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.

She's Not Trump

A persistent gloom hangs over Clinton campaign headquarters, and even strategists and advisors in the inner circle stumble around with red-rimmed eyes, muttering, “We should be leading by 20 points” to themselves. Along with the gloom there is a palpable undercurrent of panic. As the clock runs and election day nears the campaign begs senators Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders to hit the trail and stump for Clinton in critical swing states like Ohio and Pennsylvania.

Bernie heads to Youngstown, a city hammered by deindustrialization, and speaks before a large crowd jammed into a high school gymnasium. Much of the “Feel the Bern” magic has evaporated now that Sanders has capitulated to the Clinton Machine, but there is still a mood of enthusiasm in the gym and Sanders receives a rousing ovation when he’s introduced.

Thank you, my friends. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be with you today, here in Youngstown, where in our storied industrial past good middle-class jobs were plentiful, and there was dignity in work. Of course, that’s all history. Now I know, and I’m sure you know, that Secretary Clinton has been an ardent fan of the kind of neoliberal policies that destroyed Youngstown, but at the end of the day the more important fact is that she’s not Trump.

Many of you here and across our great nation harbor doubts about Secretary Clinton’s honesty, which is ironic since she only lies half as much as her opponent. The Secretary may have lied through her teeth to Congress and the FBI about her use of a private, insecure e-mail server, she might have compromised sensitive information, but the Secretary is not Trump!

The corporate media that refused to cover my campaign has done its best to call Secretary Clinton’s relationship with the Clinton Foundation into question, even going so far as to suggest that there was a quid pro quo going on between Clinton’s State Department and the Foundation. I don’t know anything about that. The relationship between the Clinton Foundation and certain unsavory foreign elements looks damning, and maybe the Secretary used her position to open doors for Foundation donors, but would you rather have Donald Trump in the White House with his orange finger on the nuclear button? I don’t think so. The Secretary may have terminal ethical problems, but, now say it with me, “SHE’S NOT TRUMP!”

My friends, I know as well as you do that many political figures have come to this once proud city of Youngstown and promised to do something to alleviate the corrosive impact of deindustrialization. Standing before boarded up factories and shuttered machine shops they promised good jobs at good wages in exchange for your votes, and all they delivered was an Arby’s and a Wal-Mart. Because of the success of my campaign and our political revolution, Secretary Clinton has seen the light and amended many of her policy positions, and when she is elected president in November, I am confident she will turn her back on your hopes and dreams. But, who would you rather be betrayed by, Secretary Clinton or Donald Trump? The one thing that Hillary Clinton has going for her is, SHE’S...NOT...TRUMP.

I know this election is probably the strangest one in American history, a contest between two candidates despised by millions of voters. If I had been allowed to become the Democratic nominee this race would be over, but there’s no point in crying over spilled milk. Many of you will go to the polls in November and be hassled, forced to produce two forms of identification, a blood test, and God knows what else, but if you make it through the gauntlet, please cast your vote for Secretary Clinton. Hold your nose and close your eyes if you must, carry a plastic bag in case you need to vomit, but support the Secretary because, SHE’S NOT TRUMP. SHE’S NOT TRUMP. SHE’S NOT TRUMP.

Thank you and may God continue to bless America.

Dry Rot

“Failed states—czarist Russia, the Weimar Republic, the former Yugoslavia—vomit up political monstrosities. We will be no different.” Chris Hedges

The state of North Dakota wants to arrest Amy Goodman

For doing her job;

Guess the folks up there haven’t heard about the 1st Amendment.

The Standing Rock Sioux are standing against the bulldozers,

Machines on one side, men and women on the other,

But the big media can’t be bothered to get off their lazy asses

And cover the story.

The Southside of Chicago is a war zone as hot as Beirut once was,

as dangerous as Sadr City or Aleppo,

But when violence is black-on-black,

America doesn’t care;

“Let them kill each other, then we’ll clean up the mess.”

Hopeless children armed to the teeth, fighting to the death

Over turf long since abandoned by those with the power to

Help.

Democracy in America withers on the vine by design. The more

Obedient, quiet and pacified the people are, the better the oligarchs

Like it.

Money is our God, war our narcotic.

Our politicians slash taxes on the wealthy and lob trillions

At the Pentagon

Decade after decade

Then blame the poor and the elderly for the budget deficit.

Morning in America means private opulence and public squalor.

The American Kool-Aid, brewed in the fevered imaginations of

Greedy capitalists, is that tax cuts and loopholes for the wealthy

Produce prosperity for everyone.

This is just one of the destructive lies that left

the bridge to the middle class in splinters.

Our brand of capitalism enriches the few and punishes the many,

ruins lives, makes men and women disposable, trashes the planet.

I pity you if you think Trump or Clinton is inclined to stop our slide; the

Dry rot in both parties is terminal, and more of the same means death.

The central banks

Of the world are out of options

So

When the next crash hits

2008 might look like a blip.

Dead Heat: After Midnight with Bill and Hillary

It’s past midnight. The go-fers, minders and advisors -- including Henry Kissinger -- have left the suite at the Waldorf, and Bill and Hillary Clinton are alone.

Suddenly, Hillary begins to weep uncontrollably. She grabs a crystal vase from an end table and makes like she’s going to heave it through the window.  

“Whoa now, baby,” Bill says, though he backs up a couple of steps in case Hillary decides to chuck the vase at him. “Hil, let’s talk this out. What’s the matter, honey?”

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? Are you serious? We’re dead even in the polls, that’s what’s the matter. I’m dead even with DONALD-FUCKING-TRUMP, the biggest buffoon in the history of American politics.”

“Look, these are early polls, Hil, very early, and for the most part meaningless.”

Hillary walks to the window and stares down at the street below. A siren wails in the distance. “I should be leading by 20 points. How can I be dead even with that meathead? It makes no sense whatsoever. He’s an idiot. He makes shit up as he goes along. He lies.”

“Hil, you know as well as I do that polls aren’t always accurate. Election day is what, nine weeks from now?”

Hillary says nothing.

“You don’t think Trump’s still going to be standing by Election day, do you? He’s going to implode, honey, split wide open like ol’ Humpty Dumpty.”

“The electorate is full of morons,” Hillary spits. “Fucking morons! I’m Hillary Rodham Clinton! This can’t be happening.”

“Don’t worry about the voters,” says Bill, glad that the window Hillary is standing next to doesn’t open. “When this is all said and done you’re going to be President of the United States. Our friends over on Wall Street love you, the Saudis love you, the generals and defense industry CEO’s can’t throw enough money at you…”

“But the PEOPLE hate me!” Hillary screams, throwing herself on the sofa; her body convulses. Bill hasn’t seen his wife this distraught since the Lewinsky scandal; the memory makes him shudder. He knows he’s lucky that his testicles are still attached.

Hillary pounds the sofa with her fists. “I want to be loved by the people,” she croaks between sobs. “I...want...to...be...loved. Is that too much to ask? After all I’ve given to this country, is it too much to ask?”

Before Bill can answer Hillary stands up and wipes the tears from her face. “I beat that old Jew fair and square, didn’t I? I won the nomination because I’m the best candidate and I’m going to make history as the first female president of this great country. The people will learn to love me, won’t they?”

“Yes,” Bill says, “I’m positive they will. C’mon, baby, why don’t you get some sleep.”

Bill drapes his arm across Hillary’s shoulders and leads her to the bedroom, helps her undress and get into bed. He pulls the covers up to her chin and kisses her on the forehead. “Good night, Madam President.”

Bill sits in the chair beside the bed until his wife is asleep, then goes into the other room and stands by the window. He takes his phone from his pocket and taps in a number. “Hey, baby, how ya’ doing? Do me a favor and unwrap that cigar I gave you last week.”