If Joe Biden Were a Hockey Team...

I have no idea. The Plymouth Whalers, perhaps?

I mean that as a compliment.

So it's been a while since I've posted. Hats of all shapes and sizes off to Razor Catch Prey and even to Monsieur Catalogues for keeping this blog afloat while Grand Shooteur and myself languished in depressed August writer's block.

I'm not saying that I have anything to say about hockey right now (really, what is there to say? I hope we get Teemu Selanne?), though, so why not talk about what the rest of the world (and I do mean the world) is talking about?

The Democratic National Convention is afoot. Next week is the Republican National Convention. Last time I counted, this blog is split down the middle when it comes to this here general election. Monsieur French and I are for the black guy and the guy from Delaware; Grand Shooteur and RCP will be voting for the Bionic Man and his mystery running mate.

What does this mean? Much like Patrick Marleau's Formula One coach, the Chronicle tolerates political diversity. And shit.

So far the DNC has been as exciting as a New Jersey Devils game with the back-up goalie. None of the speeches have shown much in the way of fire or inspiration; there seems to be a 2004-esque over-cautiousness in the air thus far. Like I said in my comment on Big Shooter's latest post, I hope Joe Biden will offer up a rabble-rousing barnstormer tomorrow night. Surely Slick Willie will deliver, or at least be interesting. To be honest, watching him chatting up some lady in the nose-bleed section was the most interesting moment of the convention so far. She looked like she knew she was doing wrong, but her defenses were clearly crumbling...

Where's the passion, DNC folk? Where's the rage? It's not like taking gratuitous shots at Bush, Cheney, the oil companies, Gitmo, and Iraq would be a risky, vote-losing display of crazy lefty radicalism. Negative opinions about all of the above are the fucking consensus now. Come on, kids. Give the people what they want.