Mr. wOw, first off, must apologize for being away for so long. I have been feeling poorly, and even went for chest x-rays. I am certain I’m fine — especially as my doctor’s note said “Priority: Normal.” This, after I’d convinced myself I was dying — thank you the Internet! And as I haven’t heard back since I spent hours waiting to be x-rayed last week, I assume all is well. (I still have a throat exam but I am putting that off until I know for certain my chest is clear.)
But — having more or less assured myself I was not about to expire — I waited for Madonna to appear last Sunday. So much went through my head. Serious stuff. Kinda. Oh, see, you thought I was going to babble about Madonna, right? Sillies. I love Madonna. I admired the spectacle of her show. She will never sing “Aida.” We can move on.
Paula Deen was much on my mind. I’ve never much cared for her, and rarely sat through one of her episodes on The Food Network — is it possible that anybody really says “y’all” every six seconds? But I had no real gripe. Then she became a figure of controversy when she revealed that she had Type 2 diabetes. But she revealed this only when she’d made a deal to promote a new diabetes medication, for a pretty penny. The haters came down on her. Hell, her own sons were distressed (though the boys, who have jobs thanks to her, were probably thinking as much about their own hides as dear Paula’s.) Everybody got on board, criticizing her for deception, greed and terrible cooking habits — butter, butter, butter.
I understood every negative comment, but somehow couldn’t feel it to join in. Her health is her own business, how she makes money is her own business, and as much as I ever watched Ms. Dean, I don’t ever recall her saying, “Eat like this everyday!” She never said her cooking was healthy, only that is was tasty. Please — have you ever seen “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” with Guy Fieri? He is physically repulsive, overweight and eats like a farm animal. He pushes every unhealthy morsel down his throat. At least Paula doesn’t wander into restaurant kitchens wearing flip-flops. If she’s cynical and a bit duplicitous — she’s in show biz. Let’s not gasp in too surprised a manner.
I also thought about Mitt Romney. Which takes some doing, given the emptiness of the man. But I was actually feeling sorry for him. He’d just uttered his now infamous “I don’t care about the very poor” remark and was being slammed. I have to defend Mitt on this one. His entire remark was that he didn’t care about the very poor because they had safety nets, and if those were not enough, they’d be corrected. And he wasn’t concerned about the very rich because “they are doing just fine.” He was attempting to grab middle-class interest. Aside from the fact that he is Mitt Romney and has no idea about anything, what exactly was wrong with what he said? Maybe it could have been phrased more artfully, but, again — it’s the Mitt Romney, stupid. I don’t hear many (any?) other politicians, including Barack Obama, refer to the plight of the very poor in this country. The very poor tend not to vote. The middle-class does. Get it?
Mr. Romney is not heartless. He is clueless. An empty, expensive suit. I don’t know why he wants to be president, but on the “very poor” debacle, he got more negativity than he deserved.
I also mulled on Callista Gingrich. No, no — not the formidable blonde helmet. That would require an entire column.
I thought on this. Let’s say Newt Gingrich becomes president of the United States. Callista will be our First Lady. Think about it. The first First Lady (of modern times, anyway — American history buffs will correct me) who is an open adulteress. She dallied with Newt knowing full well he was a married man. Let me be clear. I have nothing against adulteresses. My goodness, Miss Elizabeth Taylor should be next to the dictionary definition. And you all know I love Miz Liz! But it does make for fascinating ruminations. Newt has said he has changed, and he has repented. But what about Callista? What would her role be as First Lady and how would she accomplish it? Would she take on the challenge of teen pregnancy? Or celibacy until marriage? Or how about how holy heterosexual marriage is? Or would she simply see to it that all American highways have pretty flowers on the side, or worry herself ragged over our unhealthy eating habits? What would be, what is, her moral compass? I don’t want to see Mr. Gingrich as president, but the idea of Callista as First Lady is oddly, crazily, alluring.
P.S. to all matters Gingrich. The only sensible person I have heard on the subject of Newt is MSNBC’s Jonathan Alter. He alone has said, “Stop saying things are ‘impossible’ and ‘unbelievable’” concerning the possibility of Newt becoming the Republican candidate. (Or even president.) It is possible. It is believable. This is life and politics. Anything can happen. Grow up, and brace yourselves.
Of course, all this brings us to Richard Santorum and his horrifying world full of barefoot and eternally pregnant women. No contraception! I am always reminded of Florynce Kennedy’s famous remark that if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament.
Prior to Super Bowl Sunday, Mr. Santorum’s mania for the endless fecundity of powerless women was sort of a joke. Now that he has had a stunning triple-win — Missouri, Minnesota, Colorado — it is less amusing. What world does he imagine in one already so over-populated? Hmmmm … a world of white people? Too bad, Rick, it will be a café au lait planet in a generation or two, and neither you nor the reality TV creatures the Duggars can change that. (Oh, and by the way: some of those white babies will be born gay.)
Finally, I want to recommend a book to anybody who is totally to the Far Right. It is titled Flashback written by Dan Simmons. It’s a sci-fi thriller thingy, set about 25 years in the future. The future is bleak and destroyed. Why? Liberals and Barack Obama, Mexicans and the global warming myth, the Japanese and African Americans. It. Is. Staggering. The basic plot, which concerns a drug that lulls helpless Americans back to their happiest times, is rather intriguing. But the ideology is relentless. I wanted to put the book down at least three times, the polemic was so overwhelming. Still, I stuck to the end, because that’s how I am. I don’t walk out of movies or plays or not finish books. I see my commitment to the last. And kvell or cry after.
So, if you hate Mr. Obama, Flashback is your kind of novel.
Dear readers, I’m off now to call my doc and find out for sure that I am healthy and must stay connected to this old world. Honestly, I have to stay connected. There’s always the possibility of Callista the First Lady. You think I’d leave with that on my plate?!
I’d come back from the grave.