Supersoak that Filipino: Barack Obama, Latino-Palooza and Malt Liquor

America sits on the precipice of a great and grim milestone as we confront the fact that it will soon be cheaper to buy a gallon of malt liquor than a gallon of gas. And where does that leave our families? Obviously, we’re not finding any comfort in the teenage karaoke dronings of American Idol because the ratings for that show are ever plummeting. Same, too, for the pomp and pageantry of America’s Prom, the Academy Awards, which this past Sunday also hit a low ratings mark. Even in Los Angeles, where self-congratulation is a way of life, interest in this year’s awards ceremony was low. What on earth is going on here? Do we need to exhume Ronald Reagan’s corpse so that he can invent crack cocaine AGAIN and give us all a reason to go on in our misery?

No, we don’t actually. It turns out that all of these signs of the times are wonderful omens. The kids aren’t watching American Idol because they’re in their bedrooms making “crush on Obama” parody videos and posting them on youtube. The New York Times Carpetbagger entertainment reporter noted that in a big deal LA restaurant the day before the Oscars, there was more buzz about the democratic debates than the Academy Awards. And if malt liquor is cheaper than gas, then we’ll all be drinking more and driving less, which even an oil man at an AA meeting would agree is better for the planet.

Wacky times, indeed. We might as well call the past week or so Latino-Palooza, as Fidel Castro stepped down, Hillary and Obama went to Texas and talked about sensible immigration reform for an hour and at one point, cable news pundits were speculating that the race for the democratic nomination might very well be decided by Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico! Not that I grant much merit to the cable news folks, but they have been doing this election thing for a while. I heard a Texas pollster speculate that the vote in his state is so fractured among Latinos and women voters that the primary may well hinge on the votes of white males. Finally! An election in America decided by that oft-ignored, marginalized segment of the population: white males. I was getting sick and tired of being sick and tired.

It’s almost not worth mentioning the most recent debate in Ohio, except as another stubborn, bent and rusted nail in the coffin of Mrs. Clinton’s campaign. I’m told the dumbest thing you can do is count a Clinton out, as they are known for miraculous comebacks (or satanic pacts, whatever), but her showing in Columbus was just hard to watch and made it nearly impossible to believe that she can do anything at this point more spectacular than slowly dissolve and disappear into a pile of clothes on the ground while screaming, “I’m melting! I’m melting!”. It almost feels like any day now, Chelsea is going to come out and give her endorsement of Obama.

All of her recent antics, even leaving the debate aside, have been off putting and unnerving and I’m honestly afraid that she’s going to snap and start punching holes in the wall. It’s gonna be like when Elmer Fudd would take his hat off and stomps on it out of sheer exasperation. And Obama will just be standing there, as cool as the other side of the pillow, chomping on a carrot and asking her what’s up.

Obama walked away from the debate in Ohio with a newly-buffed impenetrable sheen of inevitability. In a very public, very embarrassing and almost disgustingly trashy ploy to chip away at this sheen, a man introduced John McCain at a rally by repeatedly reminding people that the democratic frontrunner’s full name is Barack Hussein Obama. Well, of course it didn’t work. Nothing can touch that guy right now. His name could be Vomit Hitler Mellencamp and America would still love him. That’s comforting.

He’s the right man for right now because he is a transcendant character. A global cantidate. And today we have another reminder of planet Earth’s mind-boggling cultural globalism, which comes, of course, from the Philippines. Those tightly choreographed pop culture obsessed Filipino prison inmates are at it again. Last time, they made Michael Jackson’s Thriller relevant again after 25 years and now they have made a move to immortalize Soulja Boys’ dance hit of this past year. There’s nothing like pacific islander convicts dancing in unison to an American rap song about graphic sex acts to draw this whole this into focus: it’s not just about America. The world needs Barack Obama.

Tornado Tuesday: San Francisco's Return to Glory

I’ve been covering this campaign season largely, and rather embarrassingly, from a microfiber couch in San Jose. Mostly, I flip from MSNBC to Comedy Central and peruse the internet and I call that “reporting”. But now that Gigantor Tuesday has blown through California, I have to say it looks a lot different when the election actually comes to town.
I saw enough surreal and marvelous things in my hometown of San Francisco on Super Tuesday to carry my enthusiasm for the campaign on into the fall. The question mark first appeared over my head in a barber shop in the Fillmore, where every few minutes a teenager strolled in for a haircut wearing an “I voted” sticker on his oversized Scarface tshirt. Later on, I saw the two bike riding Mission hipsters, standing on the corner of Van Ness and market, holding a banner that read, “San Francisco Chooses Obama”, smiling and waving at passing cars. At the donut shop on the same corner, two homeless Vietnam vets shared a cup of coffee. The one with the beard told the one in the camouflage, “I voted for Mrs Clinton, brother. You?”
Across the intersection, a graying couple with wool socks in sandals held a sign up for Hillary. A Filipino lady slowed her Honda down and stuck her head out of the window, smiling at them, to grab her own Hillary sign. An old white guy drove by in a Mercedes and honked for the Obama hipsters.
If I tried to analyze it, I would say in very loose terms that it looks like the old people voted for Hillary and the youngsters voted for Obama. But that’s not really true and I don’t really care. This is a different kind of politicized San Francisco than I’ve witnessed in my life. I’ve only ever seen combative and angry political action in this city (however necessary). Stop The War (both wars). Impeach Bush (both Bushes). Stop gentrification (first with the artists then with the tech boom). It was either that or some ridiculous Spearhead concert in Dolores Park with barefoot dancing to free Mumia or Tibet or whatever. Noble enough causes, all of them, but I never saw any glimpse of hope in the tactics.
I’ve never seen people genuinely excited about alternatives or any tangible progress. People came out in record numbers back in 2004, but not because they liked John Kerry, rather because they didn’t like the president. And even though yesterday, people had signs supporting different candidates, this was not a day of divisive politics. Most San Franciscans seem to want the same thing, we just have a different idea of who should do it.
An old friend and fellow native San Franciscan sent me text messages all day long, sharing similar observations. He told me he saw some kids holding “honk 4 obama” signs and he gave them a honk. Then he made a poetic comparison by saying that sharing that moment with them felt like when he wore a 49er jersey in the Mission District as a kid and every body waved and gave high fives.
Those were the proudest San Francisco moments I can remember—excitement about the Niners and the Giants, in better days. It says a lot that my friend made that comparison and it taps into something deep from my childhood that I miss. And not to trivialize the unifying power of professional sports, but it’s even more exciting to be brought together by a viable political movement at the end of some dark days in this country.
Still later in the day, down 9th street, I saw a flock of 60something hippies in full gear—jester hats, tie dyed shirts, beads in the hair, round sunglasses—and they all carried Hillary signs, laughing as they made their way. As I rode my bike across the street, I watched them long enough to see the storefront they slipped into: one of South of Market’s famed cannabis clubs.
I’ve heard that these presidential nominations used to be decided by a bunch of old, rich white men in the proverbial “smoke filled rooms”. Well it seems that in San Francisco, we still anoint our candidates in smoke filled rooms. It’s just a different cast of characters and a better variety of smoke.

No Country For Old White Men

Whenever I leave Las Vegas after a long weekend, I have that thing where I can still hear the hypnotic cling cling of slot machines in my head as the plane is taking off. And for the past month of this lunacy-laden election season, I’ve been grinding my teeth, blitzed on diet rock star at 4 in the morning and I can still hear CNN reporters and Britney updates rattling in my head. It’s maddening, but it makes for some inspired ideas.
For instance, I realized today that there is a staggering amount of parallels to be drawn between the field of presidential candidates and the recently announced academy award nominees. If you doubt me, do so at your own peril as I demonstrate this truth.

ATONEMENT: I haven’t seen this film, though I understand it is a gripping, powerful, tour de force or whatever it is that movie critics say. Let’s just say it’s an epic romance and leave it at that. And an epic romance is essentially what America saw last night as Barack and Hillary sat down to exchange pleasantries onstage at the Kodak theater (oddly enough, this is also where the Oscars will be held later this month).
They were smiling at each other, they hugged, Obama pulled Ms. Clinton’s chair out for her. Last week, I was so frustrated with these two spouse-bashing and race-baiting that I was ready to join the elephant team. Gladly, they’ve realized that viciousness will only alienate the legions of fans who have re-discovered politics because of them and they toned it down. They made amends. It was an evening of atonement. In fact, this “debate” went so far beyond atonement that it was practically make up sex. And bravo to them.
Stevie Wonder was in the audience and even he could see that if these kids make nice, they could be a “dream ticket”. You think I’m joking, but Stevie jumped out of his chair applauding wildly at the suggestion of a Hillary/Obama partnership. I can’t say those two together would ride a greased pole to the white house, but then again: take a look at the mess that they’d be up against.

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN: The night before the Hillobama love fest, the Republicans also gathered for a debate, but the results there were far from feel good. They spent half the time indulging in almost homo-erotic Reagan-worship and the other half arguing over who wants to stay in Iraq the longest. “No, I want to stay in Iraq the longest.” And then McCain said, “Oh yeah? Well, I want to stay in Iraq for 100 years!”
That last claim (paraphrased here) was made by John McCain, who seems to have the nomination locked up at this point. The only problem is, Republicans don’t like him and he doesn’t seem to understand that the war in Iraq isn’t very popular any more. Mitt Romney is losing luster by the second and Mike Huckabee . . . well, even Walker: Campaign Ranger can’t roundhouse Huck back into the race.
It’s is safe to say that the Republicans are in disarray and, at least for today, whoever they put up will eventually be slain by Hillary, Obama or some combination of the two. And that is why, in the 2008 presidential election, America is no country for old men.

THERE WILL BE BLOOD: John McCain says he wants to stay in Iraq for 100 years and the same day, 50 people are killed in a bombing in a pet market in Bagdad. Suicides among US service members have doubled since 2001, American casualties are teetering on the edge of 4000 and as the rest of the economy is collapsing, Exxon is poised to set a corporate profit record this quarter. You wouldn’t know it by listening to stump speeches, but the war in Iraq is the lethal cancer eating away at the soul of America right now. From our staggering national debt to our poor standing in the international community to a fledgling economy and low consumer confidence (not to mention the pending apocalypse), the war is the mess. And no matter what solution any candidate dreams up and eventually implements, there will be more blood.
I saw this movie and loved it. I won’t go into much detail, but for those who haven’t seen it, let me establish a simple theme. The central conflict of the film is between a soulless and greedy oil man, a true businessman, interested only in profit and growth, and with no regard for morality or spirituality and his nemesis, a passionate young preacher who hears the voice of God and inspires a growing congregation in his small town. The conflict, quite simply, is God versus money. And this is why the republicans are struggling right now. The party is fractured among faith and morality and financial issues and even further still by the war on terror and immigration.
George W Bush was elected twice because he was able to pay lip service to Christians AND Capitalists. There is no such man this time around and as a result, the GOP can’t find someone they like. So instead, they’ve got a maverick Nam Vet and a New England slickster battling it out. And in that war, there will be mud.

I’M NOT THERE: Cate Blanchett was nominated for her gender bending portrayal of Bob Dylan in this bio-pic that nobody saw but is supposedly pretty good. I chose it because the title is a fitting phrase to address the boys who have since bowed out of the race. I bid a fond farewell to John Edwards, who got an unfair rap for expensive haircuts. The truth is, he’s charming and handsome and he held down the working man old time democratic populist message harder than anybody else. I suspect he’s not gone for good. And let’s shed a lone tear for the Mayor of America, as Giuliani bows out gracefully. Maybe he can stay in Florida and spend his final years on Miami beach, making September 11th sand castles and playing with fire trucks.
Also: Bob Dylan once said that even the president of the united states sometimes must have to stand naked. So in these confusing times, if you find yourself in a polling place on February 5th unable to make a decision, just ask yourself, “who would I rather see naked”? Um, Barack Obama orrrrr . . . Hillary Clinton? Mitt Romney orrrrrrrr . . . John McCain?

And now it’s time for me to return to the teeth gnashing and the 24 hour news cycle in my head. Hope this helps.

I HEART HUCKABEE

Mike Huckabee, the Arkansas preacher man and all around jokester, appeared in conversation at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco yesterday and I knew I couldn’t miss it. I showed up fifteen minutes late, snuck in and was glued to his every word.
I’ve liked Huckabee from the start because he’s hilarious, he plays the bass and he has Chuck Norris’ endorsement. I have strong objections to most of his ideas and positions, but I still love to hear him talk. I was curious, though, what an anti-immigration evangelical from Arkansas was doing in San Francisco and who would show up to see him.
It was quite a mosaic, actually, of aging rural white men in varying hues of flannel. Also: one nun and two Chinese people. But they gave him all their support, cheering and clapping and hooting and hollering. At one point, some women from the anti war group code pink interrupted Huck with some light heckling and unfurled a banner. They were promptly escorted out and Huckabee took a moment to say that he is proud to live in a country where people can do that and not get shot. As the second woman was carried out, he shouted to her, “try that in Cuba!” And I almost peed laughing.
Afterwards, I went to the stage to shake his hand and take pictures. I ended up inadvertently taking a picture of him with a young woman named Julie with a country lilt in her voice who took the day off of work and drove all the way from Lodi to hear Mike Huckabee speak. She said if I’m ever out in Lodi, I should come to their weekly organizing meeting which is held in the party room of the Round Table Pizza.
I looked around for Chuck Norris, but he wasn’t there, so I shuffled off a little disappointed. Not because Chuck Norris wasn’t there, but because after feb 5, I’m afraid Huckabee won’t be around any more. And I know I’ve teased him a little bit here, but he was the most direct, capitavating and genuine candidate in the Republican field. He called Romney and McCain out on their records and he had revolutionary and dynamic ideas.
In his honor, though, I will start randomly and inexplicably yelling out “try that in Cuba” at inappropriate moments. Thanks for coming to San Francisco, Mr Huckabe. That’s more than George W Bush has done in two terms as president. It means more than you know. Good Luck!

The Clone Wars Are Over: Standing Upright in the Shadow of No Towers

Six years ago on the evening of the 2002 state of the union address, I was loopy and baffled, looking to the president for some guidance and some answers. I was glued to the screen, exhausted by the still-smoldering rubble in Manhattan, Virginia and most recently, Afghanistan. Every word that shot from his stifled smirk mattered, whether I shouted at the screen in defiance or half-nodded/shrugged at words and concepts that were new to me. The Axis of Evil was introduced that night. Phrases like War on Terror still had some mystique and luster. Last night, the same ideas sounded more like predictable punch lines to an old, off-color joke. This year’s state of the union address commanded as much attention as something I’d play in the background while folding my laundry and talking to my mom on the phone.

This is a round-about way of saying that the heaping neapolitain sundae of optimism that’s dripping all over this election season has earned another scoop: the president is finally, officially and obviously irrelevant. But it’s not just the president that doesn’t matter any more. The whole school of bleak and terrifying politics is going down with him. The same day of the address, Rudy Giuliani, the “Mayor of September 11” looks to be laying his campaign upon its death bed. He’s learned the hard way that you can’t get by on terror any more. Americans can’t just be raped and milked by the fear of the past or, to borrow and fudge a magnificent phrase from Art Spigelman: this means that we don’t have to cower in the Shadow of No Towers any more.

I don’t have to waste key strokes here explaining the significance of Ted Kennedy’s monumental endorsement of Barack Obama earlier in the day. It’s marvelous—and indicative--that the announcement trumps the president’s address as the leading political news of the day. I have to say, though, that I can’t pretend to place Obama in the lineage of Bobby, Jack and Dr. King because I never knew those men. By the time they got to me, they were gone and canonized. I recognize them only as saintly icons, painted on velvet at my friend’s grandmother’s house. No one in my generation has ever heard a politician (or anyone of note, really) speak to us about hope and optimism and a new tomorrow with the earnestness and enthusism that Barack is speaking to us. This is all brand new to the army of awoken giants in the youth voting demographic.

There were also clues, buried in the fanfare of the state of the union, that tired, dour partisanship is losing its relevance. One of my personal favorites was when the president vowed not to support funding for cloning. The point itself is debatable, but as he said it, one half of the room stood up clapping and the other half sat on its hands. In a long shot of the hall, they looked like . . . clones. Not that a Star Wars reference is necessary here, but it’s good to remind the people that the clones may have won the Clone Wars but their demise was quickly hastened by something called A New Hope, also known as Luke Skywalker.

The tired partisan clone image was not helped by Hillary, who sat fuming the whole night in her blazing red Imperial Guard dress with its pointy collar, wishing she could shoot lightning bolts out of her hands. It must be infinitely frustrating to be on the losing side of hope and optimism. Not that I’m counting Clinton out at this point, but it’s an understatement to say that yesterday was a rough day for her.

So now, with no time to breathe or analyze, our collective attention turns to Florida, which might prove to be the Republican kingmaker this time around. The optimist would ask, “what are the odds that the same state that made the electoral blunder of the century could do it again?” And I’m with the optimist on this one, except it’s hard to say what a blunder would look like this time. There is no George W Bush in this race, just confused sums of his whole: an evangelical, a businessman, a warhawk.

It’s exciting, though, to think of McCain taking Florida, if only because he’s appearing on stage with the “independent” Joe Lieberman and that his brilliantly scatalogical senatorial career drives people like Mitt Romney up the wall. With this president no longer relevant, a race between Barack Obama and John McCain would blow partisanship out of the water, create new, living heroes and effectively end the clone wars. A New Hope indeed.

2 Democrats, 1 Cup -- OR -- Fuck it, I'm a Republican

A warm evening in Boca Raton with 5 articulate Republicans turned out to be a welcome rest from the mess that the Democratic field has become. Those guys are killing me. I am at once disgusted, baffled and livid. The two-headed beast of Clintonia is breathing fiery feces all over the campaign trail, which has resulted in the glorious return of cynicism. To which I say, “Wow. That was fast.” It almost makes me want to post a video of myself on youtube screaming and crying with my mascara running while squawking, “leave Obama alone! You’re lucky he’s even running for president!” Or: with all the fecal matter and vomit being spewed and regurgitated, I could keep it simple and call it 2 democrats, 1 cup. (Ew.)

I will now pause to mourn the campaign of one Dennis Kucinich, who announced today that he’s dropping out of the race. I liked Kucinich a lot, but he didn’t leave much of a mark this time around except to gain the endorsement of Russell Simmons (kiss of death, Phat Farm) and, quite memorably, provide the most entertaining moment of the campaign when he told Tim Russert during a presidential debate that he had, indeed, seen a UFO. He then defended the zany assertion by reminding America that Jimmy Carter, too, has seen a UFO. And then I wondered whether, in a tight democratic field, it is more damaging to come out as a Roswell kook or to liken yourself to the peanut farmer who handed the white house to the Reagan group. Who’s to say? It is fitting, though, that he withdrew from the race the same day that NASA released photographs of a mermaid statue on the surface of Mars (true). Now we’ve lost the only candidate with any Extra terrestrial experience.

Enough of that mess. January 24 belonged to the Republicans, who faced off in what will prove to be a significant and decisive debate. I have to say, these guys are good. For the first half hour, I didn’t hear much because I was mesmerized by Mitt Romney’s staggeringly good looks. He’s just so damn handsome, I don’t even care what he’s saying. It’s like George Clooney for president. With less abortions. I have to say, though, that he looks exactly like Mr Fantastic. For all non-geeks, that’s the leader of the Fantastic 4 whose power is extreme elasticity. The rest of the 4 included Johhny Blaze: the human torch, the Thing and Invisible Girl, who all have counterparts in this race. Moving on.

The whole crew came to Boca Raton (literally, Rat’s Mouth) for the face off and my, what a town. This is where the 80s TV classic The Golden Girls was set, so you know there’s youth and exhuberance galore here. Jerry Seinfeld used to call it God’s waiting room. But I guess that’s fine, since old people are the only ones who vote anyway.

Half way into the debate, the guys had me convinced the war in Iraq was a good idea. John McCain says that yes, there are a lot of casualties in Iraq, but soon enough we will “eliminate casualties” in Iraq, which basically means we are going to “kill killing”. Kill it to death! Kill it good, Psycho McCain Manchurian Cantidate who, um, might win the nomination.

No, thankfully the only man crazier than McCain on that stage chimed in and shattered my good idea Iraq fantasy with some straight talk about how not only do we not need to be in Iraq, we don’t even really need to have a government at all. And then the sane people in the room put the words “ooooo-kaye” into a bazooka and shot it into outer space. Maybe Ron Paul and Dennis Kucinich should just hang and watch Battlestar Galactica DVDs or something. Can you imagine THAT conversation? Yikes. No drugs necessary.

Not to be outdone in the psycho show, Huckabee—the guns and God guy—spoke up long enough to compare the absence of WMDs in Iraq to an easter egg that never gets found. Which is true, except that tens of thousands of Americans don’t usually get their legs blown off in easter egg hunts. But whatever.

Actually, the night was not about the war at all. It was all about the Benjamins. Ecomonics. Why is we broke? I will now quote one of my favorite rappers Trick Daddy, who has a marvelously relevant line for this debate: “But all my Boca Boys, they know dough, that’s fo’ sho’ doe.” And these boys know they dough, foooooooo shoooooooo. Or at least, they know that taxes is some bullshit and uncle sam needs to get the fuck up outta my pocket. That’s what I heard. Romney shined in the economic portion of the debate because he seemed the most knowledgable and articulate and SO DAMN HANDSOME!

The rest of the debate was largely forgettable, except that half way through some one reminded me that in 2001, Boca Raton was the site of America’s first Anthrax attack. And I asked myself, “Did we ever catch that guy? No? Hm. How about Bin Laden? No? Dang. How come we’re not talking about that? Oh well. Tax cuts! Woo-hoo!” And so forth.

So I have developments galore. First I said apathy was dead because Obama won Iowa. Then I said be nice to Hillary because she fake cried for America. Now I’m so disgusted by the donkeys that for today, I’m a Republican. I like God and I don’t like taxes and maybe, secretly, I still think it should be an old white guy in the White House. And if you want to know, I’ve got my money on Mitt Romney. He’s got money and a silver tongue and he’s SO DAMN HANDSOME. If he gets the nomination he will truly be Mr Fantastic and please Jesus, maybe he can make Hillary the invisible girl.







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The Surreal Life On The Granite Planet OR: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Primaries

I never dreamt that my vote (a miniscule fraction of the mythical, elusive “youth vote”) would ever mean anything of consequence in a presidential contest. Foolishly and almost predictably, I assumed that my optimism peaked last week in Iowa with Obama’s victory and the next eleven months would be a gradual dwindling of interest and enthusiasm in the election. But then New Hampshire laughed milk through its nose, spraying it in the face of over-zealous pundits and injecting even more chaos and excitement into this already zany, drunk Jenga match of a presidential race. Both nominations are still wide open and the field of candidates is so broad and bizarre that if Vanilla Ice threw his hat in the ring, VH1 could put them all in a house and shoot another season of the Surreal Life. I can feel that I’m witnessing history and for the first time, I’m eager to perform my civic duty when the time comes.

In a development too ironic to be dubbed irony, it was Hillary Clinton who brought the fun this time. 180 years ago at a place called Dover’s Cocheco Mills, New Hampshire was the site of the first women’s labor strike in America. Last night, a large group of women (and men) sent a similarly powerful message: No matter how charming, articulate, handsome and captivating Barack Obama is, he’s not going to get a free ride to the Democratic nomination. New Hampshire reminded America (particularly Democrats) that as divisive and controversial as she is, Hillary Clinton is still qualified, competent and insanely motivated enough that she deserves her crack at making history, too.

Please don’t misinterpret this as an endorsement of Clinton’s candidacy. I’ve still got a laundry list of issues to address concerning Hil at the helm of the machine, but for today, right now, I’m holding my tongue. She blew the thing wide open all over again and reminded us just how profound a shift it is that we’re witnessing.

She wasn’t alone, though. John McCain did just as much to jostle the elephant team and keep them guessing. Every one seems to be able to say 5 nice things about McCain—patriot, hero, fighter, believer, maverick—before dropping the unkind truth that he’s too old, batty, unpredictable, stiff and tired to make a real run at the thing. That’s probably true, but he fought off Mitt Romney in New England and that’s commendable.

I won’t blow too much venomous ink on Romney just yet (we’ll see how far he gets), but it’s nice to see a presumed frontrunner get the smarminess backhanded out of him. A lot of my enthusiasm in Iowa came from Huckabee’s defeat of the all too slick Mitt. From the start, it seemed as if he thought himself the Music Man who could blow through Iowa like it was River City, selling 76 trombones to every Marion the Librarian in the state. So I had to smile when his humble pie was served up by a goofy preacher man from Arkansas with Chuck Norris on his team. (Seriously, though: what the hell is Walker, Campaign Ranger doing on stage with Huckabee at every event? I feel like I’m watching Saturday Night Live or something.) Last night, Romney had to eat it on his (almost) home turf, which must have left a particularly bitter aftertaste. This is not intended as a personal or even political attack on Romney, it’s just nice to see a Sure Thing from Massachusets lose, considering the recent maddening successes of the Patriots and Red Sox.

The only other observation I can share concerning the Republican field is my relief at the relative sputtering failure of Giuliani’s campaign. We’ll see what happens in Florida or whatever, but I’m thankful that for the time being, his candidacy can be reduced to a tasteless joke, reworked from an old ‘Nam riddle:

Giuliani: How many 9-11 survivors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
America: Um, I don’t know.
Giuliani: HOW COULD YOU KNOW? YOU WEREN’T MAYOR, MAN!

So this brief chapter is over now and I’m sure we can agree that New Hampshire, the Granite Planet, is a strange place indeed. Something I learned along the way is that the stae was once home to the famous rock formation The Old Man In The Mountain, until the thing eroded and crumbled back in 2003. John McCain seems to have fared a little better than that. New Hampshire is also famous for inspiring most of Robert Frost’s greatest works, including his poem Nothing Gold Can Stay. On the heels of a disappointing defeat for Obama, that might be a fitting headline for some campus newspapers this morning. And it would have been, were it not for Obama’s staggeringly inspirational “concession” speech last night.

In impossibly calm but forceful tones, Obama brought his faithful back to church after a difficult blow. And he introduced a new rallying cry by leading a chorus of “yes, we can”. The slogan sounded oddly familiar to me and I quickly realized that it is the same chant I heard while in the midst of one million immigrants in the streets of Los Angeles. When I heard it then, though, it sounded like this: “Si, se puede!” That was May 1, 2006, when a marginalized group of Americans announced their presence and the phrase “A New America” began to mean something. Obama knows who he’s appealing to: the future.

That’s why the youth vote might actually mean something this time. Same, too, for the Latino vote. As the rest of America starts to look more like my home, California (that is: browner and younger, with the obvious exceptions of, um, Iowa and New Hampshire) the future—mine, Obama’s, America’s—comes into much clearer focus.

But I’m getting a bit lofty. New Hampshire was a reminder that Youth alone can’t take it. Blind optimism can’t take it. Neither can the Evangelicals or the Unions or Big Oil or Feminists or anybody else. There are no color coded states this time, there is no partisan gang banging. And that is an incredible relief.

A brief closing note: New Hampshire, oddly enough, is also where J.D. Salinger went to disappear. It’s fitting, considering that he is the prophet of the Catcher in the Rye, that bible of younth angst, alienation and disillusionment. But that’s the bible of some previous generations. The Great Generation, The Lost Generation, the Me Generation: they’re either gone or on the way out. We can leave all the all the angst and disillusionment behind in New Hampshire with J.D. It’s time for something new.