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that Republican convention
Friday, September 3 2004
The trench project continued in spurts throughout the day, with me getting down to within six inches of basement floor level. Gretchen and I were about to head out on a Labor Day trip to Ithaca, but I cannot leave the trench in a state where it cannot drain (in case it rains). So every increase in depth in the uphill end of the trench had to be matched with increases in depth along its entire length. This reality provided structure for my progress and tended to extend the length of my spurts of effort beyond the impulse that gets me in the trench to begin with. I would always emerge drenched with muddy sweat and covered with unnoticed mosquito bites.
For lunch I rendezvoused with Gretchen and our Brooklyn friends Ray, Nancy, and Bill at Gabriel's, the vegetarian café in Uptown Kingston. I hadn't eaten at Gabrielle's in two years (it had been one of the first places we ate when scouting out a house to buy). Unfortunately, I made the mistake of getting a burrito, exactly what I'd ordered two years ago. Two years hasn't improved the recipe; Gabrielle's burritos are still flavorless and the beans remain suspiciously al dente. Gretchen, who now loves this place, insists that everything else on the menu is muy delicioso. Next time I'll have to try something else.
Like most people who are terrified of the present American political paradigm, I found myself in a funk this evening after learning of Bush's improved poll numbers in the aftermath of not just any Republican convention, but the one that just happened in New York City. Remember how it began with a half million people marching against it? Remember the vapid speech given by the Bush twins, and how they stiffed their waitstaff in the drunken orgy that followed? Remember how key noter Zell Miller's skin split and a fire-breathing arthropod emerged? Remember how Bush didn't even bother to mention the situation in Florida because his speech had been prepared too long ago? That Republican convention. But as presented by an uncritical media hoping for further consolidation, it was just the prescription Karl Rove had ordered for the dopey soccer moms who comprise the great American swing vote.
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