Saturday, September 27, 2008

What About Now?

I'm sick to freakin' death of the underlying text of what passes for politics in this so-called Greatest Country on Earth. The news media simultaneously reports that many white voters think blacks are "too lazy, violent, and responsible for their own troubles." At the same time we hear some people think Obama is too elitist, too priviledged, too refined.

We hear whispers about how he's really a radical Muslim, while hearing about his so-called racist black Christian pastor.

Make up your freakin' mind!

I'm sick of basically getting the idea that America is "not ready" for a black president, while of course having to put up with comments about how he's not black enough. I don't feel like waiting. I've waited long enough. 8 years is more than enough. How's NOW work for you?

From Robbie Robertson's song What About Now:
There's gonna be a change of season
Indian summer look around and it's gone
Why you wanna save the best for last
We grow up so slowly and grow old so fast

We don't talk about forever
We just catch it while we can
And if i grab on to the moment
Don't let it slip away out of my hand

What about now
Forget about tomorrow
It's too far away
What about now
Close your eyes
Don't talk of yesterday
It's too far away, too far away
What about now

I'm coming out of the shadows
I'm getting of of this one way street
Blue memories they just gather dust
Leave them in the rain they turn into rust

Did you see the march to freedom
Did you ever see savannah moon
All the people walking in a line
Said to the man, is it my time?


In the walk of a lifetime
When you know it's the right time
I can't wait until the ship comes in
I can't wait starting all over again
The errors of a wise man
Make the rules for a fool
MP3 (with vinyl record scratch noises!)

1 comment:

dave lee said...

I couln't agree more, Geoff. It is definitely time. The country can't afford four more years of the same indifference, intolerance and governmental indolence. Fence sitters: it's time to step up.