james campion.com

Aquarian Weekly 9/5/01 REALITY CHECK


There is little point in deriding California congressman, Gary Condit anymore. He is something akin to a cured disease, once feared, but quelled by vaccination. The wonder drug was television. One half hour worth of talking to be exact. Less than thirty seconds was all that was needed, really. America welcomed Capital Hill into its homes. The incredibly ineffective vague references and non-denial denials that we sponsor in Washington nicely displayed and wrapped up between GAP commercials.

Before the credits rolled on what is now dubbed, “The Connie Chung Mistake” in San Mateo County, the Democratic party’s top spin machine was in full force, moving districts around to include right wing hooters and liberal yahoos to “put the Condit business on ice.” This is how it’s done in big government. While the last of the congressman’s supporters stock up on office supplies before the end comes, blockade redistricting begins.

And the end will come for mister “respect for the Levy’s”, whether he goes quietly or not. This has already been decided, and it will not be his choice. That option ceased when a cadre of lawyers convinced the congressman that whatever fuck-awful advice put him in that chair across from Maury Povich’s wife, it could not have come from anyone claiming sanity. There is no way the rest of his congressional brethren can allow any more jack-asses out of the barn. At least not within 12 months of Election Day.

Anyone with any hope of a political career does not contact a major network and treat it like an evasive hooker statement in the bowels of a city police department. That was videotape of a man rehearsing for trial, not political backsliding.

They would have us believe that Condit is some sort of mutant, a horrible aberration. They will sell us the biblical imagery of the sheep wandering from the righteous flock. “Pray for Gary Condit,” they will say. “Pray for his corrupted soul. We shall cut him out of our clan like a cancerous cell. How this all happened, we cannot tell. But we will get him the help he needs, and most importantly, replace him with someone closer to our own moral fortitude.”

And it will be as false as Condit himself, because nearly every one of these sanctimonious cretins have a story to tell, maybe not as unfortunate as Gary Condit, with missing interns leaving incriminating phone messages et al, but stories just the same.

There is a cellblock mentality running through the heart of congress right now. Secretaries are on the alert to curtail visits, postpone luncheons and keep the cub reporters at bay. When this kind of whistle blows, there is a bunker instinct, like roaches scurrying to find refuge when the kitchen light is flicked on. There is no natural heroism in the roach heart. He will leave his companions behind to find cover.

Believe that the branded loner has already been separated, ostracized like the King Leper, and when the smoke clears, things will be back to normal.

Condit knows this. Anyone with any hope of a political career does not contact a major network and treat it like an evasive hooker statement in the bowels of a city police department. That was videotape of a man rehearsing for trial, not political backsliding. The mistake by most pundits after the thing ended was to try and compare it to Nixon’s “Checker’s Speech” or the Bill Clinton follies. Condit is a small timer, a cub in a lion’s den of bullshit. Nixon and Clinton were the big time, men fit for the presidency. Congress is the minor leagues of deceit. They enjoy the pack mentality of who is responsible for what district. There are far too many of them to finger. They hide in numbers and avoid real confrontation; therefore they have minor lying skills.

Condit is nothing more than a beer-league softballer sent up to pinch-hit at Yankee Stadium in the seventh game of the World Series. He was excruciatingly out of his league, and he struck out looking at a nasty Chung slider down and in. The bat never left his slumped shoulder. It was sad, yet compelling to watch, like witnessing the savage attack of plains wildebeests being torn apart by ravenous coyote.

There was a queasy sort of snuff film quality about it. The man appeared ambushed, as if he hadn’t asked for the time to plead his case, but was dragged from of Chuck Manson’s cubbyhole to answer for the mass slayings of millionaires.

The best guess of most practicing attorneys I’ve contacted was that Condit tried to set himself up as some manner of victim, a Pilate/Jesus scenario, where people would weep at his crucifixion and write romantic sonnets to his demise. But that backfired into a transparent cry for help; fake hair, fake smile, and a deep-seeded guilt written in large letters across his sweaty forehead.


You want reality television?

Minority leader, Dick Gephart changed his tune almost immediately after the carnage. Many in his offices barely had to time to comment before the Missouri congressman started painting Condit as a lecherous little wart-heel capable of all modes of unspeakable evil; and how can you really comment after Gephart spent weeks raising Condit’s behavior as the font of integrity? You cannot.

And they did not. And now people continue to ponder Condit’s political future, as if he had one. It’s tantamount to listening to Pete Rose yammer on about his plans for Cooperstown.

It’s over, and the boys down in Virginia are already replacing this one with another. One who is as quiet and reserved as they on matters of sex and money. One that wouldn’t be caught dead heaving incriminating evidence in alleyway dumpsters all over town.

And every night they go to the local church and pray to whatever god will listen that something in their closets doesn’t turn up missing or dead or in front of some damned Grand Jury.

How is government supposed to run with all this distraction?

Goddamn media.

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