Different Day, Same Obama

My wife is watching coverage of the Inauguration in the other room. She switches from NBC to ABC to CBS to CNN, trying to find one talking head that doesn’t piss her off. David Gergen, spinmeister to four presidents, seems to be on every channel, jabbering incessantly about presidential stature, and the challenges facing Obama in the next four years. 

Over on ABC, Tim Gunn is analyzing Michelle Obama’s attire and what her stint as First Lady has meant for fashion; apparently, this is important and newsworthy. Tributes to our brave men and women in uniform, our warriors, are repeated on every network. Praise the American empire and our grand, stunning armaments. Brian Williams says Obama appears calmer this time around, more relaxed and comfortable in his role as chief executive and commander in chief; Williams and his colleagues have a lot of airtime to fill so these kind of empty, stupid statements predominate. 

Camera shots of generals and admirals, protectors of the ruling class’s property and wealth; long shots of the Capitol mall and the assembled crowd. I can’t help but think of the pomp and spectacle of ancient Rome, at least until the Disney-style music begins playing and I feel like I’m standing on Main Street with an ice cream cone in my hand and a bunch of children screaming all around me. Jimmy Carter is on hand, as is Bill Clinton, but where is W, and where is his sidekick, Dick Cheney? Surely, these two great Americans were invited to this celebration of Democracy and the orderly transfer of power. Portly Newt Gingrich strolls in, though why the Toad was invited is a mystery to me. Still no sign of W – where is that slimy motherfucker? John Boehner looks constipated, though his fake tan is perfect, as usual.

I know this is a solemn ceremony, far superior to a military coup or a fascist overthrow, but it’s just another brick in the wall of lies we tell ourselves about ourselves. It’s like asserting that the purpose of all this pomp is the welfare of people rather than the protection of property. Bob Schiefer tells the audience that Obama’s second term will be about bipartisanship, reaching across the aisle, and maybe playing more rounds of golf with Republican members of Congress. Yes, hit the links with Eric Cantor and Mitch McConnell, tee off with a smile on your face and a song in your heart, but never turn your back on those two.

“We will respond to the threat of climate change,” says Obama, knowing full well that we will do nothing of the sort because this would only upset the property owners and resource extractors – it’s another throwaway line that will soon be forgotten.

Obama’s laying out the laundry list now – help the poor, heal the sick, free the captive, punish the wicked, save the weak.

Sounds good, boss, why don’t you start right here on the fruited plain…

Keep in mind that this is the same president who determines whether or not this or that suspected terrorist is taken out by a drone strike, without benefit of legal charges and trial; this is the same president who pushed a health care reform scheme that kept insurance companies in charge of our medical care; this is the same president who refused to prosecute the criminal bankers and financiers who ruined the economic present and future for millions of people.

Different day, same guy, same rules for the ruling class. Let freedom ring, baby. Let freedom roll down from the mountaintop (and then blow the top off that mountain so we can get to the coal below), let freedom flow like the mighty Nile. Today we are one America, not divided by race (bullshit), sexual orientation (gays can’t legally marry in most places), wealth (ha, ha, ha), or the Second Amendment (another ha, ha – don’t try to take my guns, motherfucker).

And what would an American political event be without the big guy, yes, that guy, Almighty God, who pays special attention to these United States. We thank him, praise him, raise our eyes to him – or at least some of us do. God has always been useful to both wings of the Property Party.

Bring on Beyonce and the Marine Band…then cue Wolf Blitzer. 

Cycling Downhill with No Brakes

Lance Armstrong has submitted himself to America’s Mother Confessor, Oprah Winfrey. Millions of viewers tuned in to watch the disgraced cyclist try to rescue his reputation. Was he sorry, contrite, remorseful, and did he shed the requisite number of tears?

I don’t know and don’t care because the bottom line is that no mortal human can win seven consecutive Tour de France titles without pharmacological augmentation. It just ain’t possible, and all along most folks knew Armstrong was up to something, but he was a cancer survivor and his story made for good copy, and he dated Sheryl Crow, and hung around with movie stars, and headed a foundation that was supposedly doing good works, so we made him a hero, hoisted him on a pedestal and worshipped him.

In the process, we also made him very wealthy.

But what does it matter? For many years to come Lance Armstrong will be besieged by lawsuits from former friends and associates; if nothing else emerged from Oprah’s dog and pony show, Armstrong appears to understand that he is fucked, and royally so. All the people he abused and stepped on as he climbed the mountain of fame and fortune will return to haunt him.

We love to create a hero only as much as we love destroying one; this is what we do in America. The wall-to-wall Armstrong coverage will continue a few more days, and then the pathetic prick will drop off the radar, not to return until he writes a confessional book or claims to have found redemption in God. We will find someone to replace him on the pedestal; we always do because we’re suckers for an improbable story.   

I only wish Oprah would employ her vast media powers in something more useful, like interviewing all the crooked bankers and financiers and lobbyists and politicians who wrecked the economy in 2008, and left millions of Americans without houses or retirement funds. 

Dancing on the Cliff in the Dark

Well, here we are, off and galloping into the year 2013.

America peeked over the dreaded and mostly fictional Fiscal Cliff, and of course came back again with a stop-gap solution that assures the two corporate parties will battle again in a few weeks time over the national Debt Ceiling, a fairly new shibboleth since the debt ceiling has been routinely raised without a peep of protest in previous administrations. Republicans will use the debt ceiling ruse to frighten the gullible and gin up momentum for cutting “entitlement” programs like Social Security and Medicare – or any other program that doesn’t serve the wealthy.

America’s millionaire politicians insist that elderly people must work longer before receiving their benefits: make geezers toil until they’re 80 or until they keel over in the parking lot at Wal-Mart. Little thought is given to where oldsters are going to find jobs to work at for an additional five to ten years. As far as I know, employers are not clamoring for elderly workers as much as they’d like to rid themselves of them in exchange for younger, cheaper alternatives.

And while we’re snipping away at the tattered safety net, let’s put an end to hip or knee replacements for anyone on the public dime; canes and walkers are more cost effective.

The deal is pretty clear: austerity is the only way out of our fiscal wilderness. We must cut, slash, burn, and above all, make the poor pony up so the rich don’t have to. On the fruited and blessed plain of America, the wealthy are exalted, praised, and coddled like baby lambs. Under no circumstances must we burden the rich or upset them, because if we do, our best, brightest and most deserving will not invest their wealth, and if they don’t invest, our economy cannot grow, and if the economy doesn’t grow -- the horror, the horror, the horror.

Have you seen the recent feel-good PR blitz from AIG, the worldwide insurance giant that only four years ago was on the brink of ruin? An infusion of taxpayer bailout funds saved AIG and other financial institutions intimately connected with it from the bad bets and slippery business practices that had become standard operating procedure. American taxpayers had no say in the decision to bailout AIG; we were just told it was necessary to save capitalism from itself.

OK, the truth is, nobody in Washington D.C. had the stones to come out and criticize capitalism.

Anyway, if you believe the PR, AIG has clawed its way back to fiscal solvency and paid back, with interest, every dime dumped on its loading dock by US Government representatives. So you see, far from being an egregious display of corporate welfare, the bailout was a solid investment for the American taxpayer.

And, lo and behold, miracle of miracles, AIG is again doing what it does best – rebuilding hurricane ravaged communities – while wrapped in the American flag and with “Born in the USA” blaring in the background.

I think I’m going to heave all over my laptop. First BP restored the Gulf of Mexico and now AIG is saving Hurricane Sandy victims.

Holy shit! Three cheers for corporate America! Is there anything these marvelous people cannot do?

Our corporate masters only take a backseat to our military heroes, now on display in the film Zero Dark Thirty. I have no desire to see this film and here’s why: the so-called Greatest Manhunt in History required more than a decade, two invasions, thousands of dead, wounded or displaced, and billions of taxpayer dollars. Yes, our brave warriors with their ultra-effective weapons found and murdered Osama bin Laden, but the War on Terror continues as if bin Laden were still alive; the creeping and creepy American police state continues; bin Laden may be dead and rotting at the bottom of the sea, but his ghost is with us, and as a result, we remain less free, equally fearful and more in the dark.

Background Check

The toughest part of being a parent is not your own kids – it’s dealing with the parents of your kids’ friends.

The term “play-date” grates on my sensibility. The notion that play time must be scheduled like a dentist appointment drives me crazy and speaks to one of the ills of contemporary America.

When I was a kid, way back in the wild 1960’s, we gathered in the street or on someone’s front lawn, with our bikes and gear for whatever sport was in season at the time, and we played. None of us had an electronic nanny. No supervision or structure, and just as many pedophiles and perverts prowled then as now; we were taught to use common sense, like, don’t talk to strangers and avoid weird looking people who might offer you candy from a van with tinted windows.

Now it takes two phone calls, an e-mail, a text and a Skype conversation to confirm there will be adult supervision at the play-date. It goes like this:

Yes, yes, Mrs. So and So, your precious and precocious child will never be out of our sight. We will not feed her any wheat or dairy products, or fruit juice laced with high fructose corn syrup. We have been fingerprinted and TB tested. What’s that, our property and casualty insurance? Up to date – we can e-mail you a copy of the policy if you like.  Our family vehicle is less than ten years old and has new brakes and tires. If we leave the city limits you will receive a text message. We just checked and can assure you that our daughter does not have head lice. Clean as a whistle. We should inform you, however, that our daughter is not adept at math, though we don’t believe this deficiency is contagious; your gifted and talented child, light of the universe, diamond in your eye, future Ivy League scholar, will not be adversely affected by intimate commerce with our very ordinary child. Yes, of course we have parental controls on our cable box. Books? Yes, we have books, print and Kindle versions. What? A Bible? Well, yes we do, but mainly as a work of fiction rather than an artifact of faith. Is this a problem? If you don’t proselytize we won’t, either. Ha, ha, just kidding. What do you say? Have we got a play-date? What’s that? Pets? We have a very healthy beta fish named Zeus. No, no dogs, cats, hamsters, iguanas, guinea pigs, pythons, chinchillas or exotic birds. We’re really very boring and frightfully normal. You’re more than welcome to inspect our medicine cabinet and look beneath our beds. What other assurances can we give you, Mrs. So and So? We never try to weasel out of jury duty. We voted in the past five elections. Solid citizens – decent, honest, lower middle-class folks, that’s us. Your exceptional child will be safe and cherished, as if she were at home.

I miss the old days. The world was just as perilous, but it felt safer, more predictable, authentic, and less neurotic. Our parents pushed us out of the house, out of their hair, and told us not to come back until dinnertime. They trusted we would survive, and we did.