When I was little, I used to whittle crayons into the shapes of the heads of various Presidential candidates during election time. Why? Nobody knows. But it's that childlike and irrationally exuberant enthusiasm I'd like to muster right now. Think of election night as a sort of prom for the nation—for one night, the jocks and the preps and the princesses and the thugs can put aside their petty rivalries, cynicism, and class boundaries, and slow-dance with Obama. It's one of those bittersweet nights where you really believe that, you know, anything can happen.
It's been a long time without a whole lotta change, especially if you're young. Long enough to make you think that you don't care, and it doesn't matter. But after eight dark years of Bush—plus eight years of Clintonian disappointment before that, and four years of the current President's dad before that—what do we have to lose in being hopeful about a president who appears to be unlike any other we've seen in our lifetime?
Would it kill us to imagine a place where we don't have to wait six hours in the emergency room and be presented with a $3,000 bill because we don't have health insurance? Does it make sense to feel embarrassed every time you venture abroad? Is it not totally crazy to imagine that a clerk working 40 hours a week at CVS might be able to take home more than $286? Must balancing your—or America's—checkbook really involve criminal survival economics and voodoo math? Is it completely fucking insane to envision a nation that doesn't invade other countries for a fabricated wild-goose nuclear weapons chase, oil, or fun?
No. No it is not.
Are you so mad as hell that you're not going to take it anymore? It's OK. Are you bored and disillusioned and tired of politics? Understandable. But something's happening, although what isn't exactly clear. Forgive us for getting caught up in the moment, but it feels like something's moving.
Obama will be the first to tell you that he ain't no Jesus, black or otherwise. But tonight, we say without snark: we feel hopeful.
Dexter Filkins spent four years covering the Iraq War for the New York Times. Today, the paper's magazine has an excerpt of his upcoming book, The Forever War. Filkins is a beautiful writer, which only serves to enhance the enormous sadness of his story. The piece pulses not with political outrage, but with weariness over a steady diet of death. After the jump, one small excerpt: Filkins tells how his desire for a photo of a dead insurgent ended with a Marine shot and killed:
It was found while some people were cleaning the beach, and they tracked him down. (No, he didn't find it on E-bay!) "Now aged 33, Mr Wylie said his mother had encouraged him to throw bottles into the sea as a child - something which he continues to do with his own children."
In Eastham, Massachusetts, a beagle named Hank was barred from coming to work with its owner every day. Fair enough. To fight back, the beagle's owned wanted to "showcase Hank and local beagles in need of homes on their own float it the Sept. 7 'Windmill Weekend' parade.'" But now the beagle's been banned from the parade as well! [
In small towns, shame is used to regulate people's behavior. In New York, we have Gawker. Welcome to the town meeting! Guess what—it's not okay to try to force a girl to do things she doesn't want to do. OK? It's also not okay to grab them! Something like that happened to me once, and it was scary! So what did everyone have to say about the 
Former Gawker editor Doree Shafrir wonders today about the 
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