[T]here's a fine line between rejecting that life and looking down at that life. Because some people are just fine with jobs that require them to take the New Rochelle train. Some people actually prefer it to the stress, the risk, the time away from family, the constant demands from strangers. And the world needs these people — who get up every morning, go to work to do jobs with no glamor and little or no prestige, wages modest or worse, and whose names never appear in the newspaper. These folks receive a round of applause when they dance at their wedding, and at their retirement party, and that's about it.That's right: Obama is not only a latte-sipping elitist who looks down his nose at God-fearing, salt-of-the-earth, heartland breadwinners, he's a Gucci-wearing elitist who looks down his nose at mortgage-paying, little-league-coaching, lawn-mowing B&Ters from Westchester. And so are you if reading Geraghty's misty-eyed ode to the man in the gray flannel suit didn't bring a lump to your throat.
We can't all be touted as secular messiahs, surrounded by adoring throngs. Very few us get crowds chanting our name on a regular basis. Scarlett Johansson doesn't e-mail us, and Jennifer Lopez doesn't visit our offices.
Never mind the small towners who "cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment." Obama didn't want to be a suburban commuter.
Crikey. And there's still 143 days to go.