It’s political season. The celebration of why we are and who we are. The problem is America’s so divided, we just don’t know what we are.
Christians have problems with Jews. Muslims look down on Adventists. The south sneers at the north. Leftists can’t stand rightists. Crackers in the boonies resent city folk. It’s the west versus the east. Mercedes owners hate bike riders. We fight over gun control, abortion, education, schools, taxes, health benefits, unemployment, gays, straights, race, outsourcing, inbreeding, those heroes we’re looking to vote in, those bums we’re trying to vote out, and there’s always the Yankees versus (excuse me, Lord) the Red Sox.
It’s citizens against immigrants, NBC’s “Today” show as opposed to ABC’s “GMA,” who’s going to be mayor, who’s going to be president, who’ll get the Oscar, who even cares who’ll get the Oscar, whatever Sean Penn’s railing against this week. There’s always the issue of who’s temporarily doing it to Kim Karsdashian. Plus small sodas or big sodas. Salt and sugar. Elder abuse. Animal abuse. Fat arse abuse. Corruption. Violence. Wall Street. Forget London Bridge, it’s our bridges falling down.
And a hell-on-earth most egregious issue confronting decent citizens today — the price of cashmere sweaters in the Hamptons.
We’re marching against corruption, violence, traffic, gas prices, Syria, legalizing/not legalizing marijuana, homeless shelters in residential areas, (I’d personally like to throw in the cost of movie tickets, but I don’t want to start a problem) — and everybody . . . everybody . . . even aliens from undiscovered galaxies . . . unite in only one thing: ceaseless boundless unrelenting hate for the Second Avenue non-subway.
But unless we play a boombox loud in the streets, smoke an illegal illicit unlawful cigarette in New York City, or park a car without feeding the meter, even those who can’t hit the top note in our national anthem, which as far as I’m concerned should’ve been written by Billy Joel, not Francis Scott offKey, we are — although O.J. Simpson might disagree — the land of the free.
We are America. The fruited plain. From sea to shining sea. Greatest country on Earth. We got Madoff in the can, and may his tripe decrease. We stopped philanderer Gingrich, and may his appurtenance be bronzed. We got classic Coca-Cola back, and may they admit their stupidity. And we have Illinois’ nice-looking retired cop Drew Peterson, who can’t understand what happened to a couple of dead wives including one who somehow did herself in while in a tub showing bruises while a witness said he was offered $25,000 to knock her off.
How about sidelining our differences to unite in being mad at the weather. If it’s not just enough to smack Al Roker, we should at least smack Mother Nature. The world itself is confused. Hail in summer, warmth in winter. Drought, fires, earthquakes lightning, hurricane, tsunamis, floods. Maybe just on general principle we should smack Roker anyway.
And now as we pack up open-toed sneakers, armless T-shirts, polyester slacks, bags of lunchtime Twizzlers and bus into Florida in sweaty summertime in hurricane season for our first presidential convention and prepare for another hip-hip-hooray before a floor fight on Social Security, I share e-mails from my famous colleagues. Rush Limbaugh: “Not attending the convention this year. I’m too famous.” Greta Van Susteren: “I’ve done these things since Thomas Jefferson. The only difference each time is the security line . . . it gets longer.”
Me, I’m a patriotic red, white and blue flag-waving American. While Obama hits Manhattan’s richest homes to dine off New York sirloin on Tiffany china, I look forward to inhaling a week of peanuts, popcorn, mayonnaise-y tuna fish salad, which seeps through the paper plates and is washed down by warm drinks in plastic cups. Mingling with the unwashed? I mean, frack that!
Tampa. Not that it doesn’t have everything. I’ve been there. I know locals boast about their great used car lot. I also understand its slight shortage of five-star hotels. The nearest good one’s in Orlando. For the brilliance of having booked this venue for this convention, its planners have been billeted outside Waco. They’re being trucked in.
Think not what your country can do for you, think what you can do for a place to stay. Forget Waldorf, Carlyle, St. Regis. One hostelry housing many resembles an annex for escapees from Guantanamo. Candy on the pillow? No. Corn plasters, yes.
Me, I’m a city person. I even like pollution. At least you can’t see the insects. But I do not mean to be mean to Tampa. I mean, if you like health and trees and fresh air and sun and yawning, it’s great. I called one person I know who lives in Tampa. A local operator cut in on the line and said, “I don’t think she’s home. Her car is gone.”
But I’m off to the convention to elect the next president of the United States. Since every single American has three opinions, it’s argued that neither candidate is too swift. But being an optimist I say, “The good news is, only one of them can win.”