Ontological Assertion Problem, Albuquerque, New Mexico

I was on the telephone with my half-brother, the young and headstrong Bertie Ernesto, who had signed on with the Nader campaign and just touched down in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I don’t know, maybe the flight it made him, you know, testy.

“So what? You’re surprised that Clinton made up her sniper story, eh? That Obama didn’t and then he did attend one or more of the good Reverend’s sermons? Come on, Pierre, the Democrats have no more idea of who they are as people as they do as a party!”

“I said nothing of surprise,” Bertie, 23, is the son of a former third-string goalie of the Manitoba Moose and recently retired of the Albertan Rodeo circuit, where I am beginning to have the belief there were a few too often meetings with the hard earth.

“ They don’t know who they are they’re so busy Photoshopping the other into monsters and miscreants! This is a party that nominated a war hero who couldn’t beat a draft dodger! Come on! And, in 2000, they wanted to blame my candidate for the failures of a party that couldn’t win their candidates HOME state! And now it’s that same douche bag who’s a superdelegate that’s probably going to help the Republicans again this fall. And don’t start me on Pelosi, that spineless lap dog! They are so afraid of doing anything! Bush is going to retire into millions without so much as a slap on the wrist!”

Photoshopping? I liked that. Call it the ‘Gaussian Blur’ tactic.

“You want to know why the Dems are so milquetoast and limp wrist? They’re thankful, that’s why. After eight years of Bush the only thing they have to do is prop up a woman and a black man to look progressive. These are liberals?! They both take as much corporate money as the Republican does, Pierre. None of them have a record or a promise to take on white collar crime. And who is talking about Election Reform these days? Who?”

“You know, my little brother, I am not on the campaign itself. I am only covering it. Was there no meal service on the plane?”

“What about Al Gore pushing for runoff elections, viable ‘E’ votes, the dissolution of the Electoral Collage? Something so an election like 2000, or even ’04, could never happen again? Something that would see to it that the people’s will is unquestionable? Why? Cause they don’t want it! They’ll deliver a ‘new face’ to the same old party, that’s all. Nothing will change, you will see.”

On the Trail in Indiana, March 24th

Sacre’ Poutine! The Indiana Senator, Evan Bayh, is now making suggestion that it is the Electoral Votes that should be the wand by which the Superdelegates anoint the party candidate (I do envision that woman; Pelosi, is her name, no?. Naaahncy Pelosi, yes; I can see her in glittered wings and sparkly wand now, and Al Gore is behind her, with smaller wings, of course, and they sing the Anointy song as they cast the magic demo-spell). The man, Bayh, campaigning with HRC in Indiana, told CNN’s Late Night, “So who carried the states with the most Electoral College votes is an important factor to consider because ultimately, that’s how we choose the president of the United States.” Nom Dieu, it reminds me of six-year-olds playing Trou du Cul; nobody knowing the rules, constantly proclaiming new boundaries and goals; throwing of the mud, hurling of the invective.

Tu n'sais pas?! Surely you know the card game? I believe you call it ‘President’, or ‘Asshole’, I think is right. And the Democrats, they are dumping cards into the other’s lap like the proverbial ‘hot potato’, no?

When the Obama kids hear race, it is a personal attack; when they bring it up, it is ‘transcending’ and ‘raises the discourse’. The Clinton brats, they won’t accept a final score, there are more cards up their sleeve; the popular vote (if you count Florida, if you count Michigan, you ought to pay attention to what the Puerto Ricans are going to say).

Nominally adult pundits like Norm Scheiber of the New Republic, believe this will all settle down by the time the dinner bell rings.

"Undecided superdelegates on Capitol Hill, along with party elders like Pelosi, Gore, and Harry Reid, "don't want to be seen as elites coming in and overturning the will of the people," says one senior House aide. A Senate staffer says his boss "thinks this give and take is natural, it will be helpful in the end." "That's a view held by a majority of these guys who have been through the cut and thrust of politics," he adds. Which means early June it is."

But he also reminds us of the last time a delegate-short candidate tried to poo poo his way into the nomination, in 1980, when Edward Kennedy fought all the way to the Garden of Madison Square and even trying to, from the floor of the Convention, split the delegate votes from each state along a gender line. I’m not an American, you know, but I think that was the year the monkey’s co-star won, no?

I’m not saying, you know, to stop it. I’m having a blast, what can I say? Alay! Seriously! Et vous prêt? I’m telling you, it’s only going to get better!

Moriarty's Irish Pub, Walnut Street, Philadelphia

Moriarty’s had the big, quiet, empty feel of the post celebration; a light crowd for lunch ministered by a weary-eyed jeune fille, the shuffling of hard regulars at the far end of the bar distilling the candidate’s speech for the edification of the equally hard, glass polishing barkeep.

I was waiting for Frank Belloc, combat psychologist, who’d been retained by the networks to counsel reporters and crew members in the wake of a speech by the candidate, whose oratory often brings members of the press into states of swoon and the choking back of tears; unable to steady their cameras or properly mix their sound, even bring themselves to face the lenses. He was still over at the National Constitution Center and his text indicated this could be a ‘three-hankie’ affair and that I should order without him.

The opinions of the men (easily described as the hardscrabble progeny of the ‘built from scratch’ immigrants the Senator described) were lacking of the articulation, heavy with the same sort of incendiary language fountained by the Reverend, but ultimately, and it was important to me at the time, these are a part of the America next in line to be heard. In my own decocting of their premises, it sounded like this, “’Sapretty good fucking speaker; an oraytor, but he’s just trying to cover his ass; youse better believe it.”

I don’t know, you know, what it is, the obsession with the imperfections of man? What hero would bear such scrutiny? Would Achilles have skulked off for good had he been subjected to a news cycle of Patroclus-buggering? Or Lincoln, had Mary Todd been subjected to a modern psychological battery?

The speech was iconic and defining. But to remain an icon in a twenty-first century campaign is to ward off all scrutiny and that is a feat beyond even Barack Obama; scrutiny reveals the merely human, the thing in each of us, no(?) , that clamors for the improvement of the self; the eradication of imperfections even as we rear back the curtains of everyone else’s Friday Night Specials.

But then, perhaps and who is to say that it is not, it is a good thing. More scrutiny will continue. Obama surely has not fully addressed the Wright issues; there remains the accusation that the US of A created the HIV for the eradication of blacks, there remains the commendation of Farrakhan. Obama has proven exemplary in seizing the stage to his advantage, but maybe Maureen Dowd was right in today’s column:

A little disenchantment with Obama could turn out to be a good thing. Too much idealism can blind a leader to reality as surely as too much ideology can….

Up until now, Obama and his worshipers have set it up so that he must be so admirable and ideal and perfect and everything we’ve ever wanted that any kind of blemish — even a parking ticket — was regarded as a major failing.

With the Clintons, we expect them to be cheesy on ethics, so no one is ever surprised when they are.

But Saint Obama played the politics of character to an absurd extent. For 14 months, his argument for leading the world has been himself — his exquisitely globalized self.

He should be congratulated on the disappearance of the pedestal. Leaders don’t need to be messiahs.

Or, perhaps, in the unforgettable lyrics of Tina Turner, “We don’t Need Another Hero”.

Mo Ghile Mear

Sacre’Poutine! Alright, let’s go to it! It’s Monday, no? It must be, or these tickets to Roseland for the Pogues are perte! Nom Dieu, the head, it aches! I am not one, you know, who feels they must, on the weekend to honor Saint P, take on an extra ration of spirits, but, you know, sometimes, I don’t know, you get carried away by the spirit, no?

It was Friday evening; I was in a dark mid-western airport bar; dingy and strong with the smell of what cleans the toilettes; the bar cushioned along the rail, and in places the Naugahyde was cracked and revealing the foam the color of yellow cake. The television was tied to the ceiling with a terrifying combination of metal and twine. On MSNBC, Mssr. Olbermann was personally adjusting the hue/saturation levels to make sure his special guest was not too black, not too white, you know? There came a heavy, no, a world weary sigh from a barstool just two away from my own.

She was older and dressed in yellow. Her moist eyes watched the screen while she stirred a tired cocktail with a chewed over straw. She knew that I had turned my attentions to her and, without addressing me, spoke.

“How can he just get a free ride? Geraldine Ferraro is called a racist, had to have her resignation from the campaign read publicly by the media. Orlando Patterson compared Hillary’s ad to The Birth of a Nation and the pundits nod in agreement. Then, this guy’s Pastor for twenty freaking years is damning America, giving awards to anti-Semites, and all Obama has to say is ‘I didn’t know he was saying these things’, and that’s it? The Reverend is off on vacation and nobody is accountable for anything!”

“Oh, ma cherie,” I said to her, sliding over from my round pleather stool to the next. She had the strong blue, blue eyes of an intelligent woman and the kind of bone structure in the face a man could appreciate well into her sixties, yeah? “I am sure that will not be the case. Americans all over the country, they know of the relationship between a cleric and his people. They will look at this and they will say, ‘How can this be true? Twenty years? The man presided over the nuptials, played the holy waters over the children? The Senator must know more than he is saying. If it is damage of the reputation that you seek, I feel you have but time between you and more, darker revelations.”

“That does nothing for me,” she said, shaking the dying ice cubes of her drink at the barkeep, her eyes following him like a lariat. “For us, I mean. He’ll run off with the nomination before anything comes of it.”

“Now, ange doux,” I told her, my hand coming to her yellow shoulder. I knew she was with Hillary, but until this moment, I was not sure she was with the campaign. I could feel her through the smart suit coat she wore, the way an older woman moves down inside the body, the movement of her heart, her lungs. “I cannot stand to see you despair.”

“He only wants to deal with race on his terms. His whole campaign is based on being on his terms! Anybody else wants to bring it up and, oh, here comes another KKK rally! Why is that?” Now she turned to me, those eyes alit with the blue fire, her breath a bourbon mist. “Can you tell me why, my little French friend?”

“Canadian, actually,” I told her. “Quebecoer, ma puce. And what can I say? Abstractions, the concepts of thinking, they do not lend themselves to the politics, to the dissemination for the … you know, the …sound bite.”

She knew what I was saying. Her eyes, they followed unseen lines up and down my body, followed my arm from socket to cigarette and asked for a du Maurier, which I made the light for, and drinks were ordered; flights were missed. Bon Seigneur, give me the strength of McGowan as I face this night!