Voting McCain? Read this first.

People who convince others to change their political views have all the effectiveness and likeability of those who aim for religious conversion. It’s clear that I’m voting for Obama, but I get that Obama is not for everyone. When people vote against Obama because they want us to continue our strategy in Iraq or because their income bracket means lower taxes with McCain, I can respect their vote while not sharing their views (or income bracket).

However, I cannot respect a vote based on misunderstanding. The following are reasons I’ve heard people voting against Obama and why I believe these to be largely a result of bad information and bias.

Reason 1: Obama will raise my taxes.
If you make under $112,000, you’ll pay less taxes under Obama than McCain. If you make over $161,000, you’ll pay more. Obama’s tax increases on the wealthy are actually a reversal of the Bush tax breaks set to expire in 2011, returning the tax code to its Reagan state. Because of the Bush cuts, America now has the widest gap between rich and poor since the Great Depression. If you support the Bush tax code, McCain is your candidate. (For a nonpartisan breakdown on how the proposals would affect you, click here.)

Reason 2: Obama lacks experience.
I concede this as the most valid criticism of the Obama candidacy. I don’t believe, however, that experience equals effectiveness. George W. Bush has had eight years of presidential experience; enough said. McCain has had an effective tenure in the Senate, but he’s shown himself to be a victim of his bad temper and one who rewards yes-men while shunning any who disagree. Such a man hasn’t served us well these past eight years. I’ll turn to conservative columnist George Will, who blew me away with this column:
“It is arguable that, because of his inexperience, Obama is not ready for the presidency. It is arguable that McCain, because of his boiling moralism and bottomless reservoir of certitudes, is not suited to the presidency. Unreadiness can be corrected, although perhaps at great cost, by experience. Can a dismaying temperament be fixed?” McCain Loses His Head, WaPo, 9/23/08

Reason 3: I’m a Republican/Libertarian. I favor small government.
I’m the wrong person to defend this, as I’m not a fan of minimizing government. I hear people calling universal healthcare socialistic and I recall that Medicare was opposed on the same grounds. I hear people calling for no taxes whatsoever, and I wonder who would pay for roads or public schools. So to break away from my bias, I’ll turn again to conservative George Will:
“The political left always aims to expand the permeation of economic life by politics. Today, the efficient means to that end is government control of capital. So, is not McCain's party now conducting the most leftist administration in American history? The New Deal never acted so precipitously on such a scale… Does McCain have qualms about this, or only quarrels?” McCain Loses His Head, WaPo, 9/23/08

Reason 4: I don't vote Democrat because I oppose abortion.
The next president will likely select a Supreme Court justice. With a Court that currently has four justices opposed to Roe v. Wade, this would spell doom to reproductive freedom in America. Please note: Supporting Roe v. Wade does not mean supporting abortion as quick-stop birth control. Almost all of us can agree that the goal is to minimize the need for abortion via sex education and affordable birth control, both of which are shunned by McCain and soon-to-be-grandma Palin. Obama has stated his commitment to age-appropriate sex education, prevention of unintended pregnancies, and access to legal and safe abortions for those who need them.

My criticism of many anti-choice voters is that their concern for human welfare largely ends when one leaves the womb. For those who oppose Obama because they respect life, I’d like to ask them:

• What about the lives of soldiers and Marines in Iraq who are dying for a war waged on very precarious grounds and still lacks an exit strategy? McCain wants to keep them fighting.
• What about the lives of the sick who are unable to obtain health insurance because they have a pre-existing condition? The McCain proposal does nothing to help them.
• What about the uninsureds who fill ERs with illnesses that could have been avoided with preventative care or been handled by a GP? There is a hidden tax on all of us when uninsureds turn to the ER for care, leaving the tab for taxpayers.
• What about prisoners in Guantanamo Bay who are denied legal representation by their American captors? Haven't we prided ourselves in how we treat our friends AND enemies?

Being "pro-life" should mean protecting and defending the lives and health of those around us.

Reason 5: But Obama’s black and will likely be assassinated.
Holy crap, I actually heard this one and nearly lost all faith in humanity. For people with this amount of reason and logic, I beg of them to stay home and not vote at all. Ugh.

On Palin and Feminism

The selection of Palin as Republican VP nominee pulled me in several directions. As a Democrat, I was thrilled. (An inexperienced Alaskan governor known for ethical reform who is currently under investigation in an illegal firing? Are you serious?) McCain’s pick of someone whom he proudly proclaimed as an unknown within the Beltway completely discredited his criticism of his opponent as inexperienced. The idea of a Biden-Palin debate gave me a maniacal laugh and a Mr. Burns-esque proclamation of, "Eeeeex-cellent."

But as a feminist, the selection of Palin left me angered and embarrassed. It didn’t anger me so much for her socially conservative views; although they are far from my own, they make sense for McCain’s running mate. The selection of Palin angered me because she is so ill-prepared for the job. This 44-year-old former beauty queen with a BS in journalism became a television sports reporter upon graduation. She began in the city council of Wasilla, a town of 6,000, and worked her way up to mayor, where she was two years ago. She’s now spent a year and a half as governor of Alaska. Good for her. A good start to a political career. But good enough to be president?

This unknown and largely untested woman with not a day of foreign policy experience would serve as VP under a man in his 70s with recurrent cancer. She'd be a heartbeat away from leading a country mired in economic recession and two wars (perhaps three or four, if McCain gets elected). McCain would rather pander for the female vote than to select someone who would effectively manage this country upon his death. It speaks volumes about his judgment.

And it speaks volumes about his views on women. He seems to believe that women will support a candidate not based upon record, but upon the ever-important issue of who has a hoo-hoo or a wee-wee. McCain seems to bank upon we Clinton supporters bailing Obama to support the new potential hoo-hoo in office -- never mind that her meager record stands in opposition to the core values Clinton represents. Having my rights taken away by a woman leaves me no more empowered.

Talking heads ponder how a Republican female nominee will affect the feminist vote. I’ll fill you in on a secret: we feminists don’t meet in secret weekly meetings to determine the choices we will make en masse. This will be largely made up of individual decisions across the country, and this is my own.

As a feminist, I’m embarrassed that the first Republican female name on the presidential ballot will be an utterly inexperienced candidate who was chosen for her gender, not her record.

As a feminist, I’ll stick with the candidate promoting universal healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay, increased funding to education, and an end to the Iraq War – issues that impact women’s public and private roles.

As a feminist, the past few days have left me wanting to take a long nap.

The Non-Traditional Student

As an undergrad, few things annoyed me more than sharing a class with a “non-traditional student.” I figured the term was a nice way of saying, “too old to be here,” which I supposed was kind, supposing non-traditional students were probably sensitive to other concerns, like their crows’ feet, trick knees, and impending deaths. Nontraditional students usually popped up in evening courses, and if you didn’t spot them by their old person smell, you could identify them by the way they inhabited the front row and kept their hands raised. They were obnoxious, annoying. They were those students who would ask an in-depth question five minutes before class would end. We traditional students would stare daggers into their gray little heads during the four extra minutes we were detained in class. The only reason we took once-a-week evening classes was to make the rest of our weeks easier, not to actually learn at night.

Fast forward ten years, and the predictable occurred. It began easily enough as I discussed my course of study with my grad school advisor. She said that my time in school wasn’t very long considering I was (wait for it…) a non-traditional student. Ho-leeeee crap. Me??? Until then, I convinced myself that I fit right in, that a 31-year-old full-time working professional blended right in with the 23-year-olds who have never written a resume and still live with Mom. Yet it became so horribly clear that I had “non-traditional student” written all over me: I’m an overeager student who sits towards the front of the class and who is no stranger to the end-of-class question.

I’ve since realized that the difference between traditional students and nontraditional students is largely a matter of math. While traditional students may deal with student loans, those are checks that magically appear with no concept of how hard one must work to repay them. We nontraditional students, however, have done our share of work and can do the math. I can name countless other ways I could spend the $20,000 I’m forking over for this degree. I’ve calculated that each night’s class costs approximately $90 and how much I have to work at a job I don’t enjoy in order to earn the privilege to attend each one. Younger students ask before class if I’ve finished the reading; you’re damn right I have. And if I have a question to ask at 9:14 p.m., you’re going to hear it.

I’ve begun to detest traditional students with the same ire that I once reserved for the nontraditional ones. They whine about having no time to write papers, but then say things like, “Oh my god, do you watch Rock of Love? I’m, like, obsessed with that show.” I haven’t had the time or opportunity to be, like, obsessed with any show during the past few years. I don’t know what Rock of Love is, who’s in it, or what channel it’s on. Young students bemoan all-nighters and how they, “seriously, have NO time at all,” but then discuss Grey’s Anatomy with more insight than they use to discuss assigned books in class.

And I know I sound like someone’s grumpy old Depression-era grandparent, bemoaning the cost of bread and decrying the state of kids today. But perhaps we’ve judged those cantankerous old souls too quickly. For if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that those whom we judge might very well be those whom we become. Ten years from now, I just might be standing on my front step, hoisting a rake and yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Ten years after that, I’ll likely have a drawer full of wrapping paper I’ve carefully saved after each holiday. Because if I can become an ornery old non-traditional student, anything is possible.

Passport? Check. Money for outrageous airfares? No check.

Another video. Another realization that I need to get my butt to more places.

If It's Sunday, It's Meet the Press.

Around my office, Monday morning means several things. It means wasting time writing status reports. It means pretending to review new numbers that were crunched from the week before. And it also means the after-action report that my boss and I share over the previous day’s Meet the Press.

Although Meet the Press is watched by a good deal of the DC area, I only know my boss and I to be the non-politicos who have a near-obsession with the show. We’re one step away from becoming Meet the Press groupies. My coworkers referred to Tim Russert as my boyfriend, bemused over how the joking would make me giggle and blush. Many Monday mornings, my boss would call and we’d passionately discuss that week’s show and guests.

The call she made last Friday afternoon was much different. The phone rang shortly before 4, just when I learned of Tim Russert’s death. “Are you seeing this?” she asked. “Ugh. This sucks. Bad,” I said, losing any shred of professional demeanor. We sat at our respective computers, staring at our CNN Breaking News banners, willing them to change. It’s not often that a stranger’s death can make such a personal impact.

I met Tim Russert at a book signing in 2004. I think I scared him. Suffice it to say, he was unaccustomed to such enthusiasm on his book tour. During the reading, I grinned like Charlie Brown in the presence of the little red-haired girl and cherished my front row-center seat as if I were at a Stones concert. When Tim Russert signed my book, I gushed about how much I admired him and enjoyed his program. He was very gracious. I then asked him if he wouldn’t mind if I got a picture with him. His gratitude soon turned to wariness, and I realized that I just weirded out my news crush. But we got our picture, me and my kinda freaked-out hero. I brought it into work the next day. My boss taped it to her door.

When I see the tributes being paid to Tim Russert, I get all the more angry that he died. He was a good one. We needed him. The style he gave to Meet the Press was more productive, civilized, and thorough than almost any other news show on television. Plus, he just seemed so damn nice. But the coverage is taking a turn that appalls me. What bothers me about the recent coverage of his death is the interrogation into matters of his health. His doctor has been on television all day, defending Russert as a “model patient” and insisting he enjoyed cycling. I hate that. It seems like whenever someone dies, we look for ways to prove to ourselves it won’t happen to us. If someone dies in a car crash, we want to know that they weren’t wearing a seat belt or that they were drunk. If someone dies of lung cancer, we need to know they smoked. The questions only seem to show that in a time of tragedy, we seek reassurance regarding our own survival. How horribly egotistical. We want death to make sense in a way that will allow us to use our wits to escape it. So when Tim Russert died of a heart attack, the questions quickly began: Did he watch what he ate? Did he exercise? Did he listen to his doctor? We seek explanations, reasons, causality. When death really comes down to a matter of this: someone is no longer with us; it’s sad.

And in this case, we lost Tim Russert. And it sucks. Bad.

Mr. James and Me

When I’m feeling masochistic, I’ll start something that is likely beyond my desire to complete, but will force me to finish once I begin. Once I made my mom a quilt for Christmas, having never quilted before and thinking that two weeks would offer sufficient time; another time I told Jimmy, “Let’s do it!” when he proposed we hike Croagh Patrick in Ireland (those who know of my horrible fear of heights will know the following hours were pee-in-my-pants terrifying); and when I was asked for a topic for an independent study course last semester, I suggested Henry James.

How adorably naïve I was then.

I love Henry, I do. But in retrospect, I realize what he and I shared over those four months was a dysfunctional relationship: I spent hour upon hour with him, waiting for something to happen, for a plot to emerge, and then nothing. But he’d write something pretty —I’m talking a gorgeous sentence—and I was putty in his hands again. It became routine: I’d wait for action, he’d string me along with pretty words, and then I’d start another book for the same treatment. While I was reading, Jimmy would innocently ask what the book was about, and I’d snap, “NOTHING! It’s about NOTHING! I don’t know what the plot of this damn book is and I’m on page 500!” But once I’d finish, I’d get it. I’d get that the books weren’t about what happened, but about how humans interact with life, with others, with themselves. I’d look back upon the book fondly, with the rosiest of glasses, and look forward to reading it again. If I didn’t love Henry James so much, I’d hate him. A lot.

One cannot skim Henry James or breeze through his books whilst sipping lattes with friends in a coffeeshop. While he may spend pages upon pages describing the expression on someone’s face, he will kill off a major character in a dependent clause, mid-paragraph. I would read each novel in absolute silence and solitude with a steady caffeine intake, forcing myself not to blink. But he rewards you greatly for this attention: once every few pages or so would be a string of words so pretty that I’d have to read them several times to fully savor them before moving on.

So the result of my masochism is this: Each Christmas, there lies a quilt in my mom’s house that I cannot look at without suffering post-traumatic stress disorder as I recall fourteen days of quilting hell. Laying beside my desk is a walking stick from my hike in Ireland, the memory of which is both endearing and empowering. And overtaking one shelf in my bookcase are thirteen books by Henry James, who—after so much intimacy between us—now seems like my literary husband. And although my temper flares with him, I’ll continue to settle into my chaise from time to time with Henry. And a strong cup of coffee.

The quilt (as almost done)	The hike
The semester

Know When to Fold 'Em.

My reaction to this week's primaries.

This isn't easy for me; I voted for the woman. It's time, though, to graciously step down and back Obama.

Thus proving the theory that my support is the kiss of death for political candidates. Please understand why I may now devote my blog to the cause of McCain's election. McCain/Romney '08!! WOO!!! (feels... so... dirty...)

Chelsea's Secret

When I get the opportunity to meet a politician I support, I come ready with something to say about my big issues. When I met Hillary Clinton in 2004, I thanked her for the work she’s done on behalf of women and children, saying that the country will need such a leader to run in ’08. She smiled knowingly, thanked me, and said, “Honey, your blouse is just darling.” I would’ve ripped it off my back and given it to her if she asked. With Howard Dean, I thanked him for supporting reproductive rights and other women's issues. With John Edwards, I looked him in those clear blue eyes and thanked him for inspiring me with a speech that took big stands on Iraq and healthcare. I also would’ve ripped off my blouse for him, but for entirely different reasons. (My mom is reading this, likely turning three shades of red and shaking her head at me.)

With Chelsea Clinton, one big question loomed on my mind. What kind of hair products does that women use, and where can I get them? It’s as if she stumbled out of a Pantene commercial onto the campaign trail. When I found myself shaking her hand, however, I wimped out. Instead, I told her that I had just voted for her mom and how proud I was to support her in the primary, blah blah blah. I still don’t know the secret of the hair.

Here we are, in-between rain storms as her hair holds up just fine in North Carolina humidity while I surrender mine into a ponytail. D'oh.

Embracing the Inner-Dork

It’s one of my core convictions that everyone should be a dork for something. I despise people who go through life with a blasé indifference towards everything, who feel so above it all that they can’t dork out about something weird they love. Whether it’s art, fashion, sports, or Scrabble, everyone should love something so hard it makes other people think they’re crazy. Enter the convention.

Within as many weeks, I traveled to three cities for three conventions: Asheville, NC for a literary conference; Adelphi, MD for a horror convention; and Las Vegas for a insurance marketing convention. Excepting the first, these aren’t exactly my cup of tea. Quite the opposite, rather. I tiptoed into the horror convention to support my husband’s movie; I reluctantly registered for the marketing conference as a desperate plea for a promotion. But for each, I decided to truly be a part of them and not to just stand on the sidelines while disguising discomfort for aloof nonchalance.

Conferences and conventions intrigue me. It’s easy to stand at a distance and mock attendees, clad in name tags and sporting eerily similar clothes and hairstyles. Yet conferences allow people embrace their inner dork, providing a subculture with a place to share a common ground and lingua franca. Most interestingly, conferences skew the standard of “normal.” This was most evident at the horror convention, where attendees donning fangs and red contacts while shopping for movie props were just part of the crowd. Of course someone would have a need for an artificial-yet-lifelike severed arm. Duh. The same for the other two: the literary conference was full of book geeks who need fifty ways to analyze a text, and the marketing conference included a segment in which an actuary slayed the crowd with actuary jokes. I imagine he sat on those jokes for months, waiting for the glorious moment to be surrounded by people who would actually get them. Conferences allow people to find their team and get their geek on en masse.

I admit that I see footage of most conventions, with attendees dressed in Spock ears or something similarly odd, and laugh. To those of us on the outside, it looks weird, the people sound crazy, and—what we love most perhaps —we seem so cool in comparison. But then I look back on my previous three weeks—discussing a feminist/narrative analysis of Virginia Woolf with academics with very definite views on the subject; debating PC/Apple with a man dressed as Dracula, and joking about Flash-heavy sites with some conservative suits—and realize how dorky I would sound to others. But as I said before, dorkiness is precisely the point.

I’m pretty group-wary and still not the convention type. But for three weeks, it was a fun exercise in new experiences, allowing me to meet people who share my love of the inner-dork. And I realized that the groups that I am most wary of are not the kinds who go to horror conventions or business conventions, but the too-cool-for-school types who stand to the side and simply mock it all. To those, I say, Get over yourself, grab a set of fangs, and join your fellow dork. If only for a day.

FemChick goes punk (kind of. sort of. not really.)

Yesterday was a sucky day for Jimmy and me. Work. School. Plumbing. By noon, we were ready to hide under blankets and call it a day. But alas, we had tickets to a Flogging Molly show so we put on our happy pants and headed out.

As soon as we parked outside Tremont, I felt my age. What had been a cute outfit just moments before suddenly became utterly lame; apparently, the fashions of The Limited and those of the punk world have little overlap. We walked in, past the cops already making arrests and past the door girl bemoaning the fights and predicting a long night. We fought our way through the crowd (which seemed to consist of a mass of elbows, armpits, and lip piercings) to meet our friends, who managed to stake out a great spot.

The realization of how much my life has changed hit me like a shovel to the face. Live shows for me now usually involve an acoustic guitar and the ability to sit at a table with some wine. I’ve mellowed into a comfy spectatorship. Last night was the first show I’d been to in years in which getting doused with beer was a certainty and where the scent of pot pervaded the air (which was oddly sentimental: “it smells like JMU in here!”). And it was the first show with moshing since my last HFStival (to date myself, the big acts that day were Beck, Prodigy, Local H, and the BossTones). So when the music began and the crowd suddenly became a bouncing, bumping mess, I was that old person wondering what the hell was going on. It only took about three notes before Flogging Molly sold me on the experience. They rock. Hard. Any group that includes a fiddle and accordion yet still inspires a raucous mosh pit is one to be reckoned with. These two 30-year-olds who moped through the day began to jump, to clap, to throw up the horns, to love music. We had so much FUN. It’s a great band that puts on a killer show.

One of the funniest parts of the night was when the lead singer of this Irish punk band introduced a song with a little history lesson to the American kids:
“So this next song is about Oliver Cromwell…”
“WOOOOO!!!”
“...whose life's goal was to completely wipe out the Irish…”
”Booo…”

It was a great night. Sure, I looked like a narc and couldn’t jump around long before getting a cramp. Sure, some kid kept calling Jimmy “sir.” But there was something’s about leaving a show smelling like PBR, weed, and sweat to take the sting off a day dominated by plumbing and work problems. We felt our age, but had a fantastic time anyway. After the show, Jimmy deadpanned, “I felt like I was 28 again.” At least it’s something. Like Dave King sang, “I’m a ripe old age, doing the best I can.”

A Modest Proposal

My enthusiasm for this primary has quickly subsided. While I still believe we have two Democratic candidates who would greatly help the US, I’m sick of this process. As I started watching debates back when Gravel and Kucinich were invited, it’s been TEN MONTHS of them. Anyone who cares to know where the differences in policy are already knows them. The only thing left to do is to rehash old lines, artificial stereotypes, and campaign blunders. It’s all contrived dramatics, ensuring that we’ll elect the best candidate and not the best president. And frankly, people who are good at being candidates kind of scare me.

Why can’t we make this easier? Why can’t we have a national primary, for crying out loud? Why can’t the rules be the same for both parties? Why can't we have a series of specific debates (foreign policy, economy, social issues, etc.) leading to one stinkin’ primary? Instead, this primary is all over the place. The Republican primary with its winner-takes-all approach ensures a quicker nomination. The Democratic one (holy monkey, what the hell? superdelegates?) ensures that this will go on until both candidates have smeared each other to a point of unelectability in November. As much as the Republican party makes me want to cry, they’ve got strategy. Watching the Dems is like watching a school play put on by kindergarteners. They sure are cute, but after a while, it just becomes painful.

And the sexism so engrained in coverage of Hillary Clinton makes me ill. We call men by their last names and women by their first. When Clinton shows emotion, we think she’s unhinged and wonder “which Hillary will show up today” (because if a woman is happy one day and upset the next, she’s hormonal or bipolar – she couldn’t possibly have legitimate grievances). This nation still fears a woman with opinions. People conclude that we’re more sexist than racist, but Obama doesn’t exude the same assertiveness that his opponent does. If the bodies were switched, Obama would be seen as an angry black man and Clinton would be a woman of the people. When dealing with women and minorities, the award goes to the most pleasing, not the most deserving. That is appalling. And unfortunately, that is our Democratic primary.

But seriously… having one national primary… what am I missing? Why don’t we do this?

I miss Edwards and Kucinich. sighhhh.

"Why would you let Starsky talk to Hutch?"

I haven't had time to post recently, as I'm being used as a subject in a cruel experiment on the effects of overexposure to Henry James. (Help me. Please. I'm being crushed under the weight of his sentences.)

So in lieu of anything original from me, you're getting Tina Fey as a stand-in to sum up my thoughts on the primary these days. Once again, the one who says the least wins the most votes.

Observations From Primary Season

1. The people chanting “USA” at McCain rallies are idiots. While chanting in general doesn’t signal much in the way of brain activity, chanting “USA” (á la Homer Simpson) in a race between Americans is just silly.

2. A sleepy Tim Russert begins to look like a Muppet. He’s the love child of Statler and Waldorf.

3. CNN’s gadget budget is out of control.

4. The media love a good sports analogy, whether or not it makes sense. “This is the ninth inning, bases loaded. Clinton’s at bat, Obama’s on deck. The pitcher, the American mom, throws the curveball of independent voters through the air of possible recession…”

5. Wolf Blitzer is a condescending jerk.

6. Brian Williams is a dreamboat and I love him.

7. Most voters have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about. The “man on the street” interviews are arguments against democracy.

8. What’s with all the diners? Are these people campaigning in 1955?

9. Most common phrase coming from a candidate: “Now I don’t know about you, but I think… [insert common sense idea here].”

10. It’ll be a long, painful road to November.

The Clintons... racist? C'mon.

Although I’m far from being a Clinton apologist, Hillary and Bill Clinton are getting unfairly slammed right now. Obama compared himself to MLK recently, setting himself up for a pretty tough comparison. Obama can inspire a crowd and his skills as an orator are undeniable. Obama’s record, however, is pretty sparse; even his supporters must allow for that. Hillary Clinton made a fair point: she said that MLK did more than give inspiring speeches. King led a movement, he actively worked with politicians like LBJ to transform ideas into law. On his own, MLK inspired Americans and ignited a movement; with LBJ, he created laws and immediate change. (Her full quote to the NY Times: "I would point to the fact that that Dr. King's dream began to be realized when President Lyndon Johnson passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, when he was able to get through Congress something that President Kennedy was hopeful to do, the president before had not even tried, but it took a president to get it done.") MLK worked with LBJ (a civil rights hero in his own right) and got things done. It is also true that Obama hasn't passed much in the way of the sweeping reform that he's spoken of; however, this charge can be refuted based on many things. Semantics, though, should not be among them.

Some have turned Clinton's into a swipe at MLK. (Obama's reply: "Senator Clinton made an unfortunate remark, an ill-advised remark, about King and Lyndon Johnson. I didn't make the statement. I haven't remarked on it. And she, I think, offended some folks who felt that somehow diminished King's role in bringing about the Civil Rights Act. She is free to explain that.") I am very disappointed in Obama as he encourages this implication. Obama has not ran on race and I don't want to see him use race to injure Clinton. She refuted the comparison Obama made between himself and King, and Obama should be strong enough to answer it instead of merely dodge it under insinuating comments.

Bill Clinton’s “fairy tale” remark is another example of this. The “fairy tale” remark was in context of Obama’s anti-war record, not on Obama’s candidacy. Again, Clinton makes an excellent point – Obama made a wonderful speech against the Iraq War in 2002, but once the war had popular support, Obama yanked the text of that speech from his web site in 2003. During the Kerry campaign in 2004, Obama voiced doubt over his vote. Obama proceeded to vote to fund the war over the following years. Bill Clinton wasn’t saying that it was a “fairy tale” that a black man could be president, but only questioning his credentials as a staunchly anti-war candidate. It is a very valid point. People who want to be offended by him are choosing to be. (My boy Edwards is another one unfairly jumping on the knee-jerk bandwagon on this one. Watch it, Johnny; your response to the “emotional” episode in the NH campaign was another disappointment. These responses reek of desperation.)

It is a huge deal that a black man and a woman have won presidential primaries. Women haven’t even been able to vote for 100 years, and black Americans faced Jim Crow just sixty years ago. But it seems that Obama and Clinton are becoming reduced to being merely a black man and a woman, instead of the very worthy candidates they both are. Raise the fighting to the level of their credentials, their stances, and leave race and gender out of it.

Banging my head against the wall

I don't mean to sound elitist, but it makes me cry that my vote counts just as much as the vote of this man, quoted today in the Charlotte Observer:

"Smith is a fishing-boat captain and he just got back from two weeks at sea. He didn't watch the debates on TV, but he spent a lot of time on the water thinking about what he wants in a candidate. Barack Obama intrigues him, but Smith says Obama has two red flags: 'One, that name. That's going to give him trouble. And the other thing is his father leaving him when he was so young. That kind of thing has an effect on you your whole life. When you're talking about a president, all the details matter.'"

Meanwhile I'm wrestling with the question of how many/what kind of military personnel to leave in Iraq. Yet Smithy up there will be among the voters in the crucial South Carolina primary. Aaaagghhhh.

Primary Bingo!

First off... If you know CNN is tripe but find yourself watching it anyway on Tuesday night for the New Hampshire primary results, feel free to play CNN New Hampshire Primary Bingo, as created by yours truly. There’s a card for you and one for whomever you force to play along.

And now, time for my rant…

Americans are suffering from the delusion that we're voting for the candidate we want to come over for dinner or to be the leader of our clubhouse. People discuss which candidate seems the nicest, most sincere. Who seems polished, but not artificial. Who would get a haircut where we would or go to church with the fam and fit in OK.

Ask a random person who they’ll vote for, and chances are that their response will involve a “seem.” Obama seems to be the voice of optimism, Clinton seems to have the experience needed for the job, Huckabee seems to have the confidence to refute basic science as he reflects upon the origin of the universe. I want to ban the word “seems” from electoral discussions. The only reason that candidates seem to be anything is because their campaign manager deemed it so. They’re all politicians. They’re all that way. Some are just better at playing their part.

So a modest proposal – let’s vote according to issues. It boggles my mind that some people don’t yet know if they’ll vote for a Republican or a Democrat. The parties couldn’t be more different. One wants to end to the Iraq war, one supports it; one urges universal healthcare, one deems the idea socialist; one wants to repeal Bush’s tax cuts for the wealthy, the other wants to uphold them. How could anyone not see a difference? There is a core difference in values between the two. For those of you not knowing which party to vote for, I want to flick you in the forehead. For those who know their party of choice but haven’t yet settled on a candidate, you’re spared the flicking but directed towards the NY Times chart offering a basic guide to where the candidates stand on issues.

For more on this, I turn to The Onion.

The official FeministChick endorsement goes to John Edwards. I have been a curious spectator of his for some time, but his early specific stances he voiced on Iraq, climate change. and taxes wooed me and made me a believer. I dig a candidate who admits that taxes will have to go up in order to accomplish his goals; I’m willing to pay more taxes if the money goes toward healthcare, alternative energy sources, and other things that aren't war. I think gleefully of the idea of Edwards repealing the Bush tax cuts for the wealthy and directing the dollars toward his healthcare initiative. Edwards does get a deduction in cool points for his lack of support for gay marriage, but everyone shy of Kucinich does as well. (Kucinich has my heart – for being as short as he is, he has the biggest backbone of any candidate.) However, my support tends to be the kiss of death – ask the Redskins, Howard Dean, and nearly everyone on my Oscar ballot last year. So sorry about that, John.