So, I tried to down more of the saccharine biography of St. Edward Kennedy. I collected a few groaners for review purposes even knowing it’s not worth to worry about it. The title is Last Lion after all, resonating as it does with Churchill. It's not the author's fault; it probably takes a hundred years after the death of the subject before biographies have a chance of being fair-minded. So I switched to the New Criterion article on the life and journals of Santayana and another on recent biographies of the fascinating Dr. Johnson and whether the cryptic “m.” in his journals refer to his bowel movements or masturbation. Tis all a bit unsavory, isn’t it? I should’ve stuck to fiction, such as Drood by Dan Simmons which I’ve now read as far as the free Kindle chapter will allow. Also read as far as The Rite: the Making of an Exorcist would allow, so those two are burning a hole in my proverbial reading wallet.
Walking about the pretty June streets today, I see Obama supporters calling for a grassroots energy plan. A paradox: a leader-supported-grassroots plan. The one pitching me gushed about Obama (I thought it sweet she’d thought that would sell me) and, Moonie-like, invoked his campaign saying “Yes we can!”. Certainly such enthusiasm for wind I’ve not seen since the last time I rolled down a window upon smelling a gaseous emission. I asked the tall pretty black girl if her group was for nuclear energy and she frowned and said “no!”, which, fairly or not, is my personal litmus test to tell if someone is serious about alternatives to fossil fuels.
But then I smile and think “utopians we’ll always have with us, and what is youth but idealism?” Illusions increase happiness. Sweetly they stand in the heat for hours, catching the eyes of passerbys and hoping for a fertile harvest of names and email addresses. It’s easy to see that man’s reason is fallen and compass astray given that a million unborn killed in the womb isn’t our greatest priority and that.even our dreamers don't have the imagination to see our youngest selves as worthy of protection. As the baseball philosopher/Reds broadcaster Marty B. says, "it is what it is."