Even in the best of times it's hard to find anyone in New York City who admits to having any Republican friends. But nowadays? Fuggedaboudit. In the ever-rising wave of The Year of Obamalove, many Dems are all but proclaiming victory for their candidate. But the real dirty little secret no one wants anyone to know is how many of us have Republicans in our own families. Crazy, I know, but true. What can one do but keep deleting the Internet-sourced e-mails that tell us that Obama is a socialist-leaning, terrorist-loving Muslim who is not even sure he was born in this country? We can fight fire with fire and send them the YouTube videos of the best gaffs of John McCain but that tactic seems so very...Republican. Instead we sigh and chalk it all up to an undiagnosed brain disorder. It's the only plausible explanation we tell ourselves. They used to be so much fun. They painted pictures, they played guitar and sang songs. They danced naked down the hallway playing air guitar to Jimi Hendrix. What the hell happened to them once they moved out to the suburbs? We wonder. Is it the isolationism of commuting by car? Is it the lousy restaurants? The short bubble jackets? The answer eludes us. Then we remember back to Christmas Eve 1969 when they told us that Santa Claus didn't exist. We were too young to be told such a terrible thing. Immediately estranged from our own parents, and untrusting of the older sibling who had broken the news, the line in the sand was drawn. The world was irrevocably divided into those who spoil things for no reason other than to be cruel and those who would keep looking for beauty and magic and free stuff for the rest of their lives.
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