The psychiatrist Krauthammer notes, interestingly, that there is nobody to vouch for Obama. Shrinks are trained to notice things like that: how do people relate, and to whom. Where are the witnesses to his ability? Where are his friends and colleagues? Are there any left? A quote:
So where are the colleagues? The buddies? The political or spiritual soul mates? His most important spiritual adviser and mentor was Jeremiah Wright. But he's out. Then there's William Ayers, with whom he served on a board. He's out. Where are the others?
The oddity of this convention is that its central figure is the ultimate self-made man, a dazzling mysterious Gatsby. The palpable apprehension is that the anointed is a stranger — a deeply engaging, elegant, brilliant stranger with whom the Democrats had a torrid affair.
Having slowly woken up, they see the ring and wonder who exactly they married last night.
Yes, he does seem like the elegant mysterious stranger who arrived out of nowhere like the Music Man. Immature people without personal foundations fill in those blanks with their own hopes and dreams. The reality is that he is a fine but not extraordinary black preacher/talker who has never done much, who nobody seems to really know, who carries a barely-covert communitarian message which is not my vision of America (except in my own neighborhood, where we all give eachother a hand).
Fantasy is fun, as is ego-tripping. Reality is the problem, and hard reality is often a bummer.
Let's grow up, America, and not feed on pixie-dust.
