call the man

I had a really interesting chat with Barack Obama last night. It was either last night or really early this morning, I'll have to check the transcripts and get back to you. Either way, it went something like this:
Pat Contreras knows Barack. There is even photo proof of it on Pat's facebook profile. Really, it's not even a big surprise, because Pat just oozes political-legal smarmyness. He and I met in Madrid when we were both studying abroad there in 2001, and Pat has since gone on to law school at Columbia. All I could think when we met was that he had a certain ambition that was beyond my comprehension. While I wanted to climb and travel and write, Pat wanted to do something huge; truly Earth shattering. He is incredibly well spoken and thoughful, and he uses his charm to move through social and academic circles like a legendary ghost. Meeting Pat leaves you with a sense that you've just witnessed something unique and untenable. Pat is a movie that's got great actors, none of whom are too famous yet, and a screenwriter who has done one critically acclaimed script, and another that was brilliant though under appreciated. He is the raw potential that quiets any other expectation. He is a younger Barack Obama. I can only assume that Pat met Barack while studying law in NYC. Though we've never discussed their meeting, I assume they were in the same room at a large cocktail party, and Pat sensed his chance to grab the fate that was his to begin with. While everyone else milled around, nervously sipping their vodka-tonic and waiting for the speeches, Pat decided that his moment to begin integration with the American Political Elite was at his fingertips.

Pat and I got back together to talk about the election last night, and it happened that he had Barack's cell number. I was feeling especially frustrated given the plight of America, and have come to the conclusion that it is a mathematical impossibility for either Clinton or McCain to right this sinking ship. In my mind, there is no guarantee that Barack will succeed, but his background, intellect, and charisma give him at least a puncher's chance. I had to tell him. I called the number.
North Carolina had just overwhelmingly voted in his favor, and he had just finished his speech in Raleigh when I called. His campaign manager picked up, and I introduced myself.
"This is Patrick Pharo. Barack knows me from Denver. I have some news about the convention."

True enough, I am from Denver. I do not, however, have anything to do with the Democratic National Convention that will grace our city in August. What the hell? It was a good way to get Barack on the phone. Given that it was his personal cell number, held only by his personal confidantes, all I needed was to sound sufficiently sure of myself.

"Ok, here he is."
"Oh, and by the way, we send our congratulations about North Carolina. A really decisive victory!"
"Thanks. Here's Barack."
"Barack, this is Patrick Pharo from Denver. I've got to say, congratulations on tonight. Great work. Look, I need you to know, you are the candidate. There isn't another option. Hillary cannot lead this country in a way that will be in anyway productive. We need you, and most importantly, we need you to spur Americans towards a more thoughtful energy policy, and we have to figure out personal transportation. You know the models our cities are planned upon. We are going to cease to be as a flourishing society unless you can achieve drastic results. I hate to throw all of this on your plate, but please, PLEASE, save our country from its current trajectory."
"Yes. Thanks. I'll do my best. Who is this again?"
"Patrick Pharo, I'll see you in Denver."
And on Pat Contreras' coattails, I brushed alongside the only hope we have for real change.

I don't know if anyone can salvage America starting in 2009. It seems like there are so many coincidental problems that beset our country at present, we may not make it through. We'll likely be at war with the Chinese over the last barrel of oil in 60 years, so it might not matter unless we can figure out how to disentangle ourselves from hydrocarbons. We might be inundated by the sea if climate change takes it's worst predicted form. The American Dollar might be more useful as toilet paper, bringing back memories from the Weimar Republic's citizenry walking to buy eggs with a wheelbarrow full of currency. Our middle class is nearly non-existent, and the haves are so far from the have-nots that we might need an armed revolution to return to a palatable equilibrium. The religious right has lost touch with science and will willingly kill us all so that they can get to their heaven faster. Capitalism rules our minds, and many of us seem gladly willing to trade a handsome profit in the next quarter for our long term health and happiness.
We'll see. I'll try to embrace the Audacity of Hope, and believe in the change one man purports to embody.