Greetings to the wider world. I am an orange tabby cat also known as "Prince Azri," "The Purr Machine," and "Getdownoff Thetable." I have four humans and a REALLY ANNOYING little brother called Shimmie, also known as "Springy Paws," also known as "Lookwhat Hebrokenow."
My older male human, Martin, whose head I like to lick because it doesn't have any fur on it, says I have a lot of interesting things to say about politics and things, so he helped me start this blog. In the picture you can see me reading Rick Perlstein's "Nixonland."
So here's what I think about Scott Brown's election and the health care mess. Look, Obama never really made the case to the American people about why health care reform was so important, and why the bills before Congress should pass, the way FDR would have done with his fireside chats. (I have very fine health care myself, thanks to the fabulous Dr. Lisa Marsico of Del Ray Animal Hospital in Alexandria, Virginia, but you humans seem to have a harder time of it.)
Last summer's near-violent scenes at the so-called town hall meetings should have been a clear indicator that the Republican demagoguery on the subject was working all too well in the absence of a strong response from the bully pulpit, but Obama seemed to think he could stay above the fray and be bipartisan, or rather supra-partisan, in the manner of Eisenhower. But of course, the president is not a universally beloved figure but a virtual unknown elected by a desperate populace, which will turn on him in a heartbeat if he isn't fixing--and seen to be fixing--the myriad crises he inherited.
From this cat's eye view, it seems as if Obama has become besotted with his own legend. Like JFK, he is a brilliant young guy elected in large part on the strength of his charisma, his intelligence, and his coolness under fire, and like Mr. Camelot, his first year in office has been rough if not disastrous due partly to his own hubris. For the voters in Massachusetts to be angry enough to elect a Republican red hot to take over Ted Kennedy's seat ought to be enough warning even for a graduate of Harvard Law School--sort of like when my brother Shimmie lays a smelly enough stink bomb that even Martin realizes it's time to clean our litter box.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a nap.