Barack's booty call

About what, a month ago, the Obama campaign got me to sign up to BE ONE OF THE FIRST to find out who his vice presidential running mate was going to be.

They were going to send out the news via text message. It was going to be so cool!

Here's how I imagined it would go down: I would be at Farmer's Market or getting a coffee and suddenly all around me, people's phones would begin to ding and buzz.

We would all fish around simultaneously, read our text, and look at each other. We would smile knowing smiles, chuckle, and say "How about that?" It would be a fun little community Democrat bonding experience.

But instead we waited. I haven't waited so hard for the phone to ring since I dated flaky guys in my 20s. Days went by. Weeks.

I started to get pissed off. "Dude is NEVER gonna call," I thought. "I bet that jerk lost my number."

By Thursday or so, it became apparent that we were going to be the FIRST TO FIND OUT but NOT BY VERY DANG MUCH. We were special, but not THAT special.

Last night, I was surprised how little Twitter buzz there was about it. It seemed that people, like me, were pretty much over it.

I awoke this morning to find a text had been sent at 1:48 a.m. WHO DOES THAT?

People don't text about important decisions at 1:48 a.m. They send booty calls. They drunk-message things you don't want to read.

Lame. The whole thing was the emotional equivalent of a guy who whispers "Oh baby, it is gonna be so good," for weeks ahead of time. And then the time comes. And baby, it ain't that good.