on the coffee table of a guy who saws and splits his own firewood to keep the house warm? [and, further honesty, it is the depicted edition, all 444 scented, ad-bloated, content free pages of it that will cause all further mail box bilge from Conde' Nast to go directly to the paper recycling bin.]
But the very talented Mr Wolcott seems to have rubbed elbows with too many in the demographic Vanity Fair courts...and had their dim view of humanity rub off on him. The print pimped the web format of Wolcott's words with this:
I have nothing against Obama ... but as obnoxious as is the chortling, crowing misogyny of a Chris Matthews or the rightwing buffoon (Michael Graham, I believe) Imus had on his show this morning (or Imus himself, for that matter), the rah-rah gaga Beatlemania oozing out of the Huffington Post over Obama is even more revolting. Watching middle-aged men reclaim their innocence and idealism is like having to retrace Kevin Costner's steps through a field of dreams all over again--it was corny enough the first time.
...and here I have to repeat for the benefit of Mr. Wolcott that we get rock stars and gurus because we are desperate creatures. Not because Obama has supernatural charm, not because any speech writer or ad campaign Svengali has us in his thrall and not because Hillary is deficient in some serious personal or policy way do we find so much enthusiasm for the campaign of Obama welling up at every turn and corner in the bluish tinted legions of the primary voters. To the chagrin of the pundits who have not seen it coming, this whole phenomenon is one of perception. Nothing changed except that after seven years of the government, the media and the punditocracy just not speaking to how very corrupt and deluded the George Bush administration has been, we have a glimpse of someone who can credibly say he never bought the BS.
You cannot give hope to people who already have plenty. A resurgence of hope says far more about those who dissolved it, wore it out, or outright stole it from people than it does about the person upon whom the hopeful have fixed their gaze.
Now if only the esteemed Mr. Wolcott, or anyone for that matter, would read my blustery pages.