America, the beautiful and broken
Posted: October 17th, 2009, 4:57 pm
America is beautiful and broken, run aground on the shoals of money-lust. Okay, not entirely broken, but sold, traded, jaded and faded. Like Congress. Like the mega-dollar slapstick satire of campaign for high office. It goes back a few years. Mark Twain was not enamored with his bought leaders either, though graft of his day seems mere chicken feed, even in “today’s dollars,” next to surreal images of George W. Bush pointing at his opponent, saying “he can’t be trusted.”
Maybe so. Kerry was Skull n’ Bones too, the same billion-dollar disconnect. And Sarah Palin? Another head fart gear jam in the machine. She was sexy as hell with that slapstick patriotic religious surrealism. These billion-dollar campaigns have become absurd sketches fit for the Neo-Patriot-Redneck-God Cartoon Channel, clumsy in animation but laced with buzz words and religious bilk-speech—always crowd favorites. It’s not even good TV anymore. Lynn Swann catching that pass from Bradshaw in the ’74 playoffs, the Immaculate Reception, now that was good TV. We got rid of Nixon that year, but the speech dragons will not go quietly. Some of us would stab each other under the radar and subtle—raw fuel to speech dragons.
I have many punditicized right-leaning friends (formerly, “conservatives”) who tell me “socialism” is the ultimate evil of the universe, the final battle. They seem fond of final battle scenarios in general, even downright antisocial at times, my friends. Why should I pay the freight for those other fools? Okay fine, good point, but those fools eventually buy the products to make the faceless machine go ‘round and ‘round, not to mention the fact they eventually fight faceless mega-billion dollar wars of territory and resources needed to sustain the consumer carousel and keep the oil flowing, at least for now. It’s a closed system in the end—full circle. One might as well posit “corporate welfare,” or “corporate warfare” as the ultimate evil, the final battle. Why should I pay the freight for those rich fools who watch government-sponsored killing as some sort of invented God-mandate from the sidelines? Man, that’s old-school. This is representative government, right? Not some sort of Orwell nightmare.
Ah, but it’s old-fashioned comedy, a little bloated, a little scary, but no pain no gain. Like any Twelve-thousand step program, number one is to admit a problem exists. Like bought politicians, for one. Insular caricatures. Coached by animators. And no one appreciates how much they’ve accomplished behind the scenes to make the universe safe for capitalism—the various wreckage points of South America, the SAVAK, Pol Pot, bin Laden and Saddam. Et Cetera. It ain’t easy to make a few million bones. Heard a big stir on the news about some “secret CIA program.” Yeah? What do you think the CIA does? Bakes muffins?
Okay, so America isn’t “broken,” just under some sort of spell. Over-sold, maybe. Twain complained about it too, though he complained a lot in general. Maybe he was the first to write it all down. Him and Thoreau. Or a million poets here and there and the odd Emily Dickinson or two. Anyway, maybe the big box parking lots are getting to us, making it seem a little too easy, but the country isn’t “broken.” Not with apple pies cooling on the windowsills of 1904 craftsmen farmhouses kissed by a honeysuckle Indiana summer’s evening. Not with Larry Bird shooting a thousand jump shots in some sweltering driveway in French Lick. No, the place is not broken, but listing a bit under the crush of capital lust. At least for now. Check back tomorrow. The markets are self-correcting.
Maybe so. Kerry was Skull n’ Bones too, the same billion-dollar disconnect. And Sarah Palin? Another head fart gear jam in the machine. She was sexy as hell with that slapstick patriotic religious surrealism. These billion-dollar campaigns have become absurd sketches fit for the Neo-Patriot-Redneck-God Cartoon Channel, clumsy in animation but laced with buzz words and religious bilk-speech—always crowd favorites. It’s not even good TV anymore. Lynn Swann catching that pass from Bradshaw in the ’74 playoffs, the Immaculate Reception, now that was good TV. We got rid of Nixon that year, but the speech dragons will not go quietly. Some of us would stab each other under the radar and subtle—raw fuel to speech dragons.
I have many punditicized right-leaning friends (formerly, “conservatives”) who tell me “socialism” is the ultimate evil of the universe, the final battle. They seem fond of final battle scenarios in general, even downright antisocial at times, my friends. Why should I pay the freight for those other fools? Okay fine, good point, but those fools eventually buy the products to make the faceless machine go ‘round and ‘round, not to mention the fact they eventually fight faceless mega-billion dollar wars of territory and resources needed to sustain the consumer carousel and keep the oil flowing, at least for now. It’s a closed system in the end—full circle. One might as well posit “corporate welfare,” or “corporate warfare” as the ultimate evil, the final battle. Why should I pay the freight for those rich fools who watch government-sponsored killing as some sort of invented God-mandate from the sidelines? Man, that’s old-school. This is representative government, right? Not some sort of Orwell nightmare.
Ah, but it’s old-fashioned comedy, a little bloated, a little scary, but no pain no gain. Like any Twelve-thousand step program, number one is to admit a problem exists. Like bought politicians, for one. Insular caricatures. Coached by animators. And no one appreciates how much they’ve accomplished behind the scenes to make the universe safe for capitalism—the various wreckage points of South America, the SAVAK, Pol Pot, bin Laden and Saddam. Et Cetera. It ain’t easy to make a few million bones. Heard a big stir on the news about some “secret CIA program.” Yeah? What do you think the CIA does? Bakes muffins?
Okay, so America isn’t “broken,” just under some sort of spell. Over-sold, maybe. Twain complained about it too, though he complained a lot in general. Maybe he was the first to write it all down. Him and Thoreau. Or a million poets here and there and the odd Emily Dickinson or two. Anyway, maybe the big box parking lots are getting to us, making it seem a little too easy, but the country isn’t “broken.” Not with apple pies cooling on the windowsills of 1904 craftsmen farmhouses kissed by a honeysuckle Indiana summer’s evening. Not with Larry Bird shooting a thousand jump shots in some sweltering driveway in French Lick. No, the place is not broken, but listing a bit under the crush of capital lust. At least for now. Check back tomorrow. The markets are self-correcting.