Democrats, God bless ‘em, love the underdog.
Maybe it started in 1960, that magical year when the country put aside 0.1 percent of its prejudices and a few dead-body-ballots in Chicago to elect a young, idealistic Catholic to the White House. Maybe it was his untimely death, maybe the pain of two Nixon victories, the nightmare of Carter or the tabling of hope when nominating vultures like Humphrey, Mondale and Dukakis, but the party of donkeys has a definite penchant for the ostrich and his head full of cool, sandy dreams.
And now, in this savage Year of Our Lord 2008, at the divinely-appointed confluence of all things electorally miraculous, the party got picky. After eight funereal years of intractable war, economic meltdown, international scorn and a fine dismemberment of the Constitution, the boys and girls in blue were handed a blank check to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, hand-delivered by a fed-up citizenry and bathed in the perfumes of a friendly Congress. Only two questions remained: how great was to be the glory, and who would hoist the banner of Change while placing his, or her hand, whether it be black or white or Latino or gay or young or old, on John Roberts’s swearing-in Bible. This was to be the karmic calling in of all favors to balance out Lee Harvey Oswald and company, George Wallace, the Canuck Letter, the Monkey Business, Newt Gingrich, Florida 2000, Ken Starr and Karl Rove, et al.