I haven’t decided whether its worth my emotional time and energy to contribute analytically to the already protracted predisential race. I haven’t decided whether I care who’s running. I haven’t decided whether I should — once again — try to champion a more sensible multi-party race, when in this binary age, more than one choice makes people’s heads hurt. With my family and dogs, I will spend the spring exploring my options as a voter, taking a look at what ails the nation, and then — perhaps on the Daily Show — proclaim that I utterly don’t care. Despair not, for I’ll have an opportunity on The Colbert Report to contradict myself by proclaiming how deeply I do care.
Are you still awake? Good. Work with me.
I today made my second donation to the Obama campaign. Why? Because I’m lost in his dreamy rhetoric. Beneath that warm and erudite surface, however, is a man who will spend a lot of money in office. He’s a liberal Democrat, make no mistake, and with that mantle comes a massive purse that’s often jam packed with dream money. My favorite kind. The kind that keeps NASA functioning. The kind that creates the Department of Homeland Security, which spent a part of its budget making homeland-branded toys for distribution in nursing homes.
Obama’s web site is busy and full of stuff to do. Compare that with Hillary Clinton’s web site, which intercepts you at the point of loading with a patently unfriendly sign-up interface. That’s so typical of Hillary — the woman we’re supposed to root for — so cold, so shielded, so thin and uninteresting. Obama’s warmth is the Heat Miser to Hillary’s cold, lifeless, shrill and bitter Cold Miser. I don’t understand how anyone — on the principles of basic social appeal — can be so miserly and misguided as to fall into Clinton’s camp. She’s a documented war supporter, churlish in her dealings with opponents, incapable of even a moment of public-facing warmth, unable to unleash her womanity on the Supremes’ predictable and dejecting ruling on partial-birth abortions. She’s a dud and I generally laugh at anyone who supports her.
I haven’t ruled out Rudy Guiliani, but I haven’t decided whether more Republicans in the White House is healthy for a country rank with neo-conservative cancers. Colonics and chemo seem more proper.
So, I throw money at dream boy, the Man Who Would Be Black, our strangely kempt Cerebrum King, with his odd and unnatural retro-associations with JFK — retro-associations the slavish, lazy, myopic, politically irrelevant media are happy to encourage.
We’ll see what happens. As soon as I’ve decided whether or not to care.