Where the rubber meets the road

Bat feathers.

I've been caught by one of the Obama groundworkers.

For weeks I've been dodging a sweet, extremely smart young Obama Fellow (Brown University, class of 2010) because the type of boots-on-the-ground volunteer work they'd give me is the most odious kind--cold calling and knocking on doors. 'Bout as much fun as man-on-the-street interviews, baby showers and root canals.

But how can I sit at dinner parties opining about this-or-that national catastrophe or bit of stupidity from the other team (the "mental-recession" thing slayed me) and not put in at least a little time at the call center?

So tonight I'm schlepping here. Maybe they'll let me blog and I won't have to talk to anybody.

There's something generationally discordant about all this.

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