This is the point in the political campaign when the passion for polling becomes so strong that it’s like high school love, with the media playing the role of the pimply smart ass guy and politics, however you define it, playing prom queen. Okay, so that’s a dated, sexist and inappropriate comparison. But it’s the only thing I can remember from my high school years that tells me anything about this process, so I revert to it whenever I can.
Her name was Trudy, and she was faux blonde, with a soft voice and eager hands and a friendly demeanor. She had silky lips and the scent of lilacs about her, all the time, and…
Just kidding. I never got anywhere near a prom queen, spent my first two high school years in a Catholic seminary (Absolutely Nothing Bad Happened There) and my last two years chasing unattainable women for all the wrong reasons, I realize in sorrow and retrospect.
Mea Maxima Culpa.
The politics of this campaign has become such a compelling subject that not a minute can pass without intense focus on this development or that development or this poll or that survey or this or that or whatever. How close is that caravan headed toward the southern border, the one that has all the Ninjas and ISISIS and MS-Word or whatever it is?
It just never stops, just like the passion of a high school boy.
Unless you stop it.
You can do that, you know?
Just stop paying attention to political stories, no matter where they show up, and shift focus to other things, like why its taking so long for very cold weather to come to the midwest. I went for a 12,400-step walk this morning (I did not count. Fitbit!) just to see what I could see.
First, allergies to leaf mold do not enhance this kind of walk, so for much of the time, I felt as though I were going to fall off the side of the universe and spiral into space. I did not. But it took me a long time to make my rounds on foot (My wife had the car today).
I found that I live, indeed, in the Democratic Paradise of Evanston, where people can’t put up enough lawn signs about vaguely recognized people running for this and that. You can’t spit here without hitting a Democrat (borrowing from H.L. Mencken’s observation about hated farmers on a train ride west).
Damn this place is prosperous, which may be why it has been so solidly Democratic for so long. We import some issues from just south of here, a land called Chicago, but not to the point at which it troubles anyone, at least not me. Sure, if I have the window opened at night around 3 a.m. it’s not unusual to hear distant gunfire. Because I live a block or so from a skilled emergency room hospital we get ambulances all year around.
I find that comforting, somehow.
I have already voted up at the Municipal Center, a transformed old girls school that now looks municipally ratty, but not in a troubling way. I am not shy about admitting I voted a straight Democratic ticket (and supported saving the Harley Clarke mansion from its advancing decrepitude) because I almost always vote Democratic and this year had such a special reason for it.
I can’t think of a more unhappy time at the national political level, which is troubling because we have very good national level officials, a great Congress member, great Senators, and soon, I am sure, a very wealthy Democrat as governor instead of the very wealthy Republican who holds that job now.
I’ve got no real Illinois problems, which I am sure drives some my friends crazy. I expect a good deal of shenanigans from my state level politicians because I was raised in Pennsylvania, covered the legislature there and learned to love even the crooks because they were just so interesting. Fun, actually. We were not allowed to write like this when I was there as a pup, but I can think of lots of stories that should have started, “Holy Jesus on the Cross, look at what these sauerkraut chomping thieves have done now.”
So, I have patience for politicians.
But not for this one, not for Donald Trump.
He is a dishonest, race baiting scare monger with no ethical sense, bad hair, a strangely shaped mouth and the soul of a carny. Sometimes I hope that dark glint I see in the eyes of the First Lady is a hint about where the Sabatier knives are and how she will use them on him at some point because he so deserves it. No jury would convict her. In fact they would probably stand up on their chairs and cheer when she walked in the courtroom.
Not for killing him. Heaven forfend I would never suggest assassination.
But jabbed pretty bad in a couple of imaginative spots. I don’t feel unpatriotic about that. I’m not going to go into specifics.
I would much rather have the power to make time fly so his term could be damned well over as quickly as possible and he can move his big Mac butt and fat belly out of the people’s house on Pennsylvania Avenue. I don’t care what he does after that. Go live in a casino someplace, that would be about right.
I don’t want to say anything else about this. I don’t want to be meaner than I have already been.
Ignore the news over the next few days. I am going to go dark because I am suspicious about everything. Every thing I have that I can cross is well crossed and I am praying for a huge day for the Democrats on Tuesday.
Drive safely, friends. Vote where and when you can. Once is enough.