I’m supposed to be deadlining right now. And I am. I will be. I already know what I’m going to write; it’s only a matter of writing it.
But I’m grouchy and out of sorts and feeling generally useless, so I thought I’d get some of that out of my head.
Stupid people. Exhibit B: Cliven Bundy. What kind of clueless, arrogant moron would, in this day and age, make that kind of racist, ignoramus remark? Equally bad, what kind of clueless, ungrateful, arrogant moron would say something like that to the media when other people are putting their reputations, and even their lives, on the line for him?
Don’t get me wrong; the issues here go far beyond whether Cliven Bundy is a nice guy or not, and I realize that the defenders at Bunkerville aren’t there for one individual dumbarse rancher’s sake. But still. Still. Giving the MSM its very, very favorite kind of ammo is beyond the pale.
And presidents. Presidents visiting disaster sites. What a cynical game!
I’m tired in general of this notion that any president is supposed to be our father, mother, best friend, and rich uncle and that he’s always supposed to be there for us when we’re hurting. To whatever extent a country needs a president (and that’s debatable, of course), he should just … preside. You know, administer. Not go around pretending to care about the Little People.
If you care so much, Mr. Prez, why haven’t you been there all along with a shovel?
I heard him on NPR yesterday and what really hacked me off (aside from the very doing of the thing (just because it made a convenient stop on his trip to Asia) — was that he cared so very, very, very little that he didn’t even learn the name of the place.
AH-so, he called it.
My first thought, after cringing, was, “Who do you think you are? Charlie Chan?”
But really, that mispronunciation wasn’t a mere gaffe. It was an attempt to sound high-falutin’ and more-Harvard-than-thou. Obama reminded me of a family that used to live in my mother’s neighborhood when she was a little girl. During the Great Depression, Mom’s family and a bunch of other working- and middle-class families had the chance to pick up dirt-cheap homes in a nice area after their original owners (stock brokers and architects and suchlike) went bust.
One of those families was the O’Tooles. Having gotten themselves a grand home, it would no longer do to be mere Irish. They kept the spelling of their name (sans apostrophe) but switched the pronunciation to AH-tu-lay.
At least it was their own name; they could pronounce it “Smith” or “Cholmondeley” if they wanted. But you stupid, uncaring, superior-wannabe president, the dead and bereaved and heroically laboring people of simple, three-letter, Spanish-for-bear Oso, Washington, deserve at least more convincing fakery from you.
I’m feeling grouchy at some difficult people, too. Some of whom are also stupid and take their stupidity out on others. But that’s a different story.
I woke up shortly after midnight last night, thinking someone was standing outside the house hitting my windchimes to make them ring. Normally I’ll hear the big ones at night only during winter windstorms.
It took me a few minutes to realize we were having a winter windstorm. And pounding rain. We’ve been getting record-setting rains the last two months. Normally this time of year is cool and showery, but we’re getting downpours that cascade all night and half the day.
Oh well. It’s still better than the ghastly snowstorms so many of you endured all last winter.
I tossed and turned for the next couple of hours, thinking the kind of thoughts you think in the pit of night. Tired today.