|Bob Dylan at a civil rights gathering, Greenwood Mississippi, 1963|
When the boys got in the car this afternoon after school, they told me that they'd discussed President Obama's decision to support gay marriage at school, with their teachers. That's why I love living in a large, tolerant (for the most part) city in a blue state. That's why I love that they go to a progressive school with many children who have same sex families. I'm glad that President Obama "evolved," however late in the game he decided to do so and for whatever personal or political reason.
It was, I told my children, the right thing to do.
Evidently, George Clooney is having a fundraiser for the President tonight in the valley, and like all days that The Man comes to town, the traffic is even more insane than usual. While I'm not of the camp that derides Obama for messing up the city, I will say that the whole campaign hoopla nauseates me. Evidently, tonight's fundraiser will bring in tens of millions of dollars into the campaign and, frankly, that makes me sick. As sick as Mitt Romney's bazillions do, floating around in Swiss bank accounts or those two Cadillacs his wife drives.
It might be simplistic, but why the hell (WTH) is the Hollywood set capable of shelling out tens of millions of dollars to pay for television advertisements and those godforsaken postcards that come in the mail every single day but not for the five thousand teachers that have been given pink slips during the last year? WTH can't they raise money and hand it over, directly over, to community programs that help the mentally ill and homeless? Or perhaps they might pony up to save some of the respite programs for families of children with disabilities and the elderly? Why the hell not (WTHN)? Or perhaps they could fix the potholes that line Wilshire Blvd. and make one's commute akin to the dirt roads of Afghanistan -- admittedly, that's hyperbole, but it's akin to the truth of failing infrastructure and misplaced priorities.
So, while I applaud the POTUS for doing the right thing (at last), I wish he'd climb out of that caravan and into the arms of George Clooney and his mega-star friends and implore them to reach out to the city that embraces them and do the right thing.
(And the photo of Dylan isn't really apropos of anything but doing the right thing. It happens to be taken in the same city that my maternal grandmother hailed from --)