But I can't. Every four years I fail miserably. I generally make it through all of Monday night, albeit with a splitting headache. By 9:00 pm Tuesday, however, the country music and chants of USA! and Drill Now! (or that year's convention's equivalent rants) are beginning to chip away at my resolve. I call it quits a couple of hours early, but I'm able to convince myself I captured the gist of the night's message. Besides, I'm TiVo-ing. I'll catch up tomorrow. Remember back in college when you had a three hour lecture class and you would cut out at the break to meet your buddies down at the pub, figuring you'd copy the notes of the girl who sat behind you next week? It's like that. On Wednesday, I watch the Veep nominee's speech, turn off the TV and have a fight with my girlfriend. Because, by this point, I feel like someone has been striking me in the middle of my forehead with a ballpeen hammer for 72 hours. Thursday night I manage to last through about ten minutes of the Republican nominee's speech playing in the background as I stare blankly at the ceiling before I throw a bottle through the television screen.
Every four years.
This week was the same, only worse. I've been watching these things since 1972 and the Republican Convention that ended last night was the most disingenuous, hypocritical, mean-spirited, race-baiting, classist (I'd add sexist but the Republicans have nominated an ex-beauty contest winner and Miss Congeniality for their runner-up spot, so they have necessarily had to soft peddle their usual little-woman condescension) celebration of the dark side of America's ruling class that I have as yet had the pleasure of violently pre-empting before the balloons fell.
They sneered at the concept of community organizing. They clamored for change with a straight face, as though by not mentioning Bush's name we will forget who has been carrying this hellbound hand basket for the past eight years. They accused their opponents of being elitist and out-of-touch while their nominee's wife had the gall to show up on stage wearing $300,000 worth of runway clothes and jewels.
I am, for the most part, happy to debate the relative merits of the progressive agenda against the conservative platform. Point of fact, I spend a fair amount of each day engaged just so. But I need a short break here. If you can picture yourself walking into the voting booth and pulling the lever for McCain-Palin after having watched both parties present their cases these past two weeks, well . . . I've got nothing. Go to TPM or Kos or Huffington Post and browse the literally thousands of posts which delineate the Republican's mendacity and absolute dearth of fresh ideas or innovative policies.
If that sounds like a cop out on my part, so be it. But it's hard duty, trying to put yourself in the shoes of an enthusiastic Republican conventioneer. Walk a mile? Hell, I can't get the things laced up. I'm beat. I'm tired and, worse than that, I feel dirty. I feel like I need a long, hot shower. No, come to think of it, a shower won't get it done. I need to take a few days and travel to a spring-fed mountain lake. I will bathe naked in its cold, clear waters and commune with nature. I will meditate on the question of good versus evil. I shall observe a vow of silence.
And then I'll drive back Sunday night ready to re-enter the fray. By which time, I might add, I fully expect this silly Palin fervor to have broken. If Obama loses, it won't be because the Republicans picked a right-wing, creationist, abortion-abolishing nut who hasn't yet formulated an opinion on the Iraq War as their vice presidential candidate. The race is about Obama and McCain and, after the past two weeks, it still looks like a mismatch to me.
McCain should lose, if for no other reason than he is the worst speaker I have ever heard at this level of politics. I thought W was bad? Shoot, Bush is John Barrymore next to McCain. It seems to me that the bare minimum qualification for being handed the world's tallest soapbox should be the ability to use a teleprompter. The thought of watching McCain address the nation for the next four years, his gaze locked on the cue cards like a rat eyeballing a piece of cheese in a trap, ignoring pauses and stepping on applause lines, declaring wars and cutting taxes while the deficit continues to skyrocket and ice shelves the size of Manhattan tumble into the Arctic seas is either too depressing or too terrifying for me to contemplate right now. Maybe both.
I'll be at the lake if you need me.
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