Thursday, August 28, 2008

I Write Letters

My misguided boyfriend Charles Krauthammer is at it again.  Coveting.

Charles opens with:
Barack Obama is an immensely talented man whose talents have been largely devoted to crafting, and chronicling, his own life. Not things. Not ideas. Not institutions. But himself.
Charles closes with:
The oddity of this convention is that its central figure is the ultimate self-made man, a dazzling mysterious Gatsby. The palpable apprehension is that the anointed is a stranger -- a deeply engaging, elegant, brilliant stranger with whom the Democrats had a torrid affair. Having slowly woken up, they see the ring and wonder who exactly they married last night.
Are he and Maureen having an imagery throw-down?

I, of course, could not turn away from my responsibility of pulling him back from the brink.  That's what a good girlfriend does when she sees her spinning guy sinking further in the quicksand.  I write in the WaPo comments section.
Oh, good lord, Mr. Krauthammer. I hate addressing this to you personally, but I can no longer watch this. It's like a train wreck. Please. Let this craven envy go. It'll lead you to no good end. Column after column of yours that I have read, you have methodically ignored Obama's clear expression of his policies, his ideas, his respect and love for the country, to proclaim him what he plainly is not. You don't have to like or agree with him, but for the love of all that is holy, please base your criticisms on what is there, not on what you believe you can conjure or transparently wish you possessed.
He won't listen.

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