Fuck Scott McClellan

Aquarian Weekly 6/4/08 REALITY CHECK


Well, why, all of a sudden, if he had all these grave concerns, did he not raise these sooner? This is one-and-a-half years after he left the administration. And now, all of a sudden, he’s raising these grave concerns that he claims he had. And I think you have to look at some of the facts. One, he is bringing this up in the heat of a presidential campaign. – Press Secretary Scott McClellan on former Bush administration anti-terrorism czar, Richard Clarke’s Against All Enemies: Inside America’s War on Terror. March 22, 2004

Scott McClellanScott McClellan wants to go to heaven now. He thinks writing a book confessing his sins will get him there. Dick Nixon and Bill Clinton tried it. Chuck Colson and Ed Meese too. George Tenet, Richard Clarke and Paul O’Neill gave it a shot recently, and some may have forgiven them for it, but God is not likely to be counted among them. God has different criteria, and it is not designed to make exceptions for manipulating the American public as bucket-carrying surf for the Commander-in-Chief and his band of cronies on matters of war and treason. Public opinion and cleansing the soul may be good business for Jesus and Judge Judy, but for omnipresent judgment it is something akin to white noise.

Fuck Scott McClellan.

This is what God will say when the final writ comes due, and he will have his family and country and president to thank for it, because they were the ones who convinced the chubby Texan momma’s boy that there would be a final reward for blindly following the guiding light of George W. Bush, Republicanism and loyalty.

Oh, it was loyalty that put Baby Mac in the rumble seat of the Big Ride long enough to laugh all the way from Austin into history; a history he hopes to queer by thrashing a few random thoughts together about how horrible and unjust his government was while he spun it happy-go-lucky for the voting hordes.

Poor, misguided, stupid fool the former White House press secretary was. He lied repeatedly and without shame for the Big Machine. He was cast before the public as a puppet of Machiavellian demons battling to keep Dick Cheney and Karl Rove out of prison, while defending the federal government’s mishandling of natural disasters and cobbling together incriminating fabrications about Middle Eastern invasions.

Victimhood, the rascal’s last refuge; a cozy place to lick the wounds and pass the blame, conveniently weaving a quilt of denial – it will put The Dirt on you, the kind that doesn’t wash off.

Many who held the position of press secretary wrestled with The Dirt when leaving the post. Private discussions with Franklin Pierce’s press representative revealed suicidal dreams and long nights of self-flagellation after failing to properly explain the plunging of a nation into Civil War. The Dirt was also on the sad sack who tried to locate all those missing Japanese citizens during World War II, while failing to mention that the country’s chief executive was almost always minutes away from mental and physical incapacity. Some even claim that Andrew Jackson’s press people went mad from lack of sleep after the “mass evacuation and systemic execution of entire races”.

“Oh, woe is me, the messenger, duped like a child in these trying times! Oh, how the evil network of cruel monsters used me as a tool of incompetence and propaganda.”

If McClellan truly wanted to “set the record straight”, he would have come clean years ago in an interview or by making a statement to the congress, not after receiving a healthy advance from a major publisher and going on the Today Show and whining like a school girl.

That is a direct quote from the public relations firm that spun the nasty deeds of Jesse James into paperback gold, while he was busy shooting innocent rail workers in the face for spare change. They claimed innocence as well, victims of corporate greed and misrepresentation. Over and over they asked their detractors if they would have so easily refused boatloads of cash to paint an obvious psychopath as the playful rogue of the Wild West.

McClellan wants to free his soul; the opening quote for his book, What Happened: Inside The Bush White House And Washington’s Culture Of Deception is “The truth will set you free”, the most abused Bible verse in a fantastically mangled litany of them. The truth sets one free when it is served up during the time of a terrible lie being perpetuated, not after all the money was made and the plaudits were handed out and then you can’t sleep at night because you think the Devil is nipping at your heals.

This would have been a whole lot bigger if the book had been titled, What’s Happening, and it hit the shelves when McClellan stepped down. Now it simply justifies from the inside what everyone has since learned from simple observation and a minimum of investigation. Great, thanks for adding to the parade of Bush-bashers months before he becomes a private citizen and his approval ratings are that of the final days of Nero.

If McClellan truly wanted to “set the record straight”, he would have come clean years ago in an interview or by making a statement to the congress, not after receiving a healthy advance from a major publisher and going on the Today Show and whining like a school girl. Then maybe these revelations, spoken from the heart of the Bush inner sanctum, would have rightfully fueled a public outcry that made it politically solvent for the spineless legislative branch to wrest what McClellan clearly describes as blatant criminals from the halls of federal government.

The liberating magic of the truth applies to Colin Powell, who stood up to the president of the United States about his misgivings on foreign policy and war in 2004, two months before resigning his post as secretary of state, admitting before a senate committee on governmental affairs that his speech to the UN in February of 2003 about Iraq’s stockpile of weaponry was “wrong”. Powell, treated like a punk and a sell-out by his party and administration, stood his ground and went on record, legally binding and lasting, to the press, the citizenry, and the world that there were serious and dangerous problems with the government’s transparency. Like John Dean a generation before, he stood up, against the pressure to keep quiet and cover-up when it was most useful to the country, not when it was financially and spiritually expedient.

What McClellan should have done without hesitation and in front of a grand jury, was expose these serious charges completely and without equivocation. Because among the litany of crimes McClellan levels against his former boss and his cabal, admitting that Karl Rove and Scooter Libby deliberately told him to lie to save the vice president from being indicted for treasonous acts by revealing the identity of a CIA agent for political smearing is grave.

If McClellan’s observations are correct, Libby, Rove, and Dick Cheney must be tried and executed for treason against the United States in a time of war. Period.

But his words are merely passed off as that of a “disgruntled employee manipulated by an avaricious publisher”, and that he is just piling on an already disgraced lame duck president.

Perhaps McClellan should heed his own words, as flaccid and incredible as they appear now, when he criticized a former colleague for conveniently trickling out major indictments in a book years after the fact; “If you look back at his past comments and his past actions, they contradict his current rhetoric.”


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Will The Real John McCain Please Stand Up

Aquarian Weekly 5/28/08 REALITY CHECK


Now that the Democratic Party’s sixteen-month hissy fit winds to a merciful close, the electorate will be forced to ask the absentee Republican candidate for his credentials. Trouble is they are not of the usual tried-and-true variety. The charming confusion that is John Sidney McCain III’s political biography is anything but ordinary. And as I write this, it continues to stew, creating a daily definition that begs the obvious question: Who the hell is John McCain really?

John McCainNo one with a lick of sense can argue that the Arizona senator and presumptive GOP presidential nominee tiptoes across the thinnest of campaign tightropes. He is a Republican in a political season that rates the very term with extreme prejudice. For six of the last eight years his party has been at the helm of some trying times, a good portion of them circumstantial, others self-inflicted. He has also been a major part of this ride, in some cases leading the vocal charge for an unprecedented domestic and international litany of train wrecks, which fairly brands him with the blame. Still other times he was battling the status quo with contrarian bills and harsh criticism of its leaders, which equally brands him a political traitor.

For good or ill, McCain must combine these peculiarly fascinating and perhaps instructively unique dualities and find a way to traverse his way through the most difficult of strides: Distance himself from the currently doomed Washington atmosphere and rally the very troops who stand accused of screwing everything up.

This is not an easy balancing act for a congressman, much less a presidential candidate. It is why McCain appears at times like a stalwart maverick and others like he is a blithering idiot, the latter popping up more frequently since the Democrats have all-but decided on his opponent.

When he excoriates rivals for views he himself espoused a few years earlier, whether it is on the Iraq occupation or tax cuts or negotiating with foreign nations not jiving with the American world plan, McCain looks like a pandering hack. When he’s making bold statements about changing the tone of previous elections that appeared petty and vicious by staying above the fray, but then when things get juicy, as in the turbulent weeks following the now-infamous Reverend Wright fiasco, he jumps to question a candidate’s integrity, he looks desperately silly.

This is a shame; because part of the McCain appeal is that he is anything but a pandering hack or desperately silly. His record, for the most part, shows he has stood by principle even when it looked like political suicide, as in his repeated public mockery of the bungled Iraq war policies devised by the obviously mad Donald Rumsfeld, whom he berated vehemently in public for close to two years. Later, when he was wallowing in primary purgatory, flat broke and without a hint of legitimate press coverage, his defense of the dubious troop surge in Iraq seemed like the final nail in his campaign’s coffin.

McCain has gambled where few politicians of this age have gambled, heading up questionably deduced crusades outside the mainstream and across the ideological aisle with like-minded legislators who believed that campaign finances were becoming counter-productive to the electoral process, the executive branch of government should be given the override veto power to curtail federal spending, a bating of the powerful tobacco lobby was long overdo, a reduction of greenhouse gases by big business was paramount, and the monitoring of the senate’s filibuster stranglehold in judicial nominee process was a much-needed self policing of congress.

This is a man who at once rattled the sabers of military might while railing against the use of torture in any manner. He questioned the long-range wisdom of the original Bush tax cuts and worked with the much-despised ultra-liberal lion, Ted Kennedy on immigration reform. When he was torn to pieces during his 2000 presidential campaign by a burgeoning Texas smear-machine, he dusted himself off and during the general election hugged the soon-to-be president like a long-lost brother. Four years later, however, he would deride the same army of political hit men and his party’s privately funded muckrakers in a staunch defense of fellow Viet Nam vet John Kerry.

It is a difficult and thorny trek laden with social, political and philosophical minefields. At some point the 71 year-old senator of 26 years will have to figure out which McCain is best suited for the trip, and when he decides who that is, then the public can vote on it.

McCain is also two sides of the personality coin: An über-serious war veteran of imprisonment and torture, who has dubbed himself “the worst nightmare” for America’s enemies, who often displays a playfully self-effacing sense of humor. He speaks like a hawkish macho man to the NRA and meets with lunatic Christian cult preachers, then pivots to jive with liberal joke-factories like The Daily Show and Saturday Night Live. He winks at the Right Wing of his constituencies with talk of conservative judges, but derides any notion of crazy amendments to ban gay marriage.

During the final weeks of his successful Lazarus-like rising from primary oblivion, he battled every conservative talk show host imaginable – many still refusing to back his candidacy – a vocal pogrom that may ride into November now that a Clinton is no longer a threat. In succeeding despite not sucking up to performing party robots, he has disproved the myopic notion that a Republican must pander to the ultra-right of the party to lead it. Hell, McCain even called the evil leftist press corps his base in 2000 and still enjoys their company on his Straight-Talk Express.

But there have been signs of change on that front lately, specifically when the media pounced on the ever-fading president as he stared down the lowest approval ratings since Nixon in a speech to Israeli hardliners wherein he compared anyone who even considers diplomatic relations with foreign nations he’s deemed “terrorists” as an act of appeasement akin to disgraced British prime minister, Neville Chamberlain. McCain echoed these mawkish sentiments, continuing to recall Hamas leader, Ahmed Yousuf’s “endorsement” of a Barack Obama presidency as a de facto threat to national security.

Rightly accused of the worst kind of political chicanery, using an official speech on foreign soil as a sitting president to influence an American election, McCain was unceremoniously tethered to Bush’s usual verbal goofiness and ham-fisted public relations; not a place he wants or needs to be for any hope of victory.

So John McCain struggles to hover aloft from “business as usual”, once a champion of Independents, the maverick’s maverick, and gather the rancorous base of his wounded party, while also forced to upset the Change Agent, Hope Movement of Barack Obama, who has systematically stomped on the heretofore immutable laws of Democratic Party politics by ignoring the socialist-minded working class special interest lobby to create his own uncharted path to the White House.

It is a difficult and thorny trek laden with social, political and philosophical minefields. At some point the 71 year-old senator of 26 years will have to figure out which McCain is best suited for the trip, and when he decides who that is, then the public can vote on it.


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Will Women Vote For Barack Obama?

Aquarian Weekly 5/21/08 REALITY CHECK

THE GREAT DIVIDE Race, Gender & The New Frontier

The cultural landslide that has sprung from the 2008 Democratic primary race is nothing short of historic. Nothing about it can be measured by the past.


The failure of the general press coverage to grasp this has rendered the entire industry impotent. Metric geeks endlessly pour over voter trends and intra-party splits, swing state exit polls and traditional supporter blocks. Skewed commentary prattled by pathetically debased punditry try in vain to corral some sense of this outlandish idea that a woman and a black man are not merely running for the highest office in the land, but the victor may hold a very real shot to compete as a heavy favorite. The whole idea has crippled the media and sent voters into a feeding frenzy rarely witnessed by hardened professionals that are paid not to blink.

Suffragette CityBut a story without precedence is death to journalism. It removes the air of certainty from events. When the schematic is smashed to pieces, there is terrible panting and grasping for answers where there are none. But alas, one certainty has emerged; there is no sense in continuing to postulate any kind of Kumbaya-hand-holding détente between warring factions inside the Democratic Party now that Illinois Senator Barack Obama is its presumptive nominee.

Not this time.

There is a Great Divide in the party that goes beyond anything or anyone preceding it.

Way beyond.

This is not JFK vs. LBJ in 1960 for the liberal center of the Democratic Party or Goldwater vs. Rockefeller in ’64 for the Republican Party’s conservative soul. It is nothing like the personality battles in the Republican Party between Ford and Reagan in 1976 or the one within the Democratic Party between Ted Kennedy and Jimmy Carter four years later.

These were ideological, philosophical battles or skirmishes over national “electablity” and backroom party politics. Baby stuff. The kind of stuff you come back from.

You can shake off Lyndon Johnson accusing Jack Kennedy of drug addiction or Kennedy calling Johnson “a dumb hick”. Small potatoes. Before long they were on the big ticket stealing the White House from Tricky Dick.

It was business as usual when Teddy refused to shake the president’s hand at the convention or Goldwater used insider muscle to paint Rockefeller as a Commie lunatic. Shit, when Ronald Reagan called George H. W. Bush “a wimp” and Bush coined the phrase “voodoo economics” it lead to twelve years of Republican dominance.

These were, after all was said and done, still Anglo-Saxon, protestant old-time political robots – with the grand exception of JFK, who was at best a buffet Catholic. They had constituencies that ran long before the Civil War, demographics that included big labor and gun lobbyists, industry moguls and congressional favor-trades. These were entrenched factions that had run unchecked over the body politic since the rich colonial merchants thumbed their noses at the English crown and riled up the illiterate peasants to shed the blood of revolution.

It was been-there/done-that, over and over and over again.

If a staunch supporter of an also-ran had to compromise or trade in their devotions for a lesser deal, it came easier, because there would be another one just like them entering congress to beat their drum or at the very least a carbon-copy waiting in the wings to fight on in four years. There had been two centuries of lily-white, silver-spooned, Anglo-Saxon swinging dicks that had come before and were more than likely to come again.

So I ask my fellow compatriots of the Fourth Estate: Where exactly do these women, who viewed Hillary Clinton as their first and maybe only legitimate shot at the big prize, go after the smoke clears?

These candidates did not in any way, shape or form, resemble Hillary Rodham Clinton, a woman, or Barack Obama, an African American. Not one of them hailed from a gender or race that was made to bear centuries of discrimination, condescension, social and cultural pandering, rejection, assassination, or recrimination.

Again, barring Kennedy, who, along with being Catholic had to overcome the taint of Irish blood, which for over a century had lived uncomfortably at the corner of despised and shunned. But lest we forget Kennedy, an insanely rich blue blood, cheated the electorate and was murdered before finishing what he started, so let’s not get all giddy about that anomaly.

So I ask my fellow compatriots of the Fourth Estate: Where exactly do these women, who viewed Hillary Clinton as their first and maybe only legitimate shot at the big prize, go after the smoke clears? Do they just sigh forlornly and forget that a one-time junior senator with fifteen minutes of experience shoplifted their girl’s long and painful road of political theater all leading up to this signature moment?

If things turned out differently, the same could have been said of Obama’s hardcore African American support, which watched in abject horror as the Clintons suddenly turned from sweet-talking sympathizers to blurting the same tired subtle racism of the past.

What is happening now inside the Democratic Party is literally historic. This amazing run of ’08 could very well be the final tolling bell for an African American or woman candidate in the presidential arena for a long time. Think about it: A weak sitting president lording over an unpopular war and a sinking economy representing an opposition party at its all-time low, tanking special elections in Mississippi and fighting off one criminal allegation after the next. This is the outsider’s one genuine shot, even if it is still a long shot, and I remain one who will believe it when I see it. But even I know that if not now, when?

The real question this fall is not about working class white men or swing states or the general unpopularity of the Republicans, it is how Obama manages to carry November in a party dominated by women if the women either stay home or turn to John McCain to free up a Hillary comeback in 2012?

This is not about politics now. It is not about parties or platforms. This is a culture war, plain and simple. It is about being unlucky in timing. If it were merely Obama, then there would have been a groundswell from the bottom up, as all good revolutions move societies. If it had been a woman, alone, fighting from the nether regions of American politics, it would have been the sole story of the early century. But there were two in a contest that requires only one representative. One of those representatives, whose constituency has waited forever to be heard on this kind of stage, will have to see The Dream die.

All these women, many of them, in fact, almost all of them, over sixty and showing up in record numbers, recall all too clearly a time when they were worth half of a man’s salary in the workplace, if they could work at all. They were told they were too limited in mental and emotional scope to be doctors, lacking in cerebral temperament to practice law, and far too weak to serve in the armed forces. Some even recall not being granted the right to vote at all or being able to emerge from the kitchen to make a stand, politically, socially, sexually, or professionally. And if they don’t remember, their mothers and grandmothers certainly told them all about it.

So what will the women do once the crusade’s shut down?

And how, in this season of discontent with the status quo, does The Change Candidate rally the troops enough to make history?

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Clintons Make Deal With Party 2008

Aquarian Weekly 5/14/08

N.C. & Indy Voters Send Clinton Kamikaze Campaign Into Broker Mode

So she sat on, with eyes closed, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality. – Lewis Carroll Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland

One For The RoadIt was around ten p.m. eastern time on May 6 when even the most dizzying of sycophants at The Machine began to take stock. The merry time of misrule that was all the rage for close to two months was sounding taps from a distant bugle horn due south. The phones at the Bloomington, Indiana Headquarters of Clinton Central had gone silent, ceasing the mindless bustle and putting many on alert. Several of them had thought there had been a blackout, but the televisions above their heads continued to buzz the bad news from North Carolina. The mood, so full of helplessly false hope shoveled without shame by obvious psychopaths for weeks, now took on that of a cartoon character having realized it had wandered off the cliff and suddenly, in a rush of cold reality, glanced down to find the abyss.

The unrecognizable stench of bitter and lasting defeat draped the air. And for the first time, deep inside the spectacular blanket of denial that had become Campaign Fantasy Camp, everyone understood the initiative had changed.

Standing from his cubicle, headset still clamped to his head, the emotionally strained voice of an exhausted intern croaked, “What are we doing here?” No one, it turned out, had a serviceable answer.

By dawn the gallows jabber of “being in the zone” and “downhill momentum” and “game-changing” appeared a sad joke in the unforgiving light of day. To those still left in “charity” employ of what one Clinton aid recently called The Three-card Monte of campaigns, “a dismal march of shameless pandering and sophistic photo-ops”, the jig was most agonizingly up.

North Carolina, in play for days, turned into a Barack Obama landslide. Worse still, Indiana, the primary that was supposed to seal the “white working class” super-delegate deal for Madam Shoo-In, was at first too close to call and ultimately a few thousand tallies from scratch.

Let it be known that it was the final razor-thin count in the Hoosier State that began to dismantle the Clinton Machine. Indiana, the historians will write, loosened the Clinton’s death grip on the Democratic Party. Those who had stood firmly behind their impenetrable wall to crash and burn reputation and treasure, started to awaken to their folly.

So what is Hillary Rodham Clinton doing here?

Around two a.m. the next morning the 42nd president of the United States took a separate flight back to Chappaqua, New York. The diehard early-90s’ Clintonites begged him to stay, but he could no longer bare the charade. He told what was left of several high-ranking campaign officials that his wife had “gone around a weird bend” and he could no longer follow her than run himself, and not even the brainwashed ilk of Paul Begala or Lanny Davis could envision such obvious madness. “No matter how much I owe her,” Bill Clinton whispered, “I owe her the truth this time.”

The Machine’s moneyman, Terry McAuliffe, giddy as a schoolgirl at 6 p.m. of the last election day that will matter to a Clinton in a very long time, had nothing to say to reporters by midnight. NBC’s Andrea Mitchell asked him how much money the New York Senator had left. McAuliffe looked at her blankly and stammered, “Money?” as if he had never heard of the word.

The truth emerged twelve hours later. The Machine had officially gone belly up, and reports by late afternoon the next day had the candidate personally in the hole for over $11 million. All of her public office earnings spent on a random fling across key national election swing states downing whiskey shots, toting rifles, fitting for hardhats and telling the national press she was going to “obliterate Iran”. By the Sunday before the fateful vote, Clinton’s brandishing of the ill-conceived and badly argued Tax Holiday idea was so viciously pilloried by every known economist it appeared she had lost her grip on whatever authenticity remained viable.

Hillary Clinton would have to come to grips with the annoying concept of fact. She is done, and has been for some time. She has been running from something, not towards it; and only what is left of her good name is being challenged, not Barack Obama or a long-shot chance at the White House.

Word began filtering through the offices that Ms. Rodham cancelled her scheduled post-primary bookings on the Today Show and Good Morning America so she could “think out the strategy”, which was to focus on keeping the lions at bay, show no blood, and hitting her knees like Nixon and Kissinger during the eve of the Great Exodus.

It wasn’t until cooler heads mapped out an Exit Strategy that things began to level.

Hillary Clinton would have to come to grips with the annoying concept of fact. She is done, and has been for some time. She has been running from something, not towards it; and only what is left of her good name is being challenged, not Barack Obama or a long-shot chance at the White House.

Thus, a long and painful intervention ensued, and according to sources very close to Fantasy Epicenter, late Wednesday negotiations with Howard Dean and the DNC bigwigs in a special Washington meeting ended with the following provisions:

1. No more vilifying ads or skewering depictions of the presumptive nominee.

2. Halting the ridiculous nonsense about having a chance to win anything by creating new and more bizarre routes and making up crazy rules to suit these pathways.

3. Bring the curtain down on what Joe Klein aptly described in Time magazine last week as “a woman transformed from Eleanor Roosevelt into Huey Long in two short months.”

4. No more clamoring for debates, but they get to keep “challenging the system” to seat the delegates from Michigan and Florida, which will appear to the press and the American people like a populist charge to “bring true democracy back to The Party”, ending with the May 31 party caucus to heroically bring them back into the fold.

For its compliance in this treaty, The Machine gets the following:

1. Allowed to play footsies with the Democrat base in West Virginia, Kentucky and Oregon for the next two weeks, talking proudly of “forging ahead” and “fighting on” bravely, but with an air of a farewell tour.

2. Have all outstanding debt erased by the liquid Obama funds and the committee coffers.

3. A formal and public offer of being on the ticket, which she will politely and officially decline, with the caveat that at least a dozen Clinton operatives get prominent posts on the Obama National Campaign Staff, and upon victory, several receive administration jobs.

4. A smoothing over with party operatives, who have viewed for some time the Clinton Campaign as a kamikaze force trying to destroy Obama in the hopes there is a McCain victory in the fall and a To The Rescue Clinton Revival in 2012. There will be no mass shift in super delegates to seal Obama’s nomination until she officially and respectively suspends her campaign.

On May 20, the day of the Oregon primary, which Obama is projected to win, Hillary Rodham Clinton will concede defeat, releasing her delegates, and appear magnanimous in the process.

The Clintons get one last moment in the sun, and then will be asked to infiltrate the Reagan Democrat- white/male infrastructure of the party in Ohio and Pennsylvania, and rally the troops in the wounded Michigan and Florida delegations. Obama will paint the Clinton legacy with great pomp and humility, but look ahead to a new chapter in American history, thus separating his New Generation movement from the haggard remains of the Boomer nonsense that derailed what was once a well oiled, multi-million dollar political engine.

If The Machine does not comply, the dwindling Clinton power base will be ignored and the candidate’s standing in Democratic Party good will, and therefore her lengthy career within it, is no more.

Only time and actions will tell if The Deal was accepted in full or merely another con by the masters.

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Pennsylvania Dooms Democrats Again 2008

Aquarian Weekly 4/30/08 REALITY CHECK

KEYSTONE KOP-OUT Why Barack Obama’s Inability To Bury The Clinton Ghost Dooms November

A few weeks before John McCain is sworn in as the next president of the United States, many in the press will likely ask What Happened To Barack Obama?

The majority will use antiquated measuring sticks to speculate on his inability to connect with white men, Catholics, Hispanics, older women, or low-income Reagan Barack ObamaDemocrats. Still others will ponder his first fractured weeks of April ’08, the spring of his discontent, when he had unlimited funds and media power, a groundswell of celebrity fervor, and two opponents both in and out of his party wounded by daunting preconceptions, relative campaign poverty, and the stench of old-time politics about them, but wasted valuable energy grappling with age-old labels of anti-Americanism, elitism and liberal mania. The rest will be left to deconstruct the night he tanked Pennsylvania and they’ll ultimately consider it his national election death knell. The night everyone finally realized that America would not be voting for a black, liberal, northerner, now matter how jazzed all the college kids and cable television hosts had become.

And they will all kick themselves for not seeing the obvious signs anyone with half the experience and none of the access were afforded. How could they not see that time and again all the huge crowds and revolutionary fire burning across the Internet and on the streets of big cities and on large campuses and the increasingly bogus blogoshpere had failed to seal a single absolute?

There are still very large holes in the “unsinkable” good ship Obama, flooded beyond retribution by the unshakably bizarre windmill-tipping masquerade of Hillary Rodham Clinton, spurned prom queen mutated into Lewis Carroll’s Mad Hatter.

But those paid to dissect this most historic of Democratic presidential primaries continually misread the American voter. Just when it seems the starry-eyed fallacy of youthful grass roots rebellion has all-but convinced the last vestiges of Journalism 101, things fall apart. Yet they continue to hold out the faintest hope for something new and improved, while clutching to a greater vision for big-time political theater. But it is repeatedly squashed by cold, hard facts; vote tallies they constantly push in Obama’s direction, despite all the evidence to the contrary; then real, raw votes push back.

Soon they will write that they did not heed the signs until it was far too late.

Perhaps they were too busy handing over a New Hampshire contest to the dynamic new kid on the block that he did not deliver. Still they paved a yellow brick road of Super Tuesday momentum in California, New York and New Jersey, but he was crushed. They ignored that and ascribed him lofty ambitions in Texas and Ohio after an incredible run of 12 wins in a row, effectively burying his opponent, but leading to his penultimate failure; he could not make Madam Shoo-In go away. They even convinced themselves to put him on the fast track to a single-digit loss in Pennsylvania that they believed would finally implode the old-time politicos to abandon ship and hand the whole caboodle over to a spit-shine orator that gave them all the kind of chills they’d conjured when they picked up the pen and applied for the press cards in the first place.

But it turns out no one has abandoned anything, and nobody with decades of bad road and shit-gorging and the soot and blood and sweat of long years on the stump and in the houses of congress and the backrooms of power are giving up the ghost that easily.

This is not Hollywood. This is not Dreamland. This is not a romantic novel of high expectations and heroic figures with candyland aspirations. This is the deep end of the American experience, the knife-fight, killjoy, air-sucking brass-knuckle jungle, and it is no place for unfurling preconceived notions of bountiful honor.

This is not Hollywood. This is not Dreamland. This is not a romantic novel of high expectations and heroic figures with candyland aspirations. This is the deep end of the American experience, the knife-fight, killjoy, air-sucking brass-knuckle jungle, and it is no place for unfurling preconceived notions of bountiful honor.

This is the black hole no one admits forms at the center of our high-and-mighty republic, a black hole that swallowed the Barack Obama myth in the Keystone State on April 22, 2008.

If Pennsylvania acts as anything but a Democratic Waterloo, it will be nothing short of a miracle. The only maneuver that might save the party from total annihilation is if Obama steals Indiana and snaps the mass hallucination that is the Hillary Clinton campaign on May 6. Then he will be free to provide serviceable fodder for Dick Nixon’s legendary Silent Majority.

But winning in November against a Caucasian gray-haired military Republican is now completely and utterly out of the question.

However, if Obama fails to take Indiana and shake up these rubes that keep handing the Clintons money so they can play candidate fantasy camp, the following scenarios are tabled:

1. The whole sordid ordeal goes all the way to the Denver National Convention with a Goldwater/Rockefeller type party split motivating a frightened gaggle of super delegates to force-feed the combined ticket of a woman/black man, which will lose the national election by a minimum of twenty points.

2. The Clinton Machine tumbles forth into August demanding retribution for Michigan and Florida delegates, prompting a perceived kidnapping of the nomination against overwhelming mathematics (trailing in pledged delegates, popular vote, and overall contests won) and voter will, which would likely incite a mass walkout of over thirty states and lead to a GOP landslide, or even more fatal for Democrats, an Obama secession into a third party that would not only queer any chance the Democrats have in 2008 but obliterate the party’s standing for the all-important redistrict extravaganza of 2010 that currently has them salivating for a national power grab.

3. Obama limps to inevitable victory in late-June with enough mud on him to sink even the most vetted, lily-white southern-crossed governor, let alone a black guy with ten minutes experience.

Not one of these scenarios ends with a Democrat in the White House, in a year that a splintered rake and a stripped ’74 Impala could defeat the Republicans.

What started out as a press geek’s dream has turned into a Fellini nightmare of clowns and tarred nudes and painted mules parading into a big top of smoking mirrors.

At the start of this thing, only three and half short months ago, Barack Obama looked like something we have never seen and would never see again, something almost weirdly pristine. After three months under constant campaigning, truckloads of cash spent, and Clinton Machine muckraking, he is sounding and looking like he might be just another tired Democratic leftist quack with not a chance in the world to cut into America’s very real Puritan/Racial/Cultural/Generational divide.

Perhaps he carries down with him the hope and prospects of an anti-cynical stance for a new generation of voter, who is fast learning what we all learn eventually: This is not a game for high-minded idealism, but a cushy seat in the black hole.

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Confession Of An Elitist

Aquarian Weekly 4/23/08 REALITY CHECK


Hi, my name is James Campion, and I’m an elitist.

I’m fairly certain most of the people who have read even a sentence of this column over the past decade-plus have come to this conclusion already. But for those who have been laughing too hard or throwing up too violently to realize this personality trait, it is true.

ElitistNow, this does not mean I think I am necessarily better than anyone. Oh, heaven’s no. It is quite the opposite. You all have it over me. You’ve managed to fool yourself in thinking you matter. This is an enviable talent I do not possess. I have often admitted in print that I should be eradicated. Erased like a horrible mishap of biology. I am a completely useless organism that shamelessly gorges on the very systems I berate. I am a phony and a hypocrite. I need to die, right away, without so much as a hint of remorse. But, alas, I am too lazy and mainly interested in seeing what will happen next to do it myself.

However, I do think I see things clearer than most, in fact, way clearer. I am repeatedly, and in many ways, revoltingly astounded how utterly stupid most people are, and by most people, I mean anyone but me. In fact, I have pretty much figured that the entire human experiment is not only an abject failure, but if there is a God and he or she or it is responsible for this miserable shit, he is the ultimate fucking idiot.

Whew, that felt good.

Okay, so this brings me to the subject of today’s dissertation.

There was a lot of talk this past week out of Pennsylvania (the world’s think-tank) that Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama is also an elitist, just because he rightly pointed out that most hard-hat, Johnny Lunch pail, beer-gut, fast-food trough fuckers will never vote for “the black guy” because they are bitter, bigoted, gun-toting Neanderthals, who bludgeon the rest of us clear-thinking folk with their Jesus rants and demand those running for high office perform their goofy slack-jawed activities like bowl, fish, hunt, or back-spit at the corner watering hole while blaming all the ills of the world on women, “niggers”, and “those illegals” just to get a sniff of the dullard vote.

Shit, that’s not elitism. Not even close.

When you are done reading this missive, the hope against hope is your speed-addled, television-mangled dumb ass will be able to differentiate its author from Barack Obama, who is merely one of those intellectuals with a Faulty Edit-Meter.

For those of you with your face in a Blackberry, a Blue-Tooth in your ear and a thumb up your shoot, Faulty Edit-Meters are a dime a dozen in places like Harvard. Many of these overly nurtured and appallingly sheltered brain mutants are not allowed to roam through society, so they sequester themselves in academia in some form or other. Unlike us elitists, who get an endless kick out studying the damaged human animal, they fear every aspect of civilization. This is why many of them never leave higher education at all, safely walling themselves in with the other shuddering eggheads, who find a measure of pride in loathing the rest of us for jacking off to pro football and Project Runway reruns.

Obama is an intellectual that managed to escape the pod, that’s all.

Enlightenment keeps us from playing along with your knuckle dragging, drool-slobbered lifestyles and superstitions. In other words, most of what you cherish and enjoy about breathing for seventy or eighty odd years we honestly believe is not only petty and banal, but a dangerous self-mutilation of the precious gift of reason.

But people fear intellectuals like the plague. Many among us think the very concept of reading, debating, general discovery, the sciences, literature, high art, and subtle and not-so subtle forms of cultural rebellion is the plague, and these mindless thugs have been trying to halt it ever since they sent Galileo packing 375 long years ago. But he was the lucky one. Intellectuals have been summarily stoned, crucified, beheaded, tarred-and-feathered, burned at the stake, and other sordid pleasantries for centuries.

This is why faux historians and bored high school teachers still try to sell Adolf Hitler, a barely-educated hack painter bereft of an original thought in his badly styled head, as some kind of mad super-genius. He wasn’t a genius. He was a fraud. This is different than intellectual or elitist. Other frauds include religious conman Pat Robertson, social parasite Al Sharpton, baseball commissioner Bud Selig, and whatever steaming sack of vermin feces is the CEO of Guitar Center, to name just a few.

Elitist is merely a term the threatened hordes of mediocrity use to make the freethinking and open-minded feel like they’re diseased. True elitists call this Enlightenment. We adore this affliction. We worship it like you worship money, strip clubs, and invisible godheads. Enlightenment keeps us from playing along with your knuckle dragging, drool-slobbered lifestyles and superstitions. In other words, most of what you cherish and enjoy about breathing for seventy or eighty odd years we honestly believe is not only petty and banal, but a dangerous self-mutilation of the precious gift of reason.

I’ve said it before in various ways, so what’s one more: There is no point to you. You are sucking up vital minerals and resources this planet needs to keep nobler beasts and essential plant life going. It is you who are the virus. Humanity is nothing more than evolution’s fart in the wind. We suck, so we distract ourselves in a constant stream of meaningless activity and pointless belief systems to avoid the truth. But that’s fine, nothing, not even an amoeba wants to suck. But the good news is we’ll be gone someday and everything will return to normal.

Also, if I may, portraying someone as bitter because they were drawn into a fixed system like moths to a flame with fairytales of the American Dream – work hard, study hard and you will be king of the world – and end up being cold-cocked by the realities of life is not the least bit elitist. It is judgmental. Hell, some may say, and I may be one of them, fairly observant, actually. But everyone judges. This is part of the virus of humanity. Those trees and animals you’re killing through your futile existence don’t judge. The real Jesus guy alluded to something like that, not the crazy Euro-Christ mannequin you cling to, the guy whose basic tenets you ignore in order to better populate your fancy social clubs dressed up as churches.

Oh, and saying someone “clings” to something like the fight over gun rights or the pro-life issue is not an insult. I cling to the idea that if one more asinine politician tries to perpetuate a civil rights abuse on us again, like denying gay marriage, I’m not only going to not vote for them, I am going to spend many of my waking hours making sure they are exposed as the stone-cold fascists they really are.

So call Barack Obama a liberal or an amateur, say he is in over his head and a big-government tax fiend, but he is not “out of touch”. He’s “in touch”. He might be too “in touch” to be president. Those types tend to be badly articulated car salesmen with a buddy complex.

Now, if you want a true elitist to run things, look no further.

I’m your man.

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Iraq – The New Iran

Aquarian Weekly 4/16/08 REALITY CHECK

IRAQ – THE NEW IRAN General Petraeus Hands Baby Bush A Tehran Surprise

Go find the young men never to fight again Bring up the banners from the days gone by Sweet moderation Heart of this nation Desert us not, we are Between the wars. – Billy Bragg

Happy TogetherI’ve been thinking about Billy Bragg lately, his song about the cycle of international chess the Big Boys play, and how after five years of this military abortion in Iraq we are no closer to anything resembling an end; and don’t think for ten seconds there will be one – whatever Bible-swearing caretaker is in charge – or how many speeches or hearings or investigations we’re inundated with. It is all downtime to the next fisticuffs, really. Always was, is, and will be. Change the names and faces, and here we go again, mista.

This week, General Petraeus, current commander of U.S. troops in Iraq and the U.S. Ambassador to Iraq, Ryan Crocker spoke for nine long hours before congress. There was a great deal of publicity about their recommendations to halt the planned troop reduction this summer and loads of commentary on their assessment of The Surge’s “continued success”, whatever in the wide world that could mean. But the most important phrase uttered by either man was simply “malign influence”, which both used when describing neighboring Evil Axis member, Iran’s place in this increasing theater of the absurd our nifty State Department boobs have designed.

Ah, Iran. Where have we heard that bauble before?

Here, for one.

Rifling through The Desk’s archives, we stumbled on this gem from a column entitled, “Manifest Destiny Made Easier Through Modern Chemistry”, dated late-December, 2004:

The American government is being duped by Iran, which now all but controls the fate of the coming January election. Not even what is left of the CIA can stop it. Any clear-thinking person without agenda or chemical dependency in the know understands this. Soon the Shiites will be in charge. They will take orders from Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei and ask the Americans to leave, thank you very much. And all of Saddam Hussein’s nightmares will come true. He will be tried by the western infidels while the very same Iranians the United States paid him to keep at bay will run amok in his charred palaces, toasting his jailing.

People paid good money to practice journalism still possess the stones to ask why the hell Hussein kept refusing to reveal he had no weapons, even with the threat of U.S. aggression. The answer is simple: Either lie to the UN or risk letting the Iranians know he was a paper tiger and take him out. Americans seem to care about women and children and hospitals and taking prisoners. This is of little concern to Iranians. It was a fair trade off. Hussein knew, as did the CIA, that if it were the Iranians pouring over the border, the Grand Poobah’s head would have been on a spike, instead of getting a lice exam on CNN.

Eight and one half months of a lame duck wartime president and his gaggle of nation-builders ruminating over the chessboard.

Now the politicos, or whatever they call themselves in Tehran these days, see daylight with this hamstrung election next month, and soon the bloody paws of the American president will be asked to shake hands with the men who will plot 9/11 Part Deux and the United States will have to convince the rest of the planet how we have to gut the whole goddamned thing again.

And this will all be done legally through an election.

At least that is how it will appear. Elections are funny things. Sometimes they’re on the up and up, and sometimes the dead walk and pistols are brandished. Sometimes candidates bug offices and other times their soup is poisoned. Sometimes there is The Night of Long Knives and things go awry.

I see what is transpiring in Iraq right now, and although it resembles no real Euro-historical perspective outside the homogenized white-man’s Bible being peddled in Alabama currently or the drive-by that offed Francis Ferdinand, I am reminded of old-time politics. Not Richard Daley strong-arm street-whipping kind of politics. I’m talking Aaron Burr unloading a fatal pistol shot into Alexander Hamilton to decide the fate of New York kind of politics. Old time, real hard, skull-cracking, back-door fighting, western world type of politics: George Bush’s kind of politics. That is what will decide Iraq.

It was clear-headed long-term thinking, well reasoned and stated without trepidation. It sings, papa, like Bragg at the Royal Albert Hall circa 1984, but I have to admit; I don’t recall writing any of it. It seems like a dream now, 2004, 2005, 2006, and 2007, the blurred years of occupation dressed up as war with all of our tax money (and the junk-loads lent by China) funneled east to rebuild, protect, and integrate a foreign nation ablaze in civil war. Our boy commander-in-chief as President of Iraq in bed with religious fanatics sold to the world as democracy.

General Petraeus continued to reiterate his concerns over “Iranian-supported Special Groups” manipulating violent outbursts in a phalanx of cable news interviews following the congressional hearing, wherein he painted a gory picture of not only Iranian influence on the ground in Iraq, and behind the slaughter of American soldiers, but also a very real and present danger within the barely-cobbled Iraqi government.

You might not believe the good general. The press might not believe him. The Iraqis might even be skeptical. But the only one who counts, George W. Bush, does. And so Captain Shoo-In took little time to announce to the world that he is on board with the whole deal, no shock to anyone who has paid attention to even the broadest details of this occupation for these five long years.

And that means anything is possible now: Attacks on Iran? More spitfire rhetoric? A January surprise before the purveyors of this ill-conceived roustabout hit the road for good?

It’s all on the table.

Eight and one half months of a lame duck wartime president and his gaggle of nation-builders ruminating over the chessboard.

Rook takes Pawn.

Your move.

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Hillary Clinton’s Last Stand – (2008)

Aquarian Weekly 4/9/08 REALITY CHECK

Behind The Scenes Of Madam Shoo-In’s Last Stand

Justice is the end of government. – Alexander Hamilton

Dynamic Duo Circa 1976When you do this for money and turn it over in print, you end up on the e-mail list for all kinds of promotional drek and various levels of campaign palaver from county comptroller to president of the United States. Privy to this stream of information and access to the individuals who compile and send it along is a unique perspective, especially as times careen into desperation. And desperate are the times for the doomed Hillary For President campaign and its grab-bag staff, many of whom have been hammering me to tell the story of their wounded candidate being bullied by party officials and stuffy “male” elders, who wish to steal the will of the people and hand it over to backroom Democratic moguls that would crush their champion of the underdog.

For a sizable fee I would take on such a task, a ringing endorsement, a defense worthy of William Kunstler. You would walk from these words a changed human, crying out into the wilderness that Clinton is Virgin Mother to us all, elixir to our economic ills, commander of our fate, and spiritual center of the American Dream. But there is no fee forthcoming, so there will be no unabashed defense of a multi-million dollar political celebrity, whose surname has unleashed havoc through Democratic Party circles for decades, and who, before the shock and awe of Super Tuesday Part One, February 5, was the overwhelming favorite to nail down an early nomination and set sights on the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy.

“Weep not for the big and strong that take it in the groin, bend over, and wail that they have been wronged.”

Benjamin Disraeli said that.

It was either he or a rug salesman I met in Jerusalem.

But one thing is certain; a funny thing happened on the way to the ball, Cinderella became a washwoman, and her coach a rolling vegetable, and those on board became feral and unhinged. They quit, they bickered; pointing fingers and cursing at each other like townie drunks on conference calls to the national press. Many who had been pulling down big paychecks suddenly realized there had been no plan past mid-February and that Barack Obama was not only failing to go away quietly, he was repeatedly beating their candidate, state after state, like a military drum.

That’s when the e-mails and calls started to become more and more bizarre, crazy claims of having won primaries that didn’t exist, making certain state votes more equal than others, playing every half-baked card from race to gender to silly claims of media bias.

That’s when campaign bullhorn Howard Wolfson began to admit that he wasn’t as smart and as tough as he thought he was, that his candidate was grating and ill-prepared for battle, that most people cringe at the sight of her and others become violently ill at the prospect that she might reopen the Lincoln Bedroom to scores of drug dealers, Hollywood creeps, and Southern real estate rapists.

It was Wolfson’s idea to create the Clinton Myth that she had any chance of winning anything after Obama made mincemeat of the math on February 19 in Wisconsin, that his candidate should go on national television and say the Republican nominee was a better leader than her Democratic opponent. It was Wolfson, not the beleaguered and now emasculated strategist Mark Penn, who commanded a Red Bull swilling Wall Street actuary to claim his candidate had a de facto Electoral College number lead over the soaring Obama, or that somehow, as the final votes were counted in Texas last week and the opponent had won, that “momentum should will out”.

Let both parties crumble under the weight of a brutal truth: The two-party system has wrought this groaning creature, not Clinton or Obama. They are merely its symptoms.

But no one listens to Wolfson anymore, least of all Hillary Clinton. Her husband has convinced her to decry the weasels that silenced him when he had this baby on the run back in South Carolina, calling Barack Obama “Jesse Jackson-Lite”. Now he’s back, imploring The Party he used to have in his back pocket to calm down. But they’re too busy running for the hills to listen. Calm is the last emotion political animals express when they see an inevitable November stomp turning into a John McCain Comeback.

Every poll imaginable has the Republican candidate leading both Democrats in this election year of endless war, economic disaster, and Ulysses S. Grant approval ratings. So the Party is through being the Clinton’s bitch and has begun to fight back, privately and publicly. The groundswell is palpable and overwrought with feeble dealmakers. None of them appreciate the Hillary Machine mocking their un-democratic rules, riling up spurned delegatations from Michigan and Florida, accusing caucuses of being fixed, calling The Party a strong-armed fascist regime, and shitting all over its frontrunner at every turn.

Since the aforementioned Super Tuesday last gasp, Obama has gained 53 all-important Super Delegates and Clinton has lost a net of five. These include insiders who have been carrying the Clinton’s water for over a decade, not the least of which is the opportunistic Bill Richardson, governor of New Mexico and former presidential candidate, as clever as any vermin abandoning a sinking skiff. Richardson, a former Clinton lackey, is just the biggest name to go public. More are coming.

They were promised big futures, free rides, and a bask in victory, not this tedious wallowing in the sad fumes of yesteryear and an endless mop-up after a series of bogus claims the candidate makes about bartering peace in Ireland, taking on pharmaceutical companies, and dodging sniper fire in Bosnia. Only the stupid ones remain. The ones who apparently missed out on Monica Lewinsky and Vince Foster and Whitewater and Marc Rich and the other incredible piles of feces left by the rancid trail of Clintonmania.

It is over for them and the Democrats, who had their chance to change the country and maybe the world, but will now be relegated to a blue dot query in Trivial Pursuit.

But that’s too fucking bad.

If the Clintons want to battle on, they should, and have every right. No party insider, also-ran candidate, bleating pundit, Super Delegate, or voting public should decide. Obama can’t get the magic number of pledged delegates anyway. If it goes onto the Denver National Convention and ignites the mass suicide of old liberals, let it. If Obama or Clinton can’t win, then let the party die.

Let both parties crumble under the weight of a brutal truth: The two-party system has wrought this groaning creature, not Clinton or Obama. They are merely its symptoms.

This is something of a media tour for the Clintons now, a farewell march akin to Douglas MacArthur those last few months in 1952 when he still thought everyone would ignore his insanity and hand him a nomination for president. He was merely a ghost then, as Hillary is now and has been since Obama emerged victorious on February 19 in Wisconsin, two weeks after the Waterloo of Super Tuesday and fifty long days on the morning these paragraphs hit the newsstands.

The Clintons have been around. They are no strangers to this Party nonsense. Primaries are not about democracy. They are about a team choosing its best player. Since February 5 that player has been Barack Obama.

But, hey, maybe the DNC should consider handing this whole thing over to the Clintons. Apparently to be president now is to be embroiled in a meaningless unachievable goal and pretend its wine and roses.

Madam president, your surge is working.

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“The Speech”: Barack Obama On Race – (2008)

Aquarian Weekly 3/26/08 REALITY CHECK

THE SPEECH Inside Barack Obama’s Bold Sonnet To Our Bitter Demons & Better Angels For 37 minutes on the18th day of March 2008, Barack Obama, junior senator from Illinois and leading Democratic candidate for president of the United States, delivered as brutally candid a speech about race, human nature, and the forces for change that lie between them as intellectually possible. It was the first time in the history of this nation, a candidate for high office, or any office for that matter, addressed the hard truth about its deepest, most festering wound; a self-inflicted lesion so profoundly absurd and odious it stands to this day as the greatest failure in America’s boldly infinite quest for equality.

Barack ObamaObama, son of a black Kenyan man and white mother from Kansas, not only addressed the realities of cultural divides in the most direct of terms, but ripped open wide the scabs that we’ve been less-than gently picking at for decades of riots, marches, assassinations and defiantly booming rhetoric, but also let slip from our subconscious at dining room tables and private parties.

It may have been political suicide. It may have been transparently self-serving. But it was without valid refute brilliantly honest and long overdue.

It had to be said, and it had to be said by him, the first truly legitimate African American presidential candidate.

It also had to be written and spoken as eloquently and forcefully as it was, and it had to be done now.

It had to be done on the heels of one solid week, hour after hour, of rip-roaring lunacy from another religious/politico psycho by the conspicuous name of Jeremiah Wright, former pastor from something called the Trinity United Church of Christ. The man who married Obama, baptized his kids, and originally hailed from the church the candidate has clung to like a life preserver as he was accused from every corner of being a Muslim, as if it were the crime of all crimes, on 60 Minutes, the Internet wilderness, and by his smarmy opponent.

A Muslim? Imagine the horrors of that?

What a crock it all is, this grab-ass cloak of religious righteousness we demand from our public servants, who are forced to lip-service our superstitions and by association are abducted by the cauldron of separatist hate-speech and fire and brimstone diatribes aimed at everything not falling in line.

It is a sick and terrible world we enter in these Houses of the Lord, closed-door meetings of the flock, who look to the pulpit for atavistic pandering submentals to spew personal angst against whatever you’ve got.

So here was Barack Obama, standing in the birthplace of liberty, draped in racist innuendo and religious madness, evoking the words of Thomas Jefferson and William Faulkner, referencing the O.J. Simpson murder trial and the Katrina disaster, deconstructing the social and cultural ramifications of Affirmative Action and Jim Crow, using the widest array of colloquialisms and slang from “gangbanging” to “the laziness of welfare”.

This was history. Real history. Not this fabricated televised nonsense we’re force-fed like lab rats. It was revolution in words. Striking words. Distinct words. No surrender in them. Powerful stuff.

Fucking amazing is what it was. Shockingly, mind-numbingly crazed. I literally laughed out loud during it. Chills and laughter; these are my tenets; the bare essentials of why I wandered into writing about this miserable shit in the first place.

This was history. Real history. Not this fabricated televised nonsense we’re force-fed like lab rats. It was revolution in words. Striking words. Distinct words. No surrender in them. Powerful stuff.

This was a man not only running for president, a black man no less, but a frontrunner down by nearly 20 points in a crucial primary state, peering out into the glare of lights, poised microphones, scribbling pads, and the one-eyed monster that had been tearing pieces from him for seven long days, delivering the goods. This was not a cultural leader like Martin Luther King or a radical voice of a fringe movement like Malcolm X. This was not a professorial university discussion or a stand-up routine by Chris Rock.

This was a minority candidate for president of the United States, and he was not running for cover, offering up rhetorical apologies or lame excuses. He was not rising above the issue like Jackie Robinson or dancing around it like James Brown. Instead, Barack Obama dove headfirst without a hint of remorse, embracing his race while deftly looking beyond it, as his campaign has claimed to strive for since its inception.

It is not even fair to pull quotes from the thing without missing its nuances. It would be like playing you 40 seconds of Miles Davis’ “So What” and pulling the plug or offering up “When I’m Sixty Four” and claiming it captures Sgt. Pepper’s. Fuck that noise. Listen to it. Read it. Watch it. It’s all over the net. If you haven’t seen it all the way through and do not emerge at least in awe of the type of person who dares to provide a tangible, concrete opinion on a passionate, divisive subject while also trying to sucker you out of a vote, then I’m sorry, we’re not watching the same game.

What Obama was able to do for what basically constituted 29 out of 37 minutes (the other eight or nine minutes were admittedly jammed with pandering populist stuff) was box Pastor Wright and everyone who clings to old grudges as some kind of badge of courage, and told them it is time to let go. Change for real. No more of the same anger Baby Boomers harbor for the Left and the Right; the old guard, the has-beens, the jesters on radio and brooding curmudgeons at the typewriters and the creaky bones using up space on Capitol Hill. They all have axes to grind. They all have a point, black and white. Everyone is mad with envy, disdain, fear, and posturing, but Obama says, for his part – and it has steadily become a very significant part in all of this – that he will abstain, thank you very much.

And here is where the purported Candidate of Change officially crosses the generational divide. Here is where if found yourself supporting what has heretofore been a showcase of progressive goofiness, you can begin to believe this guy may actually mean it.

Look, there was always very little chance a black man would ever be elected president of a country forty years removed from his race being denied access to eateries, public bathrooms or hotel accommodations. It is a nothing short of a miracle and a testament to this great nation’s force of progress he stands before a crowd of predominately white middleclass journalists in the city of our birthing and pitches his domestic or international policies much less how and why we are pandemically incapable of looking beyond a person’s skin or gender or religious affiliation in these infant years of the 21st century.

But then isn’t it ever more shocking when you consider America currently fights and dies halfway across the globe in a desert where the kind of religious, racial and cultural chasm has grown as a cancer for centuries, while we are less than two centuries removed from our own bloody Civil War.

Glory, glory, Halleluiah. Indeed.


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Democrats Are Burning – (2008)

Aquarian Weekly 3/19/08 REALITY CHECK

THE DEMOCRATS ARE BURNING Same Ol' ShowThe unabated immolation of the Democratic Party, ceremoniously sparked with extreme prejudice by the Clinton Machine two weeks ago, has now officially become a raging firestorm. From prostitution rings to racist blather and return salvos of “monster”, the flames of remorse will soon swallow up everything in its path. Before the first cherry blossoms bloom in Washington DC, whatever is left of this rancid collection of rogues, creeps, felons, and dumb asses will likely be the better part of cinder.

Ah, poor Eliot Spitzer. He needs it rough, and not just hair-pulling, ass-slapping rough. It’s games the governor needs. Adult games, chaired by professionals utilizing tools of the trade, the varied sort one cannot transport on a post-9/11 flight anymore. And the girls are harder to come by these days too. The really discreet ones with the bravest hearts have to be purchased and shuffled across state lines via railway on the tax-payer tab, laundered from several bogus companies and check-listed by text-message.

It is high times for a man of lawful pursuits, full of zest to clean things up and set right the ways of the universe. Vices don’t come cheap for crusaders.

We have come a long way from the honorable Horatio Seymour or Samuel J. Tilden, who likely entertained fantasies of being tied up in baby bonnets and slapped around like the dirty little maggots they truly were, but apparently were fortunate enough not to be cursed with the Dipshit Gene. It is a nasty affliction spawned by power and hubris, something we have seen all-too prevalently in our elected officials as of late, perhaps to the point of prompting a telethon to combat it.

Wake up Jerry Lewis, we have a problem.

The Dipshit Gene, an endemic side effect of political theater for centuries, has recently wreaked its havoc on the former governor of New Jersey, who enjoyed the odd Israeli boy between illegal land grabs and backroom pay-offs. It has also claimed a Republican Idaho senator, who found a sliver of wiggle room in his anti-gay pogrom to troll insatiable delights from airport men’s room stalls. Then there was the Florida congressman, who could not help but solicit the lurid notations of teenaged boys. And who could forget the senator from Louisiana taking time from his moral outrage to accrue a hefty escort service bill of his own.

All the names are well documented, and their tales, all-too familiar, and, sadly, their wives all-too compliant to the obligatory press conference frown.

Oh, the Dipshit Gene has its collateral damage victims aplenty. Time after agonizing time we see these wounded heroines standing beside their shamed men with solemn expression and a curious but unyielding determination; an excellent example to all the young girls out there just waiting to get their talons into a rich and influential up-and-comer, only to be publicly humiliated as the useless prop they will become.

Oh Lord, how many more of these educated, ambitious young women will be felled by this endless parade of slobbering cretins? How many more of them will set the bar lower for a limping women’s movement left to defend college basketball players at the mercy of evil radio geeks?

Watching the mortal remains of Silda Spitzer, a proud graduate of Harvard Law and mother of the disgraced governor’s children, covered from head-to-toe with heaps of Dipshit run-off, one had to be reminded of Hillary Rodham Clinton postulating weird Right Wing Conspiracy theories on the Today Show circa 1998 in defense of her husband’s chronic misogyny.

Oh Lord, how many more of these educated, ambitious young women will be felled by this endless parade of slobbering cretins? How many more of them will set the bar lower for a limping women’s movement left to defend college basketball players at the mercy of evil radio geeks?

The questions abound. And perhaps it was the sting and tenor of those questions that rendered mad the furious nonsense tumbling from the maw of former Democratic VP nominee and now former Clinton fundraiser, Geraldine Ferraro. In a coincidental mental fart worthy of Grandpa Simpson, Ferraro made it clear on three straight speaking engagements from a podium, on the radio, and then to something called the Daily Breeze that Barack Obama is the cheap bi-product of an African-American bamboozle.

“If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position,” a reportedly drug-free Ferraro told the Torrance, California paper. “And if he was a woman (of any color) he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept.”

It was soon after this beer-spit idiocy hit pavement that Ferraro completely lost whatever is left of her atrophied mind and claimed she was somehow misinterpreted. Of course, never in her neck-wrenching backtrack did she explain what else she could have meant; maybe it was that Obama “wears black” or prefers “black automobiles” or that the knuckle-dragging mutant who claimed Bill Clinton was “the first black president” has rendered Hillary black by association. Hey, it could have transpired during all those crucial years of alleged experience she compiled while cleaning out the White House vases.

But the news wasn’t all doom and gloom for the Clintons, who have stumbled four ways to Sunday to deny, eulogize or duck their association with Spitzer and Ferraro. Ferraro is chump change. It was Spitzer; a soon-to-be subtracted Super Delegate in the Clinton Camp, whose insane suggestion that New York State issue licenses to criminals a few months back transformed the Unsinkable Madam Shoo-In into the last-chance kamikaze pilot she is now forced to be.

Mere days before the Spitzer revelations and the Ferraro meltdown, an Obama foreign policy aid and campaign big-shot, Samantha Power unforgivably forgot that journalists print conversations in newspapers and told one of these types that Ms. Hillary was “a monster”, putting the Clinton Machine into combat mode and throat-jumped that thing down all of our gizzards for close to a week.

This was the clearest evidence there are cracks in the Teflon Master Barack and the faintest hope that stealing this nomination is still alive and well for April 22, a mind-screwing six weeks away.

Meanwhile, as the Republican Party chants “Burn baby burn!” with every match added to the already spreading wildfires, the tanned and rested John McCain collects his fundraising checks, smoothes the Conservative wounds, and plans a diplomatic cross-globe trek, which will cement any question he is a man of experience and sober ideals.

And to think, we have re-votes in Michigan and Florida to come.

Florida? It’s tough enough for these people to vote correctly the first time.

Burn baby burn.


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