Hopeful, fearsome, Riefenstahlian propaganda or choreography of the new world order -- the opening and closing ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics were nothing if not overwhelming. The conventions have a tough primetime act to follow. No sky jogging, no LEDs, no day-glo lycra -- just a man, a mic, and a message. Obama will surely deliver a rousing speech, McCain will sleepwalk through a wooden Minneapolis extravaganza; and then we'll go right back to flash polls and daily sniping.

Made for TV spectacle has a death grip on presidential politics. This is no novel claim or original discovery, but it feels particularly sad and final this time around. Careerist pundits are set on full-thrust vomit mode, so that even the occasional insight is tough to take. Ideas are not valued. Those millions and millions of dollars raised by both candidates need to be spent, and network and cable channels will oblige with a guaranteed ninth inning thriller. 

Just like the O.J. trial created junkies for courtroom entertainment; we now crave the adrenaline rush of the 2000 Gore/Bush election. Both campaigns, the press, poll workers, vote counters and voting machine manufacturers all know that anything goes and anything can happen. What parts of this election will end up in a courtroom? I don't need hope in a candidate as much as I need renewed hope in the process. Any more punditry on my part and the self loathing will finally be unbearable.  So...

I wear leather belts, I've got a few nice pair of cowhide shoes, eat the occasional steak and have gutted more than a few fish - but always I try to steer clear of animal torture and torment. I've never copulated with an owl or splashed fur on behalf of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) - but I am an animal lover. I love dogs and dolphins the most - and in rare cases have been touched by cats. I speak all breeds of dog and can communicate anything from love to anger to play to disappointment. It's a matter of eyebrows and body posture, with few varieties of bark, growl and Scooby grunt thrown in.

Cindy McCain, dolphin captor through association with Anhieser Bush.

Dolphins are trickier.  Floating on my board between sets, I call out to wild dolphin pods whenever I get the chance.  There's the single hand cupped water slap, the double handed cupping pop, the depth charge type kick and a few whistle bursts. I don't pretend to have any idea what I am saying to these dolphins, but they are gracious in receiving my spastic shout outs. They cruise in close, give me a good eye-balling and duck under while deciding if they want to stick around.  Sometimes they are friendly and allow their babies to swim in for a closer look at the idiot dolphin speaker.  Sometimes the whole family sticks around for some leaps and a surf. The floppy finned dolphins at SeaWorld are not as happy as their counterparts in the wild - I've talked to them too.  It's in their eyes, skin and in their subservience - but  it's most apparent in their confinement tanks, a breeze away from their rightful Pacific.

Along with money; SeaWorld does raise awareness, love and money on behalf of dolphins, killer whales, sharks, seals and all manner of ocean life. I realize a good many human jobs and economies depend on SeaWorld. But the commercialization, the numbing and the profit of cruelty are never its justification.

The rumors of a PETA buyout of SeaWorld are probably a tease, but it's hope I want to believe in.