A Premature, Post-Racial, Post-Partisanship, Post-Bush, Post

This morning I pulled my two Obama signs out of the front yard on my corner lot. In their place, I mounted the Stars and Stripes on my front porch. When we bought our retirement home in 1999, it came to us with a weathered flag installed in the same bracket. After Bush stole the election of 2000, I let our house's original flag beat itself, first into remnants and then eventually into smithereens. The process seemed metaphorically perfect, especially as it occurred during Busheney's invasion and occupation of Iraq. When the flag disappeared, I promised myself I would replace it the day Bush left the White House, one way or another. But as I installed my Obama signs last February, I knew that if Barry proved to be The One, I wouldn't and couldn't wait until Inauguration Day.

But now? Maybe I wanted to send a message to the ex-marine who lives two doors down the street, but I'm not sure what I intended it to be. Actually, it's just come to me! Just like Michelle O., I want to proclaim my pride in being an American for the first time in this century. And one thing about my yard signs is that they are a helluva lot easier to remove than my neighbor's McCain bumper stickers!

I realize that my edge is gone. The blade of my rage has been dulled. Now that it has been resolved that we will have extraordinarily competent leadership in the White House within 74 days, I am finding myself predisposed toward non-political diversions. I can't get it up to rage against newly spawning mythologies such as our "post-racial age". Or, "post-partisan politics." Or, even our "post-Bush future". These are all patently fraudulent fictions. This week's election has ended nothing. It may provide the start of something new, refreshing, promising and hopeful. But in itself, it ends nothing. The stench of our cultural racism, Republican partisanship, and Bush's 21st Century I-wreck and ruin still will dog us indefinitely. This is so obvious that I don't feel an urgency to get out my rhetorical knives to prove this assertion.

But this ennui sweeps over me at an inopportune interlude. I like good cinema, but in the middle of this week's Obamanomenon, I forgot to return my Netflix until now, when it's too late to secure something for the weekend. Baseball is also in quietus. Sailing is about over for the season. My dog, Ballou, is still laid up with her front-leg road rash from her still-unexplained crash-and-burn two weeks ago. (Maybe I should have named her Miz Greenspan because of her irrational exuberance.) In any event, for the next few days we can't rely on each other for exercise. So, what outlets remain?

Maybe after I make my rounds in the blogosphere, I'll go out to a book store and obtain one of those weird rectangular objects that flop open in your lap.

I just wish I had a few good suggestions . . . .