Every four years I promise myself I'm going to make it through an entire Republican Convention.  Four nights, five-six hours each night . . . no big deal, right?  I do it happily for the Democrats.  From gavel to gavel, from invocation to acceptance, I am always interested and often thrilled by the spectacle of my party making sausage.  If for no other reason than civic duty, I feel I should be able to do the same on the Republican side.
     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 orHuffington 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.

This is from the blog, Last Kaul.

     Every four years I promise myself I'm going to make it through an entire Republican Convention.  Four nights, five-six hours each night . . . no big deal, right?  I do it happily for the Democrats.  From gavel to gavel, from invocation to acceptance, I am always interested and often thrilled by the spectacle of my party making sausage.  If for no other reason than civic duty, I feel I should be able to do the same on the Republican side.
     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 orHuffington 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.

This is from the blog, Last Kaul.

I apologize for the multiple posts, guys.  Computer glitch on my end.  

     Rrrrrring!
     "Hello."
     "Governor, Senator McCain is on the line."
     "Awesome.  Put him through."
     "Sandra, it's John McCain.  I hope I didn't wake you."
     "Um, no, I was just putting up some walrus meat.  Where does the day go, right?  Well, you know what they say, there's only twenty-two hours of light in a day.  And it's Sarah, actually."
     "Beg pardon?"
     "My name is Sarah, not Sandra."
     "Oh, right.  My bad.  Look, I'll get right to the point.  I just finished watching Obama in Denver and, I don't mind telling you, I'm a little worried.  For whatever reason, people don't seem to be seeing through his messiah act.  First reactions are coming in on the convention and I expect he'll see a pretty good bounce.  We need to shake things up here."
     "Er, well, I didn't really watch . . . the baby keeps me pretty busy these days."
     "Sure, sure.  Well, trust me, our country is in grave danger.  And I believe that I'm the one to save us.  But I'll need your help.  What would you say to running with me?"
     "Running with you?  Why, sure, that sounds fun.  I'm quite the runner, actually.  I finished Humpy's Marathon back in 2005 in under four hours!  How far do you usually go?"
     "I don't run, my friend.  I don't run.  When most people were taking up jogging, I was locked in a room, without a table, for five and a half years."
     "I'm sorry, Senator.  That was insensitive of me."
     "Don't worry about it, kid.  I like your spunk.  I'm not talking about jogging, I'm talking about running as my vice-presidential candidate.  Would you do that?"
     "Jeez, I'm shocked.  You could knock me over with a penguin feather, Senator.  Do you really think I'm qualified?"
     "Huh?  Qualified?  Listen, Sandy, if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, the vice president has two jobs:  to attend state funerals and to inquire after the health of the president.  Can you do that?"
     "Absolutely.  I've got the cutest fox stole I pull out on formal occasions."
     "I'm afraid you're going to have to leave the furs in Alaska, Governor.  They don't play down here in DC with the liberal media.  Let me ask you, what's your position on the Iraq War?"
     "To tell you the truth, Senator, I don't really have one.  We're pretty independent up here, sir.  We don't pay much attention to the outside world.  To us, you're all pretty much snowbirds."
     "Independent.  I like that.  Anything else I should know?"
     "Well, I should mention, we're having a spot of trouble with Bristol. . . "
     "Pistols?  Don't you worry about the gun issue, Governor.  I used to tussle with the NRA, but I've come around to their side these past few months.  Gun owners have no stronger friend than Senator John McCain and I think your position as a sportswoman can only help the ticket.  You know, pacify the base, shut their yaps for just one goddamn minute.  No, this is feeling right to me.  You know, Sandy, I've always been a shoot-from-the-hip kind of guy.  My gut told me 'Joe,' but my base told me, 'no.'"  OK, then, we move on.  But it's got to be outside the box.  If I play it safe, this race will be The Death of a Thousand Cuts.  Which I know a little about, after spending five and a half years in a real box.  So we'll change the game.  This is the first maverick move I've made since I won the nomination.  I'm back, baby!"
     "Not 'pistols,' Senator, Bristol.  My seventeen year old daughter just told us she's five months pregnant.  Now we have to plan a wedding, and quick.  Good thing I own a shotgun, right, sir?  No telling what that boy of hers would have done."
     "Listen, family is sacred.  I learned that back in '98 when I told that little joke about Chelsea Clinton at a fund-raiser.  Have you heard it?"
     "No, how does it go?"
     "Why is Chelsea Clinton so ugly?"
     "I don't know.  Why?"
     "Because her father is Janet Reno.  Get it?  'Course, it was much funnier back then.  She was a mighty plain eighteen year-old, don't you think?  Anyway, I took eight kinds of hell for that one.  Obambi won't dare use your daughter against us."
     "Uh, OK, Senator, if you say so.  Just one last thing -- I wanted to mention that I'm being investigated . . ."
     "That's fine, Governor, just fine.  It's been good talking to you.  I had a strong feeling about you the other time we talked.  What was it, six months ago?  Now I'm even more sure this is the way to go.  My people will be in touch.  Good night, Sandra."
     "It's Sarah, Senator.  I'll be. . ."
     Click.

This is from the blog, Last Kaul.