Welcome to www.comprofessor.com a.k.a. Lynch Coaching: Media and Communication Prof's News and Views from Art Lynch. This blog exists to stimulate critical thinking, provide information on communication and media, stimulate discussion and share ideas. For additional media and other news see also sagactoronline.com. Thank you and tell your friends. - Art Lynch
I ended my romance with the Democratic Party this week. It was a long time coming ever since I was in kindergarten and listed Jimmy Carter, Mickey Mouse, and the Fonz as my heroes. My perversion must have started early as a side of effect of Nixon’s resignation when I was just months old.
My subversive political nature was futher enforced by my Grandmother keeping an “I hate Ronald Reagan” scrapbook and the hours we would spend together gluing in it cartoons and articles from the national Enquirer.
In my formitive years the Democrats were the cool people. I got my first unofficial job in a campaign office where they taught me how to dress like a professional. This was important grooming for a girl from the Hee Haw viewing house dress and flip flop set.
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The first homes I went to that did not look like an episode of Hoarders belonged to the nice party benefactors who let me in just long enough to help clear the dishes but never use their toilet.
As a young woman I was too trashy to be a good Democrat. I worked a corporate job to get through school, did odd jobs, and hustled to keep a trailer park roof over my head. I didn’t have the bus fare or even a car to volunteer for anything. The only act of being a Democrat I could afford was making it to the polls. Yet while I lived in quiet desperation I futfilled my secret lust (which would have gotten me terminated from any one of my crappy jobs if I was outed as a Democrat) by listening to NPR. I attended business school and was often the lone voice supporting Democratic positions on policy issues we were there to learn how to evade.
Then slowly steadily as I worked at my life I started to become worthy of the party. Like the girl trying to live up to what her dream date would want her to be. The first time I could afford to donate money to anything I wrote a $100 check to my local party. That changed everything. Then they wanted me. Then they called me. I was attractive. I was on the list of people worthy to use the toilet at a house party. I worked on a lobbying group and even had a bill signed by the Governor of my state.
I shook it off ten years ago. I felt like I had reached my peak at being among the people worthy of eating food at events and using the good restroom. I busied myself with raising children and lived as a nearly silent check writing Democrat. I moved across the country happy to attempt to just stick to being creative.
Then the party came knocking for me again. I worked on a radio show and had two marvelous guests quite secure with their political orientation. My bad for displaying my idiot savant political cleavage but so few ever wanted to admire it. When these gentlemen callers asked me if I wanted to run for an official party office I fell all over myself. It had to have been that I was dream date to the party too. That or the doormat I would become was showing.
Quickly I learned it was a one sided romance. I would do every bit that I could for my party. I focused on what could I do better. Would my perfectionism equal love and acceptance? If I could just keep my head down loving it enough clinging to my little piece of the robes I would be OK. Except for when my brutal honesty slipped out. Nothing dries up the lubrication of political action like the unaccepted truth.
The Democratic party turned into a bad boyfriend. The type of boyfriend who whores himself out for money to your enemy then expects you to clean his house and cook him dinner. My State party took payment from the enemy a major corporation in a fight with the union that had always supported us. Then I am the jerk for saying this was a whole lot worse than just tracking mud on the carpet.
I can’t write big checks. Anyone who has dated a junkie knows what a pain the ass they can be when they can’t get into your checkbook. You stay up late at night with tears in your eyes why your love alone was never enough.You try to fundraise off of your friends but they know better than to support the habit.
Like a desperate girl I threw on my best lingerie trying to seduce the Democratic Party into respecting me. I worked out for 6 long weeks as instructed and directed by unanimous vote of the executive board putting a database into shape. Everything was perky, firm, and irresistible. I asked over and over again if the party was hot for it too. Oh yes baby don’t stop, just don’t stop it. I will never go back to the way it was before you took your NationBuilder fingers and showed me how to do it just right.
That was until it was rejected for the dirty old hag VAN – the bitch he said he dropped months ago but was still doing on the side telling her that you knew your place to come in and clean up after her.
Worse yet so many people you think are your friends knew you were going to be left out there half naked, but didn’t care to tell you to go cover your ass up. At no moment are you more alone than when you realize the tassels of widgets you built naively make you look desperate not strong.
I broke up with the party I loved and used to love me in return. I don’t recognize this party of Obama. It is a whole lot more bad romance, invisible poor, no free love, and a whole lot more political whoring. For God sakes use a prophylactic for your common sense.
Like any other break up I hear the songs and my heart reminds me of the good times. I pass by where I used to canvass with a tear in my eye. It is the worst kind of break up where you know your ex has a bazillion others to take your place. Then calls you for just a few bucks here and there and you might just give it to him.
Breaking up from the Democrats you can’t escape their face and you have to explain to others why you are just not together anymore when you seemed the perfect couple. Then you have to do the ugly cry and explain what a monster the bastard is behind closed doors.
Starting over in an a-political life of whatever it is that women who don’t pay attention to politics do has not been easy. Yet like any bad relationship you have to detox and move on perhaps to Bunco.
As you see from my after picture there is a whole lot of work I need to do on myself before I feel attractive enough to seek a new suitor.