My Obama Valentine
Dear tall, dark and exquisite. To say I miss you is the understatement of all statements. You were, after all, the first politician who truly inspired me to get me off my ass.
Note to Chief of Staph Kelly; I’m allowed to say that about myself. But you need to shut it when it comes to pretending to know the motives of undocumented immigrants. And making up “empty barrel” lies about honorable Congresswomen. And singing the praises of your buddy, the habitual domestic abuser.
Okay. Sorry. Back to Barack.
In 2008, you inspired my maiden voyage as a political canvasser and a cash donor. I came back for more four years later.
You were hopeful, youthful, handsome, idealistic, worldly, compassionate, witty and brilliant. You loved and respected your equal-partner, beautiful wife. You adored your lovely young children.
You were our generation’s JFK.
To me, your eight years in office were damn close to perfect. Oh sure, there were mistakes. But I honestly can’t remember even one of them now. You were a one of a kind president. And we knew you’d be a tough act to follow.
But none of us had one freaking, fucking clue.
Who knew 62,985,134 Americans would cast their votes for “Opposite Obama?”
A hateful, senile, repulsive, sullen, incurious, narcissistic, clumsy, blithering man.
A man who cheated on his first wife with a woman who became his second wife. And then, a little over a year after marrying wife number three, he cheated on her (and his four-month-old newborn) with a porn star.
A man who publicly and proudly lusts after one of his grown daughters and yet never mentions his 11-year-old son who lives with him in the White House. Have you ever seen them tossing a ball or sharing a joke. Has anyone witnessed any photo or film of that father showing any affection to his son?
Of course 65,853,652 Americans voted for someone else. But I’m told I need to let that go.
Sorry. I drifted again.
It was wonderful to see you and Michelle during the unveiling at the National Portrait Gallery in the Smithsonian Institution. Both paintings are historic and truly remarkable. Thank you for once again treating us to your signature self-deprecating humor; referencing your grey hair and big ears.
I can’t imagine the other guy acknowledging his mud flap hairdo or diminutive hands, let alone making light of them.
But you are self-confident and kind and good. Attributes that allow you to poke fun at yourself.
Seeing you again made me melancholy. So I reached for the best Christmas gift my best friend could ever buy me, Pete Souza’s sumptuous book, “Obama, An Intimate Portrait.”
It’s full of beautiful, public and private photographs, recalling a time when we could be so very proud of the dignity and humanity of our president.
Photos like the one you tweeted after “what’s his name” embraced both sides of a white supremacy rally in Charlottesville. There you are, interacting with little children of diverse races from a window of their day care center. You quoted Nelson Mandela, “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin or his background or his religion…”
That was the most “liked” tweet in history.
Suck it, Don John.
Also in the book is the fabulous picture, entitled “Hair like Mine,” where you bent down so the tiny son of a staffer could feel your head.
There are so many interesting and comforting photos, chronicling your White House days. Some are familiar to us and others we’ve never seen.
It’s a gorgeous 347-page book, weighing in at five and a half pounds. A perfect Valentine escape for those of us who are fed up with the Antiobama and his desperate mission to undo all the accomplishments of the beloved black hombre before him.