May 21, 2004 12:30 p.m.
Gaul’s campaign isn’t official yet, but it is unofficially fucked. Yesterday he appeared before the US Chamber of Commerce and less than one minute into his speech, he was assuring the huddled asses that he was one of them. A man who, with age, has developed a near phobic relationship with clarity came out and said, “I am a conservative.” This of course in reaction to the recent opposition attack that he is the most liberal member of US Senate.
So there he was, rather than embracing his undeniable…and dare we say…admirable record for liberalism, he was running from it. It was a mind-boggling exhibition of weaseltude, and it couldn’t have been more disheartening to the armies of campaign workers gathering in the valley for the battle ahead.
It’s as if the night before D-Day, Ike confessed to a soft spot for the Aryan Race. Or on his death bed, Stephen Jay Gould said, “You know, I think those creationists have a point.” Or a Red Sox pitcher before going up against the Yankees announced that he’s always been a Yankees fan (Oh, wait a minute, that idiot Wells already did that, didn’t he?)
Friday
Goodbye Letter
May 20, 2004 4:00 p.m.
Although we went our separate ways, Robo and I kept contact a couple of times a year through calls and letters. That ended with his last letter to me, which I managed to find today:
Elvis bloated and dead. Lennon domesticated and dead. The Easy Riders, The Mean Streeters, and The Chinatowners out of business…all those coked up filmmakers out on their asses in Hollywood. How’s it feel to have your culture blowing up in your face?
Not to mention the pain of watching your hero Dylan getting with The Choir. I stopped listening to his dyspeptic shit a long time ago of course, but this new one of his has been getting some attention in my circles.
The neighborhood bully just lives to survive/He's criticized and condemned for being alive/He's not supposed to fight back/he's supposed to have thick skin/He's supposed to lay down and die when his door is kicked in/He's the neighborhood bully.
Big improvement over that simpified Blowin’ in the Wind…and more prophetic too because that’s the way it’s going to be. We’re not sitting around waiting for some answer to come wafting up on a breeze. We’re making our own wind. We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore! Seen that one? Bet you have. And that’s us. Mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore. Something is happening and you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
Fuck you. We do know what’s happening. Elites have been looking down at us while they sell off our country to the One Worlders, Third Worlders, and No Godders. But we’re taking it back now. Reagan is just the start. We’re going to run things for the next 40 years. Just like your side did. That’s how long it’s going to take to undo the damage your side has done to America. And when those 40 years are over, we’re going to run things for another 40 years to make sure what we do sticks.
And when we’re done, no one’s going to be moping around singing, Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.
Robo
Although we went our separate ways, Robo and I kept contact a couple of times a year through calls and letters. That ended with his last letter to me, which I managed to find today:
Elvis bloated and dead. Lennon domesticated and dead. The Easy Riders, The Mean Streeters, and The Chinatowners out of business…all those coked up filmmakers out on their asses in Hollywood. How’s it feel to have your culture blowing up in your face?
Not to mention the pain of watching your hero Dylan getting with The Choir. I stopped listening to his dyspeptic shit a long time ago of course, but this new one of his has been getting some attention in my circles.
The neighborhood bully just lives to survive/He's criticized and condemned for being alive/He's not supposed to fight back/he's supposed to have thick skin/He's supposed to lay down and die when his door is kicked in/He's the neighborhood bully.
Big improvement over that simpified Blowin’ in the Wind…and more prophetic too because that’s the way it’s going to be. We’re not sitting around waiting for some answer to come wafting up on a breeze. We’re making our own wind. We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore! Seen that one? Bet you have. And that’s us. Mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore. Something is happening and you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
Fuck you. We do know what’s happening. Elites have been looking down at us while they sell off our country to the One Worlders, Third Worlders, and No Godders. But we’re taking it back now. Reagan is just the start. We’re going to run things for the next 40 years. Just like your side did. That’s how long it’s going to take to undo the damage your side has done to America. And when those 40 years are over, we’re going to run things for another 40 years to make sure what we do sticks.
And when we’re done, no one’s going to be moping around singing, Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.
Robo
Wednesday
Softball
May 19, 2004 3:00 p.m.
When I first arrived in LA, I locked myself in a cramped apartment for three months writing an article on the history of prophylactics for a skin mag (3 months!). When I couldn’t take it any longer, I threw my glove into my Fiat and went off in search of a softball game. The Valley in the 70s—you couldn’t go five blocks without coming upon a bunch of boys and girls shooting a porn film or playing softball. At the first park I came to, a group was already into the choose-up-sides ritual, and I could tell from the hang-dog expressions as I approached who were the ones destined to be put in the "do no harm" positions of right-field and catcher…the humiliation of being chosen last never changes with adulthood no matter how adult everybody tries to sound by saying, "It’s just for fun."
I asked if they had room for another player, and thought maybe I’d come upon an outing for a school of the deaf. No one answered me. Until Robo piped up and said, “Let him play. We’re short a player.” I soon found out that Robo's altruism was motivated by his desire to escape the yoke of playing catcher. As the new, unproven quantity, I was his replacement. Over time, however, I showed my ability and was out on the field with the big guys, and Robo was returned to his rightful place behind home plate. But whenever I turned in a web gem or got a clutch hit, Robo made a point of telling one and all that I was his “discovery.”
When he found out I was a Red Sox fan, he bought tickets for us to go watch the Sox play the Angels in Anaheim, and all through the game he subjected me to a barrage of questions about my life. What music did I like? My favorite film. TV show. Favorite book. When and how did I lose my virginity? What kind of girls did I like? Food? Drink? Drugs? What were my politics? It was like an interview to be his brother or something. Whenever I tried to turn it around and ask him anything, he’d dismiss it with, “Oh my life’s been pretty dull.”
“Dull, Robo?" I asked. "We’re the same age…same movies…same music. Hell, maybe even the same girls. Why’s my life more interesting than yours?”
"Because everybody's is," he said.
Hmm, and now he's dead, Maybe from foul play the police say. I'd say that's pretty interesting.
(BTW, answers to Robo's questions, circa 1976: Dylan --1976 or 9176; Cool Hand Luke; Maverick--Bret, not Bart and surely not Beau; The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn; 1966--the usual way; wine; pot; left of Walter Lippman, but right of the Red Brigades. Oh, yeah, and Bond girls.)
When I first arrived in LA, I locked myself in a cramped apartment for three months writing an article on the history of prophylactics for a skin mag (3 months!). When I couldn’t take it any longer, I threw my glove into my Fiat and went off in search of a softball game. The Valley in the 70s—you couldn’t go five blocks without coming upon a bunch of boys and girls shooting a porn film or playing softball. At the first park I came to, a group was already into the choose-up-sides ritual, and I could tell from the hang-dog expressions as I approached who were the ones destined to be put in the "do no harm" positions of right-field and catcher…the humiliation of being chosen last never changes with adulthood no matter how adult everybody tries to sound by saying, "It’s just for fun."
I asked if they had room for another player, and thought maybe I’d come upon an outing for a school of the deaf. No one answered me. Until Robo piped up and said, “Let him play. We’re short a player.” I soon found out that Robo's altruism was motivated by his desire to escape the yoke of playing catcher. As the new, unproven quantity, I was his replacement. Over time, however, I showed my ability and was out on the field with the big guys, and Robo was returned to his rightful place behind home plate. But whenever I turned in a web gem or got a clutch hit, Robo made a point of telling one and all that I was his “discovery.”
When he found out I was a Red Sox fan, he bought tickets for us to go watch the Sox play the Angels in Anaheim, and all through the game he subjected me to a barrage of questions about my life. What music did I like? My favorite film. TV show. Favorite book. When and how did I lose my virginity? What kind of girls did I like? Food? Drink? Drugs? What were my politics? It was like an interview to be his brother or something. Whenever I tried to turn it around and ask him anything, he’d dismiss it with, “Oh my life’s been pretty dull.”
“Dull, Robo?" I asked. "We’re the same age…same movies…same music. Hell, maybe even the same girls. Why’s my life more interesting than yours?”
"Because everybody's is," he said.
Hmm, and now he's dead, Maybe from foul play the police say. I'd say that's pretty interesting.
(BTW, answers to Robo's questions, circa 1976: Dylan --1976 or 9176; Cool Hand Luke; Maverick--Bret, not Bart and surely not Beau; The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn; 1966--the usual way; wine; pot; left of Walter Lippman, but right of the Red Brigades. Oh, yeah, and Bond girls.)
Tuesday
Because I Could Not Stop for Death
May 18, 2004 8:10 a.m.
I woke up today to this story in the LA Times:
“Investigators have not ruled out foul play in the death of Republican political operative Robert R. Crumie, whose body was found in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel Sunday morning.”
The following flashback may help hardcore political junkies recall why Crumie’s name rings a bell:
“A new indictment charges Crumie with conspiring to deny voters their constitutional right to vote via a phone-jamming operation on Election Day 2002. Crumie had previously been indicted on charges of conspiring to annoy and harass voters by telephone. "
Before all that--indictments and death—Crumie was a friend of mine, who I knew affectionately as Robo. Weird.
I woke up today to this story in the LA Times:
“Investigators have not ruled out foul play in the death of Republican political operative Robert R. Crumie, whose body was found in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel Sunday morning.”
The following flashback may help hardcore political junkies recall why Crumie’s name rings a bell:
“A new indictment charges Crumie with conspiring to deny voters their constitutional right to vote via a phone-jamming operation on Election Day 2002. Crumie had previously been indicted on charges of conspiring to annoy and harass voters by telephone. "
Before all that--indictments and death—Crumie was a friend of mine, who I knew affectionately as Robo. Weird.
Schmo No Mo'
May 17, 2004 9:00 a.m.
Okay, I'm getting my mojo back after my run-in the other night with that corporatist whore. Excuse my language, but that's just what she is and it's really not funny .
"Not exactly HBO," she says.
No it's not exactly HBO. Not Vince and Drama and Turtle hanging out at the Playboy grotto or agonizing over whether to lease the Rolls, buy the Brando mansion, or take the 20 million to do Aquaman. It's me. Alone. Mounting my soap box in the spirit of the ancient Athenians, armed with nothing more than my wits, my iBook....and a passion to see democracy work. Does anyone out there realize what hard work this is?
(And on further review she didn't look all that much like Veronica Hamel.)
I'll get back to my letter to St. John tomorrow.
Okay, I'm getting my mojo back after my run-in the other night with that corporatist whore. Excuse my language, but that's just what she is and it's really not funny .
"Not exactly HBO," she says.
No it's not exactly HBO. Not Vince and Drama and Turtle hanging out at the Playboy grotto or agonizing over whether to lease the Rolls, buy the Brando mansion, or take the 20 million to do Aquaman. It's me. Alone. Mounting my soap box in the spirit of the ancient Athenians, armed with nothing more than my wits, my iBook....and a passion to see democracy work. Does anyone out there realize what hard work this is?
(And on further review she didn't look all that much like Veronica Hamel.)
I'll get back to my letter to St. John tomorrow.
Monday
Hangover
May 16, 2004 12:30 p.m.
I don't even want to post today.
Pour yourselves a pot of Constant Comment.
I don't even want to post today.
Pour yourselves a pot of Constant Comment.
Sunday
Incredible shrinking blogger
May 15, 2004 11:30 a.m.
I spent most of yesterday working on my letter to Senator St. John. Felt pretty good about it at the end. I thought I hit a nice balance between appealing to his head and his heart. And I would have posted it last night, but I had a rare party to go to, so I left it on the stove to simmer while I went out to mix it up with the masses...one of whom was this woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Veronica Hamel in her Hill Street Blues period. Very attractive and she oozed that confidence that comes with success (or just being a good looker...whichever comes first). And we're like two beats into our small talk when she tells me, apropos of nothing, that Senator Mack St. John makes her pants wet. And I'm like speechless. I mean here's this woman I've just met confiding her innermost sexual fantasies to me while at the same time confirming my innermost political fantasies. Before I can regain my powers of speech and tell her about this hot letter I'm writing to the Senator, she segues into career talk. Tells me she’s a corporate lobbyist...tells me she's met the who's who of Washington...tells me she travels everywhere...tells me power really is a freakin' aphrodisiac. And while I'm waiting to get a word in edgewise so I can tell her about this smokin' letter I'm going to be posting to her favorite Senator from Missouri in the morning, I get to ruminating about what it would be like to be in some kind of life partnership with a woman like this…with her pipeline into the corridors of power and her alabaster skin...getting put up at the Palm Desert Marriott or dining out at Le Cirque 2000 on an expense account. I could elevate my blogging to a whole other level at pool side or a corner table at the Algonquin.
"That's a pretty scintillating life you have there," I say, about to bust her with the news of my letter to Senator Mack.
And she laughs and says, “Yes, well it’s not blogging.”
Boing!
“You know blogging?” I ask (sheepishly, I might add, if I were an omniscient observer).
“Yes, not exactly HBO, is it?" she says. "My ex was a blogger. Which is why he’s my ex.” And then she asks, “So what do you do?”
What I do is excuse myself for the bathroom where I go to assess my shrinkage in the mirror.
I spent most of yesterday working on my letter to Senator St. John. Felt pretty good about it at the end. I thought I hit a nice balance between appealing to his head and his heart. And I would have posted it last night, but I had a rare party to go to, so I left it on the stove to simmer while I went out to mix it up with the masses...one of whom was this woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Veronica Hamel in her Hill Street Blues period. Very attractive and she oozed that confidence that comes with success (or just being a good looker...whichever comes first). And we're like two beats into our small talk when she tells me, apropos of nothing, that Senator Mack St. John makes her pants wet. And I'm like speechless. I mean here's this woman I've just met confiding her innermost sexual fantasies to me while at the same time confirming my innermost political fantasies. Before I can regain my powers of speech and tell her about this hot letter I'm writing to the Senator, she segues into career talk. Tells me she’s a corporate lobbyist...tells me she's met the who's who of Washington...tells me she travels everywhere...tells me power really is a freakin' aphrodisiac. And while I'm waiting to get a word in edgewise so I can tell her about this smokin' letter I'm going to be posting to her favorite Senator from Missouri in the morning, I get to ruminating about what it would be like to be in some kind of life partnership with a woman like this…with her pipeline into the corridors of power and her alabaster skin...getting put up at the Palm Desert Marriott or dining out at Le Cirque 2000 on an expense account. I could elevate my blogging to a whole other level at pool side or a corner table at the Algonquin.
"That's a pretty scintillating life you have there," I say, about to bust her with the news of my letter to Senator Mack.
And she laughs and says, “Yes, well it’s not blogging.”
Boing!
“You know blogging?” I ask (sheepishly, I might add, if I were an omniscient observer).
“Yes, not exactly HBO, is it?" she says. "My ex was a blogger. Which is why he’s my ex.” And then she asks, “So what do you do?”
What I do is excuse myself for the bathroom where I go to assess my shrinkage in the mirror.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
