Redstate

By Vladimir Posted in 2008 | Bob Dylan | new york times — Comments (1) / Email this page » / Leave a comment »

Maureen Dowd, looking longingly at Barack Obama and apparently finding no there there, invents a romantic persona for him out of whole cloth:

Unlike W., Obama doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder and he doesn’t make a lot of snarky remarks. He tries to stay on a positive keel and see things from the other person’s point of view.

He’s not Richie Rich, saved time and again by Daddy’s influence and Daddy’s friends, the one who got waved into Yale and Harvard and cushy business deals, who drank too much and snickered at the intellectuals and gave them snide nicknames.

Obama is the outsider who never really knew his dad and who grew up in modest circumstances, the kid who had to work hard to charm whites and build a life with blacks and step up to the smarty-pants set.

He might be smoking, but it would be at a cafe, hunched over a New York Times, an Atlantic magazine, his MacBook and some organic fruit-flavored tea, listening to Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” on his iPod.

Blood on the Tracks? Oh, baby! Now we're talking! Tangled Up in Blue! Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts! But then there's my all-time favorite, Idiot Wind; I'm sure Obama can relate:

Someone's got it in for me, they're planting stories in the press
Whoever it is I wish they'd cut it out but when they will I can only guess.
...
People see me all the time and they just can't remember how to act
Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts.
...
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth,
Blowing down the backroads headin' south.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.