Barack Obama dreaming

While I'm not necessarily saying that I'm a democrat, I am cut from the cloth that makes up the historical fabric of Chicago's South side.  I've waited with my father one winter night in Bridgeport to see the elder Mayor Dailey as he lay in state before his funeral.  I've seen alderman and precinct captains work with my father on things that need to be fixed in our old neighborhood, where my parents still live in the ghost-house on Prospect avenue.  I've been to parties with hundreds of Chicago policemen at the Sargeant's house who lived next door to us.  All in all, quite the foundation for a political persuasion.  And now I'm here in hot muggy Southwest Florida (which feels like the Phillipines), far from Bridgeport and where I'm forced to listen to Rush and his cronies on the airwaves by day.  But at night, my dreams are oddly intertwined with Barack Obama.  In one, he gives my an I-phone for my support.  In another, I'm on his staff preparing him for a speech.  At one point, he even is working as a sales rep with me for McKesson.  But we always seems to be working on something.  It's become something of a joke in our house - hey dad, how's Obama doing?  Did he give you anything lately?  Did you help him write that speech?  I'm not sure I even like or support him, but there he is - me on his staff and him winning the Nobel Peace prize.