One of my friends - a vicious Democrat - used to be, before I knew her, a Republican. That was many years ago. However, even though marriage exposed her to a different set of ideas – her husband also was a vicious Democrat – and pragmatism probably smoothed the way to her acceptance of those new ideas, she nevertheless retained a degree of respect and admiration for many of the members of the party that she had abandoned. In fact her husband readily shared that admiration and respect; it was just that he didn’t, nor did she, vote for those people.
I have always been on the shaky side politically speaking. I have not always, until recently, voted a straight Democratic ticket. But I have always been pretty much a believer in the Democratic Party. Like my friends, however, I always had respect and admiration for the Republican Party. I just didn’t very often vote for any of them.
The admiration and respect that I have alluded to, from all three of us had a lot to do with some names: Mark Hatfield, Nelson Rockefeller, John Lindsay, Tom McCall, Everett Dirksen, Dan Evans and William Buckley come immediately to mind. I know that there are many more, I just can’t remember them. But those names set a tone and tell a tale.
The tale is short: I can’t think of anyone in the current “just say no” crowd that would ever be mentioned in the same breath as those names. And the tone is the difference between a symphony and a cat fight.
And a new, but never-ending source of personal merriment is imagining a conversation – not a debate, just a simple conversation – between William Buckley and Sarah Palin.
.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Two Novembers
So now Michele Bachmann (by her own admission AKA Nostradamas) has taken the position of lead hound in the pack that are snapping at the heels of our President. Given the nature of the pack that she is currently the head hound of, I think we should try to remember two Novembers. This is an excerpt from my book Screen Saver.
A few days before my Thanksgiving departure for San Francisco with Jim, the not very stable world had wobbled even more precariously on its axis.
I was in my History of American Thought and Culture class. Someone had pulled the pull-down screen down far enough to allow a man’s hat to be tied to the pull. The class was allowing itself to be amused by that fact as we waited for Mr. Frazier our instructor to arrive. Time ticked by. Mr. Frazier was late. That was unlike him. Finally, just before the fifteen-minute limit that protocol reserved for late instructors he appeared. He came in, took one look at the hat and took a swing at it as if in anger. That was really unlike him. He was a laid back calm sort – a graduate of Reed College - who just didn’t let anything bother him. He had our attention. He turned around facing the class and said, almost accusingly, “well, I suppose you have heard that they shot Jack Kennedy.” As a matter of fact we hadn’t. We had been sitting there looking at the hat and waiting for him to show up. All I could ever remember about that moment, other than what exactly Mr. Frazier had said was wondering who “they” were. It turned out that we were never to find out who “they” were.
Taking what might have been an action of some significance, but as things were to turn out, apparently wasn’t, the first person I sought out was Barbara. We went into the Park Blocks, out of the buildings, into the open air and walked, hand in hand. Everybody was out there. There was some kind of device or there were multiple devices that were filling the air with updates on the president’s condition. We had stopped where a group had gathered, among them my fraternity brother Tom. The words “John F. Kennedy is dead” insinuated themselves into the air like a malevolent spirit. Barb dropped to her knees on the grass. We all stood, or knelt – there were others on their knees – frozen and looking like the statues of the victims of the Irish potato famine that I would see many years later in Christchurch. It seemed as if the world was in the process of fading to black. I had looked at Tom and said, “thank God Lyndon Johnson is Vice President”. Tom nodded his agreement.
Many years later another event occurred that had somehow seemed to be inextricably intertwined with John Kennedy. Mysti and I had gone around the corner to the Olympia Pizza Restaurant early so we could get back by seven and watch the election returns as the polls began to close from the middle of the country westward. We knew that the east would be closed by then and we knew that any bad news would begin to show itself - if there were going to be any - among those eastern results; but we had felt that there was still going be a story unfolding from St Louis west.
After returning from Pizza it looked as if no bad news had cropped up yet, but it was still anyone’s election. But good things kept happening and more states were turning blue than were turning red. There came a point where the electoral count was not 270 blue but it was close. I had looked at the map to try to get some kind of idea what might be going to happen. The entire pacific coast had no color yet. The obvious suddenly flooded upon me in a form that can only be described as joy. “He’s got it,” I said to Mysti.
A few minutes later the West Coast turned blue and the City of Seattle erupted. Everywhere people poured into the streets. We were on Capitol Hill. As we entered the courtyard we encountered people we barely knew or didn’t know at all. We all hugged one another and made loud joyful sounds. People were streaming into the streets and up to Fifteenth. The rest of the night was a massive party of people in and out of the bars and coffee shops to the street and back again. Cars full of joyfully shouting people with the windows down paraded up and down. I had never thought that the magic of having a leader that stirred a feeling of pride and joy at being an American would ever be given back to us; but it appeared on that night as if it had happened.
A few days before my Thanksgiving departure for San Francisco with Jim, the not very stable world had wobbled even more precariously on its axis.
I was in my History of American Thought and Culture class. Someone had pulled the pull-down screen down far enough to allow a man’s hat to be tied to the pull. The class was allowing itself to be amused by that fact as we waited for Mr. Frazier our instructor to arrive. Time ticked by. Mr. Frazier was late. That was unlike him. Finally, just before the fifteen-minute limit that protocol reserved for late instructors he appeared. He came in, took one look at the hat and took a swing at it as if in anger. That was really unlike him. He was a laid back calm sort – a graduate of Reed College - who just didn’t let anything bother him. He had our attention. He turned around facing the class and said, almost accusingly, “well, I suppose you have heard that they shot Jack Kennedy.” As a matter of fact we hadn’t. We had been sitting there looking at the hat and waiting for him to show up. All I could ever remember about that moment, other than what exactly Mr. Frazier had said was wondering who “they” were. It turned out that we were never to find out who “they” were.
Taking what might have been an action of some significance, but as things were to turn out, apparently wasn’t, the first person I sought out was Barbara. We went into the Park Blocks, out of the buildings, into the open air and walked, hand in hand. Everybody was out there. There was some kind of device or there were multiple devices that were filling the air with updates on the president’s condition. We had stopped where a group had gathered, among them my fraternity brother Tom. The words “John F. Kennedy is dead” insinuated themselves into the air like a malevolent spirit. Barb dropped to her knees on the grass. We all stood, or knelt – there were others on their knees – frozen and looking like the statues of the victims of the Irish potato famine that I would see many years later in Christchurch. It seemed as if the world was in the process of fading to black. I had looked at Tom and said, “thank God Lyndon Johnson is Vice President”. Tom nodded his agreement.
Many years later another event occurred that had somehow seemed to be inextricably intertwined with John Kennedy. Mysti and I had gone around the corner to the Olympia Pizza Restaurant early so we could get back by seven and watch the election returns as the polls began to close from the middle of the country westward. We knew that the east would be closed by then and we knew that any bad news would begin to show itself - if there were going to be any - among those eastern results; but we had felt that there was still going be a story unfolding from St Louis west.
After returning from Pizza it looked as if no bad news had cropped up yet, but it was still anyone’s election. But good things kept happening and more states were turning blue than were turning red. There came a point where the electoral count was not 270 blue but it was close. I had looked at the map to try to get some kind of idea what might be going to happen. The entire pacific coast had no color yet. The obvious suddenly flooded upon me in a form that can only be described as joy. “He’s got it,” I said to Mysti.
A few minutes later the West Coast turned blue and the City of Seattle erupted. Everywhere people poured into the streets. We were on Capitol Hill. As we entered the courtyard we encountered people we barely knew or didn’t know at all. We all hugged one another and made loud joyful sounds. People were streaming into the streets and up to Fifteenth. The rest of the night was a massive party of people in and out of the bars and coffee shops to the street and back again. Cars full of joyfully shouting people with the windows down paraded up and down. I had never thought that the magic of having a leader that stirred a feeling of pride and joy at being an American would ever be given back to us; but it appeared on that night as if it had happened.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Good Work, Sarah
Back when Sarah burst on the scene in an aureole of ignorance and stupidity she just seemed pathetic. Now, however, she is being taken seriously by the most dangerous faction of the republican party: the assassins. Her current “crosshairs” promotion, involving a “call to re-load” with crosshairs on 22 Democratic members of the House of Representatives is frightening enough. But the fact that her preface diatribe against our President – which feeds the Tea Party Fascists’ view of a conspiracy of socialists trying to take over the United States is REALLY troubling.
If the Tea Party people – or Sarah – had ever been to France, or Germany, or Belgium, or Britain, or Ireland, or Spain, or Italy, or Poland or … they would have been hard pressed on the streets, or in the bistros or in the pubs to have found anything resembling the grey pall of socialism that they invoke without even knowing what some of the advantages of what Sarah calls socialism – others call it a social contract – might be. She is so taken up with killing members of the moose community from the air with a fool-proof, scope enabled high powered rifle that she doesn’t really have time, and for sure not the intellect to know about anything but her narrow little world of kids fucking kids and lying to the press.
But, back to the point. Sarah calls for “reload” complete with crosshairs.
I doubt not that some of her cretin cadre will take that as a command to kill.
My larger fear is that, since her Tea Party Movement followers have a well documented, as seen on national news, problem with “niggers” and “queers”, one of her “targets” - our president - may join the casualty list.
Good work, Sarah. I was alive the last time – 22 November 1963 – and I NEVER want to have to go through that again.
I especially feel that way if one of the greatest men we have had the privilege to call a fellow American is to be brought down by the inane bleating of a mindless cipher.
If the Tea Party people – or Sarah – had ever been to France, or Germany, or Belgium, or Britain, or Ireland, or Spain, or Italy, or Poland or … they would have been hard pressed on the streets, or in the bistros or in the pubs to have found anything resembling the grey pall of socialism that they invoke without even knowing what some of the advantages of what Sarah calls socialism – others call it a social contract – might be. She is so taken up with killing members of the moose community from the air with a fool-proof, scope enabled high powered rifle that she doesn’t really have time, and for sure not the intellect to know about anything but her narrow little world of kids fucking kids and lying to the press.
But, back to the point. Sarah calls for “reload” complete with crosshairs.
I doubt not that some of her cretin cadre will take that as a command to kill.
My larger fear is that, since her Tea Party Movement followers have a well documented, as seen on national news, problem with “niggers” and “queers”, one of her “targets” - our president - may join the casualty list.
Good work, Sarah. I was alive the last time – 22 November 1963 – and I NEVER want to have to go through that again.
I especially feel that way if one of the greatest men we have had the privilege to call a fellow American is to be brought down by the inane bleating of a mindless cipher.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Great Broadband Competition Hoax
Competition is great. That’s why we have such a good health care system. All the health insurance companies compete with one another and we all benefit by getting the lowest possible rates for the best possible health care. There are a few little aberrations around the edges: the health insurers have special anti-trust immunity, like MLB, so they can kind of agree to fair and reasonable rates. And just to make sure, we are not allowed to buy insurance from companies outside of our own state, but in general there is a lot of competition in the health care business. They all compete to employ the best lobbyists.
Broadband internet service is another good example of competition. For example, in the Seattle area there is vigorous competition between Comcast and Qwest. Both offer "high speed internet”.
You can choose 5mbps from Comcast or you can choose 2.5 mbps from Qwest. Comcast costs about $50 a month. Qwest costs about $25 a month. Since there isn’t a third choice – Qwest and Comcast say they couldn’t continue providing such good service at such competitive prices if they had competition - you need to choose between these two highly competetive options. Two are plenty competitive they say. Just look at our advertising campaigns. You can’t get much more competitive than a tortoise.
Does the math of this ménage à deux bother anybody? I have two choices; I can choose 2.5 mbps for $25 a month or twice that speed for twice that money? This is an equation that Mitch McConnell and John Boehner must love. It is nicely congruent with our competitive health care system.
Broadband internet service is another good example of competition. For example, in the Seattle area there is vigorous competition between Comcast and Qwest. Both offer "high speed internet”.
You can choose 5mbps from Comcast or you can choose 2.5 mbps from Qwest. Comcast costs about $50 a month. Qwest costs about $25 a month. Since there isn’t a third choice – Qwest and Comcast say they couldn’t continue providing such good service at such competitive prices if they had competition - you need to choose between these two highly competetive options. Two are plenty competitive they say. Just look at our advertising campaigns. You can’t get much more competitive than a tortoise.
Does the math of this ménage à deux bother anybody? I have two choices; I can choose 2.5 mbps for $25 a month or twice that speed for twice that money? This is an equation that Mitch McConnell and John Boehner must love. It is nicely congruent with our competitive health care system.
Monday, March 15, 2010
At The Beach
Today on the local NPR station I heard an author being interviewed about his latest novel. Apparently the story is an indictment of war packaged as a replay of the Illiad with a – perhaps – immortal – hero named Hector, who is a janitor at a munitions plant. I was just thanking my good fortune that I was riding on my Rocky Mountain hybrid bike on a spinner and could allow the exertion to take me elsewhere. Just before going completely elsewhere, however, something the author said seeped into my fleeing conscious: “you read about explosions every day - they're just numbers..”; this was in the context of Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan.
I had to react:
Really not.
I think all of us, especially those of us who will become or previously became embroiled at one time or another in one of our various "war efforts" have just given up. We used to think that we had some say about what our great deliberative democracy does, but we actually hear a constant and pervasive drum beat: "you don't; you don't".
Ultimately we just give up and go to the beach.
I had to react:
Really not.
I think all of us, especially those of us who will become or previously became embroiled at one time or another in one of our various "war efforts" have just given up. We used to think that we had some say about what our great deliberative democracy does, but we actually hear a constant and pervasive drum beat: "you don't; you don't".
Ultimately we just give up and go to the beach.
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