Sweet Irony

Came across this in the locker room of my gym.

Unity Interrupted

I'm not particularly excited or impressed about the upcoming rally featuring both Senators Obama and Clinton. What I do find interesting is the little town in New Hampshire where it's scheduled to take place. Unity, New Hampshire has a population of less than 2,000 people and the rally is expected to bring at least 2,500 visitors. It's one of those towns that amazingly still exists that has a general store and one post office.

The town's peaceful existence is going to be disrupted when a shitload of visitors descend upon the town for this rally. The interruption of mundane existence is off the scale and quite frankly, very unsettling.

Things I would be worried about if I lived in Unity, New Hampshire:

1. Where is everyone going to park? Will this affect my parking place/driveway?
2. Bathroom availability. Port-a-potties?
3. Trash? Will there be recycling of some sort? How will this influx of garbage affect our public sanitation system?
4. Can the local eateries handle the vegan/vegetarian requests of the almost certain neoliberal hippie visitors?
5. Will these people all speak English?
6. Should we make some sort of welcome banner?

Prophylactics Prohibition

Pharmacies. Back in the day, drug stores (as my mother likes to call them) served as watering holes for neighborhoods and communities. Think back like Andy Griffith: you could get a malt shake and aspirin in the same space (unless you were Black). They have obviously evolved as has the practice of pharmacology. Its ethics, rules and principles have been under growing scrutiny over the past five years (at least) because of pharmacist refusal conflicts. Policies regarding pharmacist refusal vary from state to state. When Plan B (name brand), or emergency contraception, became widely available over-the-counter, a gaggle of incidents arose nationwide where pro-life pharmacists refused to fill prescriptions for EC, birth control, or permit access to Plan B (which literally has to be handed over the counter). Further, independent stores refused to carry it altogether and some even refused to tell women where else they could go after refusing to hand it over in the first place. According to their sloppy science, contraceptives are a form of abortifacients, thus their moral and ethical compasses will not permit them to enable a woman to murder another human being.

(Yeah, I know.)

So anywho, while the crazy fem ladies battled it out in state after state to ensure that pharmacies were filling prescriptions regardless of how the dispenser felt, some pharmacists got the bright idea to open their own drug stores. Fire me for refusing to do my job? I'll show you CVS. I'll start my own damn pharmacy.

And these new pharmacies have everything you would expect, except any form of contraception including condoms. Viagra? Yes. Condoms and oral contraceptives, no. (Good luck rape victims, cuz they sure as hell don't carry Plan B.)

Some people could miss this blip in their regularly scheduled lives, but the reality is that huge forces are at play in dictating how you access medicine that has been safely prescribed to you by a medical professional. You think you live in a free society, where the world is your oyster? Think that the Middle East is the only place women are subjugated? Think again, because these pro-life pharmacies are coming to a town near you.

Wanna learn more or take action? Start here, here or here.

Can you still vote for someone even if you don't really like them?

Today's Obamaism:
Barocrates (buh-ROK-ruh-teez) n. An obscure Greek philosopher who pioneered a method of teaching in which sensitive topics are first posed as questions and then evaded.

Example: While Obama is well-trained in the Barocratic method, many less-capable politicians have had mixed success with the technique.

Happy(?) Juneteenth

Shame on me for operating as if it were any other day. Now all of my misguided hatred towards the white people in my life seems appropriate and relevant if only for today.

Normal dating life now seems lush and exotic

Funny: I totally dated a guy who was part of a powerful family here. Wild.

Subject: Correction

To: [All staff]

I must not know how to spell today because my last two subject headings were spelled wrong…oops.

Subject: LEAF Items

Subject: Refrigerator

Sorry!

***** [deleted name]
Administrative Coordinator
My Job
Address 1
Address 2
Phone Number
www.website.com

The first time this whole thing has been amusing

From The Onion.com:

Grandmother Proud To Have Lived Long Enough To See First Viable Female Candidate Torn Apart
June 16, 2008 Issue 44•25

PEORIA, IL—Seventy-six-year-old grandmother Anita Graney told reporters Monday that she was "overwhelmed with pride" for having lived to see the first viable female presidential candidate in the nation's history so successfully run into the ground by vicious media attacks and hubristic, arrogant miscalculations. "Hillary [Clinton] showed America that a woman can be politically destroyed just as completely and heartbreakingly as any man," said Graney, a lifelong feminist. "What an amazing example for today's young women who aspire to fail spectacularly at the highest levels." Graney expressed hope that one of her granddaughters might someday be the first woman to get utterly eviscerated in a nationwide general election.

The only reason I'm against gay marriage is because it's like "regular" marriage: boring

Is this what we have to protect straight marriage from?

"Lyon, now 84, and Martin, now 87, Martin vividly recall the excitement of being secretly swept into the clerk's office, saying"I do" in front of a tiny group of city staff members and friends, and then being rushed out of the building. There were no corsages, no bottles of champagne. Afterward they went to lunch, just the two of them, at a restaurant run as a job training program for participants in a substance abuse program.

"Of course, nobody down there knew, so we were left to be by ourselves like we wanted to be," said Martin, the less gregarious of the two. "Then we came home."

"And watched TV," added Lyon."

I just don't get why anyone would want to prevent two people who love each other from spending the rest of their lives together, and having the state recognize their desire to do so. Gay marriage is not about politics or religion. Simply put, it's about two people who happen to be of the same gender who want the right to see each other day in and day out, eat the same meals together in the same dining room where they argued over the beige-ish sandy brown paint color in the middle of Loews, travel to the same boring beach resorts every five years and take a cruise on their 15 year anniversary, visit the same annoying in-laws, walk the same dog, feed the same cat, watch the same made-for-tv movies, argue over household bills and shared bank accounts, host the same 4th of July cookout, hate the same next door neighbor, complain about toothpaste tube squeezing/shower hair clogs/messy bathroom sink, worry about retirement, build a new patio, worry about their spouses overindulgence in salt, worry about their over-30 single friends, get annoyed when the one stays up late reading and the other can't go to sleep because of the light as heterosexual couples do. It's about the basic, human right to lead a bland life with the person you love. What's so criminal about that?

And to think I spent fifteen minutes this morning agonizing over a bra color

Talk about a break in monotony: the people of Iran were surprised with random police stops today. Just in time for the onset of warmer weather, Iranian police were conducting dress code violation crackdowns on women who showed too much hair or whose robes were too short, showing ankle. Men who dressed too Western, or had long hair were subject to police scrutiny. Hair salons and clothing stores that contributed to dress code violations were closed down. Some citizens were arrested and some just received tickets.

In similar news.

Father's Days

Today, in honor of Father's Day, The MQR takes a look at a life lived habitually. No one celebrated mediocrity like my father. This is not to say that he didn't overcome great odds to enjoy his moderately paced life in Cleveland with my mother. My father relished in the predictable and stable and found solace in the expected.

Breakfast/Mornings
Dad was definitely a morning person. Sleeping in was for losers and anyone who slept past 6:00 am was a freak.

Dad liked to enjoy his warm breakfast cereals (cream of wheat or oatmeal) heavy on the milk (so it's less thick) and inside the pot in which it was prepared. If he ate cold cereal, it was Kellogg's Corn Flakes and it was consumed with 2% milk (skim was for crazies) and a banana (strawberries in cereal was for white people).

It was also customary to enjoy a quality hot beverage such as Sanka or Folgers with sharp block cheddar cheese at the bottom of the cup. It's not weird, it's cultural (and yummy!). Dad was not a big toast person unless prepared special by my mother. When my mother prepared his breakfast it contained more spice and variety with things like link sausage or sausage from the West Side Market and was never served in the tool that was used to cook it. My Dad prepared bacon on the less crispy side and was quite content, actually, with a simple fried egg served with white rice. Again, not weird, just cultural.

My Dad also abhorred bright kitchen lights, so you could find him in the kitchen early mornings with just one light on above the sink, making the kitchen appear rather blue. In the summer, my father enjoyed the simplicity of sunlight.

Sometimes, a pastry wiggled it's way into my father's menu and was enjoyed with gusto with above mentioned coffee and cheese. The pastry was usually some sort of Entenmann's coffee cake or danish. An occasional cake or glaze doughnut was welcomed at the table.

In addition to cheesed coffee, my father enjoyed orange juice (prepared from frozen concentrate - preferably Tropicana). So much so, that my diabetic mother often found herself without her quick remedy for her sudden insulin reactions. This usually resulted in household argument about taking the last of something and not at least making preparations for a replacement.

On special days, usually Sundays, my mother would prepare fried plantain chips called tostones, which she served with some sort of garlic butter sauce. My father enjoyed these with his breakfast and would come back throughout the morning for seconds, thirds and fourths.

My father expected to watch the morning news - in peace - so talking about the goings on in my cereal bowl was not appreciated, welcomed or allowed. (I suppose if my father could read, he would have liked to read the newspaper in silence.) My dad especially looked forward to the weather report, because he always knew more than the pouffy-haired American Meteorology Association certified weather guy and had no qualms saying so every morning to my mother. She always had to remind him that Midwest weather is not as predictable as Puerto Rico where cold is anything below 80 degrees and the seasons are divided up between hurricane and non-hurricane season. This usually led to some friendly disagreement about the merits of America and why Puerto Rico is the best place on Earth.

Lunchtime/Weekends
When lunch was not prepared by my mother, my father relied on cold cuts and deli wieners to make a wholesome lunch. This was usually served with italian bread slices. Other breads were weird.Sandwiches were made using one slice of bread and a couple of slices of meat and the bread was folded over in some perverted version of a taco. He liked pop with his midday meal. Because my mom could only drink diet pops, he grew accustomed to sugar-free beverages or occasionally enjoyed a glass of soda pop from such high quality national brands such as Faygo or Fanta.

Blowing one's nose was customary after completing the meal. Midday meals were enjoyed while watching CBS soap operas.

Weekends meant things that needed to be done around the house. But not like what you see on Home Depot commercials. This meant the complete opposite of Bob Vila projects. And usually resulted in my mother begging to call a professional and my father storming out the house to return something to Sears. Occasionally, I was invited to come along; not so much for the chance to spend quality time with his youngest offspring, but more so for my exceptional literacy and English-translation skills. This was sometimes rewarded with a trip to McDonald's or Burger King.

Evenings
See "Breakfast/Mornings" for television preferences. Dinner was almost always prepared by mother and my father got served first and with the most food. Rice was consumed with a banana. Not weird, customary. You would be grossed out amazed by what sort of Caribbean/American Soul Food combinations my father created. Things such as beef neck bones with habichuela was a common favorite.

My father's analysis of the day's news and events, including things that happened at the job site, generally centered around other people's sheer stupidity and his uncanny ability to always be right. There was usually some speech to me about my under/over eating habits and why I should appreciate growing up here versus when and where he grew up. When he didn't eat at the dinner table, he ate in the living room alone. Usually because he was pissed and after awhile he hated eating in the kitchen with me and my mom because we talked too much during the news.

Dessert varied, but his favorite was chocolate pudding served with Cool Whip. It was common practice for him to eat the largest serving, while I laid claim to the mixing bowl. My mother usually opted out.

Dishes were washed in this order:

1. Dad finishes meal first. Blows nose.
2. Rinses dish. Begins to exit kitchen.
3. Mom grows annoyed.
4. Dad comes back to begin washing dishes.
5. Stove cleared.
6. Mom in charge of leftover distribution to pets and storage.
7. Dad washes dishes.
8. Stove is cleaned last.
9. Dishes are put away.
10. Sink emptied of water.
11. I'm put in charge of silverware drying and storage.
12. Dad exits kitchen.
13. Mom looks over dishes that Dad cleans.
14. Complains.
15. Mom re-washes unacceptable dishes.
16. Dad returns for dessert.

My parents married in the month of May. I was born in the month of January. My father died in the month of November. The initials of our first names spell JAM in order for father, mother, daughter.

Just so you know.

Every Father's Day, my mother and I would agonize over a gift which my Dad usually could care less about as long as he got more or as much fanfare as Mom did on Mother's Day. He would sometimes cook BBQ in honor of himself. There was usually some sort of greeting card involved, which I had to read to him. My mother would insist that he keep the card and store it where he kept all the other cards he couldn't read. He would thank me for the card and dismiss me out of the room. I would sometimes catch him holding the card and looking at it as if he could read it all by himself when he thought no one was looking. One time I could swear he was crying.

People I am in awe of aka Characteristics of My Soul Mate

1. people who can type and look at you at the same time
2. people who can swim, skate and run fast
3. people who drive manual cars
4. people who crave healthy foods
5. people who enjoy roller coasters
6. people who like to read biographies
7. people who like math
8. people who can play an instrument and sing at the same time
9. people who can draw
10. people who can do this

Piece of Flesh = Golden Ticket to Successful Marriage (i.e. You won't get beaten or killed on your wedding night)

For those ignorant to the Patriarchy, you may wonder what is significant about a piece of flesh and bloody sheets. If that piece of flesh is your hymen and you have bloody sheets on your wedding night, then it means a lot. Apparently it means so much to Muslim women that they are paying thousands of dollars to restore their hymens to make them qualified for marriage.

Now you may ask yourself: Gee, what do men have to do to restore their hymens? Well, first off: men don't have them. Beside, we're not talking about the purity of men, we're talking about the purity of women, silly! In my constant effort to understand the Muslim religion and the cultures in which it permeates, I keep running into brick walls when trying to understand how it is not oppressive to women. (Let me just qualify that Christianity has the same unfair and impossible expectations surrounding female virginity.)

Hymen Restoration sounds painful and completely unnecessary. (duh) The fact that women have to obtain a "certificate" of virginity in order to be deemed suitable for marriage is asinine and shocking in these so-called progressive times. How can one find painful intercourse and bloody sheets romantic or a turn-on? (some do.) How many annoying things must a woman do to prove her ability to be a loving wife? (a shitload) Not only does she have to lose her identity and take her husband's name to prove her undying love and commitment, she also has to make sure that a piece of flesh is still in tact, protecting entrance into her birthing canal and sex hole. Geez.

All this to spend day after day after day of your life with the same person doing to same shit.

Ode to Regular Life

The Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal is a must read for those of us unsure about the validity of our inconsequential existence. It's thoughtful, insightful and funny. A quick summertime, anytime read.

Her name is Raven

14 yr. old Raven Lumpkin has been missing since 8:30 Sunday night. Activists are gathering in her neighborhood for a rally and to distribute fliers.

Update 6/11/08: Raven has returned home. Normal life can resume.

Perrier and judgemental cash registers

So I was at CVS getting random need-to-gets and I was in the food and beverage section trying to make a selection on a commercially-produced summertime libation of the non-alcoholic variety. To my snobbery's dismay, there was no Evian in the large bottles chilled. I also wanted some iced tea and I must admit to enjoying sweet tea though I have no innate leanings toward southern cuisine. I was perusing my chilled options growing increasingly concerned that I may have to settle for a room temperature can when this man breezes between myself and the cooler and lands at the bottled water section where he grabs a Perrier. And then smugly without saying excuse me (at least loud enough for me to hear), breezes back past me still staring blankly into the cooler.

Dammit, I thought. He looked at me like I was one of the regular buffoonish people who regularly enjoys large cans of manufactured iced tea. I don't! I like it fresh brewed with an infusion of fruit. I swear. I mean, he got Perrier, but I consume Evian like most people consume tap water. Hey, Mr. Perrier with your dangling iPod ear buds, I could drink fizzy water if I wanted to, but I like my water fresh as the mountain spring from which it sprang (sprung?).

Come back here. I don't even know if I'm buying this can of iced tea, I may just forget the whole thing and go home and brew some Tazo teas and chill them in an artisan pitcher I bought at a vintage store. You don't know me, so stop judging me.

Then I saw that the cans of the sweet tea were two fer 99¢, so I bought them. I get my receipt which contained valuable, money-saving coupons on Glucerna products, which are for diabetics. Thanks, register computer for judging me....as if the cooler aisle wasn't enough.

Fancy Pants and Suite Irks

I work in a sprawling office building that is composed of many office suites. Sometimes it feels like an apartment building filled with supers and neighbors you dislike. In general, I don't like my neighbors. There is a law office on my floor, which from the looks of their clientele specialize in defending DUI offenders and small time drug traffickers. The lawyers themselves are like the used car salesmen of law, all they are missing are plaid or tweed blazers with dark green polyester pants. Then there is the competing nonprofit who also works with kids just down the hall from us. Always awkward when they ask you "how is the fundraising?" because you always want to say as cheerfully back: "Hopefully better than yours!"

There is some random company that occupies the north suite. It has one of those names that doesn't give you any clue as to what it does exactly. I just see boring white people go in and out all day. Then there is the office suite with these women who do a lot of paperwork and data entry. I think I despise them the most. I know I shouldn't, but I do. They are all sort of trashy and wear platform high heals with peddle pushers and sleeveless shirts. They all wear their lanyards conspicuously around their necks further exacerbating their godawful fashion. And they reek of cigarette smoke.

Then there are the creepy maintenance people. And the one leering Black security guard with a penchant for white women. To express my discontent with his leering and his racial bias I insisted on ignoring him every morning that I walked into the building. Then I felt guilty because he is older and maybe he just doesn't know any better. I'm speaking to him again.

There are shared bathrooms on the floor. I like to do my business alone. It makes me very uneasy when I have to use the bathroom with other people in the room. And I have the unfortunate luck of working with people who think going to the bathroom together is both a morale booster and efficient. Plus you are subjected to some sort of forced nicety or exchange when keying in or exiting the bathroom. I always feel weird applying make-up or fixing my hair while someone else is at the sink. I also have this weird habit of seeing if the other person washes their hands thoroughly or if they just run them under the water. I also hate when people who don't know better go into the stall right next to you. That helps contribute to my overall uneasiness about the whole thing. I don't like hearing other people pee and I certainly don't want them listening to me pee. I know it's a natural process, but a very personal one for me. I mean, dying is a natural process that everyone will experience at some point in their lives, but that doesn't mean I want to do it with three other strangers around me.

I also hate when I have to wait for the elevators with someone else. Again, you have to deal with some sort of stupid exchange about the weather or the length of waiting time for said elevator. However, I also get annoyed when one doesn't speak to me or answers my forced hello with a grumble, mumble or worse: nothing. I hate riding in elevators with other people; I like riding them alone. It seems like every time I'm in an elevator with someone, that's when I have to fart. It stresses me out. I hate when people press the button that is already lit like their press will make all the difference. When I see people like that I automatically think they are self-centered assholes. "Oh, you pressed the button already? Well, let me press it since the elevator can't possibly do anything unless I press it." These are usually the same people who run for elevators. Like, trust me dude, another one is coming. Promise.

There is the cleaning lady that I see most nights that I stay late. She's cool. I forgot her name and now it is too late to ask her without coming off like a total asshole. She knows my name, but I forgot hers. I know she has a son and a boyfriend and she hates the rising cost of food staples. I think her name is Rosa. I need to figure that out at some point. I also don't know where she is from, but I know it's not: a) here; b) Latin America; c) Australia or the UK or Ireland; or d) Africa. (oh, and not Asia) I think she's some sort of Eastern European. I want to ask, but then I would come off like some asshole American. I feel guilty when I try avoid her because sometimes she just complains about how she is short on time and staff, but she has so much building to cover. We'll usually talk about this for a good 15 mins each night. I also feel bad when I use the bathrooms after she has cleaned them. (Using the bathrooms after normal hours is perfect even if being the only person on the floor is creepy. Not to mention I can do a #2 in peace. The only thing I hate is when the motion-activated lights go out while I'm on the stall and when the automatic fragrance sprayer goes off scaring the shit out of me.)

I often change clothes in my office before I head off to the gym. I don't like to change there. I just want to get in and get things rolling. I'm facing mostly a parking garage, but I get this dirty/sexy/shameful feeling when changing because I wonder what poor sap getting in his/her car is looking over into my office while I squeeze into my sports bra. Whoever you are, sorry about that. I like to use my view of the garage as a gage on the pulse of the city. When there are no cars left at like 5:15, I know I should be leaving, too. Fun is to be had elsewhere, or bad weather is acomin'. If there are still a healthy amount of cars at 5:30, then I know I should keep on working. I always appreciate seeing the last car leave because I think: "That guy/gal is dedicated. Drive home safely and hopefully you have a nice meal waiting for you when you get home." When there are no cars left at 4:00, I always wonder what sort of slackers work around here that can bolt out of here like their work doesn't matter. I smugly continue working until at least 6:00.

I like working downtown, though. It has that big city Mary Tyler Moore thing going. Makes me feel all fancy pants important sometimes. Like look at me I work in a fancy pants office building doing fancy pants work that requires me to wear pantyhose when necessary and wrinkle free cotton pants when I don't have any meetings. I get a coffee beverage practically everyday because that is what fancy pants downtown employees do.

Lezzie Lip Locks and Gay-free AIDS Conference

What a week for The Gays.

First off: lesbian couple in Seattle (fuck the Mariners!) were asked to leave a Mariner's game after they were told their kissing in public was inappropriate. Parents apparently complained because they would have been forced to have "one of those talks" with their kids about special feelings that they may have for someone who has the same junk in their underpants as they do. No parent has time for that, they just want to watch a baseball game. (Red Sox won that game, in case you were curious. I guess it sucked for those lezzie Mariners fans all the way around.)

Here's the thing: they claim that a straight couple rows ahead were making out and groping each other, whereas they were just eating garlic fries and exchanging random kisses (gross - garlic fries and kissing?). I hate PDA. Hate, Hate, HATE it. Even kisses exchanged at the alter after it is announced that the bride may indeed be kissed (irregardless of the fact that she probably just gave dude a blowjob two nights before), grosses me out. And I will admit to my own internalized homophobia that makes me cringe anytime some woman I am dating wants to hold hands or smooch in public. Gross. Gross. Gross. I hate when I watch something on television or a movie and two people kiss and it makes that moist noise. Ew.

PDA is sooooo annoying either way you slice it in my book. So I can understand the extent in which fellow spectators were annoyed with these women making out. The obvious problem arises when they didn't seem to have a problem with the other couple playing tonsil toss a few rows ahead. After all, wouldn't that saliva exchange raise similar questions about no-no parts and where babies come from?

More importantly, who the fuck makes out baseball games or any sporting event for that matter? Pathetic. I also hate when people do proposals at sporting events. Nothing says "I love you; let's spend the rest of our lives together" like a jumbo-tron and a kamillion screaming strangers drinking piss beer and plastic nachos.

Moving on to Uganda, Africa, gay protesters were arrested after crashing a conference on AIDS. Um...an AIDS conference with no Gays? Say whaaat? That's wild. There's homophobia in the African AIDS community. Wild.

Countdown to the Olympics aka Yet Another Reason I Won't Be Watching

From the BBC On This Day

1989: Massacre in Tiananmen Square

The demonstrations in Tiananmen Square have been described as the greatest challenge to the communist state in China since the 1949 revolution. Hundreds, and possibly thousands, of people were killed in the massacre, although it is unlikely a precise number will ever be known.

Several hundred civilians have been shot dead by the Chinese army during a bloody military operation to crush a democratic protest in Peking's (Beijing) Tiananmen Square.

Tanks rumbled through the capital's streets late on 3 June as the army moved into the square from several directions, randomly firing on unarmed protesters.

The injured were rushed to hospital on bicycle rickshaws by frantic residents shocked by the army's sudden and extreme response to the peaceful mass protest.

Demonstrators, mainly students, had occupied the square for seven weeks, refusing to move until their demands for democratic reform were met.

The protests began with a march by students in memory of former party leader Hu Yaobang, who had died a week before.

But as the days passed, millions of people from all walks of life joined in, angered by widespread corruption and calling for democracy.

Tonight's military offensive came after several failed attempts to persuade the protesters to leave.

Throughout the day the government warned it would do whatever it saw necessary to clamp down on what it described as "social chaos".

But even though violence was expected, the ferocity of the attack took many by surprise, bringing condemnation from around the world.

US President George Bush said he deeply deplored the use of force, and UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher said she was "shocked and appalled by the shootings".

Amid the panic and confusion students could be heard shouting "fascists stop killing," and "down with the government".

At a nearby children's hospital operating theatres were filled with casualties with gunshot wounds, many of them local residents who were not taking part in the protests.

Early this morning at least 30 more were killed in two volleys of gunfire, which came without warning. Terrified crowds fled, leaving bodies in the road.

Meanwhile reports have emerged of troops searching the main Peking university campus for ringleaders, beating and killing those they suspect of co-ordinating the protests.

Peking has since become more widely known as Beijing.

I guess I should post about this, right?

I think this guy's column really sums it up for me. I'm so over this election it's not even funny. I don't even have it in me to write a check, pick up the phone and knock on a door. Seriously. (There should be some organizing around helping the Bush Family pack. I would do that.) I should be moved to tears that the first (half) Black person (man) is the (presumptive) Democratic nominee for the POTUS. Alas, I was. Now, I'm just over it. People were reacting last night as if he won the general election, not just the election that allows him to run in the general election.

This election, instead of being monumental, has grown vicious, tired, stale and monotonous.
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous
vicious, tired, stale and monotonous

And I blame a lot of it on the media. I'm more into politics than the average American, but my fervor for American politics (what was left of it at least) is completely depleted. This election (with its coverage as predictable as my morning bus route) has confirmed my belief in the fact that our entire electoral process is really no better than those in countries where you can get shot at the polls. Exaggeration, I know, but who can you trust? If selecting a leader is up to a handful of (super)delegates in smoky backrooms and a bunch of random people in the Electoral College, then what the hell do you need me for?

Now what do I say to every person that has told me: "Politics just isn't my thing....my vote doesn't really count....it's boring, etc."? The change we can believe in can only go so far and people are tired of the nasty ads, the predictable soundbites and the exhaustive pundit-ing on every channel (but not of Michelle's fabulous clothes and hair, and those adorable daughters). Hell, I'm more excited to see who wins between Boston and L.A. than I am to see who wins in November. Now that the proverbial dust has settled, what the hell do we do now and how to do mobilize the numb masses? More rhetoric and rallies? I hope not.

I'm still waiting for this moment to sink in, but I think it sunk in a long time ago and now it is just sitting heavy like a bad meal waiting to be excreted.