In The Octagon

“The Clintons and Barack Obama built their careers mastering this duplicity. They speak in words that reflect the concerns of the citizenry, while pushing through programs and legislation that mock those concerns.” Chris Hedges

It was 100 degrees at 3:00 p.m. in Santa Barbara on Monday. Oppressive heat that smacked me in the face when I walked outside my air-conditioned office. It’s the night of the title match, the Great Debate between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton, a spectacle that is sure to further infantilize the public -- as if that were possible. Debate? Not in the classic sense of the word. Trump will spew, lie, claim that his outrageous statements are true; Clinton will try to wow viewers -- and overwhelm Trump -- with her command of policy; I refuse to watch the circus, not because I don’t care, I do -- I have two children, for God’s sakes -- but because I know that the American political duopoly is a fraud, Democracy as bad kabuki, and that neither party gives a shit about the needs of flesh and blood people; both parties stand for endless war and predatory capitalism.  

God damn it’s hot. The table on which my laptop sits is hot to the touch, and even though I am wearing headphones, I can hear Hillary’s voice in the background; my dear spouse is watching the show...I turn up the volume on Mr. John Coltrane to drown out the blather. Even if Donald Trump falls off the stage he will claim to have “won” the debate. The morning after, when Trump and Clinton are making the rounds of the network gabfests, Trump will say something like, “People are saying I won the debate.” People? What people, Donald?

I’d rather think about Vin Scully, the legendary baseball broadcaster, voice of the Brooklyn and Los Angeles Dodgers for what feels like an eternity, the voice of my boyhood here in California. Vin is handing over his microphone, calling it a career. Scully was the link between the Dodgers past in Brooklyn, and their reincarnation in Los Angeles, and hearing his voice in the spring and summer meant that life was on schedule, unfolding as it should. Unlike so many contemporary announcers, Scully rarely pontificated on the state of the game or the psychological motivations of individual players -- he just called the game, one minute reciting averages, the next quoting Shakespeare…

Charles Osgood is another voice leaving the scene. My wife and I have watched Osgood’s Sunday Morning program on CBS for many years, enjoying the profiles of painters and musicians and inventors, the travelogues, Osgood’s wit and urbanity. Like Vin Scully, we are unlikely to see the likes of Charles Osgood any time soon.

And, finally, so long to Arnold Palmer, the revered golfer who had his own “army.” My dad was a big Arnold Palmer fan, and I can’t think about Palmer without thinking about my dad; in my mind’s eye I see my dad on the first tee at Muni, and although this was a long time ago, the vision is fresh. Palmer and Nicklaus and Player and Trevino and Watson and Weiskopf -- names that remind me of the summers I spent playing golf and running around Muni as if I owned the joint.

My wife looks apoplectic, so I assume Trump is off on a rant. I thank the Gods for John Coltrane.