Friends:
The Doctor's Waiting Room....
"...they also serve who only stand and wait."
Sonnet XIX, John Milton
The revolving door opens into a doctor's waiting room full of people like us...sick people, mostly, why else sit around such a desolate place?
You’ve been in these rooms before. It starts early, this waiting. Our parents gawked from one when we were wheeled out, freshly born, shocked to see a red, shriveled, screaming organism. Years later, here we are, back again in The Doctor’s Waiting Room!
Last week Patient Number 48551 walked into the stale atmosphere of Cardiac Room # 2. There is a certain air of seriousness about a cardiac waiting room...two heartbeats from eternity is no laughing matter. The whispered buzz of steady conversation filled the room’s vacuity. Eyes darted and averted other eyes, and a collective nervous anxiety hung heavy in the room’s air.
Strangers whispered out of a need for relief. Responses were perfunctory, like: "You don't say?" or "Really?" or "My, that's interesting." Nobody really seemed to care, but the communication seemed to relieve the trepidation heart patients feel.
He noticed it first, the wall clock. The second hand ticked rhythmically as time's slow demise ebbed out, tick by tick. Perhaps an omen for some---did they forget to repent before they arrived? It set a somber tone.
Seated, Patient # 48551 studied intently out of sheer boredom the ever-changing crowd of “Waiters.” Germ colonies occupied the irrelevant and dated waiting room magazines…no need to waste precious last minutes on this drivel. Other distractions were plentiful.
Patient # 48551 avoided the incessant ticking by imagining the lives of “The Waiters.” He assured himself it was not out of some sick amusement, since the others were probably doing likewise. Delusion is helpful in Cardiac Waiting Rooms. Dead giveaways (oops, bad word choice!) are seen in faces, dress, language, body posture, fidgets and things like that. Imagine the possibilities, he conjectured.
Caught up into his own charade, Patient 48551 began to take on airs himself, making strange facial movements, tics, blinks, fidgets of his own to confuse anyone attempting to caricature him. He thinks as he smiles, "I wonder what role they have me in...Bogart or Brando?" Which would he choose, he mused.
A nurse shouts, "OK, Mr. Hematoma, time for your procedure." Asian perhaps, he thought. Later, "Mrs. Angina, the doctor is ready for you," Italian for sure…a beauty, and pity, so young. The voice again calls, "Mr. A-fib, your time”...a Muslim, maybe. “Hello, Mr. Lipitor, ready?” Obviously Jewish. And on and on it goes, as “The Waiters” wait their time.
Patient 48551 finally gets his time. Soon he emerges with a big smile...the day's results were negative, which is positive for heart patients. Free to go, until the next time, and there will be a next time.
The ticking clock was the last thing he saw as he revolved out. Its ticking still mocked “The Waiters.” But it reminded him of something: Time runs out for everybody sooner or later, but for him, not today….fate delayed again!
Next time, he thought, I hope they personalize that waiting room a little and call me by my name, Bud, and not Patient 48551!
Bud
September 25, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Emperor is Naked...The Ugly Side of Leverage
The Emperor is Naked……
The Ugly Side of Leverage
“ A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry, but money answereth all things.” Ecclesiastes 10:19
And The Treasury has printed some $814 billion this week, to be precise ~ so much that the tattoo parlors on Norwich Street have all gone bust for lack of ink.
For what use? Why “bailouts” of course ~ where’ve you been? Bailouts, as we’re seeing, are little more than the repetition of the knee-jerk theory by our “leaders” of the socialist policy of “privatization of profit and the nationalization of loss.”
The last such huge unwinding of leverage was the Panic of 1907 ~ some of you remember that, right? The promoter, one F. Augustine Heinze, attempted to leverage his way into a “market corner” of copper (it’d be oil or gold today!), his scheme abetted by loans from greedy banks in New York. The Hunt Brothers of Dallas tried this trick with silver about 20 years ago ~ the results were the same. Well, the hubris of the “greed-is-good,” theory has again evoked the envy of the “repetition-of-history” gods, though delayed. Yes, “there’s nothing new under the sun.”
The Oracle of Omaha, Warren Buffet, commented months ago, “When the tide goes out we’ll see who’s been swimming naked ~ and it will be an ugly sight.” His epilogue to that this week was, “…we now see, Wall Street is a nudist colony.”
And now, as the truth tickles down, our eyes are open and we see our Emperor ~ The Wall Street Machine that recently made us all rich ~ is actually naked, and we are screaming for our share of the newly-minted currency before the paper runs out.
You know the story about the Naked Emperor, right? He was conned by a couple of crooked clothiers who promised to array him in the finest threads ever. But, the Emperor, who surrounded himself with only “yes” people, was really naked. No one would risk upsetting the Emperor by telling him the truth for fear of ridicule and swift reprisal. In the Royal Parade a young, innocent boy shouted, “Look, the Emperor is Naked,” and the scales fell from the public’s eyes.
Slowly the illusion we’ve been living with since 1992 is now exposed to light, and it is indeed ugly. “Print more money,” orders the Emperor’s lackey, that very same person who examined Putin’s soul, declaring him trustworthy. New clothes for everybody shouts Congress ~ except for the taxpayers, who will foot the bill ~ Wal-Mart will do.
Who’s to blame for this Panic of 2008? The finger-pointing has begun. A roundup of the usual suspects is now occurring. They are many. But know this ~ when the final putrid forensic reports arrive, we will be quite surprised at just who the culprits are. For there, mingled with the culpable and deluded, will be fingerprints we recognize….our very own!
“A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry, but money answereth all things.” Ecclesiastes 10:19
Enjoy the party ~ you’ll get the bill soon enough.
Bud
September 18, 2008
The Ugly Side of Leverage
“ A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry, but money answereth all things.” Ecclesiastes 10:19
And The Treasury has printed some $814 billion this week, to be precise ~ so much that the tattoo parlors on Norwich Street have all gone bust for lack of ink.
For what use? Why “bailouts” of course ~ where’ve you been? Bailouts, as we’re seeing, are little more than the repetition of the knee-jerk theory by our “leaders” of the socialist policy of “privatization of profit and the nationalization of loss.”
The last such huge unwinding of leverage was the Panic of 1907 ~ some of you remember that, right? The promoter, one F. Augustine Heinze, attempted to leverage his way into a “market corner” of copper (it’d be oil or gold today!), his scheme abetted by loans from greedy banks in New York. The Hunt Brothers of Dallas tried this trick with silver about 20 years ago ~ the results were the same. Well, the hubris of the “greed-is-good,” theory has again evoked the envy of the “repetition-of-history” gods, though delayed. Yes, “there’s nothing new under the sun.”
The Oracle of Omaha, Warren Buffet, commented months ago, “When the tide goes out we’ll see who’s been swimming naked ~ and it will be an ugly sight.” His epilogue to that this week was, “…we now see, Wall Street is a nudist colony.”
And now, as the truth tickles down, our eyes are open and we see our Emperor ~ The Wall Street Machine that recently made us all rich ~ is actually naked, and we are screaming for our share of the newly-minted currency before the paper runs out.
You know the story about the Naked Emperor, right? He was conned by a couple of crooked clothiers who promised to array him in the finest threads ever. But, the Emperor, who surrounded himself with only “yes” people, was really naked. No one would risk upsetting the Emperor by telling him the truth for fear of ridicule and swift reprisal. In the Royal Parade a young, innocent boy shouted, “Look, the Emperor is Naked,” and the scales fell from the public’s eyes.
Slowly the illusion we’ve been living with since 1992 is now exposed to light, and it is indeed ugly. “Print more money,” orders the Emperor’s lackey, that very same person who examined Putin’s soul, declaring him trustworthy. New clothes for everybody shouts Congress ~ except for the taxpayers, who will foot the bill ~ Wal-Mart will do.
Who’s to blame for this Panic of 2008? The finger-pointing has begun. A roundup of the usual suspects is now occurring. They are many. But know this ~ when the final putrid forensic reports arrive, we will be quite surprised at just who the culprits are. For there, mingled with the culpable and deluded, will be fingerprints we recognize….our very own!
“A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry, but money answereth all things.” Ecclesiastes 10:19
Enjoy the party ~ you’ll get the bill soon enough.
Bud
September 18, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Running on Empty...But Not Out of Luck
Friends:
Running on Empty…..
But Not Out of Luck
“Well I’m standing by the river, but the water just won’t flow,
It boils with every poison you can think of…. Leonard Cohen
It was bound to happen someday…my luck would run out and the creative juices would stop flowing, poisoned by “too many details, too little time.”
The Cardiologist’s office is a good place to think about Luck, and other things, like Prayer. So I did. What’s Luck anyway, but the happening of chance in time and place. Good luck for one may be bad luck for another. Imagine the exponential possibilities of events that luck has an opportunity to “play” with ~ staggering. Imagine a gigantic grid, lines crossing, and people moving in all directions. .. no finite gray matter can fathom it!
Theories abound about Luck. One, the “rationalist approach,” considers the rules of probability... and an avoidance of unscientific beliefs. It’s sorta like this: “A” happens, and then “B” happens…Therefore, “A” caused “B.” Get it?
Another theory is that of “chance happenings,” you know, those things like accidents, circumstances and ignorance. Bottom line: nobody has a corner on the definition market, yet
Mark Twain had his ideas on luck. He once said: “If you are looking for luck to help you to win an argument with women, there were just two theories that apply…and neither works.”
While waiting for the doctor’s dissertation on my 118/78 blood pressure and 62 pulse (either my luck held or my prayers worked), I envisioned what I’d like to call my “Luckometer.” It works like this:
Take a blank sheet of paper and draw two lines on it..one vertical, the other horizontal, crossing at the top. On the right side at the top write the word LUCK, and on the left side write the word UNLUCKY. So there you have it, the two extremes, separated by one hell of a thin line in the middle between lucky and unlucky... You with me?
Now, take any heading you want, and write it at the top of the page…things like, Love, Health, Finances, Friends, Job, you name it…won’t matter. Then list on the Lucky or Unlucky side of the page the abundance of things, good or bad, that fall into the respective category. It’s easy to see if you have been, on balance, lucky or unlucky, by the preponderance of entries you’ve made on one side or the other. Eye-opener!
I celebrated my good luck after the cardiologist’s visit with a tasty lunch of sausages and fried chicken livers, and other good S. GA vittles with my pals Frank and Alan. We talked about luck, and Frank allowed as how it was hard for him to decide if he’d been lucky or unlucky…which side did the 7 hernia operations fall on and the 6 divorces? My indigestion began at that point, and I added a few more points on my “lucky” side of the ledger.
Luck would have it that my outrageous friend, Dan Nicholson, called…full of one-liners, he reminded me about luck: “Bud, there are three kinds of folks….People who Make luck, those who Let luck happen, and those who Wonder what happened.”He said to me, “Pal, which of these are you?”
Let me pass this question on to you: Which are you?
Bud
September 11, 2008
Running on Empty…..
But Not Out of Luck
“Well I’m standing by the river, but the water just won’t flow,
It boils with every poison you can think of…. Leonard Cohen
It was bound to happen someday…my luck would run out and the creative juices would stop flowing, poisoned by “too many details, too little time.”
The Cardiologist’s office is a good place to think about Luck, and other things, like Prayer. So I did. What’s Luck anyway, but the happening of chance in time and place. Good luck for one may be bad luck for another. Imagine the exponential possibilities of events that luck has an opportunity to “play” with ~ staggering. Imagine a gigantic grid, lines crossing, and people moving in all directions. .. no finite gray matter can fathom it!
Theories abound about Luck. One, the “rationalist approach,” considers the rules of probability... and an avoidance of unscientific beliefs. It’s sorta like this: “A” happens, and then “B” happens…Therefore, “A” caused “B.” Get it?
Another theory is that of “chance happenings,” you know, those things like accidents, circumstances and ignorance. Bottom line: nobody has a corner on the definition market, yet
Mark Twain had his ideas on luck. He once said: “If you are looking for luck to help you to win an argument with women, there were just two theories that apply…and neither works.”
While waiting for the doctor’s dissertation on my 118/78 blood pressure and 62 pulse (either my luck held or my prayers worked), I envisioned what I’d like to call my “Luckometer.” It works like this:
Take a blank sheet of paper and draw two lines on it..one vertical, the other horizontal, crossing at the top. On the right side at the top write the word LUCK, and on the left side write the word UNLUCKY. So there you have it, the two extremes, separated by one hell of a thin line in the middle between lucky and unlucky... You with me?
Now, take any heading you want, and write it at the top of the page…things like, Love, Health, Finances, Friends, Job, you name it…won’t matter. Then list on the Lucky or Unlucky side of the page the abundance of things, good or bad, that fall into the respective category. It’s easy to see if you have been, on balance, lucky or unlucky, by the preponderance of entries you’ve made on one side or the other. Eye-opener!
I celebrated my good luck after the cardiologist’s visit with a tasty lunch of sausages and fried chicken livers, and other good S. GA vittles with my pals Frank and Alan. We talked about luck, and Frank allowed as how it was hard for him to decide if he’d been lucky or unlucky…which side did the 7 hernia operations fall on and the 6 divorces? My indigestion began at that point, and I added a few more points on my “lucky” side of the ledger.
Luck would have it that my outrageous friend, Dan Nicholson, called…full of one-liners, he reminded me about luck: “Bud, there are three kinds of folks….People who Make luck, those who Let luck happen, and those who Wonder what happened.”He said to me, “Pal, which of these are you?”
Let me pass this question on to you: Which are you?
Bud
September 11, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
A Tuxedo....The Closet Snob
A Tuxedo…The Closet Snob
The life of the party, that’s me…yet here I hang, lifeless in this musty closet, smelling of mothballs and sandwiched between a smoky-smelling blazer and assorted suits. I tell you, being a tuxedo gets you very little respect these days...at least in some circles.
But it was not always this way. I am, of course, the embodiment of elegance, being worn by men of distinction and pedigree. Tuxedo Park, NY was my birthplace, and my debut was at the privileged, if not somewhat pretentious, Tuxedo Club. Those were the days, when men were really rich, not dissembling debtors…men of refinement who drank fine port after dinner and spoke intelligently. I was born into this lifestyle.
Sadly, however, it’s not that way today. Why, not only am I worn in places that slander my prestige, like high school proms, but I am also relegated to tuxedo rental programs and treated with utmost contempt. Imagine how you’d feel if you were being rented to hordes of beer-swilling teenagers…the height of disrespect. So here I hang, day after day, being passed over in preference to the tasteless blue blazer, the dumbed-down choice of millions of men satisfied with mediocrity.
But my fortune is about to change. Tonight a classy Soiree, a Ball…Yes, finally, my evening has come. Oh, I will make for her a special night she will not soon forget. She will be the princess she knows herself to be. Yes, she will walk into the Club, down the long stairway in front of the envious eyes of bristling females, mirrors reflecting her elegance, escorted by a gentleman made regal by me, The Tuxedo. This is my role: I transform the mundane into the magnificent, a Cinderella into a Princess. Tonight I will make her illusions come true.
However, I must first endure the disgusting curses of the brutish man who will wear me. I can hear him now: “Why do I have to wear this “monkey suit” tonight?” (Imagine, being called by such tree-swinging names?). He will struggle and sweat trying to arrange his gold studs, and after about 15 minutes of frustration, he will be ready for the noose, er, excuse me, the bow tie. He’ll shout to her, as always, “Honey, get in here and fix this stupid tie”. Oh, the insults I suffer. But soon, as always, he’ll be smiling at the shocking beauty walking into the room, Armani-resplendent, the princess he married years ago.
And so it happened as I said. Arm in arm through the Hall of Mirrors they paraded, she in her make-believe world of fantasy, with her tuxedoed James Bond or Cary Grant, her man of mystery and intrigue. It’s a red-carpet walk for them, and he swells with pride at the adoring glances (none of which were for him, of course, but he can pretend, too!). Cocktails, dinner, then dancing…her, the dazzling essence of the evening, and he, with his tuxedo working its magic, working the crowd for tomorrow’s new deal or yesterday’s embellished exploits.
Look, as a tuxedo, I’ve been around. I know what happens as the evening wears on. My tie is jerked loose, the body I am worn by becomes a careless imbiber, my shirt has lost its starch and a couple of gold studs have disappeared. The alcohol has taken voice, and crass behavior concludes the evening of illusion. Ok, it’s time to go now. The fantasy evaporates.
The drive home is always dreadful. I am soon discarded and lie limp in the corner, just another cast-off of the evening. With stains of tenderloin au jus, sprinkles of red wine, dank with sweat and champagne and otherwise lifeless, once again my elevated status is demeaned. Folded without feeling and disgracefully tossed into the dry cleaning hamper, my triumphs in pretence and illusion are forgotten. Things have come full circle once again.
However, The Authority on illusion and fantasy always has the final word: The world needs more occasions for tuxedos and Armani gowns to escape the reality of too much reality. Yes, it was just a chimerical evening, but don’t forget, Cary Grant himself was an illusion, a Hollywood creation. His real name was Archie Leach…and he was a milkman! So ladies, put up with the grumbling and let me transform your milkman into the Prince of your Dreams, if only for an evening…everyone will be the better for it!
Next week, suffocating inside the cheap plastic bag, I’ll get stuffed into the closet and again subjected to the insufferable snubs of the vulgar and ignoble blazer and other slovenly attire.
But as for tonight, I was The Master of the Charade, the cloth of choice to define the nattering nabobs of society, brilliantly transforming the mundane into the magical.
Viva la Tux.
Bud
September 9, 2008
The life of the party, that’s me…yet here I hang, lifeless in this musty closet, smelling of mothballs and sandwiched between a smoky-smelling blazer and assorted suits. I tell you, being a tuxedo gets you very little respect these days...at least in some circles.
But it was not always this way. I am, of course, the embodiment of elegance, being worn by men of distinction and pedigree. Tuxedo Park, NY was my birthplace, and my debut was at the privileged, if not somewhat pretentious, Tuxedo Club. Those were the days, when men were really rich, not dissembling debtors…men of refinement who drank fine port after dinner and spoke intelligently. I was born into this lifestyle.
Sadly, however, it’s not that way today. Why, not only am I worn in places that slander my prestige, like high school proms, but I am also relegated to tuxedo rental programs and treated with utmost contempt. Imagine how you’d feel if you were being rented to hordes of beer-swilling teenagers…the height of disrespect. So here I hang, day after day, being passed over in preference to the tasteless blue blazer, the dumbed-down choice of millions of men satisfied with mediocrity.
But my fortune is about to change. Tonight a classy Soiree, a Ball…Yes, finally, my evening has come. Oh, I will make for her a special night she will not soon forget. She will be the princess she knows herself to be. Yes, she will walk into the Club, down the long stairway in front of the envious eyes of bristling females, mirrors reflecting her elegance, escorted by a gentleman made regal by me, The Tuxedo. This is my role: I transform the mundane into the magnificent, a Cinderella into a Princess. Tonight I will make her illusions come true.
However, I must first endure the disgusting curses of the brutish man who will wear me. I can hear him now: “Why do I have to wear this “monkey suit” tonight?” (Imagine, being called by such tree-swinging names?). He will struggle and sweat trying to arrange his gold studs, and after about 15 minutes of frustration, he will be ready for the noose, er, excuse me, the bow tie. He’ll shout to her, as always, “Honey, get in here and fix this stupid tie”. Oh, the insults I suffer. But soon, as always, he’ll be smiling at the shocking beauty walking into the room, Armani-resplendent, the princess he married years ago.
And so it happened as I said. Arm in arm through the Hall of Mirrors they paraded, she in her make-believe world of fantasy, with her tuxedoed James Bond or Cary Grant, her man of mystery and intrigue. It’s a red-carpet walk for them, and he swells with pride at the adoring glances (none of which were for him, of course, but he can pretend, too!). Cocktails, dinner, then dancing…her, the dazzling essence of the evening, and he, with his tuxedo working its magic, working the crowd for tomorrow’s new deal or yesterday’s embellished exploits.
Look, as a tuxedo, I’ve been around. I know what happens as the evening wears on. My tie is jerked loose, the body I am worn by becomes a careless imbiber, my shirt has lost its starch and a couple of gold studs have disappeared. The alcohol has taken voice, and crass behavior concludes the evening of illusion. Ok, it’s time to go now. The fantasy evaporates.
The drive home is always dreadful. I am soon discarded and lie limp in the corner, just another cast-off of the evening. With stains of tenderloin au jus, sprinkles of red wine, dank with sweat and champagne and otherwise lifeless, once again my elevated status is demeaned. Folded without feeling and disgracefully tossed into the dry cleaning hamper, my triumphs in pretence and illusion are forgotten. Things have come full circle once again.
However, The Authority on illusion and fantasy always has the final word: The world needs more occasions for tuxedos and Armani gowns to escape the reality of too much reality. Yes, it was just a chimerical evening, but don’t forget, Cary Grant himself was an illusion, a Hollywood creation. His real name was Archie Leach…and he was a milkman! So ladies, put up with the grumbling and let me transform your milkman into the Prince of your Dreams, if only for an evening…everyone will be the better for it!
Next week, suffocating inside the cheap plastic bag, I’ll get stuffed into the closet and again subjected to the insufferable snubs of the vulgar and ignoble blazer and other slovenly attire.
But as for tonight, I was The Master of the Charade, the cloth of choice to define the nattering nabobs of society, brilliantly transforming the mundane into the magical.
Viva la Tux.
Bud
September 9, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The St. Paul Resurrection...Miracle in Minnesota
Friends:
The St. Paul Resurrection…
Miracle in Minnesota
“…I am The Phoenix, I rise in Flames…”
Anonymous lines from a poem remembered long ago
There has been no resurrection in St. Paul this week…yet. The Republican body politick lies lifeless in the dust. Even the bodies of Lincoln and Reagan remained moribund.
“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave…but his soul goes marching on…Glory, glory hallalulah…”
In the temple of the Xcel Center, the situs for the televised resurrection of the Republican Phoenix, the throngs of the faithful chant and cry for The Tortured Warrior to rise from the smoldering ashes of the Bush meltdown. The miracle has yet to occur, but not because of lack of effort. The tent revival is parading its finest Party illuminati on stage, ranting and raving, continuing daily into the weary night. Men in expensive shiny suits, interspersed with Armani-clothed women, marched out on cue, summonsing the spirits to grant the petition for the miracle.
It’s a miracle the spectacle has happened at all. Nature always gets its paybacks, and it has not forgotten New Orleans, when Katrina stormed ashore, flushing the remnants of the Bush crowd into the toxic canal waters. It marked the nadir of the administration’s ineptitude. This week, Gustav blew into New Orleans, and right on up the Mississippi River, seeking out the remaining perpetrators of the impotent response. The Republicans are the Party of Hurricanes it seems, an ironic twist of fate.
Perhaps it’s the low-pressure system that has caused the lackluster energy level of the crowds in St. Paul, but the Amens have been hard to come by in the crowd. Or perhaps the Convention is situated in that nether world between East and West, the land of the Lutherans, the Presbyterians…”The Frozen Chosen”…Garrison Keillor’s folks.
But whatever, the Convention has been painful to watch, to listen to. In a word, Boring. But you gotta give ‘em credit…the steady drumbeat of the Liberal versus Conservative mantra: “Zero Experience,” “Too Tough, too tough”, “Nada, Nada,” “Drill, Baby, Drill” have energized the crowd. And at least they have dropped that silly “compassionate conservative” crap, which does not have enough power to resurrect an ant. Mormon Romney was a little frightening as he leaned about as far Right as he could get and still remain standing…my God, is there no pride left?
Tonight The Maverick, the Phoenix Hopeful, will appear on stage, appealing to the gods for resurrection, and pleading for release and distance from his nemesis, GWB (who, of course, remained in DC to deliver his speech, not that anybody cared). His woman, The Mayor of Wasilla, extolled the heavens relentlessly for the Tortured Warrior’s rise, and if I had to venture a guess, she was heard. And speaking of venture, in the town of Jesse Ventura, wrestler turned Governor, these improbable things can happen.
It’s anybody’s guess if the public buys anything either Party says, but if the Mavens of Minneapolis are anywhere near correct, there is a rumbling in the grave…
“…son of man, can these bones live?….Thou knowest”
It’s too close to call, so last night I put the dogs up, turned the lights off, and clicked off the TV as the Alaska Hockey Mom was concluding her petition. Walking out, I thought I heard the bones rattle again…”country above all, big ideas, prosperity, low taxes, straight talk, free from foreign oil.…” And if this elixir won’t raise the dead, let it lie!
Bud
September 4, 2008
The St. Paul Resurrection…
Miracle in Minnesota
“…I am The Phoenix, I rise in Flames…”
Anonymous lines from a poem remembered long ago
There has been no resurrection in St. Paul this week…yet. The Republican body politick lies lifeless in the dust. Even the bodies of Lincoln and Reagan remained moribund.
“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave…but his soul goes marching on…Glory, glory hallalulah…”
In the temple of the Xcel Center, the situs for the televised resurrection of the Republican Phoenix, the throngs of the faithful chant and cry for The Tortured Warrior to rise from the smoldering ashes of the Bush meltdown. The miracle has yet to occur, but not because of lack of effort. The tent revival is parading its finest Party illuminati on stage, ranting and raving, continuing daily into the weary night. Men in expensive shiny suits, interspersed with Armani-clothed women, marched out on cue, summonsing the spirits to grant the petition for the miracle.
It’s a miracle the spectacle has happened at all. Nature always gets its paybacks, and it has not forgotten New Orleans, when Katrina stormed ashore, flushing the remnants of the Bush crowd into the toxic canal waters. It marked the nadir of the administration’s ineptitude. This week, Gustav blew into New Orleans, and right on up the Mississippi River, seeking out the remaining perpetrators of the impotent response. The Republicans are the Party of Hurricanes it seems, an ironic twist of fate.
Perhaps it’s the low-pressure system that has caused the lackluster energy level of the crowds in St. Paul, but the Amens have been hard to come by in the crowd. Or perhaps the Convention is situated in that nether world between East and West, the land of the Lutherans, the Presbyterians…”The Frozen Chosen”…Garrison Keillor’s folks.
But whatever, the Convention has been painful to watch, to listen to. In a word, Boring. But you gotta give ‘em credit…the steady drumbeat of the Liberal versus Conservative mantra: “Zero Experience,” “Too Tough, too tough”, “Nada, Nada,” “Drill, Baby, Drill” have energized the crowd. And at least they have dropped that silly “compassionate conservative” crap, which does not have enough power to resurrect an ant. Mormon Romney was a little frightening as he leaned about as far Right as he could get and still remain standing…my God, is there no pride left?
Tonight The Maverick, the Phoenix Hopeful, will appear on stage, appealing to the gods for resurrection, and pleading for release and distance from his nemesis, GWB (who, of course, remained in DC to deliver his speech, not that anybody cared). His woman, The Mayor of Wasilla, extolled the heavens relentlessly for the Tortured Warrior’s rise, and if I had to venture a guess, she was heard. And speaking of venture, in the town of Jesse Ventura, wrestler turned Governor, these improbable things can happen.
It’s anybody’s guess if the public buys anything either Party says, but if the Mavens of Minneapolis are anywhere near correct, there is a rumbling in the grave…
“…son of man, can these bones live?….Thou knowest”
It’s too close to call, so last night I put the dogs up, turned the lights off, and clicked off the TV as the Alaska Hockey Mom was concluding her petition. Walking out, I thought I heard the bones rattle again…”country above all, big ideas, prosperity, low taxes, straight talk, free from foreign oil.…” And if this elixir won’t raise the dead, let it lie!
Bud
September 4, 2008
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