Shore Things

The moms are on spring break this week. Instead of going off on some big trip to an exotic foreign destination, they went to the tackiest place on earth, Ocean City, Maryland, to breathe in the salt air and let go of some of the stresses of a busy semester. They want you all to know that they would never, ever under any circumstances go to Ocean City during the summer. They go there in the off-season because a few places are actually open and they can get a fully equipped (WIFI, too!) suite with a balcony overlooking the ocean for $150 a night.

Frankly, I am glad they're gone. Not only do I get to hang out with my wonderful Aunt Isa in their absence, but I am also relieved from any obligation to blog on the serious subjects currently dominating the news -- Obama's big speech, the fifth anniversary of the start of the Iraq war, the epidemic of sexual depravity among Democratic governors of northeastern states. It's a bit much for an old dog to take in sometimes, kids, so I'm happy just to pass along this nugget of political wisdom, which the moms picked up this afternoon (along with a bucketful of sand in their hair) during the course of a 5-mile walk along the boardwalk:

Dems are going to have a harder time than we might think prevailing in the fall.

How do they know this? A random sampling of what they saw written on tee-shirts in the handful of shops open along the boardwalk suggests that the United States of Ocean City is a mean, cranky, conservative kind of place not likely to be all that hospitable to the black guy or the white girl who want to be president. Consider these not so bons mots seen on tee-shirts swaying in the stiff (gusting to 40 mph!) breezes of OC today:

• (on a tee-shirt with a Confederate flag on it): If this shirt offends you, you need a history lesson.
• Tell your breasts to stop staring at my eyeballs.
• Anything but a Democrat.

Wham. Bam. Thank you, ma'am. And thank you, boy. Two questions: 1. Who buys such shirts? 2. Do we really have to let them vote? Oh, and lest you think the moms were unfair in their "random" sampling, they did not see a single tasteless shirt that seemed even remotely liberal or progressive. They saw tons of Irish shirts, marked down in the big after-St. Patrick's Day sales, and some really cheesy Christian shirts, but not one Bush caricature, not even a Darth Cheney mask. Perhaps the problem with liberals is that we just don't hate enough or we lack the nerve to market it effectively. No, wait -- liberals, so-called, have gotten awfully good at hating Hillary Clinton, and the Obama campaign has made a ton of money off that hatred.

Oh, never mind. I may not be blogging, but the rest of the world is, so take a little spring trip of your own around the blogosphere:

• Check out the I am Hillary Clinton meme started by the Red Queen over on Elizabitchez. It's enough to make me wish my typist knew Photoshop.
• Visit Shakesville for much venting about the release of Clinton's White House calendars giving the MSM the excuse to return to the fun old days of Monica, Bill, the stained dress, and the well-traveled cigar. See here, here, and here.
• Head over to Tom Watson for a smart piece on how short-sighted it is of Obama to be trying to avoid re-votes in Michigan and Florida. (Crux: It runs the risk of driving down turnout in those states in the general.) We're developing a bit of a blog crush on Tom here lately, so you can expect to be nudged in his direction on a regular basis.
• Historiann beat us to the NYT story on academics who blog or participate in social networking sites such as Facebook and MySpace, but we're happy to point toward her post and the story itself. I was a little disconcerted that one of the many ways in which the story sought to disparage profs who are venturing out into these new social/cultural spaces was to make a gratuitous reference to "blog posts about their children, entries 'written' by their dogs." Note the scare quotes around the word "written." My typist and I are waiting for the Times to call and apologize for a) invoking this humble blog without naming it and b) daring to imply that this apparently un-serious, non-academic blog is not actually "written" by a dog. Them's fightin' words, pal. You best be prepared to prove 'em. (Oh, and thanks to a good guy whom we might just call Another Homo Victorianist for alerting us to the Times story this morning. Nous t'aimons, p'tit chou.)
  

Gotta run, kids. The moms want to fit in a swim before dinner, and I have a nap to take. Go in peace, and remember: If someone is staring at your breasts, it's your fault.