Bring Back the White Guys

Recently, my uncle Godfrey bought me a copy of Shelby Steele’s short book on Obama, which has included in the subtitle: “why he can’t win.” Steele’s argument is layered, but as a black man and ardent critic of affirmative action, he’s afraid Obama could be elected because he’s black and that would be a problem for a number of reasons. Steele calls Obama’s campaign a “morality play,” wherein Americans are acting out the guilt, innocence, victimization and redemption of our history.

I think in most ways, Steele is off-base and then I consider the man who gave me this book. My uncle was born and raised in Harlem. He worked his way to Howard University and through medical school and in the 1970s became the first black doctor at his hospital of residence in Manhattan, encountering a lot of resistance along the way. In this way, among others, he has a broader lens on the racial history of America. He is a fervent Obama supporter and blames Clinton for the negative shift in the campaign, going so far as to say that if she wins the nomination, he’ll become a Republican and vote for John McCain.

For most young Americans, this will not translate quite the same. I’ve said it before, but if Clinton and the machine get the nomination, the kids will stay home. And the tactic at this point seems to be: say he’s black, say he’s Muslim and highlight his other-ness, which seems to be resonating with poor white people in America.

It’s such a dirty trick that I can only stammer and ask, “Hillary, how do you justify having racists as your base?” Geraldine Ferraro, a Clinton supporter and former democratic vice presidential nominee, said Obama only made it this far because he was black. (I know, Geraldine, black guys get all the breaks in America.) There’s a twisted echo of Shelby Steele in there, although she’s saying something quite different. She’s rallying the women, who are the yin to the racists’ yang of Clinton’s success strategy. It’s kind of sickening.

Representative Steve King of Iowa had some, amazingly, more absurd comments on a potential Obama presidency, implying that Al Qaeda would be dancing in the streets if he were elected. This comes in the wake of middle-name-gate, the “leak” of Obama’s photo in traditional muslim attire and, of course, Clinton’s now infamous “are your children safe at 3AM from some black guy” television ads.

I didn’t want to have to think of it in any of these terms. In the beginning, it seemed like Obama didn’t want to get into the identity politics of it and people were going to respect that. He was, after all, stepping onto the pulpit in some wild times, in the shadow of stories like Michael Richard’s onstage ni--er tirade, the plight of the Jena 6 and Don Imus’ nappy headed hoes comment.

But his decision to stand apart from the more victimization-oriented black leaders that grew out of the civil rights era meant yes, Shelby Steele was right and Obama, in a way, was agreeing to a bargain: “If you don’t remind white people of what they did to you before, they won’t remind you that you’re black.” This has worked for the young, educated and wealthy white people of his base. Not so much with the old, uneducated and poor people of Clinton’s camp.

But oh well. The naivete and optimism of youth has its limits. Where young people saw an opportunity to transcend dark points of America’s history and write a new chapter independent of race and identity, others saw a chance to tear down something meaningful and potentially great. In an ultra obscure parallel, it reminds me of the French children’s film The Red Balloon.

The movie is the short story of a young boy who finds a red balloon on the streets of Paris that has magical powers. It can follow the boy even when he’s not holding the string. When the bus driver says the balloon cannot come on board, the balloon races behind to keep up with the boy. The headmaster says the balloon cannot come into school with him, so it waits outside until school is done. The balloon offers wonder and adventure for the boy until, inevitably, the balloon attracts the attention of a group of bullies, who begin hurling rocks at it.

I wont give away the ending, just say that this is a good illustration of where we find ourselves right now. I don’t to pretend that Barack Obama is the messiah or even the right person for the job, necessarily. But he is resonating with my generation in a way that nobody ever has before. If we reduce this thing to identity politics and force Obama to fight back, we’ll be yearning for the days when we could ignore whatever anonymous, white males were up for the spot until November and then shrug as we checked a box for “whoever”.

It makes me wish we could bring back the white guys and have them run this race, old school style. Somebody call John Edwards. Get him back out here. I thought we were ready for this, but I was wrong. We’re still just ankle biting racist woman haters and we deserve old, crusty white men for the next 200 years.

What If The Millenials Lose? : A Dispatch From the Rhode Island Primary

PROVIDENCE, R.I. -- I got a text message from a friend the morning after Tuesday’s primaries. The newly politicized young, Latino Obama supporter asked me, “Should I be concerned?"

To be honest, I didn’t know what to say to him. I have been swept up in the romance of the Obama campaign since Iowa, not because I specifically support him, but because I’ve never in my life seen my generation take an active and enthusiastic role in the political process, discard cynicism and embrace a person and an idea like this. As a result, I suppose that romance tainted my perception of the Hillary campaign, equating in my mind with stagnation and old, tired and dirty politics. Maybe that’s fair, maybe it’s not.

I would go so far as to say that if Hillary pulls off the upset and gets the nomination, it's going to alienate the generation that finally cared.

I can say with certainty that it would alienate me and I’m scared because I can see the clouds of Hillary’s perfect storm in the sky starting to form. The dirty trick of trying to include Florida and Michigan’s delegates, where Obama’s name wasn’t even on the ballot, is one aspect. The absurd attack ads as part of her kitchen sink strategy, is another. And looking forward past the next six weeks or so, when she’ll phone in enough favors to take Pennsylvania, it looks like she could do it.

If these legions of young believers are slain by the machine, I wouldn’t blame any of them for turning away from politics altogether. It’s almost as if Hillary’s nomination would confirm the validity of apathy.

I spent the day of the primaries in Rhode Island, a politically curious but largely ignored state. I covered a lot of ground in one day, from college campuses to a proverbial “smoke-filled room” and on to the after parties. At every step, I saw examples of enthusiastic young people who believed for the first time that they were having a political impact. By the end of the night, I saw confused faces and heard the voices of people who felt betrayed.

Monday evening, I walked into Providence from the train station and headed directly across the street to Uno’s. I struck up a conversation with my pregnant bartender Jesse and tried to explain what I was doing there. I told her, “It’s such a critical day and nobody seems to be paying any attention to Rhode Island.” She just smiled and said, “Nobody ever pays attention to Rhode Island.”

And it’s true. This state is the birthplace of the industrial revolution in the United States; it was the first colony to denounce allegiance to Great Britain; and it’s where much of Jim Carrey’s epic buffoonery in “Dumb and Dumber” took place. And yet, it escaped national attention on a day when the Democratic nomination could have been decided.

After some time at Uno’s, my host Joe came in and met me, walking in to familiar welcomes. He tried to explain the less-than complex political process here. “Rhode Island is a fiercely Democratic state. People go in the booth and they just pull the Democrat lever.” (Though he pronounces it “leh-vah”).

That’s fine, except in this case, those fiercely Democratic voters are choosing between two Democrats.

Joe works in construction in Providence, so he gave me a tour of a block in his neighborhood where he’s fixed, built and sold several homes. It’s jokingly referred to as the futuristic district. (The fyoo-cha is now!) The surrounding neighborhood is mixed-income, largely working-class and it sits in the shadow of the state building, a marvelous white marble domed structure topped with a bronze statue of “Independent Man,” a representation of the state’s historically independent nature. If Rhode Island had a super hero, it would be him. And rightly so. As “fiercely Democratic” as they may be, the majority of voters here are registered independents.

Somehow Joe manages to get me out of bed before 8:30 the morning of election day. We head to the Capital Hill Diner for egg sandwiches and coffee. There I meet Will, a young electrical contractor who has already voted. Will, who is black, explains to me, “Too many of my ancestors died so I could vote. I have to.”

Leaving the diner, I pass Carol Tower, the polling place for the neighborhood. One older woman walks out smiling, wearing a t-shirt that reads, “Obama is my homeboy.”

The rain starts coming down pretty heavily and I head back to the futuristic district to visit with Chris, a young carpenter who lives in one of the houses there. I walk with him over to the Carol Towers to cast his vote. He tells me his mom has been calling him all day, reminding him to vote and specifically, to vote for Obama. He says, “Our parents are realizing they messed everything up and now they’re desperate, telling us it’s our job to fix it.” Chris makes it to the Tower a couple of minutes before the polls close and walks in smiling.

Across the street, I meet up with Lisa, a local organizer who has agreed to give me a tour of some of Providence’s back rooms. She drives out to the waterfront, where we go to the Fabre Line club to have a drink while we watch some of the results trickle in on TV. The club got its name from the boat that carried immigrants around the turn of the century from Ellis Island over to Providence for processing. Now the club is a shining example of America’s promise: the descendants of those immigrants gather here to make deals and rub elbows.

In a back room, some of these guys — older, heavy set — are sitting around a board table in leather swivel chairs, watching MSNBC. One of them is literally chomping on a cigar nub. Rhode Island is the first state to be called for Hillary, and everyone just seems stunned. Even most of these old, white Democrats have bought into the Obama movement.

From there, we head over to a bar called McKellans, where Hillary’s supporters have gathered to celebrate. It’s pretty tame, however enthusiastic the crowd, and it’s a good place to meet women, as out of the 100 or so people there, a striking majority is female. Most of the men are older guys in sharp suits. I see a girl with platinum blonde hair, wearing red pumps and a miniskirt made out of a Hillary campaign poster. She’s getting a lot of attention and people are calling out to her, addressing her as Hillary. I ask if that’s her real name and she tells me, “No, but I seem to be responding to it.” Clinton is way ahead in Ohio at this point and we decide to head over to the Obama party before it becomes bummertime.

The Obama gathering, not surprisingly, is a lot younger and decidedly more festive. As I walk in, there is a goofy drum and brass band performing, kind of a hip marching band that doesn’t march. The mood is still upbeat, despite Rhode Island being called for Clinton. Then, halfway through one of the band's more exuberant songs, the giant television behind them shows the news that Hillary has taken Ohio. Unaware, the band plays on, but the crowd wilts. They’re still trying to be upbeat, have a good time, but they’re visibly stunned. A young woman next to me shakes her head with a half laugh and asks, “How is this even possible?”

Moments later, the band stops and the volume is turned up on the television, which is playing Hillary’s acceptance speech. People start to trickle out; somebody boos. The party is over. Nobody wants to talk. I go home and refresh my computer until it tells me Texas has been called for Hillary as well.

A man named Chris Redfern, who is the Democratic Party Chairman in Ohio and has remained neutral, had a quote in the paper the other day, highlighting the difference between Clinton and Obama supporters. He said, “The Obama army is larger, more enthusiastic, more confident and they are young and naïve enough to think they can win.”

I don’t know what it means when a party insider says the enthusiastic supporters of the leading candidate must be naïve to believe in their man. It’s disheartening and a little scary. It’s sad to think that the race that made little Rhody voters turn out in record numbers might in some way be fixed. It’s enough to say that cynicism might be on its way back into fashion.

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.