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It’s an interesting day. It should be just another Tuesday, but it’s not. It’s January 8th, we’re in Michigan, and the temperature is going to approach 60 degrees on a day that follows an active night of tornado warnings, thunder storms, and torrential rains. Now, I’m all for global warming, and spend a good deal of time and money trying to enlarge my carbon footprint, but the unusual weather is really just a sidebar story that contributes another layer of interest that helps punctuate and accentuate this particular day. If I waited a few more hours to begin this exercise, some of the mystery would be gone, and with it the some of the unique flavor of the moment.

It’s 7:00 AM, and all of the talking heads that adorn the 27 inch screen of my last century vintage, Low-Def TV, are tripping over each other’s literary excess as they try desperately to find that one additional tidbit of background information on one of the candidates, one of the voters, or even one of the pollsters, who seem to outnumber either of the other categories.

It could not escape anyone’s notice that the dawning day is that special one that brings us the New Hampshire primary. “Live Free or Die!”, that’s their motto out there, although one suspects by now they would most wish to live free of intrusive reporters and their permanently erect microphones. I never tire of the humor that is inherent in watching some 28 yr. old reporter in an expensive suit, with a hairdo that cost as much as two new tires, interviewing some old farmer in bib overalls, as he sips coffee at the round table of the local diner. Nobody even has to speak or move to make that funny to me, it’s just already there. It takes no imagination at all to see the “thought balloons” above their heads, one reading “Hick!”, and the other, “Yuppie!”, but each will play his assigned role, as patronizing questions are rewarded with the folksy, homespun answers. I’m sure both participants in this oft repeated scene are valid parts of the cross section of American culture, but the contrast seems so stark when they actually meet and interact.

So, what’s it all about, this ritual that is replayed every four years? If an alien landed in our midst on this day and asked the inevitable question, who would we take him to? Who, indeed? That is the mystery before us, who will be our next Leader?

The great political race will become more boring, more vicious, more focused, when the front runners are more clearly defined after today and after the upcoming super Tuesday, but for now they hardly know who to attack or which direction to fire their scatter-guns of political prowess. The reporters hover like vultures above the stressed out candidates, knowing that a perpetually open mouth will, sooner or later, attract the inevitable foot, and they want cameras rolling when the insertion takes place.

But, for this morning, the mystery is in the players.

Betty Crocker, she ain’t, and maybe not Saint
But she’ll take back the job if we send her
Healthcare for the masses, and maybe more taxes
And she’ll do it in spite of her gender
He’s got the attention, a whole new dimension
To add to our National drama
His resume’s short, but he’s got the support
The phenomenon known as Obama
And lightning might strike, for those who like Mike
A gentleman pious and reliable
A preacher to heal, with his hand on our wheel
While the other one clutches his bible
With perhaps the best hair, and money to spare
We’ve heard of his Mittfull of cash
With tailor made suits, and Michigan roots
The legacy of George and his Nash
And Edwards is there, more high dollar hair
With the lure of a soft southern drawl
A lawyer by trade, there’s bucks to be made
It just takes a slip and a fall
There’s a movie star here, with his trophy wife near
And a vet who deserves our respect
With battle lines drawn, it will take until dawn
To know who they finally select




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