Gypsysavage’s Weblog

It would take more than a complete shut-out of the remaining primaries for Clinton to win the Democratic nomination at this point. She would need to win the remaining dozen or so contests, including shepherding a majority of Pennsylvanian votes and the magical reincarnation of the Michigan and Florida primaries (they broke the rules, by the way, and I’ll be damned to suffer another Florida vote). She’s now beholden to the will of the superdelegates. Clinton’s checkmated mathematically, by the AP’s calculations, and must now rely solely on past favors and future promises, anathema to true democracy.

Superdelgates, like the electorate (in some circumstances), can jump ship and vote their conscience, which is what she’s relying on at this point in the race. No one superdelegate or party leader is calling for her resignation from the race at this point because they know the rules – and the consequences – of this race. Shamefully, courting endorsements and pledged votes are as much a part of the democratic process as is the act of checking off a contender’s name in a voting booth.

Clinton needs to reconsider her standing in this race. If she doesn’t, we’re in for a world of hurt.

Southern New Jersey’s rural landscape is a vanishing commodity. Farms and woodland are almost utterly spent, replaced by five-bedroom houses whose development is ravenous and eerily similar in appearance, springing up from the ground faster than what was originally planted there. To take from Alexander Pope: Grove nods at grove, each house has a brother, and half the neighborhood reflects the other.

So, I savor the opportunity to walk my dogs in a patch of woods a quarter of a mile from my house. Here, I can free my lab and golden from their leashes, and watch as they sniff and roll in the gross remains of dead things, swim in one of several ponds, and meet with other dogs that smell just as bad and canter just as happily along the beaten paths that wind their way though the wooded acres of the park.

You could almost call it a community of walkers, good people that enjoy every moment of their pet’s supervised freedom. It is a community of people that savor just as much as I do one of the few sanctuaries left in an ever-growing, sprawling suburbia.

One of these walkers, a gentleman by the name of Ben, is amateur photographer. He was kind enough to take a picture of my golden, Sam. Thanks, Ben.