"If I’d said, at the start of the 90’s, that our President [now, in 2011] would listen to hip hop, you would have looked at me as if I was an insane asylum escapee."

Really? I guess I wasn't aware enough of the world at the start of the '90s.

Though I'm pretty sure I was listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince, R.E.M., Bell Biv DeVoe, and I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That) both at the start of and throughout the decade.

I bet Darwin and Obama would have been best friends.

Buy the poster here.

Thanks, Luke, for the heads up.

I don't know anything about this new Michael Phelps scandal except...
 
(A) I saw a headline that read:
 
If Barack Obama Can Admit to Smoking Pot, Why Can't Michael Phelps?
 
And (B) I was invited to join a Facebook group called:

Michael Phelps smokes POT which makes him cool. Fuck the British Tabloids.

So I clearly have no real reason to comment, but, since blogging is blogging, I will:

If Michael Phelps has, at any time during his high stakes swimming career, won a big race while stoned, then I have a whole new level of respect for his swimming skillz.

Note: One sentence post? One sentence post. Not the most traditional (grammatically legal) capitalization or spacing scheme, but I think it works. Party.

I think we were walking north on 18th St. 

We'd walked all the way from the ceremony grounds at The Capitol and cut through the grass halfway between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.  We passed swarming jumbotrons.  We jumped a barrier.  We high-fived a giant raccoon.  We did not buy a totally awesome but totally outrageously priced peace sign Obama button from an Asian hippie with dreadlocks.  We walked uphill against a trotting sea of latecomers.

And we kept our eyes out for the perfect street to take us back east to Union Station.

Giuliana: G might be our street.
Jake: G for Giuliana.
Giuliana: G for Good.
Jake: G for Gangsta.
Giuliana: G for God.

Neither of us have any idea what we were talking about.  But we laughed.  And took H instead.

Anybody else sense chapters in their life? 

Segments with beginnings and ends?  Sometimes days, sometimes months?  Sometimes calendar-connected?  Sometimes work-connected?  Sometimes geographical?  Sometimes dependent on other people's arrivals and departures?  Sometimes predictable?  Sometimes only identifiable after they're over?

Anyway, regardless, a new one's about to begin.  For me.  For the USA.  And, hopefully, for the whole world.

And the few days before a chapter turns tend to require a little extra concentration.

I feel like I might need some ambiguously meditative hip hop to help me move gracefully.

Be is track 1 on Be.

And that's a good sentence.

My sis asked me yesterday if I knew anything about Barack Obama's taste in music. 

I didn't, so I asked Fluther.

Got lots of solid answers, but this was the silliest:

But, today, we woke to find ourselves in a world where a child might grow up not fearing the unknown.  I don't know about you, but that scares the shit out of me.

It's not every day that sarcasm leaves you teary eyed.

And it'll be fun to see where comedy takes Barack Obama.

I don't understand this song, but I love it, and I think its last lines pertain somehow to the incredible feeling of pride and relief I felt when I turned the TV back on the other night and realized that I am not always a statistical outlier.

Our voices lift so easily,
A gift given accidentally,
When were not sure
We're not alone.

You Are My Face is track 2 on Sky Blue Sky.

I'm guessing a lot of people had a similar night and morning of celebratory text messaging.  Here's a bunch of what came into my phone:

Booya! Congratulations!

WOOWOOWOO!

Akfhaldfjhsaljfh YESSSSSSSSS

Big win!

AMAZING!!!!!!!!

Game on!

I am so proud of my country! YAY YAY YAY

Yipppeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!

Wowzer. Great speech. Now we just gotta hope some redneck skinhead doesn't try to assassinate our boy.

Only in America!

It ain't a world series championship but it's pretty darn incredible! Gobama!

I sent this note to my cousin the other day.  Because he's undecided.  Because he's 22.  Because he's creative.  Because he's fundamentally kind and generous and thoughtful.  And because I love him and want him to share my excitement...

I don't like the idea of voting for an old man.  Not unless his eyes sparkle with youthful ideas. 

I want to vote for love and generosity and curiosity and open mindedness.  The stuff of the young and inspired.

Battlescars aren't wisdom unless they teach change.  Attachment to the status quo is despair.  Yearning for a happier yesterday is helplessness.  Conservatism is admitting that we can't be any better than what we are now or what we were then.

And, even if that is true - if there are limits, and we've hit them - I say we bite, smash, and hammer away at them anyway.  Because it's more fun to hope than to hoard and hide and isolate.

The More Perfect Union speech was beautiful.  The tire gauges were, silly as they sounded, quite possibly the most reasonable energy policy idea the US government has had in long time.  The man is cool under pressure.  He's thoughtful and knowledgeable.  He's curious.  His wife is a superstar: absolutely rightfully unsatisfied with this country and working to make it better.

Warren Buffet and Colin Powell and Fred Wilson and Marc Andreessen and Eric Schmidt and James Fallows and Oprah all believe in him.  Smart people.  Reasonable people.  Innovative people.

If Obama's not different, if he's nothing but an actor, bummer.  But we'll move on.  We'll save the world despite the US government.  We'll clean up its mess.  Tirelessly.  We'll make it irrelevant.  We'll do all its work for it.  With philanthropy.  With sustainable business.  With literature.  With poetry.  With simple acts of kindness and love.

And without fear.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't vote.  It doesn't mean we shouldn't hope.  It doesn't mean we shouldn't take this opportunity to support the candidate that inspires musical genius.

Peace.  Love.