Chicken Little and the Magic 8-Ball
Chicken Little is a perfect example of how you need to be careful when taking in information from the media. This morning I awoke to the sounds of frantic clucking mixed with sobbing. Knowing that this generally means nothing good for me and since it was only 4:30 A - before the butt crack of dawn - M I grabbed my pillow and shoved it down over my face covering my ears the best I could.
Unfortunately when Chicken Little has one of her patented anxiety attacks nothing you do short of wringing her skinny little neck drowns out the noise. Kicking at the covers with my feet in a sleep drunk anger I get out of bed and stomp out of my bedroom and head to the cramped little office space that I share with Br. Ezra next to the kitchen.
I smell coffee!
I hear the gentle sounds of percolating coffee in the silence between sobs where Chicken Little is drawing more air into her lungs. I am obviously not alone.
“Ezra?”
“Shhhh!”
The command is hissed at me in a familiar feminine voice that is not Sidran’s. I poke my head around the corner and see Chicken Little resting her head in Mary Magdalene’s lap. They are sitting on the raggedy couch in the small front room. Mary is gently stroking Chicken Little’s hair cooing to her softly. There are newspapers all over the room. It looks like a big wind blew in raining news print and havoc.
“What the fu...”
Mary Magdalene gives me a stern look. The emerald green of her Irish eyes pierce my flesh like daggers. I instantly shut my mouth. I know what’s good for me. Mary is one of the gentlest souls I know, but when she is in mama bear mode you don’t cross her or she will rip you to shreds. It’s good having a friend like Mary Magdalene. I highly recommend it.
“Put the tea pot on and make some chamomile, peppermint and rose hips tea for Chicken Little.”
“Don’t forget the honey stick,” croaks Chicken Little.
“Got it, tea and honey sticks. Be right back.”
Fifteen minutes later I enter the living room carrying a tray with cup, teapot and honey sticks. Water boils slower at this altitude, or is it faster? I can’t remember. I set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the couch and then head back to the kitchen to grab both Mary and myself cups of coffee - so much for cutting back on my caffeine intake today.
*
I have been sitting on the couch drinking my coffee in silence, watching Chicken Little doze peacefully in Mary’s lap. Mary finally looks up at me. I raise my left eye brow at her. I know I shouldn’t do it, but it’s an involuntary knee jerk, or eye-brow jerk reaction.
“What?” She says as if she doesn’t know.
I indicate the mess of newspapers and the gently dozing chicken in her lap.
“Oh that!”
“Yeah - that,” I say.
“Chicken Little has been reading the newspapers again. She saw a poll that said McCain has pulled ahead and she started freaking out.”
“First of all why is she reading a newspaper and 4:30 in the morning, and secondly, didn’t you put her on news probation until at least two weeks following the RNC?”
“Bi-polar chickens rarely follow the advice of others,” Mary replied.
I snort in disgust. We have been over this a hundred times with her since the beginning of the Democratic National Convention here in Denver last month. The candidate whose convention is currently rapping up almost always has a slight lead over the other candidate. It’s all about the rah-rah, the sizzle and the oompah-pah of the pomp and circumstance of political conventions. In many ways they are the same as a high school pep rally only with liquor and sex under the bleachers. Well - at least with people who are legally old enough to drink liquor and have sex under the bleachers.
“It means nothing at this point. It’s barely a couple of percentage points. Following the DNC Obama pulled ahead. Right now McCain’s popularity is really about Palin. That will settle down eventually.”
“Let’s hope so,” Mary says thoughtfully as she gazes lovingly down at Chicken Little, “I sometimes think we overestimate just how conservative this country really is at times.”
“The race is still too early to hand to either candidate. There is going to be some fluctuation…”
“Did you know that according to one of Chicken Little’s newspapers white women favor Sarah Palin?”
As a man I have a hard time understanding how any woman could ever support a Sarah Palin. She is not the feminist that Fox News is trying to portray her as. She’s the anti-feminist. I am more of a feminist than Sarah Palin and I am both male and sexist.
As if she could read my mind, Mary Magdalene suddenly says, “She is kind of a new white feminist.”
“What?”
I am incredulous. I can’t believe my beloved, liberal Mary M would make such a statement.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Mary says, “I don’t think she is a feminist no matter how you twist and pervert that term. But she sort of represents the ideal for women in this country - Career and family. Unfortunately along with family comes that repressive family values crap.”
“Well, maybe if she really followed that repressive family values crap her 17 year old daughter wouldn’t have gotten knocked way up!”
“You know, you really ought to let that go. It makes you seem like such a brute,” Mary says.
“I am just saying if you’re going to publicly tout certain values then you should expect to be judged by them. Palin believes that sex education should be kept out of the schools and that abstinence only is the only education children need. Her daughter is sort of evidence that the shit doesn’t work.”
Mary groans and roles her eyes. She usually does this when I get on a rant.
“And another thing,” I say, “What do they mean white women prefer Palin? I know a lot of white woman - you, Sidran, Jill, Summer - who don’t appreciate her or her values. I think what they meant to say is white hillbilly evangelical Christian women.”
Mary starts to reply when Chicken Little stirs.
“You feeling better honey,” Mary asks.
The chicken nods her head.
“What were you doing reading the newspapers you…”
“It wasn’t the newspapers,” She replied.
“Well then what the hell was it?” I ask. Mary shoots me a stern glance.
“It was the Magic 8-Ball”
Mary and I look at each other in puzzlement.
“I asked it if Obama was going to win.”
“Let me guess,” Mary said, “The 8-Ball told you the ‘outlook wasn’t so good.’”
“No! It said, ‘Reply hazy, try again later.’”
This is going to be the longest 12 weeks ever.