Obama remarked the other day in Las Vegas, "Folks, they don't tell you what they mean." This shocking admission about people running for office referred to his January 15th debate opponents' disingenuous answers to a question about their biggest weakness.
Even people applying for a less visible job than President of the United States answer that trick interview question with "perfectionism" or "putting too much of myself into work," so is it any surprise candidates put forward stuff about feeling other people's pain (Edwards) or being impatient for change (Clinton)? Obama made the rookie mistake of saying he had a messy desk.
I guess Obama forgot he didn't have any problem dodging the "what debate mistake would you take back" question in the New Hampshire debates, but that was two weeks ago. The only guy to mention a real blunder then was Bill Richardson, who is no longer a candidate, unless you count Vice President.
At dinner, my family discussed the phenomena of not admitting any weakness for fear of appearing weak, opting instead to promote weakness as strength while not fearing appearing manipulative. One son remarked, "I would answer that question: Tear gas seems to take me down." Another mentioned "kryptonite" as a foolproof rejoinder. Only Chuck Norris, Mike Huckabee's ever-present companion, could probably get away with those answers.
Maybe I hang with the unelectable crowd, but most people I know admit foibles, rarely fostering the illusion of perfection. Of course, that doesn't mean we always tell what we mean. In everyday discussions, a little ambiguity keeps us engaged and also prevents fistfights. Coded verbal phrases keep text messaging from completely overtaking the spoken word.
Some examples of what people say versus what they probably mean:
Stop me if you've heard this one before.
I'm on a roll. You're going to hear this story again whether you signal with a red light, a checkered flag, an octagonal sign, or your hands over your ears while humming "Stop in the Name of Love."
Long story short (sometimes prefaced with "
To make a")
At this point, the story has already taken numerous detours and will soon need GPS to track.
No offense.
I accidentally said what I mean and now I have to backpedal.
None taken. (The traditional response to
No offense.)
I'm smiling now, but I will get you back someday when you least expect it and say "no offense" afterward.
Just between you and me.
You are the last person in a fifty mile radius to hear this story, but I need someone to blame when consequences ricochet back to the original source.
I suppose we cannot blame those seeking public office for oblique answers. They must strike the odd balance of appealing to millions of people while still making the morning newspapers. I guess that's why there's an unwritten law they can't use some of the more familiar conversational phrases to tell us what they mean.