Political Underwear Monthly
11.19.08 Ed. Note: nothing new to report - more will be revealed.
Early Novermber
Holy Halloween and a rat-a-tat-tat! What a month it's been! The good news is that October is over. No more bailout wannabe saviors, typified by TV shots of McCain striding purposefully around the halls of congress, entourage in tow with Lieberman, the shady sharpei, trying to keep up. And the debates, or better yet, the debatacles. Won't be missing them at all. Taken as a whole the three Presidential debates were about as exciting as a bag of clams. Over all, McCain's performances must have pleased the book-cooking golden parachute crowd, while hopefully the 'real' people out there were pleased with Obama's performance.
I wanted to cover the October 15th debate at Hofstra in person. That's not true. I haven't turned in my political junkie creds but I had no interest in schlepping to Long Island to stand in many lines while sniffer dogs snuffled at my purse, tape recorder and laptop and the same objects were the subject of much riffling by secret service types. So I covered the debate from the comfort of my bed, littered with candy corn, white cheddar popcorn (excellent for throwing at TV screen every time big MAC looked gravely out at us and said, "My friends...") and my dog. None of those fancy reporters from the networks could look down their noses at my bread-loaf sized, oh-so-outdated tape recorder. And, i think if Brokaw, Candy Crowley et al, were to be completely honest, they'd admit that they'd rather be covering the debate from their beds instead of getting elbowed and squashed in the spin room. (@ 3100 reporters attended that last debate!)
Clearly what the debates lacked was some good choreography and music. Gower Champion and Bob Fosse would have whipped those debates into shape with chorus lines, top hats and snappy tunes. Brian Williams, Michelle and Miss Cindy could have sung a nice doo wop back up to the quibblefest with which Obama and Big Mac ended the last debate.
And speaking of Sarah Flash-in-the-Pa(li)n; where exactly do you find clothing big enough in which to dress a moose?
See you in four years. In the meantime I'll probably spend 28 days or so a the rehab for recovering political junkies.
.
Holy Halloween and a rat-a-tat-tat!
Holy Halloween and a rat-a-tat-tat! What a month it's been! The good news is that October is over. No more bailout wannabe saviors, typified by TV shots of McCain striding purposefully around the halls of congress, entourage in tow with Lieberman, the shady sharpei, trying to keep up. And the debates, or better yet, the debatacles. Won't be missing them at all. Taken as a whole the three Presidential debates were about as exciting as a bag of clams. Over all, McCain's performances must have pleased the book-cooking golden parachute crowd, while hopefully the 'real' people out there were pleased with Obama's performance.
I wanted to cover the October 15th debate at Hofstra in person. That's not true. I haven't turned in my political junkie creds but I had no interest in schlepping to Long Island to stand in many lines while sniffer dogs snuffled at my purse, tape recorder and laptop and the same objects were the subject of much riffling by secret service types. So I covered the debate from the comfort of my bed, littered with candy corn, white cheddar popcorn (excellent for throwing at TV screen every time big MAC looked gravely out at us and said, "My friends...") and my dog. None of those fancy reporters from the networks could look down their noses at my bread-loaf sized, oh-so-outdated tape recorder. And, i think if Brokaw, Candy Crowley et al, were to be completely honest, they'd admit that they'd rather be covering the debate from their beds instead of getting elbowed and squashed in the spin room. (@ 3100 reporters attended that last debate!)
Clearly what the debates lacked was some good choreography and music. Gower Champion and Bob Fosse would have whipped those debates into shape with chorus lines, top hats and snappy tunes. Brian Williams, Michelle and Miss Cindy could have sung a nice doo wop back up to the quibblefest with which Obama and Big Mac ended the last debate.
And speaking of Sarah Flash-in-the-Pa(li)n; where exactly do you find clothing big enough in which to dress a moose?
See you in four years. In the meantime I'll probably spend 28 days or so a the rehab for recovering political junkies.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |