The Dean's List
I never hated Nixon. I never paid much attention to him. He was vile looking - sounded creepy - and at the cynical age of 25, I'd already grown weary of sifting through the prevailing 'truths' of the day, for scant nuggets of profundity.
I decided early on, that much of what I'd learned outside Science and English class was a load-a-hooey, brought to me by entrenched, scheming messengers that looked like Dwight and Amy Eisenhower. Was that her name? If not, don't correct me. I don't care. And neither should you.
--- anyway, these pod people were positioned throughout my life in power slots marked "Do Not Disturb" and "Keep Out". The keepers of accumulated knowledge and authority labored hard to shape and control my worldview, force-feeding me disinformation and overwhelming me with garish Corinthian borders on their mahogany framed 'credentials'.
Those scrolls covered the wainscoted walls I visited throughout my twenties, and I suspect in some distant galaxy such paper could be construed to be a proper measure of the merits of belief systems held by the natives.
Yet many of my assigned mentors were just clueless dolts, hamsters on itty bitty treadmills stamped - Made in USA. They tried to 'instruct me'; even 'help me' navigate school, business, law, banking and government. They guided me. Directed me - to the 'top of my game'.
These and other, more sinister members of that diplomatic corp. always seemed more than a few face cards short of a royal flush, yet were positively gelatinous in their poker faced representations of what constituted the American Dream. They were unreflective as moths, but industrious in their duty to define for me what was 'right', 'wrong', 'in', 'out', 'successful', unsuccessful', 'irreligious', 'cool', and of course, 'uncool'.
I was uncool, disrespectful AND irreligious, which I guess, meant I was doomed to be 'unsuccessful'. I would be forever confined to Ionic columns in plastic frames, if I didn't shape up.
Scientists want to measure self knowledge in dolphins to understand and further anthropomorphize those complex creatures. I recommend that research labs look first at the meta-cognition skills of people who believed Lyndon Baines Johnson was a virtuous man. These same believers walk upright, with opposing thumbs, yet think Bill Clinton was a friend and innocent bystander to no fewer than 50 deaths, of friends and co-workers - dead from plane crashes and self inflicted gunshot wounds, starting after he began a life of public 'service'.
LBJ bore an uneasy resemblance to a local rancher and suspected child molester where I grew up in rural Illinois. So to me, Johnson was the prototypical sleazoid before he actually did anything disgusting. I remember being confounded by the suggestion that someone named Lady Bird had married the man, voluntarily exchanged bodily fluids with him, and then produced little-Lyndon-personsâgaaaak
Today, as then, when people ponder a 'possible' connection between LBJ and the Kennedy assassination, I am reminded that - again, I am not of this planet. We may look the same. But I don't belong here.
And I'm not sure how long I plan to stay.
I'm alien stock - and very much on my own amongst wild eyed natives who poll to decide if Diana Spencer died in an accident. Seven/Eleven Stores provide cultural instruction for me with with ample supplies of Irish CrÃme. It's supposed to be a popular and tasty addition to coffee. Yet each day the regular cream is gone quickly, leaving only lonely capfuls of vile mixtures marked Amaretto, and French Vanilla, long before the coffee expires.
This place is also awash with creatures that purchased, and listened attentively, to the noises emanating from that fountainhead of profundity known as Elvis Presley. His faithful are still not remorseful - with their collective hindsight running at about 32% for even the large events of the last half century.
Another taste I never fully acquired was the 'mystique' assigned to JFK. I was reminded daily of the Kennedy 'aura' by the same people who paid money to watch Rosano Brazzi romance Mitzy Gaynor after she washed him right out of her hair.
I've shared my disdain for that entire era before, but my perspective is lost on populations with the capacity to sit through two hours of South Pacific in teary eyed reverence. It was, well, pure magic, I guess. I felt the same about a gushing Elizabeth Taylor, bellbottoms, and Twiggy. Then there was the time I sat dutifully in an outdoor theatre, watching the aplastic virility of Rock Hudson, projecting cardboard emotions of anger, fear, and lust in techno-color. I thought - this is it? I am and was irreligious about the big, important stuff. That's always been my crime.
--- Drummed into me by the same people who told me Russia was evil, we war for peace, polite people bow before royalty, and that priests are celibate. "European Jews dispense wisdom, charity, clarity, and temperance, throughout their lives, and America welcomes these highly talented and educated immigrants to our schools and neighborhoods to build a better tomorrow," said the voice behind the curtain -- sounding very Alistair Cooke.
Whenever I watched Audrey Hepburn pout, pose, or bat those lashes, I was embarrassed for her and the families of the aging patriarchs cast as her suitors. And Leslie Caron? - Whose sexual fantasy was THAT?
I thought Cary Grant demeaned himself romancing Sophia Loren in Houseboat. I kept thinking that the lusty, barefoot Loren - complete with heaving bosoms, was a silly caricature of an earthy Sicilian domestic. Was there some chemistry between those two that I missed? I mean, how could Loren watch herself in that film and not want to hide - forever - where no one would EVER know - that was HER - behaving like that, on film.
Why didn't Grant just say at the first sit down, "This is a joke, right?" - "Honey, put on your shoes, wipe your face, and put a comb through that helmet - and by the way, I'm outta here."
There will be those who deride my sneering contempt for much of that cultural backwater known as Post WWII Americana. Yet my disdain for those days and its disciples, illustrates how aloof I've remained from the beat beat beat of cultural drums.
See, I'm not a genuine Boomer. I missed the war rage, the LSD, and reverence for the Beatles. I never knew anybody who even SERVED in Vietnam - such was my demographic. Paul McCartney had some catchy tunes later on, but the rest of em, particularly Lennon, were at best delusionary buffoons, surrounded by parasitic courtiers who escorted them to graze in pastures far removed from any in my solar system.
I thought Reagan was an affable codger, and I pretty much ignored Bush the Elder. They were names in headlines, and the occasional face on Time. Carter was earnest, but vacant. And Ford? -- Let's not belabor my points.
I was pretty disengaged from politics on the national level in the 60's, 70's and early 80's, because I didn't go to college until I was 26 - I was busy-busy-busy trying to make a living whilst my generation raged at The Man', smoked dope, and clapped to noise coming from the direction of Janice Joplin and Led Zeppelin. Ugh and Yuk.
[Not the part about the dope - I discovered the wonders of cannabis before my Saturn Return at 30, and it - "forever altered my range of paradigms. Ditto for Peruvian Pisco. Each was a defining substance for my Aquarian revolt against the predatory evil of banality, the cult of celebrity, and the myopic dementia of its more ardent adherents" -- wrote that on mushrooms in Topanga canyon, outside Los Angeles in 1973. I was a late bloomer.
Hey, if it hadn't been for hashish and tequila, I might never have reconciled an all consuming revulsion for Christopher Plummer in the Sound of Music. I can see him now, in his lederhosen, slugging down a quart of Guinness, and slobbering from his trailer, "Alright, alright, I'm coming - might as well bloody fucking get this over with."
Fast Forward -
The evolution of my political philosophies developed from deep within the aforementioned wilds, so I scrupulously avoided politics beyond my immediate neighborhood until the country elected The Clintons.
They were the first president whose actions I monitored. I hated the man - and his icky other. I didn't like their kid - their pets - his mother - their story - or the state which bore these monsters. By 1995, I vowed never set foot in Arkansas. I've driven around the perimeter of the state, never setting foot in it, on two occasions now - true to my pledge. A Razorback pedigree is enough to put me off Wal-Mart and Dillard's. I won't even buy Tyson foods.
Hey, it's my war, and I'll pick the weaponry.
I'm deeply suspicious that, considering all the evidence I've witnessed in my short stay here, people and events may conspire to insure that Howard Dean will not survive to debate our Master and Commander-in-Chief.
That eventuality would mean a live telecast - broadcast to millions - of George Bush engaged in extemporaneous repartee with the Vermont Governor.
Such an exercise, should it be allowed to occur, would reveal the current President of these United States to be, um - ill-suited? - to the task.
Dubya, is, and will always be a small, simple, one dimensional, cardboard cut-out of a man and leader. I've come to realize that George Bush is a dangerously ill-equipped poseur, advancing a frightening agenda he doesn't even really understand - and crafted by deadly serious architects whose visions of Pax Americana are not born of a love of flag or country.
We must contain Bush's handlers, their delusions of grandeur, and their appetites for Arab loot or we shall perish as a species.
Dean is equipped with a voracious mind, a feisty confrontational style, and astonishing verbal skills that might qualify for registration as lethal weapons. And given the proper international venue; he would make mercilessly short work of George the Younger.
But then what do I knowâ.
I thought "The Piano" won an Oscar for being just another vapid, shop-worn, platitudinous remix of semi-fictitious events carefully crafted onto celluloid, for the express purpose of advancing the narrow interests of a tribal minority within the host culture.
Now if we can just keep the good doctor away from guns and out of small planes ....
I don't care what his policies are. I've seen enough to know whatever they are, they can't be worse than the degradations we've survived.
I like him just because the parrots say he's 'unelectable'.
Maybe - but if Dubya wanders off the plantation, and chooses self preservation rather than an escalation of war on behalf of Israel and his handlers, he'll be taken out from 'within' -- leaving Dean in the crosshairs of history.
Howard Dean is not the candidate of choice over at DNC headquarters. He has already hinted at an evenhanded approach in the Middle East. That won't due at all.... They may even kill him.
Grow up America. These boys are mean.
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