Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Live Bloggin!

LiveBlogging from the ideal Ohio debate:

Hey, welcome to the final Democratic debate before the March 4th primaries, here in Ohio. With us tonight, Senators Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama

(The camera pans to show Clinton and Obama)

So, we're all pretty much ready to choose right? Great. Let's go home.

Everyone applauds and then they all go home.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Ready For Day One

There’s a lot of talk in the democratic campaign about being ready on Day One. Hillary’s main argument is that she’ll be the most ready on Day One. Barack Obama wants to prove that he can also be ready on Day One, even though he lacks thirty-five years of experience readying for Day One. To prove this point, they both throw the words “Day One” into their speech at any opportunity possible. To paraphrase: “I’m ready for Day One.” “We need a leader prepared for day one.” “How many donuts can I have in a Day? One.”

For a long time, I thought that “Day One” was what the survivors of a nuclear apocalypse would call the day they all got together in Nebraska or wherever, but this campaign has broadened my mind. Now I am psyched for Day One. It sounds like a wonderful day.

I remember when we used to evaluate Presidents based on their first hundred days. How delightfully antiquated of us! I laugh at my pre-Day One self. Laugh at her? I barely know her. Who’s that young fool in that sepia toned photograph on my myspace page? Me, before day one.

Day One will be like New Year’s Day, except instead of hangovers we’ll all be in a pretty good mood. We’ll still order pizza in, but we’ll go jogging before we eat it. And, unlike New Year’s Day, we won’t pretend to follow our resolutions for three weeks until our best friend visits and we decide that having between two and twelve drinks isn’t a big deal. We will go whole hog with Universal Health Care. In a day. What day? Day One. Make your doctor appointment now.

On Day One there will be a parade, but a parade that all the kids can go to by themselves and no one will kidnap them. The adults will watch football. There will be football on Day One, because that’s American.

And on Day One, all of the other countries will forgive us. Like petty co-workers they will point and whisper “Day One” as we saunter into the UN and suddenly, everyone wants to sit with us again. No translators, thank you. On Day One, we speak the universal language of Day One.

On Day One the Iraqis will wake up, as if from a spell, like the winged monkeys in Oz, and realize that they’re all friends. They’ll ask us not to go, but we’ll pack up the Emerald City anyway.

The Beatles song “Yesterday” will become irrelevant because no one likes yesterday. Not after Day One.

Our landlords will replace our appliances without a commensurate increase in rent because on Day One, we deserve a new dishwasher.

Wait? Did I just say landlords? I meant that we’re all homeowners with substantial, small, and legal loans. Day One: you own a house for real this time.

On Day One, the 24-hour news anchors will look at each other and say this:
MALE: I am out of things to talk about. Why just keep repeating ourselves?
FEMALE: You’re right. That’s enough vaguely disguised editorializing for one day.
MALE: Well, see you tomorrow.
FEMALE: Yeah, go have fun and don’t worry about any workplace shootings or random kidnapping of a young female like yourself! That’s not gonna happen.
MALE: Not on day one.

I see you Day One, and I await you with open arms. The Democrats have promised and I believe. Barack, Hillary, make this day come. I know that you are ready for it.

Monday, February 11, 2008

I'll Cry if I Want To

Okay, I'm trying to write some "Shouts and Murmurs" style pieces. Your feedback is appreciated. The boyfriend in the following piece is fictional. In case you were like "Girl, no you don't." You are correct. I don't. Also, this was written three weeks ago.
Hillary Clinton nabbed New Hampshire yesterday and,
according to the blogo-pundo-talko-sphere, it was
because a lot of us ladies turned off Grey’s Anatomy
just in time to see those “tears”, put that pint of
ice cream back in the freezer and rush to the polls.

The endless speculation into Hillary’s emotional
makeup makes me wonder: do I, as a woman, have what it
takes to be President? I have the pedigree. I mean,
not yet, but I could get it. I went to Harvard and
that’s like step numero uno.

But what I’m worried about is my innate lady-need for
emotions. If you’d asked me about my emotional state
before this election, I would have said I was normal.
Love cute babies, have road rage normal.

Now, I’m not so sure. As a woman, would I cry in front
of Kim Jong-il? Get PMS-y right when I have to launch
a nuclear bomb? Or would I turn my emotions off and
become an unfeeling robot? Robots can’t be President
and neither can sissies!

To test my mettle, I kept an emotions journal for a
whole day to find out if I had what it takes.

6AM – Awake. Emotional response: robotic.

7:30AM – Forgot to bring special face soap into
shower. Wash face with regular soap. Emotional
response: sensitive. Worried about effects on face.
Gotta get over that: can’t think about skin when
troops are on the line.

8:20AM – Drive to work. Sad story about Iraq on NPR. I
do not cry. I sympathetically, but decisively change
lanes, indicating to other drivers my resolve.
Emotional response: Balanced.

9:30AM – We’re out of instant oatmeal at the office.
Emotional response: Hot Pocket.

11AM- My boss and I go over some of my work. Emotional
response: initially sensitive but more robotic as
criticism intensifies. I get you, Hillary!

2PM – Read about Britney Spears on the internet.
Emotional response: I can save her. I want to project
my values into her life. I want her to read books and
watch BBC DVDs. Does this mean I would be an
interventionist President? How would I deal with the
Middle East? Could Syria or Jordan deal with all five
hours of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth?

6PM – Dry Cleaner. Negotiations. I insist he has lost
my sweaters. He insists I lost the ticket. I don’t
have the ticket but it doesn’t mean I lost it.
Jackass. I’ll launch a missile on your bulls**t right
now, buddy. Emotional response: patriotic.

6:15PM - Tell Dry Cleaner he is unprofessional. Vow to
never return. Emotional Response: Robotic. The kind
of thing you’d like to see with Kim Jong-il. This has
nothing to do with the fact that my dry cleaner is

7PM – Home. Find ticket. Emotional response: Guilt.
Wild waves of guilt. I am wrong. I am flawed. I am a
blight on the human race. I do not deserve to exist.

8PM - I e-mail my family, friends, the dry cleaner,
people I have wronged, people I have admired. I
confess. Apologize. I drive to the dry cleaners. I
apologize. He says its okay. I’m glad its okay. I need
everyone to like me except that one girl from college
who was such a bi-otch when we tutored those
low-income kids.

10PM – Show journal to boyfriend. Ask if he thinks, as
a woman, I can be president. He asks why he isn’t in
it. I say, “Why would you be in it?” He wants to know
how I feel about him. I say “Why is everything always
about you? I’m a busy woman with a country to run
(someday).” He looks like he might cry. I think I’ll
just tell everyone he did.