Standard disclaimer. I am one of the mild mannered ones. I do not go around bashing Hillary or Hillary supporters. I have always distinguished between the sane ones and the loony bins. It is easy. Every candidate including the one I support has their share of demented pigeons fluttering about them. But I have read a lot of "cut them some slack" type diaries. They seem to fall into three general "types"

In the early 1970's. My mother was pregnant. She was the eldest daughter, and my father was the eldest son, this was the first grandchild, and my grandmothers, both of them went ballistic in their efforts to ensure that this would be the smartest, best looking, sweetest grandchild. Before said baby was born. In typical Indian tradition, they plied my mother with sweetmeats cooked with fragrant clarified butter and coconut water. They read Indian mythological tales aloud to her belly. And they didn't let her eat anything bitter, sour or spicy. It was a superstition that these things would lead to a sweet tempered, smart baby, but also- a light skinned baby.

In an office full of creative geniuses, I am the statistician often telling them their brilliant ideas "won't work" or as they call me the "Accountant". In a site full of sparkling wit and deeply involving blogs, I am the dreary wallflower. In a family of shockingly beautiful and brilliant women, I am the "black sheep". In short, if life were an election campaign, I'd be Florida- the one who everyone starts hating at the end of it all.  

I was 14 years old when I smoked my first cigarette and I remember it so clearly. I studied in a Catholic School then, and there was a statue of a rather wistful looking lady of stone. She was called the "Lady of Perpetual Succour" but my nihilistic tendencies as a teenager did not let me treat her with any respect. She stood, her arms palms outwards, fingers slightly spread as though gathering invisible children beneath. Her face was cast down, her expression sad but pious. She stood on top of a wide, fat block of stone surrounded by topiary, and enterprising students hid behind to furtively puff on cigarettes, the smoke obscured behind the green and grey. Eventually when `rumors' broke out that students were smoking, and bags were searched we used her slightly spread fingers to hide our stash as well. And we attended school with expressions of youthful innocence, expressing well practised and entirely fake shock and surprise that any student was sinful enough to engage in such filthy activities.

My grandfather was not overtly young and idealistic when he first got the chance to hear Gandhi speak but he was almost boyishly "gushy" about it. He stood there- one in a crowd of diverse people. As a south Indian Brahmin from a very wealthy family, he experienced something truly alien. People of both genders, of all castes and creeds, of all classes and religions stood there together. Even some Britishers! He described the sensation as "heady, uplifting and euphoric". I asked about what Gandhi had to say.

"No idea." he replied.

"Was his message too lofty or something?" I asked.

"No. I couldn't hear a word he said." He shrugged. "But standing there with people of all ages, young, old, poor, rich...everyone...I felt that I was part of something larger than just myself. It was the first time I felt more like an INDIAN than I did a Tamilian Brahmin."

One day, my best friend and I had canvassed a large, rather conservative neighborhood near Kansas City to request that people not support a constitutional amendment to define marriage as strictly between a man and woman. It was a gruelling five hours. We got yelled at, preached at, often got a patient but patronizing hearing, and occasionally asked to leave because my friend was gay. We returned to the group, when my husband called. I was 4 hours late. He was stressed because our then 2 year old was feverish and cranky. We had quite the row. I turned to the group and said "Are you sure you guys want to go through all this effort to get married? It is highly over-rated".

You know what? Tips are over rated. They are over-rated because if you have any sense, you are gonna use it to buy beer anyway. Let me cut out the middle man and give a beer to some fine kossacks. Maybe you made the Rec List or maybe you didn't. Maybe your diary caused a flurry of comments or maybe it got overlooked. But in my eyes, you are totally worth a pitcher and I'll even pay for it.

Sometimes, you can say things that can cause a reaction rather like you just let out a loud, stinky one in confined space. You get the "WTF" looks, even the concerned "are you quite alright?" looks. And then everyone walks away in single file, leaving you alone with your own noxious emissions, feeling embarassed and ashamed, but curiously defiant. Holding it in would have been a lot worse.

I have heard the change vs. experience, the judgement vs readiness and the establishment vs netroots arguments so often that when I use the loo, I pee policy but crap inspiration. There are those of you who will proudly vote party no matter which candidate gets chosen, and there are those who will stay home, or petulantly vote for the Republican candidate.  

I am not going to speak of the candidates you support. I am going of an entirely fictional pair of candidates- The Pootie and The Woozle. Any similarities between these and your favored candidate are obviously entirely in your head and you might want to see a shrink about that. Also, I like both Pooties and Woozles, so any attempt to marginalize me as the Pootie voter or the Woozle voter will enrage me to the point that I shall use my  JEDI powers to disrobe you as you read this.

About the author: Imported beer lives in Dallas with her white husband, four year old monst...son, and a pootie and a wuzzle. You have read the smart sassy analysis of female bloggers. Now try an alternative.

After reading serious and substantive analysis and opinion some (too few IMO) kossacks often turn to her whimsical, badly written snarks, and if they are sufficiently drunk even find them highly amusing. Though Beer is a Obama supporter, she pulled out a beating heart from a live man's chest and swore she would never write a candidate diary. (Kali Maa, Shakti de). This is perhaps one of the reasons why you'll never find her on a Recommended Diary List. That and the fact that her diaries are often indicative of a very disturbed mind- and heaven knows you should never encourage such people. She uses her graduate degree and highly intuitive behind to study meaningless patterns and macrotrends that basically amount to nothing. Here are some rave reviews by the sharpest minds in the business.

"Only a post game drunken stupor could have produced this."
"I could totally get behind this!"
"I see Uranus"
"A$$tastic"

Before you all get dismissive, let me remind you of why my ass is just an important endorser. Think about it, the one thing that unites all of us is our ass. We all have one- small, big, droopy, perky, white, brown, pink, cute, and very ugly and for the most parts our ass serves us well. My ass is like your ass, though it is infinitely cuter and photogenic than yours. And the endorsement of my ass MATTERS.

The recent Gallup article suggests that one of the reasons the race is tightening is because Obama is starting to pick up in one of Hilary's strongest demographics. I am talking..WOMEN. As late as 18th of January, Hillary had a very strong lead in their polls among women 54-24. She also had an advantage with men- 41-34 which while not as staggering was respectable.

http://www.gallup.com/...

Super Tuesdays are coming, and despite the camaraderie between candidates last night, it is pretty obvious that things are going to get a tad heated here. I have seen the worst of it, and it seems like the more moderate, reasonable of bloggers are not able to reverse the tide of the fanatics. A Hillary supporter who shows an understanding of the Obama surge beyond the "you drunks his Koolaid", an Obama supporter who can understand the Hillary support beyond "Chick Pick" and an Edward supporter who can remain loyal to their own candidate without painting the other two as those who regularly f%llate corporate interests will be virtually drowned by those who think of the race and candidates like my kid thinks about life. Only my kid is 4 years old.

In the interest of what happened, and what is to come, please permit me this rant. These are my rules. They are just my rules. This is what I shall fantasize about doing to you if you break them.  Obviously, the chances of my pulling this off are slim. I am sure many of you have come across a diary that had you fervently wishing the poster got rear end love from a tumescent water buffalo. Such feelings are natural. The following feelings are valid. As long as we keep in mind the ultimate rule.

IT HAPPENS ONLY IN OUR MINDS.

All data is from Rasmussen for reliability. I don't know the sample size so cannot calculate and analyze for significance so have done so on the basis of absolute numbers. If you are an Obama supporter, there is much in this data to make you pretty excited. There is also stuff for Hillary fans to be cheerful about. These 3 states are going down to the wire.

In my high school, nearly 15 years ago, Prom was quickly approaching. Everyone was very excited. And if you knew anything at all about that school, you knew there were only two people with a realistic shot at it. I don't know what your high school was like, but in mine- it was not enough to be the popular school cheerleader. You needed to have some cred of your own, or none of the girls would vote for you. The favorite...hell the overwhelming favorite was a tall, lithe girl named...well let us call her Beverly Flossman. Beverly played Tennis. Not at the internationally level, but State. She was stunning- tanned, blonde, athletic. She was nice enough, and very popular because she did not have the ascerbic- I am so better than you- air that some cheerleaders did. She and her boyfriend (Headboy no less) were bonafide school royalty.

What do you tell a man who tells you.."You are not Mexican? I guess that means you came here legally" and bursts into laughter, eagerly echoed by his buddy? What if the same man also claims that the upcoming general elections will be between an American Hero and a Lesbo nut cracker? Oh and what if he adds that a "Niggerlite" might be her VP? Oh and Edwards being the Queer Eye candidate? There have been diary after diary about how divided we are about our choices for candidates in the primary, but perhaps this diary will illustrate what it is to be a Democrat in a Red State, and why despite my support for a candidate, I'd never demean another.

I was 15 when I had my first crush. It was on a sensitive, articulate, ridiculously good looking young man- probably the only man I knew that read the same books I did, and could argue intelligently and eloquently about Joseph Campbell. When he asked me out for dinner, I was excited. During dinner he introduced me to his handsome, equally eloquent and intelligent boyfriend. For the next 1 hour sad George Michael ballads played through my head. (foreshadowing?) But at the end of it, I was convinced that they were indeed perfect for each other. I went home and told my mom, I had met a guy who had a boyfriend. She said..."he is probably very artistic".

I saw a program on the stage that claimed it was a primary debate, but I fear I saw much much more. I see now why Edwards supporters love him for his passion and deeply personal way of communicating causes, but why also others claim he is a charlatan. I can see now why Hillary haters loathe her with every fiber of their being and claim they will vote for McCain over her. I also see why her supporters are so loyal that they will fight with her until the end. I saw the lofty messages of hope of unity shake, as the candidate espousing them became sharp and testy, but I can get why he feels that way.

I however loathe the fact that this primary debate has been the ugliest, most divisive one that I have seen and more than one person is to blame for all this. All three are to lesser or greater degree.  I suddenly woke up this morning and realized I hate one of them. But I'd be damned if I let that personal dislike be the subject of my diary.