2. Obama's favorite food is Chef Boyardee canned spaghetti. McCain's is steak.
3. Obama's favorite movie is The Big Lebowski. McCain's is Blackhawk Down.
4. Obama rides a bicycle. McCain drives a Cadillac CTS.
5. Obama is often seen without a tie. McCain is a "tie guy."
6. Obama's favorite author is Thoreau. McCain's is William F. Buckley, Jr.
7. Obama listens to Death Cab for Cutie. McCain hates music.
8. Obama owns 2 cats. McCain feeds kittens to his pet boa constrictor.
9. Obama meditates. McCain falls asleep in church.
10. Obama writes his own speeches. McCain depends on professional speechwriters driven by focus groups.
What other reasons can YOU think of? Post them here (and maybe you'll be November's winner of a copy of The Beat Handbook!).
2 comments:
Perched on a leather couch with a beautiful woman at my side feeling quite satisfied after a great meal. Relaxing with a nine dollar cigar and a six dollar drink. Selfishly and foolishly bitching about work sex war and taxes I notice something going on up at the bar
it appears a homeless guy has stumbled in from the cold early march night. He wasn’t interested in all the beautiful people he was about to be with all he wanted was to share the warmth of indoors
the bartender, doing his job, gently and kindly showed the man the door and wished him a good night.
He doesn’t belong with us. He has no job or money
no house no car no insurance no 401k no family no bills no credit no turkey for thanksgiving no chicken for his pot. He has nothing that any good member of society has
I got up from my seat and got out of my role left the labels behind and ran after him
I turned down the alley between a restaurant and an aerobics studio and there he was stumbling towards the trash,.
I grabbed him and looked into his eyes. He had it, the divine spark we all share no matter what we have or what we do
5 years on the street at 63 years old was all I got. A survivor. I knew he wouldn’t be around much longer, his spark was dimming
later that same night sitting having a drink at a late night coffee bar a young kid all of 17 years stood next to me at the counter, not a dime to his name asked to take a juice with the promise of payment next week. The counterman hesitantly nods in agreement.
He places a Burroughs novel on the counter next to me. I look at him, again the divine spark but this one was glowing bright. I say Burroughs, good stuff.
He tells me how he loves the raw honesty in his writing and total free flow of prose.
I tell him to read Bukowski and pay for his juice
he runs off
I smile
86 years old. That night would be your 86th year with us.
Gone 38 years and you still managed to appear to me twice that night
Jack
THE BOOTCH
Bootch, now THAT'S a beat comment. Thank you!
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