-Caveat Lector-

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CounterPunch
Alexanedr Cockburn & Jeffrey St. Clair



October 2, 2000
Gore and His Reinventions
Gore reinvents himself on an almost daily basis.
Nothing has been more comical than his "populist"
posturings about the Republicans being the ticket of
Big Oil and himself and Lieberman being the champions
of the little people.

This is the man whose education and Tennessee
homestead came to him in part via the patronage of
Armand Hammer, one of the great oil bandits of the
twentieth century, in whose Occidental oil company the
Gore family still has investments valued between
$500,000 and $1 million.

At the LA convention the headquarters of the
Democratic National Committee was on the 42nd floor of
the Arco building, and the symbolism was apt. In 1992
Arco (recently merged with BP Amoco) loaned the
Clinton/Gore inaugural committee $100,000. In that
same year it gave the DNC $268,000. In the 1993?94
election cycle it gave the DNC $274,000. In the
1995?96 cycle it ponied up $496,000 and has kept up
the same tempo ever since.

Was there a quid for the quo? You bet there was. Early
in Clinton-time, the President overturned the
longstanding ban on the export of Alaskan crude oil.
Why that ban? When Congress OK'd the building of the
Trans-Alaska Pipeline in the seventies, the
legislation triumphed by a single vote only after
solemn pledges were made that the North Slope oil
would always be reserved for domestic markets,
available to hold prices down. Congress had on its
mind precisely such emergencies as this year's hike in
prices and consequent suffering of poor people, soon
to be trembling with cold for lack of cheap
home-heating oil.

With the help of Commerce Secretary Ron Brown and
Energy Secretary Hazel

O'Leary, Arco was also, at the start of the Clinton
era, in the process of building refineries in China.
Hence Clinton's overturn of the export ban was an
immense boon to the company, whose CEO at the time,
Lodwrick Cook, was given a White House birthday party
in 1994. The birthday presents to the
favorite oil company of the Clinton/Gore era have
continued ever since. While the Democrats and
mainstream Greens fulminate about Bush and Cheney's
threat to open up the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge,
nary a word has been mentioned about one of the
biggest giveaways in the nation's history, the opening
of the 23-million-acre National Petroleum
Reserve?Alaska. Back at the start of the nineties
Arco's Prudhoe Bay reserves on Alaska's North Slope
were dwindling. Now Arco will be foremost among the
oil companies exploiting a potential $36 billion worth
of crude oil.

Gore's "populism" is comical, yet one more facet of a
larger mendacity. What suppressed psychic tumult
drives him to those stretchers that litter his

career, the lies large and small about his life and
achievements? You'd think that a man exposed to as
much public derision as was Gore after claiming he and
Tipper were the model for the couple in Love Story, or
after saying he'd invented the Internet, would by now
be more prudent in his vauntings. But no. Just as a
klepto's fingers inevitably stray toward the cash
register, so too does Gore persist in his
fabrications.

Recently he's claimed to have been at the center of
the action when the strategic petroleum reserve, in
Texas and Louisiana, was established. In fact, the
reserve's salt caverns were filling in 1977, when Gore
was barely in Congress, a very junior member of the
relevant energy committee. The legislation creating
the reserve had been passed in 1975. At around the
same time as this pretense, the VP claimed to have
heard his mother crooning "Look for the union label"
over his cradle. It rapidly emerged that this jingle
was made up by an ad man in the seventies, when Al was
in his late 20s.

As a clue to why Al misremembers and exaggerates, the
lullaby story has its relevance as a sad little essay
in wish fulfillment. Gore's mother, Pauline, was a
tough character, far more interested in advancing
Albert Sr.'s career than in warbling over Gore's cot.
Both parents were demanding. Gore is brittle, often
the mark of the overly well-behaved, perfect child.
Who can forget the panicked performance when his image
of moral rectitude shattered at the impact of the
fundraising scandals associated with the Buddhist
temple in Los Angeles?

"He was an easy child; he always wanted to please us,"
Pauline once said of him. The child's desire to
please, to get the attention of often-absent parents,
is probably what sparked Gore's penchant for tall
tales about himself. Gore's official CV is sprinkled
with "epiphanies" and claims to having achieved a
higher level of moral awareness. In interviews, in his
book Earth in the Balance and, famously, in his
acceptance speech at the 1992 Democratic convention,
Gore has shamelessly milked the accident in which his
6-year-old son was badly hurt after being struck by a
car. Gore described how, amid his anguish beside the
boy's hospital bed, he peered into his own soul and
reproached himself for being an absentee dad. He
narrated his entry into family therapy. But Tipper and
the children didn't see more of him as a consequence.
Despite that dark night of the soul beside Al III's
bed, Gore plunged even deeper into Senate business and
spent his hours of leisure away from the family,
writing Earth in the Balance while holed up in his
parents' old penthouse in the Fairfax Hotel. Soon
after, he accepted Clinton's invitation to run for
Vice President.

Gore's a fibber through and through, just like Bill. A
sad experience in the closing weeks of the campaign is
to encounter liberals desperately trying delude
themselves that there is some political decency or
promise in the Democratic ticket. There isn't. Why
talk about the lesser of two evils, when Gore is
easily as bad as Bush and in many ways worse? The
"lesser of two evils" is by definition a matter of
restricted choice, like a man on a raft facing the
decision of whether to drink seawater or his own
urine. But in this election there are other choices,
starting with Nader and the Greens. It isn't just a
matter of facing seawater or piss.




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