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In our age there is no such thing as 'keeping out of politics.' All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia.-- George Orwell

“I would rather be a swineherd at Amagerbro and be understood by the swine than be a poet and be misunderstood by people.” ― Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life

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Wednesday, June 8, 2016

California Blues

I have one of those sinking feelings that wash over me at times.

It's more pronounced than the one I suffered after Barack Obama became the first black president amid the hope and change I was all for at the time, but which quickly metamorphosed into a sucker-punch to the gut.

I can remember being goddamned happy that the phony "maverick" John McCain and his chosen idiot Sarah Palin were run off the scene in 2008, but things quickly soured.

In no time--or in a flash of time as it played out--Obama made a mess of an historical opportunity. Just as suddenly as he came to power, he caved.  He gathered around him the usual assortment of Washington power players and holdover Bush plutocrats and made a mockery of  everything, including the Nobel Peace Prize (War is Peace!).

In short order, he led a new wave of violence in Afghanistan.  He spoke fleetingly of his Gitmo promises and then let them slide without conversation.  He dosed the public with further bromides regarding U.S. exceptionalism. He played a lot of basketball--something new!--and golf.

He pulled out the new tech in the spirit of drone assassinations and other forms of sanitized death. He swore off the word "terror" but unleashed the American variety.

He revealed himself to be long on talk and short on substance.

He nodded to his racist fellow "public servants" when they callously obstructed his every move. Rather than fight back when a little struggle could have moved the day, he played it safe.

He had a mandate, which he squandered, not so much because he could have changed anything, but because he could have moved his trembling lips and fought back--he was positioned to shred the fuckers, but didn't.

He lost his nerve, if he ever had any.

So nay, this year's sinking feeling is different, more pronounced and obvious, as translucent as a Hillary Clinton diamond. No waiting for the ax to fall.  No expectations that she'll make a mess; she is the mess.  There was no learning curve this time, no discovery, no illusions about the future.

I see Hillary and Bill frolicking in the White House; old, wrinkled sex in America's illicit porn shop--with separate bedrooms, of course.

I wasn't sucker-punched this time.

One thing we can legitimately hope for as our summer turns to dark autumn and this oblivious season culminates. Trump should pay Lewinsky a couple of million to discuss that blowjob.

If she doesn't appear on the network pundits' programs to talk about it--the more often the better--somebody will have failed as far as choice programming is concerned--good solid American programming.

Fittingly, Madam is about to give us a national reaming.


TS  

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