I am burned out. Tired of trying to feel hopeful. Sick of people with money running the country. Tired of the democrats pleading to be let in, even when they are the ones in charge.
I have of late been avoiding my blogs, avoiding MSNBC, avoiding the Sunday morning talking heads. Don't want to hear from Obama, nor do I have any patience for his defenders. I want Obama to act like that idiot Bush, and speak with conviction; after all, if an idiot can be sure of himself, why not a guy with some intellect.
We seem to be losing the war, because it is so easy for the greedy and powerful to divert our attention from them to... each other. The comfortable middle class will turn on anyone, teachers, nurses, firefighters, but everyone is willing to turn on the working poor. You know, those folks who have to constantly decide whether to get a haircut or go to the doctor.
Obama is not in their court. He doesn't even mention the working poor. All those neat-o tax cuts he and his republican buddies were handing out in December? The working poor saw their taxes go up. Even Bill Maher and Gloria Steinem are in agreement that the aging population can work a few more years before getting social security. Tell that to a Wal-Mart worker.
So I've been feeling a bit agitated, to say the least. It's a beautiful day, I've finished an enjoyable spy novel, as well as the narrative of the shameful Clarence Thomas hearings, which I talked more about yesterday. What to do with the remainder of this beautiful day?
Donald E. Westlake, who I sorely miss, wrote a book called Thieves Dozen, unusual because it is a short story collection about his morose, unlucky theif, John Dortmunder. I only just began to read the introduction, which is a wonderful, rambling tale of how he and his friend, Dortmunder, ended up with eleven short stories (eleven, thieves, get it?).
And I began to feel happy, and hopeful, and even like I wanted to write. So now you know what I'll be doing today.