31 May 2008

a collection of debris (a map)

When C visited me last week she asked, "Why do you want to kill yourself?" I had difficulty answering this question because 1) no one had ever asked such a simple yet complex question and 2) her visit came as a total surprise. (C lives over an hour north of Bloomington.)

When someone asks why you want to end your life and that person sits just feet away, you feel like a child in the principal's office: you were caught red-handed, so it's futile to plead your innocence in the face of the facts.

I stammered. Stuttered. I chuckled because my rationale and pretexts for suicide were suddenly lost. My motives for self-annihilation were still there, but the reasons could not be reached and adequately expressed in the presence of someone who genuinely cared about my safety and well-being.

Now that several days have passed since her visit, my head has cleared and I can answer her initial question.

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

I feel trapped, C. Disappointed. And a refrain repeats endlessly inside my head. A refrain repeats endlessly inside: "This isn't how things were supposed to be, yet this is what my life has become." If I lay the map of my life across this table, can I pinpoint an exact moment or event when things fell apart? No. But on this map I see many contributing factors of my undoing.

Before my parents divorced in 1992, I lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the suburbs. I felt lucky. Fortunate. Unlike some of my schoolmates, my parents weren't divorced and I lived in a nice home -- a nurturing home. It was the modern day picture of white America in the suburbs. Years later I would discover that this "picture" was just that: a pseudo image painted onto a thin and unsustainable canvas. Years later I would learn that a boyhood friend who lived just houses away was routinely beaten by his father. Years later I would learn that my African-American neighbors were subjected to death threats and racist "pranks." Years later I would learn that a trusted neighbor sexually abused young girls -- including my sister. Years later I would discover that mother practically hated father and in 1977, the two were on the verge of divorce until my mother learned she was pregnant with a baby boy -- me. Fourteen years after my birth the divorce was finally consummated and everything I thought I knew was wrong.

Years later I would learn that mothers and fathers hid behind the white picket fences of suburbia and concealed the wounds -- the reality of their circumstances -- from their neighbors. And their children. Perhaps this is why parents instill the myths of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny into their children. Because childhood is nothing more than a series of veils, and as each veil is peeled away, the truth becomes easier to accept. Saint Nicholas isn't real. The Easter Bunny doesn't exist. Your birth wasn't planned. Mommy doesn't love daddy.

Needless to say, my parents' divorce was extremely difficult for me and sister. Mother remarried within a year. Father, whom I had never seen take even a sip of alcohol, was the antithesis of my stepfather. This man, this stranger enjoyed his liquor, and soon after mother began dating him I saw her consume alcohol for the first time. Mother, whom sister and I relied upon for emotional support (we spent at least two weekends a month with father), wasn't there when we needed her most -- a fact that haunts her to this day. She was in love, possibly for the first time, and sister and I had to support each other.

By no means am I blaming the divorce for my current state; however, when I look at the map of my life, that event, along with the illusion of suburbia, certainly carved a detour into my maturation.

And things weren't supposed to be like this.

When I think of my parents before and after the divorce, I don't recall them as being encouraging figures of my youth. I received a dollar for every A on my report card and was promised dire consequences for Ds and Fs, which I never got. I knew in the fifth or sixth grade that college wasn't for me. I wanted to carve my own path, and I knew if I wanted to succeed as a writer or musician I would have to work especially hard. But where was the encouragement? If my parents did encourage me to pursue my dreams it failed to leave a lasting impression.

I don't condemn them for what they were or were not. Several years ago I realized that my parents were adults, human beings who did their best raising two children. Some children grow from the bleakest of gardens yet battle the odds and become successful adults, while others are raised in the lap of luxury and struggle to find their feet.

And C said she had heard my music and read my words. And she said I have potential. I could inspire others. I could become something greater than . . . than this. But I'm tired. I've lost the motivation to become something "greater." I've seen the odds and I lack the strength to battle, to overcome.

So strip me of my possessions.

Bury my body.

Incinerate the remains.

What is there to accomplish? What is there to achieve but an ending?

Success can be humbling but the successful cannot escape their scars, their demons, their wretched reflection.

I look at the map of my life and I see the girl who took my virginity. Rain rapped against the window while she peeled the clothes from my trembling body. In her big, sorrowful eyes I saw something familiar: pain. And I thought I saw a faint glimmer of . . . of love. But I was her tool. She devoured my body . . . a means of escape. Something she could temporarily consume and forget . . . forget herself and her troubled life. But I wanted more. I wanted so much more. I wanted her on my arm and concealed inside my heart. I wanted a mutual exchange of pain, of love. Love. A means to an end . . . the end of something forgettable and the beginning of something sweet. Hope. Love. Acceptance. I'll show you my scars if you will show me yours. And I will accept you. All of you. The ugly fragments. The beautiful pieces. You. But no. (Yet I'm still searching for you, Laura.)

Love is another veil from childhood. Peel it away so the truth becomes more acceptable. The Tooth Fairy never came to you in the middle of the night. Mommy doesn't love daddy. Because love, like god, is something we eternally long for. We wait. ("God is a place you will wait for the rest of your life.") We hope. We want. We wish something could penetrate our very existence and offer something greater than ourselves. But no. Love isn't coming to cool our fevered cheeks in the pitch black of night. No vessel of love is coming to administer an antidote for this . . . this despondency.

I could continue this diatribe . . . I could blame my disintegration on events that occurred months ago, years ago, a lifetime ago. I could accuse my well-meaning parents of . . . of what? I could blame the victim -- myself. But pointing fingers and leveling accusations against the guilty, the innocent and the indifferent will have no bearing on my present predicament.

And this is what your life has become.

A collection of anemic bones and weathered flesh hiding under cotton sheets. Hiding from the day. A body weary from another sleepless night. The recurrent headaches. The routine. This.

(And somewhere, a plane prepares to scrape the skies. To take flight from the tarmac of an airfield. The plane will depart from the face of the earth and soar. Drift over buildings. Landmarks. The faces of the forgotten and the loved. The machine will glide above the globe, casting its shadow on this map. An atlas of human origin. Bizarre.)

xx

29 May 2008

song of the moment

Deep. Dark. Hypnotic.

I first heard Gui Boratto's "Haute Couture" a couple weeks ago on Markus Schulz's "Global DJ Broadcast." The tune strikes me every time.

25 May 2008

almost forgot

Chuck Palahniuk's latest novel, Snuff, hit book stores last Tuesday. And no, I haven't purchased my copy -- yet.

The following YouTube video features the man himself summarizing the story's plot. (The video was filmed at an unknown location in Lexington, Kentucky.) Judging from Chuck's synopsis, the novel is sure to satisfy any C.P. fan.

22 May 2008

c and d

Thanks for visiting me, C and D. (I wish I could find the words to convey my gratitude, but the consonants and vowels escape me.)

xx

18 May 2008

song of the moment

This video is an excerpt from Armin van Buuren's (the #1 DJ in the world, I might add) eight hour set "Armin Only: Imagine" from The Netherlands on 19 April 2008. This incredible show was broadcast on television AND radio, so if you scour the interweb, you can download the entire show (audio or video) -- which I highly recommend to all trance addicts. Armin's marathon set was virtually flawless.

Live at Armin Only (From Jaarbeurs in Utrecht, The Netherlands - 19 April 2008) - Armin van Buuren and DJ Shah featuring Chris Jones "Going Wrong"

whereabouts

If you know or are one of the following people, please e-mail me at TheSkyIsATelevisionSignal@gmail.com.

Rachelle Thompson
  • She may have married so her last name may be different
  • Attended Anderson (Indiana) High School in the late 1990s
  • May or may not reside in Anderson, Indiana
  • Approximately 22-27 years old

Amanda Noble
  • Attended Anderson (Indiana) High School in the early 2000s
  • May or may not reside in Anderson, Indiana
  • Amanda is in her early to mid-20s

Laura Schwartz
  • Attended Indiana University (Bloomington) in the early 2000s
  • May or may not reside in Indiana
  • Laura is in her mid- to late 20s

17 May 2008

hindsight

The following letters were enclosed with mother and sister's Mother's Day cards respectively.

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One day this will all make sense . . .

xx

14 May 2008

i might be wrong

And I thought white trash reigned supreme in Indiana . . .

As a fan of Curious George and an avid supporter of Senator Barack Obama, I found this story particularly disturbing:

Curious George Publisher May Sue Over T-Shirt

By JAMIE GUMBRECHT, CHRISTIAN BOONE
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 05/13/08


The publishing company that owns the Curious George image says it is considering legal action to stop the sale of a T-shirt depicting Barack Obama as the monkey from children's books.

The T-shirts are being peddled by Marietta bar owner Mike Norman at his Mulligan's Bar and Grill in Cobb County. They show a picture of Curious Georgie peeling a banana, with the words "Obama '08" underneath.

Rick Blake, a spokesman for publisher Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, which owns Curious George, said Wednesday that the company didn't authorize the use of the character's image, but hasn't been in touch with anybody selling or manufacturing the shirts.

"We find it offensive and obviously utterly out of keeping with the value Curious George represents," Blake said. "We're monitoring the situation and weighing our options with respect to legal action."

Norman has said he got the T-shirts from someone in Arkansas. He started selling them at his bar -- known for the provocative, ultra-conservative political slogans often posted on signs out front -- in April but said he has no plans to mass market them.

The sales came to light this week when a loose coalition of local groups called a protest of the T-shirts.

About a dozen protestors rallied against the shirts Tuesday afternoon, condemning them as racist and asking Norman to stop selling them.

Norman acknowledged the imagery's Jim Crow roots but said he sees nothing wrong with depicting a prominent African-American as a monkey.

"We're not living in the (19)40's," he said. "Look at him . . . the hairline, the ears -- he looks just like Curious George."

Marietta native Pam Lindley, 47, joined Tuesday's protest after reading about the controversy.

"I don't want people to think this is what Marietta is all about," she added, motioning towards the tavern. "This is what some people think the South is still like. Marietta's come a long way but I guess it's still got a little ways to go."

She said she'd like to see the city ban Norman's provocative musings regularly posted on a sign out front of the bar, which is near Marietta's downtown square. Those who gathered Tuesday say they will continue their campaign against Norman's "hate speech."

But his defenders are just as resolute. Mulligan's is a refuge, they say, in an otherwise hypersensitive world. Smoking isn't only allowed at the bar, it's expected.

"This place is a diamond in the rough," said Gene McKinley, a Woodstock engineer among the patrons Tuesday. "People here are genuine and honest. It's the one place I can go without having to worry if I'm offending someone."

Norman said he fielded calls throughout Tuesday about his T-shirts. An ajc.com story about the controversy was picked up on the Drudge Report. "One guy in New Jersey wanted me to send him 100 shirts," said Norman, 63.

He said he noted physical similarities between the Democratic frontrunner and the cartoon monkey while watching a Curious George movie with his grandchildren.

Someone -- "probably a customer, I don't know" -- from Arkansas sent him the shirts, Norman said.

The Tennessee native said he's providing a public service of sorts, reminding people they have a right to offend.

"This is my marketing tool," he said.

---------------------------------------------------------------

West Virginia separated itself from Virginia during the Civil War and became a Union state in 1863. Maybe they're having second thoughts . . .

Ignorance Runs Wild in West Virginia

Two in 10 Whites Cited Race as Factor in Tuesday's Vote;
One-Third of Whites Citing Race in Vote Would Support Obama Over McCain


ANALYSIS By GARY LANGER of ABC News
May 13, 2008


A confluence of groups inclined toward Hillary Clinton gave her an easy victory in the West Virginia primary, with less-educated, lower-income whites predominating in this Southern state.

In a trouble sign for delegate-leader Barack Obama, barely half said they would vote for him in November if he is the party's nominee.

The Race Factor

Racially motivated voting ran somewhat higher than elsewhere: Two in 10 whites said the race of the candidate was a factor in their vote, second only to Mississippi. Just 31 percent of those voters said they'd support Obama against presumptive Republican nominee John McCain, fewer than in other primaries where the question's been asked.

Indeed, as noted, among all West Virginia primary voters, only 49 percent said they would support Obama vs. McCain, far fewer than elsewhere and one of many signs of antipathy toward Obama in the state.

Among Clinton's supporters, just 38 percent said they would vote for Obama against McCain; nearly as many said they would back McCain; and the rest said they would sit it out.

Find Langer's complete analysis here: http://www.abcnews.go.com/PollingUnit/Politics/story?id=4844868&page=1

11 May 2008

limp

I lost my job today. Supervisor Maxwell told me had grown tired of my habitual tardiness and poorly groomed appearance. His fat stubby finger pointed to a dark stain on my pants and a missing button on my shirt.

"I mean, Jesus Mark, do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"

I gathered my belongings and left without saying goodbye to my co-workers. I never liked those people anyway.

The drive home was lonely and depressing. The sky was gigantic gray and swallowed the darting birds and soaring planes. I thought about all the people in the jets: the passengers, the pilots and the neatly dressed flight attendants.

Departures and arrivals.

Moving from point A to point B.

People constantly moving. In the sky. On the interstate. All around me.

The man on the radio warned of an approaching storm. "High winds and heavy rain are likely, so stay tuned to 104.7 WCRI for the latest on this developing storm."

Seek shelter. Find a safe place. Take refuge from the unknown. Hide. If you pay attention, you'll find these warnings everywhere: In the eyes of a passing stranger, in the voice of the newscaster, on the face of the terminally ill. This great trembling, the fear. It's everywhere.

I parked my car and an apartment maintenance man was changing the locks on the unit opposite mine.

"They say one helluva storm is headed our way," I said to him. He didn't flinch from his work. Perhaps he didn't hear me, I thought. "I said, one helluva storm is --"

"Yeah yeah, I heard ya the first time," he replied, obviously agitated.

"Oh . . . OK . . . Well, have a good one."

He grunted and sneered at my words.

The soft hum of the refrigerator greeted me as I entered my apartment. Through the front door I heard the maintenance man tapping and hammering. I peered through the blinds and observed him. He was at least 50 years of age. A wedding band was absent from his left hand, and I wondered if he was a lifelong bachelor. I doubted it. Men who are good with their hands and mechanically inclined rarely are single. Women appreciate men who can repair household appliances and perform minor car repairs. This breed of man sit atop the food chain.

I'm not one of them.

My father died when I was just six years old. Games of catch with weathered baseball mitts . . . Learning the rudimentary components of an automobile's engine . . . I do not know such memories. My mother remained a widow until her final breath, so I had to teach myself to be a "man."

I failed miserably.

Had this man fathered any children? I saw his rusted face and it read like a book: Years ago he had met a woman in Georgia. An unplanned pregnancy made their courtship a brief one. With a ratty suitcase in his hand and a Marlboro in his mouth, he stood in the darkened doorway and gave her sleeping body one final glance. She looked so peaceful, so innocent. An innocent victim. And he was gone, off to Tennessee. The following morning she awoke to an empty bed and a one-page letter on the cluttered dining room table. One page to justify a departure. One page to construct an apology. Eight months later she gave birth to twins, two baby boys, bastards by no fault of their own. And now, somewhere in Georgia, a mother and her two children struggle to survive. Government assistance. Secondhand fabrics clothe malnourished bodies. A dilapidated trailer home with faulty plumbing. A single-parent family drowning in poverty. A single-page letter of vowels and consonants -- just words.

They are slowly dying while the estranged father, the maintenance man of Forest Park Apartments, spends his evenings eating TV dinners and watching sitcoms. Television programs about happily dysfunctional families and funny mishaps. But he never laughs, doesn't even crack a smile while microwaved mashed potatoes dribble down his crooked chin. He watches commercials about products and services designed to make like easier and more enjoyable.

"A happy family life . . ."

"A good loving companion . . ."

"Vacations in the sun . . ."

"All of this can be yours . . ."

These slogans, these 30-second advertisements, these flickering families of prime time are reminders of what his life could be.

But it's not.

And it won't be.

He is a maintenance man. A man struggling to preserve a property. A life. A man battling the reverberations, the cycle of time. Preserve a structure while a crack crawls up the wall of apartment 213. Preserve the structure of your life while another wrinkle slowly carves itself into your face.

Cracks.

Breaks.

Leaks.

Deterioration.

Preserve.

Fight.

Preserve the facade.

Fight . . . time.

Every day.

Every moment.

You'll do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation.

As I watched him a fear began to churn in my belly. His lonely life. The regret. Opportunities missed. His futile battle. A life that awaits me in the curdled blood of the future.

I turned away. I turned away from the window to attend to my five fish -- five creatures that relied upon me for their perpetuation. I prepared to feed them but it was pointless. Atop the rippling surface all five of my beloved fish floated. Expired. Passed away. All of them. Now just dead things. Objects beyond saving, preserving. They had become articles to be disposed of. Buried. Flushed. I let the departed castaways float. They no longer had coordinates, direction. I was struck by their frozen state, their profound beauty: They had defied time and eclipsed the ever-passing moment. Regardless of our attempts to scavenge the now for permanence, nothing can be saved. Time is the perpetual victor.

I turned away. I turned away from the aquarium and checked my e-mail. Nothing but spam promising high-powered pharmaceuticals without a prescription, a bigger penis and hardcore pornography.

The slogans. The advertisements. Tantalizing promises of an easier, more enjoyable life. Just forget the present and become the future. Take a pill to cure the pain. Feed the fetish to silence the desire. Erase yourself. Just delete the moment.

I clicked the link for "Hot Hot Hardcore Action!" and was directed to a website that displayed naked women, close-ups of penises plunged into vaginas and assholes, and short video clips of men and women engaged in a variety of sexual acts. The video clips were brief and looped endlessly.

Over and over.

In and out. In and out.

Up and down. Up and down.

Ejaculation. Ejaculation.

A moment.

Repeating.

Over and over.

For $29.99 per month I could have access to thousands of pictures and hundreds of videos featuring "filthy whores" and "barely legal teens begging to fuck!"

You'll do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation.

I entered my credit card number and within seconds a wealth of pornography was just a mouse click away.

The emptiness. The desolation. Just forget. Erase the now. The ever-passing moment . . . it's burning in your belly like a raging ulcer. Just cure the pain. Become the future. Become the invisible.

I clicked on the video "Gina Gets Gang Fucked." The video began with Gina naked on a bed. She was rubbing her vagina while three naked men surrounded her, all of them stroking their penises. I stared at the colors. The images. Gina's naked body. I undressed myself.

"Think you can handle all three of us?" one of the men asked. She nodded seductively and began to suck one of their penises.

Within minutes her body was smothered by the three men. The predators were penetrating their pray. In her mouth. In her vagina. In her anus.

I gazed at the pleasure points. I stroked my penis. The men uttered ecstatic cliches of sexual gratification. Gina, with a penis crammed into her mouth, barely made a sound.

And I stroked myself, attempting to get hard.

Faster.

Faster.

Stare.

Fantasize.

Pretend you are someone else.

Chase the feeling. The moment.

And I continued to stroke my penis, waiting for blood to flood blood vessels.

Faster and faster.

But nothing.

The video continued and I began to separate myself from the moving images, the flashing screen. I stopped stroking my penis and just stood there with my dead cock in my hand, watching people -- nothing more than digitized images trapped in time -- copulate. A crooked scar was carved into one of the men's thighs. Below Gina's navel was a poorly inked tattoo which read "Daddy's Girl."

Who were these people, these strangers?

I watched the four bodies not as a group performing abhorrent sexual acts but as individuals. Real people who breathe. Eat. Sleep. Exist -- somewhere. And it suddenly seemed bizarre that I was watching their twisted figures. The sweaty meat. The penetrating organs. The violated holes of flesh. I was watching four strangers fuck.

And in my right hand lay my limp penis.

"Oh yeah baby, are you ready to take this?"

And one after one the men ejaculated onto Gina's face.

"Mmmm . . . yeah, I like that," she said.

You'll do anything to stave off the emptiness. The desolation. If only you could erase yourself from the present, the moment. Become someone else.

And the video ended. The soft hum of the refrigerator filled all the empty spaces. The maintenance man was gone, at home with the sitcoms and lukewarm mashed potatoes.

And I was naked. In my apartment. Alone with five dead fish.

"Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"

I walked into my bedroom and stared at myself in the silver glass.

My brown hair -- oily.

My green eyes -- vacuous.

My torso -- well-defined clavicles.

My penis -- a sex organ.

My legs -- pale and thin.

Me. Naked. Stripped.

What do you see?

I was a passenger in a soaring jet.

I was a voice on the radio forecasting rain.

I was a co-worker preparing useless documents.

I was a maintenance man changing the locks of a vacant apartment.

I was a dead fish floating without direction.

I was a scarred man fucking Gina.

I was Gina, and I was once a child of innocence.

You'll become anyone and do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation. Just preserve. Maintain the facade so the future will be recognizable. Leave a dent, a mark. Leave something that will prove you existed. Fend off ugliness. The scabs. The scars. Uproot the weeds. Paint over the holes. Bury the bodies, the objects. Fuck until dopamine floods your brain and everything is temporarily erased. Just minimize the damage. Cure the pain. Become a slogan, an advertisement. Smile for the camera.

Because it's all vanishing.

Floating across your eyes and tumbling through your fingertips into that immense abyss -- the vacuum of history.

A flash of light sparked the sky. Thunder rattled the panes of glass. A great rain fell from the heavens.

And I walked outside. Naked. Not as a man but as a creature of the past, present and future -- the now.

And I walked outside. Naked. Not as a man but as a creature of the past, present and future -- the now. The rain soaked my hair. The water trickled down my chest. The drops dribbled from my limp penis. I was a drenched beast who had accepted the brutal testament of time and its bittersweet fruit -- the beautiful futility of existence.

xx

07 May 2008

clinton narrowly wins indiana, but has her death knell sounded?



INDIANAPOLIS (AP) -- Barack Obama swept to a convincing victory in the North Carolina primary Tuesday night and declared he was closing in on the Democratic presidential nomination. Hillary Rodham Clinton eked out a win in Indiana as she struggled to halt her rival's march into history.

"Tonight we stand less than 200 delegates away from securing the Democratic nomination for president of the United States," Obama told a raucous rally in Raleigh, N.C. - and left no doubt he intended to claim the prize.

Clinton stepped before her own supporters not long afterward in Indianapolis. "Thanks to you, it's full speed on to the White House," she said, signaling her determination to fight on in a campaign already waged across more than 16 months and nearly all 50 states.

Returns from 99 percent of North Carolina precincts showed Obama winning 56 percent of the vote to 42 percent for Clinton, a triumph that mirrored his earlier wins in Southern states with large black populations.

That made Indiana a virtual must-win Midwestern contest for the former first lady, who had hoped to counter Obama's persistent delegate advantage with a strong run through the late primaries.

Returns from 99 percent of the precincts showed her with 51 percent to 49 percent for her rival, a margin of little more than 22,000 votes out of more than 1.2 million cast. The outcome wasn't clear for more than six hours after the polls closed, the uncertainty stemming from slow counting in Lake County near Obama's home city of Chicago.

Obama won at least 69 delegates and Clinton at least 63 in the two states combined, with 55 still to be awarded.

Voters in both states fell along racial lines long since established in a marathon race between the nation's strongest-ever black presidential candidate and its most formidable female challenger for the White House.

The economy was the top issue by far in both states, according to interviews with voters as they left their polling places.

Two weeks after a decisive defeat in Pennsylvania, Obama sounded increasingly like he was looking forward to the fall campaign.

"This primary season may not be over, but when it is, we will have to remember who we are as Democrats ... because we all agree that at this defining moment in history - a moment when we're facing two wars, an economy in turmoil, a planet in peril - we can't afford to give John McCain the chance to serve out George Bush's third term."

Clinton was joined at her rally by her husband Bill, his face sunburned after hours spent campaigning in small-town North Carolina, and their daughter, Chelsea.

She stressed the issue that came to dominate the final days of the primaries in both states, her call for a summertime suspension of the federal gasoline tax. "I think it's time to give Americans a break this summer," she said.

She added that no matter who wins the epic race for the nomination, "I will work for the nominee of this party" in the fall campaign against the Republicans. To emphasize her determination, Clinton announced plans to campaign Thursday in West Virginia, South Dakota and Oregon, three of the remaining primary states.

Obama was gaining more than 90 percent of the black vote in Indiana, while Clinton was winning an estimated 61 percent of the white vote there.

In North Carolina, Clinton won 60 percent of the white vote, while Obama claimed support from roughly 90 percent of the blacks who cast ballots.

Obama's delegate haul edged him closer to his prize - 1815.5 to 1,672 for Clinton in The Associated Press count, out of 2,025 needed to win the nomination.

As he told his supporters, Obama was on pace to finish the night within 200 delegates of the total needed. There are 217 delegates at stake in the six primaries yet to come. Another 270 superdelegates remain uncommitted.

He has long led Clinton among delegates won in the primaries and caucuses, and has increasingly narrowed his deficit among superdelegates who will attend the convention by virtue of their status as party leaders. The AP tally showed Clinton with 269.5 superdelegates, and Obama with 255.

The impact of a long-running controversy over Obama's former pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, was difficult to measure.

In North Carolina, six in 10 voters who said Wright's incendiary comments affected their votes sided with Clinton. A somewhat larger percentage of voters who said the pastor's remarks did not matter supported Obama.

The questionnaire used to learn about voter motivation did not include any questions about the gasoline tax.

In Indiana, about one in five voters said they were independents, an additional one in 10 said Republican.

Only Democrats and unaffiliated voters were permitted to vote in North Carolina.

Voting in Indiana was carried out under a state law, recently upheld by the Supreme Court, that requires voters to produce a valid photo ID. About a dozen nuns in their 80s and 90s at St. Mary's Convent in South Bend were denied ballots because they lacked the necessary identification.

Obama leads Clinton in delegates won in primaries and caucuses. Despite his defeat two weeks ago, he has steadily whittled away at her advantage in superdelegates in the past two weeks and trails 269.5 to 255.

Clinton saved her candidacy with her win in Pennsylvania, and she campaigned aggressively in Indiana in hopes of denying Obama a victory next door to his home state of Illinois. Indiana is home to large numbers of blue-collar workers who have been attracted to the former first lady, and she sought to use her call for a federal gas tax holiday to draw them and other economically pinched voters closer.

Inevitably, the issue quickly took on larger dimensions.

Obama said it symbolized a candidacy consisting of "phony ideas, calculated to win elections instead of actually solving problems."

Clinton retorted, "Instead of attacking the problem, he's attacking my solutions," and ran an ad in the campaign's final hours that said she "gets it."

The balance of the primary schedule includes West Virginia, with 28 delegates on May 13; Oregon with 52 and Kentucky with 51 a week later; Puerto Rico with 55 delegates on June 1, and Montana with 16 and South Dakota with 15 on June 3.

Sen. McCain of Arizona, the Republican nomination already in hand, campaigned in North Carolina and assailed Obama for his vote against confirmation of Chief Justice John Roberts.

"Senator Obama in particular likes to talk up his background as a lecturer on law, and also as someone who can work across the aisle to get things done," McCain said. "But ... he went right along with the partisan crowd, and was among the 22 senators to vote against this highly qualified nominee."

Clinton also voted against Roberts, but McCain, as is often the case, focused his remarks on Obama.

Obama's campaign responded that the Republican would pick judges who represent a threat to abortion rights and to McCain's own legislation to limit the role of money in political campaigns.

---

© 2008 The Associated Press.

05 May 2008

decision day

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For the first time in 40 years, Indiana is a battleground state -- and tomorrow is Decision Day.

I urge all of my fellow Hoosiers to make your voice heard. Visit your local polling place and vote.

Vote for CHANGE.

Vote for HOPE.

Vote for Barack Obama.



Click the above button to find your polling place and learn more about Barack.

03 May 2008

found.1













































Photograph by unknown

(I discovered this intriguing photograph at a local antique shop. I'll share other finds in future posts.)

xx