Future History Mantras

It must be harder to be John McCain than it is to be Barack Obama right now. Senator McCain is undoubtedly synapse-chewing his way through the hours as he meets with his staff and Sarah P., watching image downloads of Obama and Saturday Night Live, with the volume turned down, per Mrs. Palin's request. McCain certainly gives the Governor pep talks before rallies - because he's just so darn proud of her - and probably reminds her about the Gipper, ironically portrayed by a the same man who later played a President. After all, it's about winning, Sweetie. However, underneath all the tough guy glamor, McCain is more aware of what it means to lose - especially this time.

I think if one is a soldier at heart, the word "defeat" just won't do. There is no losing, in the world of Senator McCain. It is a dimension where the phrase "the surge is working" is the new battle cry of Mission Unaccomplished, a strategy we wouldn't need had the war gone as expected after it was announced as won on the deck of a battleship four years prior.

Not only can McCain not lose for himself, he can't lose for the Republicans. It he loses it means that the majority of people in this country have regained their rightful power of choice. A Republican loss - a McCain loss - will be a painful coup de grâce to the biggest slide in approval ratings since the Titanic.

A man like John McCain refuses to accept failure, despite its inherent lessons. And if he does fumble the ball just as the time clock goes off, he imagines that he will become the man he fears - the man who lost the big game - the man who lost to Barack Obama.

The man who lost to Barack Obama...the man who lost to Barack Obama...

I can't really decide if I believe in the power of manifestation or not. I was raised in a positive American bubble of a town and therefore grew up believing that if I wanted something enough...well, you know the rest. And clearly there are some things in my life that would seem to be powerful manifestations of some of my aspirations at least or is my life purely a result of choices I've made to ensure I would feel this way now? I like to stay open to the idea that it is a little of both.

So, I see it before me - a headline - and there's a big picture of John McCain taken while he is thanking his supporters for their hard work, all smiles and handshakes with the obligatory pat on the back reserved for those needing a bit extra. Despite the pleasant photo, text looms large across the top of the paper - "Obama Wins!" - and beneath John's photo it says, with a telling error - for the sake of detail, the turbo spice of visualizations - "John McCane thanks supporters."

And as the spin cycle progresses post-election, I see news programs where this very vision is discussed: The Anchor states, "John McCain has conceded the election to Barack Obama and is planning to spend some time with his family..."

I really like my world of Future History, brought about by a mysterious power, secondary to the one called "voting."

I want this version of reality because we are currently being asked to consider a ruse once again - they are doing this and spouting the most despicable fodder, revealing their shortcomings in a way that would leave David Niven speechless while presenting an Oscar. Despite the McCain campaign's best efforts, we know there is not much difference between McCain and Bush, no matter how much they squawk about their "Maveric," a term eerily similar to the "Cowboy" moniker of W.

Perhaps the "real" American voters only like "real" American heroes who do not lose. Heroes in the classic style - Cowboys, Soldiers - Gippers - the toy surprise in every all-American Happy Meal.

But I have a different fantasy. Or is it a manifestation? Or is it a choice? Whatever it is, in my future world, McCain is the man who lost to Barack Obama...the man who lost to Barack Obama...the man who lost to Barack Obama...

Hard, Dark Things

The hard, dark things always seemed to make us feel better. Take, for example, when Bob ate Dotty’s nose. There we were in their kitchen, watching from our dream state, taking it all in, sipping our Cocktails-in-a-Can. I was enjoying a way-too-strong Tom Collins and you were slurping down a margarita. I think you always drank margaritas because they made you feel like you were on vacation in Mexico or something.

Warm golden light coming through yellow and baby-caca ocre vinyl spring loaded pull shades with a cartoon flower pattern fills the kitchen with light while we’re watching as Bob takes the plate and places it neatly in the center of the table. He tucks a napkin into the collar of his pink Izod LaCoste polo shirt that makes him feel athletic every time he wears it, even though it’s pink and he’s no athlete. Bob looks down at the nose on the plate in front of him. There is a carrot coming out of each nostril. It seems to Bob that toaster ovens have one major flaw: they can’t toast for shit. The edges of Dotty’s nose where it was excised are crusty and a bit burned. Edges become more defined as they harden. Hard dark nose hair – poor ugly fucking woman.

Bob lived with one simple rule: Never fuck until you’re fucked with. Someone had left the box open in the cupboard and the crackers were stale. Probably Dotty. Inconsiderate bitch.

Bob and Dotty Chrisman owned the Chef’s Inn, a smelly diner near the exit of a strip mall. Your stupid, junky boyfriend worked there as the Chef, although I’m not sure whether or not what he did could be called cooking. Still, we ate there often, you and I, feeling somehow more important than the rest because you were fucking the cook and all of our meals were free. Plus, there was the cabin in the hills that for some reason Bob and Dotty believed you deserved to live in without having to pay rent. I thought about this often as I watched you and the junky snort cocaine in your cabin’s gratis bathroom.

I will not forget the Chrisman’s narrow shouldered, flat, melba-toast daughter, Patty, who was continually hoisted into my face in the hopes that I would want to mate with her. Humorless, vague and with an aura of disaster, she could not have been more unattractive to me. No, I didn’t want to dance with her nor did I want her putting suntan oil on my back at the beach. I could feel it in my loins that I never wanted to sow my seeds in her field. On some deep, genetic level, my being could sense the darkness surrounding Patty and I recoiled from her on every approach, visibly, my autonomic nervous system taking over when my mind lost control.

We mulled them over, the Chrismans, your erstwhile benefactors. Little did they know the contempt with which you referred to them, not only biting the hands that fed you, but filleting and serving those hands with a sauce of venomous sarcasm. There, on the floor, flat on your back, slipping your fingers into the crevasses of the brown high-low carpet and sipping your canned Mexican vacation, you’d play your game, the junky slumped against the cabin’s wood paneling across from you, dirty dishes around him while he snored and drooled. I’d crawl onto the mattress folded in two under the big mirror, curled up with a pillow between my legs and listen while you’d define the game of the moment.

It was often time to think of the worst possible, hard, dark things that we could. It was the only way to feel power in a world that had no place for us. The Chrisman’s were an easy target – they seemed to have the security we lacked: nice home, nice business, enough money to help you. Perhaps it was your shame that made you play the game. Who knows? So we’d picture Bob eating Dotty’s nose so that the horror in their lives would somehow match our own.

Of course no one could have foreseen what would transpire. As usual, the dry-bread daughter had been thrown in my face for a dance at the Chrisman’s holiday party. I only agreed to go get ice with her so I wouldn’t have to dance. And yes, she seemed small behind the wheel of her brother’s Corvette. You’re right – I felt scared as we rocketed down the twisty, mountain road, her inability to control the giant, rumbling beast apparent as we neared the intersection at high speed. And finally, I admit to my disbelief as the car fishtailed and I saw Patty's hands lift from the wheel as the tops of the pine trees were flooded by the headlights. Sure, there was a moment of exhilarating horripilation as the Corvette lifted-off, sailing for three seconds through the air, until it came crashing to the ground with a horrible, metallic shatter. I’m so sorry she died.

We don’t play the game anymore. No more noses, no more kitchens. The hard, dark things have stopped making us laugh.

McTurity Level

Is it me or is John McCain creepy? Watching last night's final presidential debate, I wanted to focus on what the candidates put forth as their policies. Instead, I became distracted by the body language and mannerisms of the Republican on stage.

Not only was he strangely emotional during the debate, he seemed to be ready to explode at any moment, nervously glancing around the room often as if he were desperately looking for support in the crowd. Occasionally while Senator Obama spoke, McCain would interrupt with laughter, snorts or heavy sighs. I watched the debate on CNN, one of the networks employing a split-screen format. This is where it really became interesting - McCain, twice by my account, actually slid back into second grade behavior and rolled his eyes. Was he unaware that we were watching his reactions to Obama's answers?

Lets be fair - Obama is a politician. He didn't sell me on many of his answers. No politician seems to answer questions directly - maybe here and there - but in general, the Illinois Senator is hard pressed when asked to be specific about his policies. In reality, no politician can be specific because they all know, as do we, that there is no way to tell if their policies or plans will work until they are tested in real time.

The system and its problems have become so complex, anyone who tells you they know anything for sure is lying - and this is what John McCain does. He constantly says that he can fix it - he can win the war - he can find Osama Bin Laden - he can do it all - but never tells us how. His twitchy aggression and rhetoric, with a dash of the occasional reptilian-like darting of his pointy tongue - illustrate a larger problem that is rarely addressed in the press - is John McCain mentally stable? Or is his lack of maturity a separate red flag that the American people should heed?

My message to John McCain is this - I agree with some of your plans and I would say I even prefer some to Senator Obama's. However, Sir, your failing is not so much in your record (although Obama does have an excellent point about your decidedly un-maveric voting in line with President Bush over the last eight years), but more in the very un-presidential way in which your present yourself. You seemed irritated and emotional last night, you were rude and immature and made untrue accusations (a nice way of saying, "You lied"). Given the frightening state of the union, I am afraid we need a steadier hand.

Is Dumb the New Sexy (Again)?

I am sure the topic has been blogged-to-death but I can't help pondering the appeal of Sarah Palin. It is undeniable to me that she is what she promotes herself to be - Hockey Mom, Jane Sixpack, a woman who would blow a moose away given the right set of circumstances. Sarah's bloodthirsty in the most adorable way.

Watching Tina Fey on Saturday Night Live command attention with her spot-on impersonation is, without a doubt, the humor highlight of the campaign season. While I appreciate Tina Fey's talent, the truth is, it is the same old "dumb blond" routine we've all seen year after year. It's a schtick we all know and love; Frank Zappa's Valley Girl, Marilyn Monroe's undying persona, the Chrissy Snow character on the '70's sitcom Three's Company...the list goes on an on. But why is dumb so sexy to so many? Is this quality, sans the blond, whether real or cunning and strategic, a liability or the true appeal of Sarah Palin?

Check this out - SNL writers don't need to struggle too hard for a script - Sarah writes it for them:



The question I keep asking myself is how can anyone - Republican, Conservative, Evangelical, Independent or Undecided - seriously contemplate electing Governor Palin into the office of Vice President of the United States? This is a woman who believes, and stated on national t.v., that geographical proximity to Canada (and don't forget those pesky Russians!) qualifies her as a foreign policy advisor to the President. I am truly frightened that this Inflatable Sex Doll Vice President would be so close to the Presidency. Judging by the way John McCain acted during the last Presidential debate, he's liable to just wander off one day, leaving us with the new President Palin. Will she be winking and saying (over her backyard fence, one would presume) "You betcha!" to Vladimir Putin one day?

Perhaps subconsciously we all want her in the spotlight to guarantee our ringside seat for the next silly thing she says - it's truly entertaining - and we might call this quality the "Dan Quayle Effect." We're all so busy rubbernecking at every brain-dead comment and its ensuing hilarity, we may fail to recognize that the sinister truth is these simpleminded politicians have, or will have, incredible power and influence. Former President George H. W. Bush eventually admitted that he "blew it" by choosing Dan Quayle. Here's the proof:

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C06E7DC133DF936A35753C1A961958260&fta=y

And some evidence to support his belief:



Will we have to wait until after the election for John McCain to admit he "blew it," too?

And I have a question for Senator Joe Biden - why were you so congenial with Governor Palin during the Vice Presidential debate? You're known for your loose lips - why so controlled? Fools need to be called out - it's the only way to possibly awaken the voters. Instead, we risk the chance that she may actually be elected. Although ultimately not effective, something along these lines would have been, at the very least, a moment of relief for those of us who see the danger of a dolt in office:



Governor Palin, whether acting stupid or actually dim (I think a combination of both) is attempting to appeal to, as she sees us, the salt-of-the-earth folks out there, saying she is one of us and an "outsider." Personally, I am insulted - why do these slippery politicians equate low to middle income, simple living and anonymity - the trappings of the commoners - to a lack of intelligence? Is Sarah Palin really 'speakin' our language' when she drops the "g" off of every verb in the present continuous tense? Why does Sarah Palin and the GOP believe that by presenting her this way, she will appeal to the majority of Americans?

And if we are truly as stupid as they want us to believe we are, then my question to the common electorate is this - given the current crisis situations here at home and abroad - do you really want someone just like you in the White House - or do you want someone smarter?

Gina M.

The last time things seemed as horrible as they do now to me was 1991, when Bush Sr. started the Gulf War. I'd just finished a year of working at America's Funniest Home Videos but was not returning to production after the hiatus. I believe my final AFHV responsibility was to call one of the producers a "big, fat pig." In retrospect, it was probably not the most eloquent departure but fully deserved, and if this entry was about that, you'd understand why.

But it's not.

Back to 1991 - what a challenging year. I couldn't find work anywhere. Amazing how stressed out I became about it when I think how now, comparatively speaking, much more is at stake for me personally and fiscally. I was living in Los Feliz and having to accept temp jobs all over the city of Los Angeles. That's a huge area to cover, and after twenty-two temp jobs in 1991, I was very ready to accept any permanent position offered to me.

One day while working in downtown L.A. at yet another menial and boring temp job (I was part of a team relabeling an entire law firm's files and implementing a new filing system), I bumped into an old friend who directed me to another firm. Apparently there was an open, "permanent" position available. I rushed over.

I somehow rose to the surface from the multitude of applicants and landed the spectacular job of message desk receptionist. In one year, I had gone from having my name broadcast in the credits for AFHV and earning a healthy salary to taking messages for close to minimum wage on a dark, subfloor of a law firm. I was happy to have a new job but fairly down in the dumps.

Sharing the responsibilities at the desk was a young African-American woman named Gina. Gina was full figured and full of life, usually dressed in a blouse tucked into a short skirt, with strapped sandals with stiletto heels . A wide, radiant smile and a healthy sense of humor. Her streetwise commentary on the firm and its lawyers was endlessly entertaining and she quickly became a pleasure to spend time with. I really enjoyed working with her. We sat next to each other, answering phones and taking messages, responding to simple requests and gossiping about firm politics. Gina had been on the message desk for too long. She had aspirations of becoming a legal secretary or perhaps even a paralegal. She was very savvy and quick, and I had no doubt that soon she would move up the ranks and I would be training the next new message clerk.

We fell into the rhythm of our work world and I enjoyed the stability of my new job. I had a steady stream of income again (though not really enough) and managed to stay positive although inside I was in turmoil about whether or not my life really had any clear direction. I felt adrift amid the soaring downtown skyscrapers, a ghost of a young man who seemed to have missed the point. I took full responsibility for my condition and spent my lunchtimes relaxing in the sun, reading books and enjoying the relief in knowing that I was not necessarily someone on his way to the top. I decided to make the best of it and do whatever I was handed as well as I could. Taking messages was by no account my dream job but with a healthy shrug, I dove into learning about the legal world.

After four months, I began to be approached by management. Would I mind filling in for a secretary on vacation? Would I be interested in finishing up a special project for an attorney? Could I be borrowed from the message desk to help out in word processing? I said yes to it all. I was hungry for knowledge and focused on availing myself to the free learning being offered to me.

The problem was, Gina was being continually overlooked for these other projects. In addition to that, something was horribly strange at the message desk. After the first few months, I had begun to detect a mysterious and foul odor.

Gina began to aggressively express dismay over my receiving these special assignments. She felt it was unfair as she had served the firm longer than I and was therefore logically in line next to graduate from the message dungeon. I totally agreed with her and let her know it. Gina had become very difficult and vocal in the fourth month, lashing out verbally at attorneys and blaming me for her problems. She made it clear that our situation was yet another example of racism - I was a young, white male and it was clear to her to whom the firm's loyalty fell. As her resentment grew, she became louder and more vulgar. For example, Gina would often recount her time in the military at full volume in our reception area, telling me about her ability to get in full make-up and uniform in two minutes. The key, she stated, was to learn how to shower and only address the "hot spots" on her body. Anyone passing by or sitting in the lobby became uncomfortable and she made no effort to change.

Soon, management began to pull her aside and recount the complaints they had received. They also began to pull me aside and ask me questions, too. I always defended Gina and began refusing special assignments insisting they ask her, first. The firm's human resources supervisor informed me that they had been having trouble with Gina before my employment. It was clear that they would continue to utilize me for other work, and not Gina. I became trapped in the middle between this young woman who believed she was the victim of racism and my need to take care of myself as my refusal to accept new assignments began to place my job in jeopardy. And of course, Gina came to believe that I was the root of all of her problems. In her own words, she had confided and trusted a white devil and I had used it to my advantage, which in her mind was what white people were about. Nothing I could say could convince her otherwise and her hatred of me grew exponentially everyday we spent together at the desk. The days of laughing and talking together were over - we sat in silence, two feet from one another, 40 hours per week for at least two weeks, enveloped in an unidentifiable stench. I was beginning to long for unemployment.

Then finally, one day, the most awkward question of all: management wanted to know if I knew the origin of the odor emanating from the message desk. I was taken aback that it had been noticed but I should have realized it had become extremely noticeable. I explained that for the last month, I had been cleaning out cupboards, wiping the countertops and searching for the source. I told them I didn't know.

The next week, on Monday, Gina called in sick. I was finally alone at the message desk. There were two chairs at the desk, the chair I always sat upon, and Gina's. This day, I idly sat down in her chair to grab the phone. That's when I noticed it. The smell was coming from her seat. I couldn't figure out what it was, but I felt sorry for her. Had she been too upset to ask for a new chair? Had she been suffering and not knowing what to say? I wasn't sure, so I shoved the chair into a closet and shut the door. It was wonderful to work a day at the desk free from the smell. If she wouldn't ask for a new seat for herself, I would ask for her - but I would tell her first when she returned.

On Tuesday, Gina stomped into the lobby. When she entered, she immediately shot a dagger-like look at me and asked what in the hell had I done with her chair. I explained that I had discovered the source of the odor everyone had been commenting upon and that I would assist her in requesting a new seat. Gina belly-laughed and pulled the chair out of the closet. She sat down in full view of the lobby and explained that sometimes, if she forgot her feminine supplies, she would simply just pull up her skirt and use the chair. She then demonstrated her technique. Gina showed me this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I could not disguise the appalled look on my face. What neither of us knew was that the message desk had been under surveillance for months. There was a small, closed-circuit camera hidden in the ceiling of the lobby. The chair, and Gina, were quickly replaced.

Gina never spoke to me again. I was given a position on another floor and began my steady climb up, ultimately becoming a corporate paralegal some years later. I only saw Gina one last time - walking on one of the raised foot bridges of downtown Los Angeles. I meekly smiled at her and she looked right through me. It was obvious that I would always be the white devil who cost the African-American the job and her losing the job would never, in her mind, have anything to do her habits or attitude. It was painful to be cast in this role and this experience has remained an awkward and delicate memory for me.