Ah, deadlines… I received my brief late Wednesday afternoon from the newspaper, but because of my day with Nana at the hospital yesterday, I couldn’t really do anything about any of it until today. And boy have I ever had a bomb beneath the breeches since this morning. Good grief. It’s awful not having enough time to do things, and I’m afraid I’ve got a weekend of interviewing, transcribing and writing ahead of me. That’s the lot of the freelance writer, though: drop everything if and when the work lands in your lap. And drop it I have – I haven’t even stepped foot outside my place today. And I’m currently sort of stranded in case one of my interview subjects calls back wanting to do it now instead of tomorrow afternoon, which, let’s face it, I’m hoping he’ll do… I was planning to be catching up with friends for a tasty beverage by 4:30 tomorrow, not carting my dictaphone around with me, looking for a quiet place to talk. But these things do not take place on my timetable, so if it’s to be tomorrow, so be it. Sigh. Llew’s off commiserating with his colleagues about the state of the stock market (already named Black Friday here in Australia, and something tells me it won’t be a happy day for finance as the northern hemisphere starts opening for business), and I’m here at my desk wondering whether I should just forget the prospect of getting another interview in the can today, and go outside to try and catch the last of the sun instead. Tempting. Very tempting.
I’m glad, indeed heartened to see that the Obama/Biden ticket is extending its lead on the increasingly embattled combination of McCain/Palin. Palin makes me laugh, or rather, as I texted a friend yesterday, Tina Fey as Sarah Palin makes me laugh. Is anyone seriously hoping this woman one day has all the nuclear codes and the position of Commander in Chief? The entire notion is risible. Try picturing it. Go on. Close your eyes and try placing Palin in the Oval Office, poised to press an index finger deep into a big red flashing button atop the desk (it’s always a big red flashing button atop the desk). It is not quite the same thing as getting the electric garage door to open without incident when she returns home in her Tarago straight from the hockey carpool, is it?
I just don’t see it. I’m sure she’s swell, just swell, at taking out the occasional pesky Caribou, and making snow angels with the townsfolk when the first of the winter dumps hits, and I bet she’s beyond compare when it comes to make-up tips and handy hints for the spunky rifle-woman-about-one-horse-town, but the idea that she’s VP material, which means contingent P material, is just plain absurd. Embarrassing for all involved. Please make it stop now. I love the fact that Bill Clinton couldn’t resist scratching his crotch over her, if you’ll pardon the euphemism, when he was asked for his opinion – he certainly wasn’t referring to her grasp of foreign policy when he noted with a lick of the lips that he understands what voters see in her. He’s just so wonderfully FECKLESS, old Billy Boy – but whilst I can allow myself the occasional chuckle at the incorrigible pants-man, I don’t really find Palin’s VP candidacy much of a laughing matter. I’d love to see a woman in either of the top jobs in the White House, but I’d really want her to be there because she was the right person for the job, not because she was a woman. And certainly not because she was a photogenic woman. That falls a little short of a compelling CV. And sure, she can give us a P with the best of them, and she can give us an A, she can give us an L, and an I, and an N, but what does it actually spell? Peril.
postscript: my interview subject called back, so that’s another one down… now I can go for that run!