Politics: Running in Place

YELLOW ALERT: The political rat race - an exercise in futility?

I don't know if I am reflecting any kind of national sentiment here or not when I say: I am totally fucking sick of politics.

What even a month ago seemed so exciting is now mucky and exasperating, like trying to find a lost shoe in a swamp. I think the thought that finally hit home for me was that, for God's sake, it's April. The fourth month of the year! A quarter of the way through! Furthermore, the year is 2008. No longer can we say that the smoke is still clearing from the new millennium's starter gun. 2008! It's 2008 - how the hell did this happen?!

So I've come to realize lately that not all that much has happened in this, the Year of Ken Molnar Finally Getting Things Done, and I am starting ever so slightly to freak the fuck out. And so, like any New Englander worth his salt, I am choosing to place the blame externally. In the high court of my own personal Salem, I am slamming down the gavel and accusing you, Politics, for stealing away the last three months of my life. Sure, you helped drag me out of my apartment and - improbably - to the gym, where I chased after you (quite literally) daily on the treadmill, with the three-inch Chris Matthews on-screen as the ever-present carrot. But that only ends up making me the mule, or - more precisely - the hamster, running on his little existential wheel, getting nowhere. Regardless of the analogy, time - I think - has been wasted.

As you can see, I am not all that big a fan of the passage of time. I'm all for AIDS and cancer benefits, but Time is the real enemy. But where is the foundation? Where are the ribbons? Stop this one and you stop all the others. Another one I am not the biggest fan of is Change, as much as Obama (and that blathery Chris Matthews and all the others) tells us that this is what we are totally primed for. And, yeah, I am willing to concede that I am more than ready to eject Bush into space; that's change that even I can believe in. (Wasn't he the one talking about sending someone to Mars?) But then after that, when all the world is right again, we have to go back to no more change, and no more passage of time.

Like Lucy in the chocolate factory, stuffing fistfuls of candies into her mouth and pockets, trying to keep up with a runaway process, I too feel like I am always looking for the pause button. I would like a moment to just focus and grab a hold of things, but - for every moment that I do - well, about 12 billion micro-moments have slipped by. And then, when I run after them, even more get away. You get the picture. The soap opera said it best: Like sands through the hourglass ... Or, if you want something a little bit groovier, there's always the Steve Miller Band to tell that Time Keeps on Slippin'.

But even my hair is a constant reminder. Like some scary page-a-day calendar that I can never quite put down, my hair stays with me, or - more precisely - doesn't. It peels away daily like one of those movie montages of the passing seasons: numbered pages falling away over transparent, sliding images of blooming flowers and falling leaves. My friend Michael tells me that time starts to move even more quickly as you get older (he's got 15 years on me). And it's not that I don't know this: a month goes by in a blink now. But I think what he is telling me is that - at his age - a year goes by in a blink.

Not looking forward to this. Thank you, Michael.

All I know is I've got to do something. So no more politics, at least for now. It might be productive for the country, but not so much for me. I've already been running in place too long this year, and I don't need one more excuse to help me keep on doing that. I've got to get moving because, you know, time certainly is - it's the bus that never runs out of gas. In fact, it's like the perky yellow VW in Little Miss Sunshine: you can't even stop it if you wanted to. The only thing to do is run along side it as fast as you can, and hope that there will be a few friends there, when you need them to help pull you up.

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