The Doctor summoned me to his house for another strategy session. I arrived just after midnight and found him in the den, performing the half moon pose while listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon at ear-splitting volume. An episode from the third season of I Love Lucy was playing on the big Plasma TV, also at full volume.
The Doctor is getting very serious about this school board run. The rectangular table along the wall was heaped with California Department of Education publications, pamphlets on school funding and standardized testing, a large map of the school district with boundaries outlined in red, books by Jonathan Kozol and several thick reports from the State Superintendent of Public Instruction.
The Doctor came out of the half moon pose and turned the music and TV volume down. “Immigration,” he said.
“What about it?”
“Molly Ivins.”
“Columnist. What about her?”
“She wrote a piece. I quote: “You want to shut down illegal immigration? You want to use the military as police? Make it illegal to hire undocumented workers and put the National Guard into enforcing that. Then rewrite NAFTA and invest in Mexico.” Smart lady. She also said the president is insane. No surprise there. Back in the day people who lived in fantasy land got locked away in state mental hospitals. Now the nutcases are running the show. I bet the Feds have a permanent tap on Molly’s phone. I bet Bush and Rove have an enemies list so long it makes Nixon’s look like the work of a two-bit amateur. Bush and Rove are vindictive, spiteful bastards – not that Nixon was a creampuff. Nixon would have turned on his own mother if it suited his purposes.”
I pointed at the table. “Homework?”
“A bit of light reading. Tell me, is there anybody in this state that can explain school finance? Christ, it’s like trying to unlock the genetic code of a spider monkey. I’ve read a lot of total gibberish in my time, including Marx, Engels, Chairman Mao and Susan Sontag, but school finance takes the cake. How do you deal with this stuff every day and keep your sanity?”
“I stay as far from any accounting function as possible,” I said. “I’m a word person.”
“Words are weapons,” said the Doctor. “Use them wisely, use them well. When we get into the heat of the campaign I will need you to be on your game, sharp as a tack, firing on every cylinder. We will attack the rat bastards where they live and make them rue the day they were born. We will beat them like a drum and leave their bones to rot in the sun. Indeed! We will take no prisoners and leave no witnesses to testify against us. Once we get a decent head of steam there’ll be no stopping us, and any fool with the cajones to get in our way will be crushed!”
I had no idea what the Doctor was talking about and in fact I felt unnerved by the demented look in his eyes, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to contradict him. In case you haven’t noticed, the Doctor is one of those hypercompetitive people for whom mere winning isn’t enough; he has a gladiator mentality and needs to destroy his opponents in the bloodiest manner possible. I suppose no man can survive for long in the cutthroat drug trade without a psychopathic streak.
The Doctor opened a pill bottle, extracted half a dozen yellow pills, and popped them in his mouth. Within thirty seconds his facial muscles went limp, and the craziness left his eyes. Smiling at me, he resumed the half moon pose and launched into a long monologue on the arcane subject of Equalization funding in public schools.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Look Both Ways Before Crossing the Street
Recent interaction with Dr. Duke has made me more paranoid than usual. I suppose this is par for the course when one is dealing with a man who has for years been a target of local law enforcement agencies. The Doctor is filling my head with crazy schemes and wild ideas about “reforming” public education, a subject he knows little about – not that his lack of knowledge will change his mind about running for school board. The Doctor keeps telling me that he is a quick study with a steel-trap memory for theories, dates, and names. To prove it he rattled off the names of every SBSD Superintendent dating back to 1886.
While the Doctor immerses himself in the minutia of public education, I’ve been reflecting on the steep decline in civility and competence on Santa Barbara’s roads and streets. Just yesterday, while crossing Anacapa at De La Guerra, right across the street from City Hall, I was nearly flattened by a young blonde woman in a gigantic Nissan Armada, executing an erratic right turn while yakking on her cell phone, oblivious to my presence two feet from her front bumper, oblivious to the world outside the Armada’s windows, oblivious to everything except the overriding importance of her phone call. What was the call about, life, death, a pile of money? Or was she demanding a refund from Spa Medicus for a pedicure gone bad?
We will never know because after I leapt out of the way she gunned the Armada down Anacapa Street, damn near side-swiping a UPS truck.
It seems to me that one can draw a direct correlation between the steep rise in real estate prices in Fat City (Santa Barbara) and the steep decline in the competence and courtesy of drivers. As the price of dirt around here rises and hefty equity windfalls roll in, the well-heeled feel entitled to break the rules of the road any time and any where they desire; thus it isn’t unusual to see some joker in a luxury car whip a U-turn on Santa Barbara Street, between De La Guerra and Canon Perdido, and drive half a block against traffic. In Fat City today, pedestrians stroll at their own risk, and even sidewalks provide no safe haven. Jittery LA-types in gargantuan SUV’s could care less about jumping the curb and mowing down a pack of school kids or an elderly person with an aluminum walker. That’s collateral damage, nothing to lose any sleep over. A decent attorney and the Ambien defense will take care of any legal issues that might arise. What matters is not only that LA-types roll unimpeded to where they need to go but also locate a perfect parking space when they arrive. Nine times out of ten that “perfect” space is a handicap spot or fire zone, but here again, the well-heeled feel a strong sense of entitlement to those very convenient spaces, directly in front of Starbucks or Lucky Brand Jeans.
Another thing I notice is that few motorists in Fat City bother with turn signals. Apparently, the new wealthy don’t feel it necessary to inform other motorists of their intent to turn; the rest of us should simply know, and stay out of the way.
Amen. As Tom Petty said, “It’s good to be King (or Queen).”
While the Doctor immerses himself in the minutia of public education, I’ve been reflecting on the steep decline in civility and competence on Santa Barbara’s roads and streets. Just yesterday, while crossing Anacapa at De La Guerra, right across the street from City Hall, I was nearly flattened by a young blonde woman in a gigantic Nissan Armada, executing an erratic right turn while yakking on her cell phone, oblivious to my presence two feet from her front bumper, oblivious to the world outside the Armada’s windows, oblivious to everything except the overriding importance of her phone call. What was the call about, life, death, a pile of money? Or was she demanding a refund from Spa Medicus for a pedicure gone bad?
We will never know because after I leapt out of the way she gunned the Armada down Anacapa Street, damn near side-swiping a UPS truck.
It seems to me that one can draw a direct correlation between the steep rise in real estate prices in Fat City (Santa Barbara) and the steep decline in the competence and courtesy of drivers. As the price of dirt around here rises and hefty equity windfalls roll in, the well-heeled feel entitled to break the rules of the road any time and any where they desire; thus it isn’t unusual to see some joker in a luxury car whip a U-turn on Santa Barbara Street, between De La Guerra and Canon Perdido, and drive half a block against traffic. In Fat City today, pedestrians stroll at their own risk, and even sidewalks provide no safe haven. Jittery LA-types in gargantuan SUV’s could care less about jumping the curb and mowing down a pack of school kids or an elderly person with an aluminum walker. That’s collateral damage, nothing to lose any sleep over. A decent attorney and the Ambien defense will take care of any legal issues that might arise. What matters is not only that LA-types roll unimpeded to where they need to go but also locate a perfect parking space when they arrive. Nine times out of ten that “perfect” space is a handicap spot or fire zone, but here again, the well-heeled feel a strong sense of entitlement to those very convenient spaces, directly in front of Starbucks or Lucky Brand Jeans.
Another thing I notice is that few motorists in Fat City bother with turn signals. Apparently, the new wealthy don’t feel it necessary to inform other motorists of their intent to turn; the rest of us should simply know, and stay out of the way.
Amen. As Tom Petty said, “It’s good to be King (or Queen).”
Friday, May 05, 2006
The Duke Campaign Takes Form
It began as a wicked joke but the Duke for School Board campaign is gathering steam of its own accord. Within two days of posting about my visit with the Doctor, several strangers called to make inquiries. At first I thought it was the usual bumbling DEA agents, fishing for the sliver of a lead that would help them nail the Doctor, once and for all. In case you haven’t guessed, Duke is no stranger to the criminal justice system. He’s been arrested several times, hauled into Superior Court to face bogus charges of drug possession for personal abuse; possession with criminal intent to distribute; assault with a moderately deadly weapon etc., etc., and every single time he strolled down the courthouse steps a free man.
But the folks who called checked out: they legitimately wanted to know more about the possibility of a Duke run for School Board; they were tired of at least one fifth of the status quo and wanted a change in style, substance, and most all, tone. I referred all the callers to Betsy, Dr. Duke’s latest personal assistant, a seventy-two-year-old organizational dynamo who lived in a double-wide in Goleta. Betsy could set the record right for the curious. At that point I still believed the Doctor was just bullshitting me. No way in Hell was he going to make a run for an entry level political position like School Board.
Much to my consternation, not to mention a rude interruption of my sleep, the Doctor called at two A.M. the very next night to inform me that he was “seriously contemplating” a run for school board, and that he wanted me to run his campaign.
“Look, Tanguay,” he said. “I got to thinking and came to the conclusion that it might be fun to sit on the Board, make some waves in the local education community. I decided that it’s about time I added some public service to my long and distinguished resume. Now, I haven’t the disposition or patience to plot strategy with some twenty-four year old PolySci major. In politics victory is the only objective. You understand this, and that alone qualifies you to be part of history.”
Duke was talking quickly and somewhat incoherently. I tried to bring him back to Earth: “You’ve got a few things working against you,” I said. “Want me to list them?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “I can take it.”
“OK, first and foremost, you have no standing or connection with the education community. You’re not a teacher or administrator or a parent with an axe to grind. Second, you’re an X factor, an unknown quantity in the law-abiding, tax-paying, traffic-signal respecting world. You know ten times as many drug dealers as you do public movers and shakers. Third, your CV is going to scare the crap out of many voters. Fourth, I don’t know more than basic nuts and bolts of running a political campaign. You need to hire a proven professional. “
“That’s a fine load of crap,” Duke said, his tone measured and reasonable. “I can deal with reality, even though I do my level best to escape its clutches. The reality is that if I get in the race I’m going to find myself running against a Libertarian crackpot with a corncob stuck in his ass, or some privileged parent of a so-called gifted student, or some community crusader looking to make a name for herself. As our Dingbat-in-Chief would say, ‘Bring ‘em on.’ Indeed, we’ll wage a campaign that will send the establishment reeling. Our model will be Hunter S. Thompson’s 1970 Freak Power campaign. That’s why I need you, Tanguay – you know as much about Hunter’s twisted political mind as anyone.”
This was true, though I don’t want to toot my own horn. Freak Power, right. Politically, HST’s 1970 campaign for Sheriff of Aspen is light years away from Bush & Cheney’s America. Hell, in 1978 a man could walk into Bob’s Big Boy with a lit joint dangling from the corner of his mouth and a bunch of counterfeit twenties in his pocket and nobody would raise an eyebrow. Today some misguided cretin would call for a SWAT team and the Fox News helicopter. I think it was Hunter who always asked this rhetorical question: where were you when the fun stopped? These are not happy times for people living on the fringes of society. The government not only tosses thousands of mild offenders in prison every year, it also listens to their phone conversations and monitors the silly e-mail messages they send to their cousin in Indiana. Osama bin Laden has never been sighted in Indiana, but if you’re a member in good standing of George W. Bush’s security state, it’s as reasonable a place to start looking as any.
But the state of our personal liberties is neither here nor there and I don’t know how or why I slipped off on that tangent. The point I was trying to make to the Doctor, the one he refused to listen to another word about, was that guys with baggage as explosive as his didn’t run for any public office.
“Don’t be a wimp. Where’s your sense of challenge, of flipping the middle finger to Power? Have a shot of tequila and get a grip. We’ve got heavy brain work, grasshopper.”
But the folks who called checked out: they legitimately wanted to know more about the possibility of a Duke run for School Board; they were tired of at least one fifth of the status quo and wanted a change in style, substance, and most all, tone. I referred all the callers to Betsy, Dr. Duke’s latest personal assistant, a seventy-two-year-old organizational dynamo who lived in a double-wide in Goleta. Betsy could set the record right for the curious. At that point I still believed the Doctor was just bullshitting me. No way in Hell was he going to make a run for an entry level political position like School Board.
Much to my consternation, not to mention a rude interruption of my sleep, the Doctor called at two A.M. the very next night to inform me that he was “seriously contemplating” a run for school board, and that he wanted me to run his campaign.
“Look, Tanguay,” he said. “I got to thinking and came to the conclusion that it might be fun to sit on the Board, make some waves in the local education community. I decided that it’s about time I added some public service to my long and distinguished resume. Now, I haven’t the disposition or patience to plot strategy with some twenty-four year old PolySci major. In politics victory is the only objective. You understand this, and that alone qualifies you to be part of history.”
Duke was talking quickly and somewhat incoherently. I tried to bring him back to Earth: “You’ve got a few things working against you,” I said. “Want me to list them?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “I can take it.”
“OK, first and foremost, you have no standing or connection with the education community. You’re not a teacher or administrator or a parent with an axe to grind. Second, you’re an X factor, an unknown quantity in the law-abiding, tax-paying, traffic-signal respecting world. You know ten times as many drug dealers as you do public movers and shakers. Third, your CV is going to scare the crap out of many voters. Fourth, I don’t know more than basic nuts and bolts of running a political campaign. You need to hire a proven professional. “
“That’s a fine load of crap,” Duke said, his tone measured and reasonable. “I can deal with reality, even though I do my level best to escape its clutches. The reality is that if I get in the race I’m going to find myself running against a Libertarian crackpot with a corncob stuck in his ass, or some privileged parent of a so-called gifted student, or some community crusader looking to make a name for herself. As our Dingbat-in-Chief would say, ‘Bring ‘em on.’ Indeed, we’ll wage a campaign that will send the establishment reeling. Our model will be Hunter S. Thompson’s 1970 Freak Power campaign. That’s why I need you, Tanguay – you know as much about Hunter’s twisted political mind as anyone.”
This was true, though I don’t want to toot my own horn. Freak Power, right. Politically, HST’s 1970 campaign for Sheriff of Aspen is light years away from Bush & Cheney’s America. Hell, in 1978 a man could walk into Bob’s Big Boy with a lit joint dangling from the corner of his mouth and a bunch of counterfeit twenties in his pocket and nobody would raise an eyebrow. Today some misguided cretin would call for a SWAT team and the Fox News helicopter. I think it was Hunter who always asked this rhetorical question: where were you when the fun stopped? These are not happy times for people living on the fringes of society. The government not only tosses thousands of mild offenders in prison every year, it also listens to their phone conversations and monitors the silly e-mail messages they send to their cousin in Indiana. Osama bin Laden has never been sighted in Indiana, but if you’re a member in good standing of George W. Bush’s security state, it’s as reasonable a place to start looking as any.
But the state of our personal liberties is neither here nor there and I don’t know how or why I slipped off on that tangent. The point I was trying to make to the Doctor, the one he refused to listen to another word about, was that guys with baggage as explosive as his didn’t run for any public office.
“Don’t be a wimp. Where’s your sense of challenge, of flipping the middle finger to Power? Have a shot of tequila and get a grip. We’ve got heavy brain work, grasshopper.”
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