Breakfast with Glenn and Steve - April 9

Interior. Young’s Restaurant. The recently redecorated décor is debatably Bauhaus. Two friends sit at a booth that features a metal napkin dispenser, a miniature metal ewer of cream and a miniature metal basket of white, pink and blue packaged sweeteners. The table is covered with large plates covered to the edges with omelets, sausage links and home fries. The waitress refills their coffee cups and leaves as a third friend approaches their booth…

As I slid into the bench next to Glenn, Steve said, "Where have you been?"

"Sorry I’m late. I’ve been depressed," I said. "It often manifests itself in an inability to tell time."

"You’re always depressed," said Glenn. "You’ve been depressed as long as I’ve known you. You would’ve thought by now you would’ve figured out some way to compensate."

"You could’ve set up an alert on your Blackberry," Steve said.

"I know," I said. "But I was too depressed. Setting up the alert would’ve required faith, a belief that there will indeed be a morning after, change I could believe in, a town called hope… And I’m not always depressed," I said to Glenn. "I have manic phases."

"Yeah," said Steve, "That’s true. There was that Tuesday back in ’96. Or was it ’95?"

"Why are you depressed this time?" Glenn asked.

"The election. The primaries. Obama, Hillary. Hillary, Obama. I’m afraid I may not have sex again until after the convention, and maybe even after that, maybe not till after the general election… Thanksgiving," I said. "Maybe."

"Your wife is angry, too," Glenn said.

"Anger is too small a word, too non-specific, too lacking in apocalyptic imagery," I said.

"Do you blame her?" Glenn asked.

I shrugged. "Not really. What about you?" I asked Steve.

"Just the opposite," Steve said. "I admit I was momentarily distracted the first time she cried out, ‘Pleasure me, Mandingo Warrior!’ But I’ve gotten used to it."

"The first time?" Glenn asked.

"So, you’re among the 76% of Americans ready for a black president," I said.

"Are you kidding? This could be the best eight years of my life," Steve said.

"I’m not sure you’ll have to worry about it," I said.

"Really?" Glenn asked.

"Really," I said. "I don’t care if all 800 registered Democrats in Wyoming voted for Barack Obama in the caucus. I don’t care if all 800 registered Democrats in Wyoming vote for Barack Obama in the general election. Obama will still lose Wyoming and every other square state to McCain in November. Because there are more than 800 Republicans in Wyoming and every other square state. Winning a Democratic caucus in a red state is one thing; carrying those states in the general election is another. And yes, I’m repeating myself, but, it bears repeating. Whatever the neocons or the religious right thinks of McCain, when push comes to shove, they will do whatever they need to do to keep a Republican in the White House. They were willing to smear a decorated war veteran in John Kerry; you don’t think they’ll have a problem putting Reverend Wright’s ‘God damn America’ video in heavy rotation in Kansas, Alabama, and Idaho in October, do you?"

"Not to mention that clip of Obama bowling," Glenn added.

"I’m not so sure that hurts him," Steve said. "I mean, a black man bowling?"

"So, you don’t think it’s Hillary that’s tearing the party apart?" Glenn asked.

"The Democratic Party, and Howard Dean in particular, is to blame for this mess. By having the primaries result in proportionally awarding delegates, rather than winner takes all, like the Republicans did, for one thing. Why would you run your primary elections by fundamentally different rules from the general election? And you’re going to fix that mess by asking the girl to get off the field so the boys can play? The suits running the party do realize that women are the base of the Democratic Party, don’t they?"

"So, you think the ‘50 State Strategy’ is inherently flawed," Glenn said.

"By making a fetish of fairness, we must deny the differences that distinguish one philosophy from another or even one idea from another. Do you convince the good citizens of Nebraska—in a few months, with a few slogans and a few media buys—that they’re wrong about guns, God, and gays? What’s the argument? I’m right and you’re an idiot?"

"Well, I am, and they are," Glenn said.

"You sir, were wise to stay out of marketing," Steve said.

"Yes, okay, but the nuances of the 2nd Amendment, the inherently secular nature of democracy, the fundamentally un-American nature of persecuting a small group of citizens simply because they are different, those are all intellectual arguments. They simply cannot overcome the family tradition of hunting varmints, the Sunday School belief that the Ten Commandments are the law of the land, or that beating up that kid in High School who wouldn’t shower in gym class was something you did with a stick so you didn’t get any gay on you."

"You guys are depressing me, now," Steve said.

"Hey, I’m just a narrative device today, in case you haven’t noticed," Glenn observed. "I’ve simply been mirroring. Mike here is your MC of Doom."

"Doom. That’s a good point," I said. I hated to agree with Billy Joel ever, but, I didn’t start the fire, after all. "Maybe I shouldn’t stress about the election," I said. "After all, the world ends in 2012. So, whoever gets elected will be a one-term president, in any case." I considered the menu and quickly decided I would have French toast and hash. "If I don’t get around to finishing the basement soon, I never will."

"Literally," Glenn added.

"This is you, cheering me up?" Steve said.

"Well, that wasn’t my intent," Glenn said. "You?" he asked me.

"It’s really just an excuse for an obscenely large TV," I said, contemplating a side of hash browns. "You know, finishing the basement."

"I’d say that’s a no," Glenn said to Steve. "As regards the cheering you up question."

"Look, Obama’s going to win, okay?" Steve said evenly. "And you are both jealous of Mandingo Warrior."

I looked at Glenn. "I like the idea of a six to nine seat theater arrangement. Raked seating. But I just don’t have the room. I might be able to get away with six seats. I could always use temporary seating for my less favored friends. The extra straight-back wooden chairs. Beach chairs. Up to twelve, I think." Did I know twelve people I would want to see all at the same time?

"Well," Glenn said, "assuming that Steve and I and our better halves are guests one through four, who else are you inviting?"

"Jefferson, Einstein, Tom Brady, Isaac Newton, Joseph Conrad, Cate Blanchett if I can get her past my wife, Thurgood Marshall, Heidi Klum, who I’ll sneak in while my wife is chasing Cate Blanchett out of the house, and any major dude who worked on building the Great Sphinx of Giza."

"I think we’re losing Mike," Steve said, looking toward the kitchen and signaling to our waitress.

"I do feel low on hash," I said, returning my attention to the menu. The Belgian waffle? No, I’ll stay with the French toast. The waitress arrived with coffee and took my order; I added a large orange juice that Steve insisted on.

"You know," Glenn said. "This might be one of those manic phases Mike insisted he has every now and then."

"The difference is, well, are you sure?" Steve asked.

I sipped my coffee. It burned my tongue. I meditated on hash. Hot, salty, crusty, fatty goodness. Om.
~April 9, 2008