Obama's Hardworking Campaign

alas, some perspective on Kool-Aid and "The Audacity of Hopelessness."

NYT: Clinton fans don’t see their standard-bearer’s troubles this way. In their view, their highly substantive candidate was unfairly undone by a lightweight showboat who got a free ride from an often misogynist press and from naïve young people who lap up messianic language as if it were Jim Jones’s Kool-Aid. Or as Mrs. Clinton frames it, Senator Obama is all about empty words while she is all about action and hard work.

But it’s the Clinton strategists, not the Obama voters, who drank the Kool-Aid. The Obama campaign is not a vaporous cult; it’s a lean and mean political machine that gets the job done. The Clinton camp has been the slacker in this race, more words than action, and its candidate’s message, for all its purported high-mindedness, was and is self-immolating. more

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Take That David Brooks

are you watching the mobbed houston rally tonight? the screaming crowds longing for hope? screaming obama? that's not just obama mania, some fading fancy. many of those people are probably like me, read obama's books, poured over his blueprint for change, hung on every word of his speech, even though i've heard essentially the same one over and over again.
it always sounds good mr. new york times columnist!
fired up. ready to go!
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Poems Obama Published in 1981

The New Yorker published them in the current issue of the magazine.
Obama originally wrote them for the literary magazine, "Feast." I'll only post one and you'll have to go to the new yorker site to read the other. I feel kind of bad lifting it but I wanted to share.

Reaction to his poems.

Also, the new yorker rails against new york times' (which has endorsed clinton) front and center "drug" story about obama, which was really a non-starter and silly. but the photo was pretty cool

Pop, by Barack Obama

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.