention its being the live-action version of Trivial Pursuit: Greed Edition.
Meanwhile, the Republicans get all moist in inappropriate places over the Reagan Era, another morally bankrupt age. And some of Obama's supporters can't seem to resist the residual comparisons to those Crusty Old Hits from the '60s, John and Bobby Kennedy, who, I would delicately like to point out HAVE BEEN DEAD FOR FORTY OR MORE YEARS, YOU SIMPERING BABY-BOOMERS.
Me, I'd just like to find a candidate who could deal with the here, the now, and tomorrow; the present and the future. Not one who's stuck in the past, which perhaps wasn't so perfect after all.
Yet I'm not really sure where I have been since February 25th, which was the last time I blogged.
Of course, that's not entirely true. I should say something along the lines of "February 25th was the last time I successfully blogged" or "February 25th was the last time I blogged and reached a natural conclusion." That is to say, the end.
A couple of those posts will see the light of day someday, served up hot (if not necessarily fresh) through the magic of Blogger, suddenly appearing, date of publication March 2008, as if I'd actually completed them in a timely manner. But some thoughts--notably my half-assed takes on the ever-evolving presidential race or Britney Spears' well-being--are probably best left in a can on the back shelf of the storeroom. Label gone, expiry date unknown. Destined to cause botulism if ever opened and consumed.
Obviously, once again, I've had a rather significant case of bloggus interruptus. Oh, I've blogged, or at least attempted to. But I get . . . distracted. So I end up never quite finishing what I started.
Then the next time I try to blog, I'm bothered by the worry over the last attempt and am unable to reach a satisfying climax to my blogging--or even a full-on blogging tumescence. Once again.
It has begun to trouble me significantly, this blogectile dysfunction. Maybe I just can't keep it (i.e., the blogging) up any longer, and maybe I never will get it up again. Are my days of sowing my wild blog oats far behind me--much like my 29"-inch waist and my hairline, to name but two other "I haven't seen those since the '80s" characteristics of my personhood?
Alas, I've lost my blogging mojo. My blojo, if you will.
Er, "blogging mojo" is probably a better turn of phrase. Less likely to get caught in the snares of an internet filter. Not that anything I've ever written about before would be considered unsuitable for impressionable children or nervous livestock, of course.
* * *
Or it could be simply that I've lived through one of the longest winters I've ever known. While not necessarily a severe winter--I don't recall the temperature dropping below 0 degrees F ever or snowfall reaching more than 6" the entire season--it has gone on for ages. Or at least months. Months longer than I'm used to, even after having been back East for nearly four years now.
For the uninitiated, I think winter in Pittsburgh could best be described like so: Imagine living life in the bottom of deep, dark, quite cold bowl covered over by a very wet, very gray towel. We have hills, we have clouds, and as a result, we have snow, rain, mist, and general doom-and-gloom from November through most of March.
We also must surely have the highest rate of seasonal affective disorder this side of . . . Ohio.
And yours truly has been feeling it quite intensely. Forget the "blues buster" lighting, the trips out West to Las Vegas, the pop music, the home redecorating projects, and the new iPod. Forget, too, embracing the season through snowshoeing,snow shoveling, skating, and skiing. (Editor's note: The latter of which I've yet to do, admittedly. Sigh, maybe next year . . . .) Forget (although you won't be able to) that we're only sixteen days away from the Pennsylvania Democratic Primary, the "Shoutdown in Steeltown" between Obama and Clinton. Nothing was able to get me out of the bottom of that bowl.
Only this weekend has it warmed up enough in Pittsburgh to allow for general carousing about in short sleeves, car windows down while driving around town, or walks in Frick Park, followed by a bout of heavy sneezing and hacking due to the pollen from the trees and flowers now, at long last, in semi-bloom, and not from some lingering and malingering winter crud that settled in around Thanksgiving and held on for dear life and near death until St. Patrick's Day.
Ferchrissakes, it's already April, and we're just now getting daffodils and sunshine, warm rains and budding trees. Even when I was in Kansas three weeks ago, they were already seeing these traditional signs of spring, at least in the non-Texas portions of North America.
I keep saying I want to live in Canada and, lookit, at least I got the weather right. Now all I need is to learn how to use "toque" properly in a sentence and remember when Bryan Adams' birthday is (it's a national holiday up there, apparently), and I'm practically guaranteed honorary citizenship for life. If nothing else, winter should make us appreciate our Canadian brethren and sistren more than we do. How the heck do they do it? And why can't I, at least with half the whining and only sporadic thoughts of suicide from seasonal affective disorder?
Enough already. It is April. It is spring. Time to resurrect. Time to get back to life. Time to get back to the blogging lifestyle. The bloggystyle, if you will.
But, perhaps wisely, you won't.
* * *
One more playlist before I go. What's currently on my iPod, the video version. Fling yourself into spring. And with a little luck, spring yourself into a fling before the season's over with, and you're too hot and sweaty from summer's heat to even think such salacious thoughts.
