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"Jesus Christ! I'm not sure I can handle this kind of news and frantic stimulus at four o'clock in the morning - especially with a head full of speed, booze, and Percodan. It is extremely difficult to concentrate on the cheap realities of Campaign '76 under these circumstances. The idea of covering even the early stages of this cynical and increasingly retrograde campaign has already plunged me into a condition bordering on terminal despair, and if I thought I might have to stay with these people all the way to November I would change my name and seek work as a professional alligator poacher in the swamps around Lake Okeechobee. My frame of mind is not right for another long and maddening year of total involvement in a presidential campaign... This time, on the 200th anniversary of what used to be called "The American Dream," we are going to have our noses rubbed, day after day - on the tube and in the headlines - in this mess we have made for ourselves."- Hunter S. Thompson, 1976
The sage was right. And if he hadn't offed himself three years ago, he surely could find reason to in this foul year of Our Lord 2008.
It's been difficult for me to follow this insane campaign. Every election is a bigger heap of watery shit than the last, the choices seeming more and more like picking who you'd want to send screaming into a vat of sulfuric acid at some kind of hellish county fair dunking-booths. 2004 was nightmarish enough, ending in the re-election of the stupidest, most wretched individual ever to hold the highest office in this country; only because the other side was so out of touch with reality they couldn't come up with anyone better than a dipshit doppleganger of a Hell-muppet beast named John Kerry.
I drank a lot in those days.
As I did last night. I was just into my first crappy can of American piss-water when I received a text message from my ex-wife. She informed me that our daughter was making references to "Monty Python & The Holy Grail" over dinner; surely this good news would restore some balance to the life of a father trying hard not to pay attention to the primary elections that were just finishing.
Then my ex-wife asked me to explain Hillary and Indiana. Fear and loathing crept into my heart.
I wanted to reply "explain that vile bitch and ANYONE?" but finally I settled for my own Grail joke.
"What manner of Democrat are you that you can summon votes without ideas or substance?"
I opened my second can of brew.
Something strange happened to me as I looked through the county-by-county results in Indiana. I began to
CARE. Fuckin' Jesus, this was getting
DANGEROUS.I am no fan of the talking-head, empty-suit full of great words and little else, known as Barack Obama. I am certainly not fond of the dried-up hack Republican he'll be facing in November. But I began to pray to Gods I no longer believe in that The-Opportunistic-Bitch would bite the dust on this wretched night in North Carolina and my home state of Indiana.
It's amusing to look back on how Republicans would instantly morph into rabid fuming dogs at the very mention of Hillary Clinton back when her husband was President. Now she seems so much like them it's laughable that they'd find so much evil in their blackened hearts for her.
Still, it is not difficult for anyone with brains (or even not) to find loathing for this twisted bitch, who seems so determined to remind us that she
DESERVES our votes. The Clintons behave as if public office is their birthright. It's a vile spectacle to witness and I for one, have waited long for this bitch to be kicked to the curb so we can go about the business of deciding if we want the 'black guy' or the really, really, 'white guy' manning our sinking ship.
I looked over the results and saw that Obama had easily taken North Carolina, but it was still too close to call in Indiana, though Clinton appeared to have the lead.
Another can of sin was opened.
I went about other business here at home, but would check in every hour on the results. This soon became every half-hour. Then every five minutes. I was becoming obsessed and the hideous absurdity of this fact had not gone unnoticed, even several more cans in. It only was thrown into sharp relief. I was caring,
CARING about a political race that no sane person should. But of course, this was all over the Goddamn TV and Internet news channels and, of course, it was happening in my home state.
Half an hour from the state line here in Ohio, I reflected on the state of my birth, where I return every weekend. I fucking hated it there. The one year I spent in Indianapolis was the only exception to this. Out in the rural areas and the smaller towns, I always felt alienated. These are 'my people', but I tend to avoid them like the Black Death whenever possible. Finally finding a few kind souls to make noise with on weekends is heartening, but hardly enough to erase the fear I feel when I cross that state line and remember just how many Jesus-swilling, redneck, bags of shit I had to endure growing up.
Fact is, they surround me here in southwest Ohio as well. These red states are not good places for people of my temperament.
This would be the first Indiana primary in my lifetime to mean a goddamn thing, and it would get us that much closer to making The Cunt go away. For a while, anyway. Oh, it will ALWAYS return. But perhaps we could get a breather for a moment in time.
But as the night progressed, terrible things were afoot. Lake County was behind on counting votes, and while in the early stages Obama had three quarters of the vote tallied in that corner of the state, that margin shrank steadily.
More cans of doom.
Finally, at 3:00 a.m., I gave in. Being faced with yet another month of Clinton/Obama nonsense in the news is not the kind of evil stimulus I can handle easily with a head full of booze at this time in the small hours.
I dived for my keys. I heated four beef and bean burritos in the microwave and loaded up the rest of my beer.
Half an hour later I stood in the middle of a country road at the Ohio/Indiana border under the stars, and dropped my pants.
I began to sing the wise words of those imminent composers Gene and Dean Ween.
"I'm waving my dick in the wind,waving my dick in the windIf it all goes right, I'll be in your arms tonightBut I'm waving my dick in the wind"I let fly a torrent of beery piss. Then, with the power of a shotgun blast, I peppered the road with the remnants of my evil late-night snack.
I howled into the wind, "I'll be back Friday night, Indiana! You fucking swine!"
Driving back, merrily singing along to the Black Flag albums I downloaded this week, I felt cleansed. Whole.
I fell into a heap in front of the television at 4:15 a.m. and watched a "Discovery Science" show on the eventual fate of the universe. In a google years, after all the stars have burned out and the last black hole dissipates into nothingness, a universe full of ice and blackness, even this 2008 nightmare will not be considered for footnote status. The horrors of Earth pale next to The End.
I was full of hope. Ahhh, entropy. Heat-death. I'll drink to that.
I awoke at 10:30 and somehow craved more Mexican food. Terrible longings. So I grabbed my copy of "The Great Shark Hunt "for reading material and headed to the restaurant that opened here two months ago.
Towards the end of my lunch, a few bits of beef enchilada and beans left, something hideous happened.
The normal stream of Latin pop can be treated as atmosphere, but not this time. Dear God, what twisted rat bastard would choose to play THAT song, at THIS time in our society's evolution?
Some sociopath was singing Achy Breaky Heart in Spanish in the house speakers.
Jesus creeping shit. Doom has arrived. At times like this, one can only
PRAY for a sudden interruption in the broadcast that Hillary Clinton is ready for a four-hour speech to the nation.
Then I began to laugh. Ahh, yes. Absurdity comes home to roost again. The dumbass Kentucky shitbag who performed that song originally, all those years ago, is back in the spotlight these days, riding the coattails of his far more tolerable 15-year old daughter on Disney.
But the dingbat south-of-the-border asshole singing to me, in this moment, likely has a young daughter of his own. A daughter who has already bore him six grandchildren, all of them right now trying to escape the consequences of yet another Clinton policy. Somewhere the denizens of NAFTA's Mexico are swimming or running or creeping across the border, and foolish Republicans and Democrats alike are all too ready to send them back without so much as a pat on the back.
Let 'em in, I say. Even the swine singing that inane song. Anyone at this point in history who wants to rumble in the failing embers of the American Dream should be welcomed with open arms. With third-rate shitheads seeking the seats of power and an economy that resembles a homeless man beaten senseless with his own flea-ridden shoes, what harm are a few million immigrants going to do?
Come join in the games, guys. I've got the hot sauce. But remember one thing when coming to our Great Land (tm) from Mexico - don't drink the water. Everyone in DC has been pissing in it for decades.
Images from adamzyglis.com/ and informedstudents.com
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This film and video installation is curated by Tine Fischer and Bettina Steinbruegge for Hot Docs, Toronto.May 19 (8:45): Performing Art History - Drama Queens, about a Muenster theatre that is the setting for a performance for Superstars of Sculpture; Concrete Abstraction, Falke Pisano on the essence of her models through the use of language and text constructions; and Artist's Song, with Lilibeth Cuenca Rasmussen singing about works of art that have influenced the concept of art.May 21 (7:30): When Art Looks at Cinema - Rodakis, a portrait of a person in the form of an architectural documentary; Der Spiegel, about narrative devices and editing tricks of mainstream cinema; Great Message, about four Flemish couples caught in a time loop; and The New Terrorism,a manipulation of a 1970s anti-terrorism high school video. Rodakis image from andreasangelidakis.blogspot
(Pictures from Zune)
That's why my posters will be gigantic.I'll still be smiling, but with more of a "You know you want it" smile as opposed the the classic "You can trust me 'cause I'm old" smile.And it'll be a full body shot.And I'll be wearing a top hat and perhaps a tasteful cape.My left hand will be clutching a large sack of money. And in my right hand, a long, thick chain. At its end, the Devil, whom I've beaten and captured for the good of the people.The poster's font? Iron Maiden, and you already know what my slogan will read.So if you already know it, it must be true.So vote... Or don't.It doesn't even matter.See you in the Fall.
