Obamination
Nobody knows where this is going.


Back in April 2007, before BHO was so much a part of the news cycles, School of the Art Institute of Chicago senior David Codero created this life-sized sculpture and titled the piece My Sweet Lord. The resemblance to the gentleman from Illinois was intentional. The image above came from the Pantagraph site, via AP/Charles Rex Arbogast.

The representation caused something of a snit then and you can read about the to-ing and fro-ing here and here.

Some of the more insightful comments on Pantagraph's site are below:

Jim O. wrote on Apr 3, 2007 10:54 AM:

" To me, this artist's work is more a reflection of how hard up America is for a 'clean' leader. After seven years of the most corrupt regime in U.S. history, the realization that the 2006 Congressional election amounts to a shattered dream where a bunch of cowardly Demo-do-nothings creep about every bit as corrupt as their more blatant Republi-Repulsive counterparts, and manifold doomsday scenarios swimming through the minds of those who possess just an inkling of financial sense, a teaspoon of government knowledge, and the wherewithal to forecast conditions based on the aforementioned concepts, the path for hope has rammed a barrier no less impenetrable than Israel's apartheid wall. And when will they ever leave that poor Jesus guy alone? "

black Je-ZUES wrote on Apr 3, 2007 10:30 AM:

" well at least the artist wasn't lying about the true color Yeshua...We the people should be happy about that. "

Matt wrote on Apr 3, 2007 10:13 AM:

" Did anyone read the article? The artist has a valid point. People are putting Obama on a pedestal (since the Democratic convention a few years back really) without really knowing what he's about. The work is not pro or anti Obama (or pro or anti religion), it's about how people see Obama. "

White Christian wrote on Apr 3, 2007 10:11 AM:

" Perhaps a different spin would be that no one knows when and how Christ will return but He promised He would, and through the centuries the "good Christians" have their pre-determined notions about what He's going to look like. Remove the politics for a moment and substitue anyone else's head on the sculpture: He may be standing next to you and you refuse to see the forest for the trees. "

Thing is, billion-eyed audience -- and this is the problem-- we in the U.S. have failed for a long time to understand that those seeking high public office are just as, and perhaps more, conflicted, contradictory, flawed and riddled with frailties as the rest of us. They are of us, like it or not, and though money and influence and position may separate them from our everyday concerns, they see the same television and occupy our temporal-spatial reality. Some are closer to our situation--or predicament--than others, though.

Presidents preside between three branches of government, that during the past eight years, have morphed into one big prop and sustenance for the collective ego of a handful of nihilistic neo-conservatives.

Presidents aren't miracle workers.

Obama cleaned Hillary's clock in the Crabcake Primaries. He could very well ride this wave through Wisconsin. But the fact is that it's a numbers game, and then it's a persuasion game, and also a matter for the Democrats to wrangle over.

I have enough to keep me busy. My inclination is to just not watch any television until the nights of the upcoming primaries, because until then, what passes for commentary is blather to fill time time before commercials.

The Distinguished Representative from C-SPAN:
Issues. Answers. Hotness.



She'd never accept a Maxim offer.

Thank goodness. She is reserved for us in the bubble of C-SPAN's wonky aspect, where we in our solitude can imagine otherwise. We get to watch her punch the phone, and glare from atop imperious cheek bones through eyes that cut into the future, the truth, and everything that makes this shambling suicidal republic great. I'm calling on the line that allows me to say with nervous respect: politics and social discussion should look and sound as good as you do at 7 a.m. I acknowledge that my infatuation doesn't get us any closer to solving these problems before us, but I had to say so. There it is.

She's the person, whom, meeting her at an all night coffee shop, you'd talk past three, and you'd fall hopeless for her within 10 minutes or less. She's enticing and makes puns that you don't get, and she's keeping score. You nod and say uh--huh as she schools you: Adlai Stevenson, Harold Stassen, Barry Goldwater, Norman Thomas. You walk alongside her to her Metro stop and it's snowing, and she's wearing a vintage big, black coat -- a military cut maybe from Woodward & Lothrop, from a half-century ago--and her hands shoved in the pockets and head bent forward so all you see is her hair tumbling past the collar--Why isn't she wearing a cap? --you watch as she descends the icing stairs into the earth to catch her train. The two buttons in the back get smaller, and the snow gets bigger, and sighing a cloud of breath you think: At least in this messed up world there's one of her.

Later, you fall asleep, dreaming of her in one of your old concert T-shirts--maybe Tom Petty-- with the sleeves ripped off---- and a pair of worn jeans, hers, and how you'd always have to think of what to say next and how good that would be.