So, Mark, now you’ve taken to combing the bitch for ideas.
Fine by me.
You would not believe the reactions to that post. More to the point, I am having a hard time believing the nerve I struck, all unwitting. Given the awkward struggle to write it, the awkward writing. I’m always surprised, at such times, to find it’s readable English. (Not that I speak any other language. Maybe gibberish.)
Is it because I named the Fear? The fear we all have of losing something we’ve dared call important to us, precious? Least that’s my neurotic profile. I really don’t know, I just start writing and thing say themselves, all idiot savant-like.
And invariably end up a tad bit smarter than when I started out. In this case, not with any way to resolve the anxiety—but since that piece was first posted, Hillary has so thoughtfully taken care of that. Any fool and the DNC is now free to assess her performance as the Thomas Eagleton of our time. Only worse.
I read where she’s been pressured into near madness by Bill, a theory which has that nice Occam’s Razor ring to it. You can watch his disintegration right there on youtube. Shaking his finger at anyone who dares disagree. Looking more and more like W.C. Fields by the day.
In part, his breakdown—and the amazing breakdown of all that Clinton political savvy—is a result of what everyone says it is. Give up his title as America’s First Black President? To a Black man? There is only so much a person can bear.
That Clinton-as-Statesman thing he had going? Blown in the ass, and by his own self. No matter how rich, how powerful, people are undone by the personal things, petty and envious, same as everyone else.
I read that the Clintons took the White House carpets when they left—and other such built-ins and no-nos—which they were duly forced to return. I mean, that is Low rent. Crackers.
The problem is not only that Obama is Black, nor is it that he effortlessly emanates a cool beyond Bill Cinton’s dreams. No, the problem is that Obama, have you noticed, is mos def not Low Rent.
Which, yes, is code for Elitist. Elitist being the closest anyone dares come to naming the way issues of class are shaping the future of this supposedly classless nation, Where every move is utterly fraught with class. Weighted with class.
The Clintons got none. Hell, in Appalachia (one of the most beautiful places on earth) she fit right in! And believe you me, those folks know faux Cracker when they see it.
Oh we learning so much about what those two are made of, seeing the pieces come apart before our eyes. I might find it sad if the idea of Hillary upstairs and the cigar down weren’t so damn repellent. When this is over, will someone please spirit them away for a time? So we can recover?
Maybe to that nice tropic island Larry David suggested.
Here’s an idea for an Obama ad: a montage of Clinton’s Sybillish personalities that have surfaced during the campaign with a solemn voiceover at the end saying, “Does anyone want this nut answering the phone?
And …
How is it that she became the one who’s perceived as more equipped to answer that 3 a.m. call than the unflappable Obama? He, with the ice in his veins …
There have been times in this campaign when she seemed so unhinged that I worried she’d actually kill herself if she lost. Every day, she reminds me more and more of Adele H., who also had an obsession that drove her insane.
A few weeks ago, I started to feel sorry for her. Oh Christ, let her win already…Who cares…It’s not worth it. There’s not that much difference between them. She can have it. Anything to avoid watching her descend into madness. So I switched. I started rooting for her. It wasn’t that hard. Compromise comes easy to me. I was on board.
And then I saw the ad.
… I don’t care if it’s 3 a.m. or 10 p.m. or any other time. I don’t want her talking to Putin, I don’t want her talking to Kim Jong Il, I don’t want her talking to my nephew. She needs a long rest. She needs to put on a sarong and some sun block and get away from things for a while, a nice beach somewhere — somewhere far away,
Maybe we could take up a collection?
Love,
Zo
