Oops. Sorry. Just made it to the can.
Hardly an unexpected reaction, one supposes, to things one doesn’t like to see or hear.
As in, Night 2 of the Republican Convention.
Angry white male plutocrats (angry because somehow all they have [seven homes? when millions are losing their only one?] isn’t nearly enough) orating to angry white male plutocrat wannabe’s.
And it’s often really, really unseemly, as when in an early hour they put up a black white male plutocrat wannabe, followed shortly by a female white male plutocrat wannabe.
Another ugly night in St. Paul. The entire convention thus far has been a parade of wealthy white guys, female and male, one sleazier than the next. Take Mitt Romney, please! And could that convention crowd be any whiter? 21st Century America? In their nostalgic dreams, only.
As I write this, I haven’t yet decided whether to tear myself away from my beliked Cubs (losing, yet again, to Houston — where did these guys come from, anyway?) to see VP nominee Sarah Palin’s speech.
Actually, I’d watch Michael Palin in a heartbeat. Never really gotten over Monty Python. Sarah, I’m not so sure.
But, I probably will succumb, anxious to see in action the latest in a line of eccentric G.O.P. V.P. nominees, going all the way back in time to William Miller (1964, Goldwater), Spiro Agnew (1968, 1972 Nixon), and the unforgettable Dan Quayle (1988, George II). Dresser of moose, indeed.
If I can spare the time away from that can.
It’s it for now. Thanks,