Politics is strange, yo

I don’t get why Obama gets so much flak from the right wing.

Like, they’re very obviously racist. Sure, the liberals spoke out against Bush as far as I know, but there was nothing like the level of hatred against him personally. I almost want to say, sure guys, criticize him all you want. That’s a sign of a healthy society and something to be proud of. But seriously, don’t kid yourselves, and don’t try to fool the rest of us when you photoshop Obama’s head onto a monkey’s body, or talk shit about Michelle Obama’s fashion.

Y’all are being racist. Sorry.

Look up the Obama tag on Pinterest sometime and you’ll see what I mean. Some of them are the usual whining about how Obama getting re-elected was a mistake, but good grief – death threats, man. Shit that blames him for everything wrong in the world, whether he started it or not. There’s a current of real hatred, there, more than I ever saw with liberals who plain didn’t like Bush, though admittedly I don’t pay all that much attention to politics.

Seriously, Obama seems pretty chilled for a president. Not perfect, but he seems to be doing his best while surrounded by unrepentant assholes, so I’ll give him some leeway on that. And he seems to give a shit about the little people, which is more than Bush ever did.

Just my two cents.


A place called home

Where I live is a mystery, dear friends. But I can’t help wanting to tell you about it, because it’s a place that has shaped my heart and earned much of my deepest affection.

It’s big. There are thousands and thousands of people here. It buzzes with life, and joy, and empathy; it lights up my nights and rises above my days. I have not been here long – I was born and bred far away – but it has made me welcome, and become my sanctuary.

It was here that I began to write for other people. Here I knew despair, and I was comforted. Here I found comrades in arms and simple acquaintances. And here, before all other places, I have staked my claim and called it HOME.

Surprising that I feel the roots of a place that was only a name to me, not so long ago. Be it ever so humble… but it’s not. It’s the White City, the land of dreams made real, the quiet and hidden forge of idea and imagination.

Not the actual White City, for those of you familiar with Erin McKeown’s song. But my White City is like it. It’s a real place, don’t worry.

I wish I could walk along its streets with you.