Clinton, before Obama clinched the democratic nomination, kept on claiming that she had won the popular vote in a last ditch attempt to attract super delegates. The fact of the matter is, however, that her number are extremely flawed. If you don't factor in the caucuses and factor in Michigan, yes, she won. But Obama wasn't even on the ballot in Michigan and if you add up the "uncommited" votes in that state and estimate for the caucuses, Obama ends up ahead.
http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/stumper/archive/2008/06/02/clinton-s-popular-vote-claim-close-but-no-cigar.aspx
http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/06/01/puerto.rico/
http://www.politicususa.com/en/Clinton-pop-vote-math
Friday, June 6, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
March. The kind of month you want to sucker punch in the balls. The snow begins to melt…not enough for it to really be spring, but enough to form black ice and reveal the dog poop that had been fossilized since November. Too late to sled, but too early to do anything else that might be fun.
Janice walked, buried under several sweaters, hats, and scarves. She had recently realized the futility of scarves; they were loosely knitted and protected an already collared neck. She now wore them, as everyone else who’d come to the same conclusion had done, because she thought they were stylish.
And now it began to freezingly rain, or perhaps rain freezingly; Janice never quite understood how to properly turn the noun into a verb. She had the same problem with putting sleep walking into the past tense. Slept-walked? Either way, the freezing rain that was either freezingly raining or raining freezingly kept on smacking into her face, seemly navigating between both the multitude of scarves and her burgundy bifocals.
Janice was on a downtown avenue, lined with tall grand buildings and tattered American flags, which, had they been endowed with memory, would not have been able to recall the last time they were taken down, no matter what the weather. But no matter how grand the buildings were, the sidewalks were piteously empty. Janice could see all the way to the library at the end of the street, where East Main died suddenly at a three-way intersection.
But suddenly the imposing structure was swallowed up, it's granite lions and gargoyles obscured by roiling hail and freezingly raining freezing rain, all being pushed around by great gusts of wind. Waves of precitipiation, both freezing rain and otherwise, crashed over Janice, and she hunched further into her useless scarves, suddenly wondering why the fashion world was so impractical.
Janice had heard about grapefruit-sized hail a few months back, as she and Fluffers sat on her couch in pajamas watching T.V. Oh, how Janice longed for the weekend and her welcoming apartment, the pillows and the pink and white pajamas. And as she squinted out into the steadily worsening weather, she began to notice the widening diameters of the hail. Janice headed towards the nearest building.
So a question for my one or two readers: what happens next?
Janice walked, buried under several sweaters, hats, and scarves. She had recently realized the futility of scarves; they were loosely knitted and protected an already collared neck. She now wore them, as everyone else who’d come to the same conclusion had done, because she thought they were stylish.
And now it began to freezingly rain, or perhaps rain freezingly; Janice never quite understood how to properly turn the noun into a verb. She had the same problem with putting sleep walking into the past tense. Slept-walked? Either way, the freezing rain that was either freezingly raining or raining freezingly kept on smacking into her face, seemly navigating between both the multitude of scarves and her burgundy bifocals.
Janice was on a downtown avenue, lined with tall grand buildings and tattered American flags, which, had they been endowed with memory, would not have been able to recall the last time they were taken down, no matter what the weather. But no matter how grand the buildings were, the sidewalks were piteously empty. Janice could see all the way to the library at the end of the street, where East Main died suddenly at a three-way intersection.
But suddenly the imposing structure was swallowed up, it's granite lions and gargoyles obscured by roiling hail and freezingly raining freezing rain, all being pushed around by great gusts of wind. Waves of precitipiation, both freezing rain and otherwise, crashed over Janice, and she hunched further into her useless scarves, suddenly wondering why the fashion world was so impractical.
Janice had heard about grapefruit-sized hail a few months back, as she and Fluffers sat on her couch in pajamas watching T.V. Oh, how Janice longed for the weekend and her welcoming apartment, the pillows and the pink and white pajamas. And as she squinted out into the steadily worsening weather, she began to notice the widening diameters of the hail. Janice headed towards the nearest building.
So a question for my one or two readers: what happens next?
Little Bobby
Little Bobby strutted. It’s the only way to describe it. I’m sure he didn’t mean to strut—in fact, if you spelled out the word and put it out in front of him, he probably wouldn’t know its’ meaning. But, undeniably, he was strutting.
It may have been totally accidental; Bobby had yet to realize that picking his nose in public was considered impolite in most cultures, so it wasn’t a stretch to believe the strut wasn’t even a conscious movement. But it was definitely there: his shoulder see-sawed up and down, his Spiderman book bag was slung jauntily over one shoulder, leaving the other red and blue strap bouncing off his lower back, and his step, too, was a little to long for his height, putting him ever so slightly off balance.
Little Bobby was strutting for several reasons. In school today, Little Gloria had fluttered her eye lashes at him. There had been a food-fight in the cafegymatorium, and he had gotten an A on his spelling test. Things were looking up.
And then, as he strutted down the quiet suburban avenue, he saw it. It wasn’t particularly large or conspicuous, but somehow, as it sat in the shade of the Jones’ big oak, it caught Bobby’s eye.
He stopped in mid-strut. He wanted to move closer, but something in the back of his mind told him that Mommy wouldn’t approve. But Bobby shook it off. He looked back down the street, past the manicured lawns, but no one was in sight. He looked in the other direction. No one appeared.
So Bobby approached it, slowly at first, circling it in ever tightening loops, until the brand-new Levis his mom had bought him the week before were brushing its’ red paint. It was such a strange object.
His first thought was that it was a jack-in-the-box, but instead of a puppet emerging from the top, there was a T-shaped metal handle. But he threw that theory aside. Little Bobby considered himself to be an expert when it came to jack-in-the-boxes, and he had never seen anything like this before.
It was a simple, red box, with the T-handle and two wires leading away from its’ base into thick, overgrown grass. Something was stamped onto the side—Nitro-something or other. Bobby tried to read it, but after a moment of squinting and sounding things out, he gave it up as a bad job.
And then Bobby remembered something. A similar object playing across his T.V screen…Wile E. Coyote standing over it, pushing down on the handle with a maniacal grin. What had happened next? Bobby racked his brains, but all he could remember was the cartoon character’s crazed, bloodshot eyes.
So Bobby, being of the curious nature, did what any 6-year old would do—he pushed down on the handle.
There was a pause. Somewhere, a chickadee was warbling. Little Bobby stepped back to admire his work.
And then, as suddenly as the first spoonful of Brussels sprouts had flown earlier that morning, an explosion rent the air. Bobby was thrown backwards by the sheer force of it, slamming into the trunk of the big oak, his fragile spine saved only by the backpack. There was fire everywhere, broken glass whizzing past him, screams, and in the distance, the frantic wail of a siren. Smoke billowed around him. Car alarms joined the cacophony of confusion as heat blistered the youngster. Were the leaves around him naturally red, or had flame consumed them? The expensive houses and even more expensive lawns were ablaze. The streets of Fairport were buried in rubble. In his final moment of irony, Bobby realized the whole fiasco had proved the old adage:
It takes a child to raze a village.
It may have been totally accidental; Bobby had yet to realize that picking his nose in public was considered impolite in most cultures, so it wasn’t a stretch to believe the strut wasn’t even a conscious movement. But it was definitely there: his shoulder see-sawed up and down, his Spiderman book bag was slung jauntily over one shoulder, leaving the other red and blue strap bouncing off his lower back, and his step, too, was a little to long for his height, putting him ever so slightly off balance.
Little Bobby was strutting for several reasons. In school today, Little Gloria had fluttered her eye lashes at him. There had been a food-fight in the cafegymatorium, and he had gotten an A on his spelling test. Things were looking up.
And then, as he strutted down the quiet suburban avenue, he saw it. It wasn’t particularly large or conspicuous, but somehow, as it sat in the shade of the Jones’ big oak, it caught Bobby’s eye.
He stopped in mid-strut. He wanted to move closer, but something in the back of his mind told him that Mommy wouldn’t approve. But Bobby shook it off. He looked back down the street, past the manicured lawns, but no one was in sight. He looked in the other direction. No one appeared.
So Bobby approached it, slowly at first, circling it in ever tightening loops, until the brand-new Levis his mom had bought him the week before were brushing its’ red paint. It was such a strange object.
His first thought was that it was a jack-in-the-box, but instead of a puppet emerging from the top, there was a T-shaped metal handle. But he threw that theory aside. Little Bobby considered himself to be an expert when it came to jack-in-the-boxes, and he had never seen anything like this before.
It was a simple, red box, with the T-handle and two wires leading away from its’ base into thick, overgrown grass. Something was stamped onto the side—Nitro-something or other. Bobby tried to read it, but after a moment of squinting and sounding things out, he gave it up as a bad job.
And then Bobby remembered something. A similar object playing across his T.V screen…Wile E. Coyote standing over it, pushing down on the handle with a maniacal grin. What had happened next? Bobby racked his brains, but all he could remember was the cartoon character’s crazed, bloodshot eyes.
So Bobby, being of the curious nature, did what any 6-year old would do—he pushed down on the handle.
There was a pause. Somewhere, a chickadee was warbling. Little Bobby stepped back to admire his work.
And then, as suddenly as the first spoonful of Brussels sprouts had flown earlier that morning, an explosion rent the air. Bobby was thrown backwards by the sheer force of it, slamming into the trunk of the big oak, his fragile spine saved only by the backpack. There was fire everywhere, broken glass whizzing past him, screams, and in the distance, the frantic wail of a siren. Smoke billowed around him. Car alarms joined the cacophony of confusion as heat blistered the youngster. Were the leaves around him naturally red, or had flame consumed them? The expensive houses and even more expensive lawns were ablaze. The streets of Fairport were buried in rubble. In his final moment of irony, Bobby realized the whole fiasco had proved the old adage:
It takes a child to raze a village.
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