But how can any of that really matter? The National Conventions are on us like stink on sh** again, and money high on a hill on a lazy summer afternoon in upstate New York or near the Connecticut River is GONE, with so many memories and the sound of a steel trap clanging closed across time. We're just worm food when we die.
from Flickr Commons
If Andy Roddick can be our sentimental favorite, a loveable American who really cares (and presumably James Blake's white bro), TV in this country has replaced our real, sleeping dreams with its latest and least unelaborated fantasies. First we see Andy crying, then the camera pans to his central Texas babe, also dabbing her eyes and giving it up for sweet old Andy.
from Flickr Commons
So be it.
Now where was I?
Oh yeah: I was trying NOT to register the most invidious parallels between politics and sports now and sixty (60) years ago. Because as we all know, politics is already reverted into 19th century America, while sports on television has so much loose money to spend they still have another couple of years -- if any us have - to get the kinks out.
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