The Clone Wars Are Over: Standing Upright in the Shadow of No Towers

Six years ago on the evening of the 2002 state of the union address, I was loopy and baffled, looking to the president for some guidance and some answers. I was glued to the screen, exhausted by the still-smoldering rubble in Manhattan, Virginia and most recently, Afghanistan. Every word that shot from his stifled smirk mattered, whether I shouted at the screen in defiance or half-nodded/shrugged at words and concepts that were new to me. The Axis of Evil was introduced that night. Phrases like War on Terror still had some mystique and luster. Last night, the same ideas sounded more like predictable punch lines to an old, off-color joke. This year’s state of the union address commanded as much attention as something I’d play in the background while folding my laundry and talking to my mom on the phone.

This is a round-about way of saying that the heaping neapolitain sundae of optimism that’s dripping all over this election season has earned another scoop: the president is finally, officially and obviously irrelevant. But it’s not just the president that doesn’t matter any more. The whole school of bleak and terrifying politics is going down with him. The same day of the address, Rudy Giuliani, the “Mayor of September 11” looks to be laying his campaign upon its death bed. He’s learned the hard way that you can’t get by on terror any more. Americans can’t just be raped and milked by the fear of the past or, to borrow and fudge a magnificent phrase from Art Spigelman: this means that we don’t have to cower in the Shadow of No Towers any more.

I don’t have to waste key strokes here explaining the significance of Ted Kennedy’s monumental endorsement of Barack Obama earlier in the day. It’s marvelous—and indicative--that the announcement trumps the president’s address as the leading political news of the day. I have to say, though, that I can’t pretend to place Obama in the lineage of Bobby, Jack and Dr. King because I never knew those men. By the time they got to me, they were gone and canonized. I recognize them only as saintly icons, painted on velvet at my friend’s grandmother’s house. No one in my generation has ever heard a politician (or anyone of note, really) speak to us about hope and optimism and a new tomorrow with the earnestness and enthusism that Barack is speaking to us. This is all brand new to the army of awoken giants in the youth voting demographic.

There were also clues, buried in the fanfare of the state of the union, that tired, dour partisanship is losing its relevance. One of my personal favorites was when the president vowed not to support funding for cloning. The point itself is debatable, but as he said it, one half of the room stood up clapping and the other half sat on its hands. In a long shot of the hall, they looked like . . . clones. Not that a Star Wars reference is necessary here, but it’s good to remind the people that the clones may have won the Clone Wars but their demise was quickly hastened by something called A New Hope, also known as Luke Skywalker.

The tired partisan clone image was not helped by Hillary, who sat fuming the whole night in her blazing red Imperial Guard dress with its pointy collar, wishing she could shoot lightning bolts out of her hands. It must be infinitely frustrating to be on the losing side of hope and optimism. Not that I’m counting Clinton out at this point, but it’s an understatement to say that yesterday was a rough day for her.

So now, with no time to breathe or analyze, our collective attention turns to Florida, which might prove to be the Republican kingmaker this time around. The optimist would ask, “what are the odds that the same state that made the electoral blunder of the century could do it again?” And I’m with the optimist on this one, except it’s hard to say what a blunder would look like this time. There is no George W Bush in this race, just confused sums of his whole: an evangelical, a businessman, a warhawk.

It’s exciting, though, to think of McCain taking Florida, if only because he’s appearing on stage with the “independent” Joe Lieberman and that his brilliantly scatalogical senatorial career drives people like Mitt Romney up the wall. With this president no longer relevant, a race between Barack Obama and John McCain would blow partisanship out of the water, create new, living heroes and effectively end the clone wars. A New Hope indeed.

2 Democrats, 1 Cup -- OR -- Fuck it, I'm a Republican

A warm evening in Boca Raton with 5 articulate Republicans turned out to be a welcome rest from the mess that the Democratic field has become. Those guys are killing me. I am at once disgusted, baffled and livid. The two-headed beast of Clintonia is breathing fiery feces all over the campaign trail, which has resulted in the glorious return of cynicism. To which I say, “Wow. That was fast.” It almost makes me want to post a video of myself on youtube screaming and crying with my mascara running while squawking, “leave Obama alone! You’re lucky he’s even running for president!” Or: with all the fecal matter and vomit being spewed and regurgitated, I could keep it simple and call it 2 democrats, 1 cup. (Ew.)

I will now pause to mourn the campaign of one Dennis Kucinich, who announced today that he’s dropping out of the race. I liked Kucinich a lot, but he didn’t leave much of a mark this time around except to gain the endorsement of Russell Simmons (kiss of death, Phat Farm) and, quite memorably, provide the most entertaining moment of the campaign when he told Tim Russert during a presidential debate that he had, indeed, seen a UFO. He then defended the zany assertion by reminding America that Jimmy Carter, too, has seen a UFO. And then I wondered whether, in a tight democratic field, it is more damaging to come out as a Roswell kook or to liken yourself to the peanut farmer who handed the white house to the Reagan group. Who’s to say? It is fitting, though, that he withdrew from the race the same day that NASA released photographs of a mermaid statue on the surface of Mars (true). Now we’ve lost the only candidate with any Extra terrestrial experience.

Enough of that mess. January 24 belonged to the Republicans, who faced off in what will prove to be a significant and decisive debate. I have to say, these guys are good. For the first half hour, I didn’t hear much because I was mesmerized by Mitt Romney’s staggeringly good looks. He’s just so damn handsome, I don’t even care what he’s saying. It’s like George Clooney for president. With less abortions. I have to say, though, that he looks exactly like Mr Fantastic. For all non-geeks, that’s the leader of the Fantastic 4 whose power is extreme elasticity. The rest of the 4 included Johhny Blaze: the human torch, the Thing and Invisible Girl, who all have counterparts in this race. Moving on.

The whole crew came to Boca Raton (literally, Rat’s Mouth) for the face off and my, what a town. This is where the 80s TV classic The Golden Girls was set, so you know there’s youth and exhuberance galore here. Jerry Seinfeld used to call it God’s waiting room. But I guess that’s fine, since old people are the only ones who vote anyway.

Half way into the debate, the guys had me convinced the war in Iraq was a good idea. John McCain says that yes, there are a lot of casualties in Iraq, but soon enough we will “eliminate casualties” in Iraq, which basically means we are going to “kill killing”. Kill it to death! Kill it good, Psycho McCain Manchurian Cantidate who, um, might win the nomination.

No, thankfully the only man crazier than McCain on that stage chimed in and shattered my good idea Iraq fantasy with some straight talk about how not only do we not need to be in Iraq, we don’t even really need to have a government at all. And then the sane people in the room put the words “ooooo-kaye” into a bazooka and shot it into outer space. Maybe Ron Paul and Dennis Kucinich should just hang and watch Battlestar Galactica DVDs or something. Can you imagine THAT conversation? Yikes. No drugs necessary.

Not to be outdone in the psycho show, Huckabee—the guns and God guy—spoke up long enough to compare the absence of WMDs in Iraq to an easter egg that never gets found. Which is true, except that tens of thousands of Americans don’t usually get their legs blown off in easter egg hunts. But whatever.

Actually, the night was not about the war at all. It was all about the Benjamins. Ecomonics. Why is we broke? I will now quote one of my favorite rappers Trick Daddy, who has a marvelously relevant line for this debate: “But all my Boca Boys, they know dough, that’s fo’ sho’ doe.” And these boys know they dough, foooooooo shoooooooo. Or at least, they know that taxes is some bullshit and uncle sam needs to get the fuck up outta my pocket. That’s what I heard. Romney shined in the economic portion of the debate because he seemed the most knowledgable and articulate and SO DAMN HANDSOME!

The rest of the debate was largely forgettable, except that half way through some one reminded me that in 2001, Boca Raton was the site of America’s first Anthrax attack. And I asked myself, “Did we ever catch that guy? No? Hm. How about Bin Laden? No? Dang. How come we’re not talking about that? Oh well. Tax cuts! Woo-hoo!” And so forth.

So I have developments galore. First I said apathy was dead because Obama won Iowa. Then I said be nice to Hillary because she fake cried for America. Now I’m so disgusted by the donkeys that for today, I’m a Republican. I like God and I don’t like taxes and maybe, secretly, I still think it should be an old white guy in the White House. And if you want to know, I’ve got my money on Mitt Romney. He’s got money and a silver tongue and he’s SO DAMN HANDSOME. If he gets the nomination he will truly be Mr Fantastic and please Jesus, maybe he can make Hillary the invisible girl.







.

The Surreal Life On The Granite Planet OR: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Primaries

I never dreamt that my vote (a miniscule fraction of the mythical, elusive “youth vote”) would ever mean anything of consequence in a presidential contest. Foolishly and almost predictably, I assumed that my optimism peaked last week in Iowa with Obama’s victory and the next eleven months would be a gradual dwindling of interest and enthusiasm in the election. But then New Hampshire laughed milk through its nose, spraying it in the face of over-zealous pundits and injecting even more chaos and excitement into this already zany, drunk Jenga match of a presidential race. Both nominations are still wide open and the field of candidates is so broad and bizarre that if Vanilla Ice threw his hat in the ring, VH1 could put them all in a house and shoot another season of the Surreal Life. I can feel that I’m witnessing history and for the first time, I’m eager to perform my civic duty when the time comes.

In a development too ironic to be dubbed irony, it was Hillary Clinton who brought the fun this time. 180 years ago at a place called Dover’s Cocheco Mills, New Hampshire was the site of the first women’s labor strike in America. Last night, a large group of women (and men) sent a similarly powerful message: No matter how charming, articulate, handsome and captivating Barack Obama is, he’s not going to get a free ride to the Democratic nomination. New Hampshire reminded America (particularly Democrats) that as divisive and controversial as she is, Hillary Clinton is still qualified, competent and insanely motivated enough that she deserves her crack at making history, too.

Please don’t misinterpret this as an endorsement of Clinton’s candidacy. I’ve still got a laundry list of issues to address concerning Hil at the helm of the machine, but for today, right now, I’m holding my tongue. She blew the thing wide open all over again and reminded us just how profound a shift it is that we’re witnessing.

She wasn’t alone, though. John McCain did just as much to jostle the elephant team and keep them guessing. Every one seems to be able to say 5 nice things about McCain—patriot, hero, fighter, believer, maverick—before dropping the unkind truth that he’s too old, batty, unpredictable, stiff and tired to make a real run at the thing. That’s probably true, but he fought off Mitt Romney in New England and that’s commendable.

I won’t blow too much venomous ink on Romney just yet (we’ll see how far he gets), but it’s nice to see a presumed frontrunner get the smarminess backhanded out of him. A lot of my enthusiasm in Iowa came from Huckabee’s defeat of the all too slick Mitt. From the start, it seemed as if he thought himself the Music Man who could blow through Iowa like it was River City, selling 76 trombones to every Marion the Librarian in the state. So I had to smile when his humble pie was served up by a goofy preacher man from Arkansas with Chuck Norris on his team. (Seriously, though: what the hell is Walker, Campaign Ranger doing on stage with Huckabee at every event? I feel like I’m watching Saturday Night Live or something.) Last night, Romney had to eat it on his (almost) home turf, which must have left a particularly bitter aftertaste. This is not intended as a personal or even political attack on Romney, it’s just nice to see a Sure Thing from Massachusets lose, considering the recent maddening successes of the Patriots and Red Sox.

The only other observation I can share concerning the Republican field is my relief at the relative sputtering failure of Giuliani’s campaign. We’ll see what happens in Florida or whatever, but I’m thankful that for the time being, his candidacy can be reduced to a tasteless joke, reworked from an old ‘Nam riddle:

Giuliani: How many 9-11 survivors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
America: Um, I don’t know.
Giuliani: HOW COULD YOU KNOW? YOU WEREN’T MAYOR, MAN!

So this brief chapter is over now and I’m sure we can agree that New Hampshire, the Granite Planet, is a strange place indeed. Something I learned along the way is that the stae was once home to the famous rock formation The Old Man In The Mountain, until the thing eroded and crumbled back in 2003. John McCain seems to have fared a little better than that. New Hampshire is also famous for inspiring most of Robert Frost’s greatest works, including his poem Nothing Gold Can Stay. On the heels of a disappointing defeat for Obama, that might be a fitting headline for some campus newspapers this morning. And it would have been, were it not for Obama’s staggeringly inspirational “concession” speech last night.

In impossibly calm but forceful tones, Obama brought his faithful back to church after a difficult blow. And he introduced a new rallying cry by leading a chorus of “yes, we can”. The slogan sounded oddly familiar to me and I quickly realized that it is the same chant I heard while in the midst of one million immigrants in the streets of Los Angeles. When I heard it then, though, it sounded like this: “Si, se puede!” That was May 1, 2006, when a marginalized group of Americans announced their presence and the phrase “A New America” began to mean something. Obama knows who he’s appealing to: the future.

That’s why the youth vote might actually mean something this time. Same, too, for the Latino vote. As the rest of America starts to look more like my home, California (that is: browner and younger, with the obvious exceptions of, um, Iowa and New Hampshire) the future—mine, Obama’s, America’s—comes into much clearer focus.

But I’m getting a bit lofty. New Hampshire was a reminder that Youth alone can’t take it. Blind optimism can’t take it. Neither can the Evangelicals or the Unions or Big Oil or Feminists or anybody else. There are no color coded states this time, there is no partisan gang banging. And that is an incredible relief.

A brief closing note: New Hampshire, oddly enough, is also where J.D. Salinger went to disappear. It’s fitting, considering that he is the prophet of the Catcher in the Rye, that bible of younth angst, alienation and disillusionment. But that’s the bible of some previous generations. The Great Generation, The Lost Generation, the Me Generation: they’re either gone or on the way out. We can leave all the all the angst and disillusionment behind in New Hampshire with J.D. It’s time for something new.

IOWA KILLED APATHY

Iowa Killed Apathy
Russell Morse

Many years ago, Kevin Costner starred in a magically absurd film set in Iowa. There were ghosts and corn fields and some baseball and I can’t say I know exactly what it was about, but a famous catch phrase emerged: If you build it, they will come. Last night, Barack Obama built it. And the kids showed up.

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m slipping into mindless, sappy optimism, but I will say that after Obama’s victory in the Iowa caucuses, I am more optimistic about the future of America than ever before in my young life. And remember, I’m of the generation that saw the Space Shuttle Challenger explode in our faces, yawned at two fruitless and futile wars in the desert, invented school shootings, watched the towers explode and sought solace from the mania inside our cell phones. So I know a few things about pessimism, irony, sarcasm, cynicism and apathy, as you can imagine.

But no longer. Now I’m apathetic about not giving a fuck.

Four years ago, it was my job to document the laughably rigged and painfully boring presidential race between George W Bush and the other guy through the “lens” (yes, editors actually use that word) of young people. I went to the democratic convention in Boston and discovered that all the kids there were drunk, on drugs and cared more about baseball than any election. I went to the Republican Convention in New York and was just creeped out by the wholesome pastiness of over-zealous pre-pubescent Christians and sharply dressed teenaged libertarians.

At the time, I thought it was my generation’s fault. Nothing’s changing because we’re not making it change. If only we were engaged and passionate and opened our eyes, we could undo the wrongs of the drug addled, money hungry false idealists that came before us. But that was far off the mark. We never cared because we never had a reason to care. And I can safely say that as of the evening of January 3, 2008, we do have a reason. It’s a formless ideology known only as “change” and it’s draped loosely across the shoulders of a Kansas Kenyan from Hawaii, but it’s a reason to care.

I had the pleasure of being the first to tell several friends about Obama’s victory and every single one of them gasped, grinned and shrieked with glee. That seem unremarkable, but four years ago, I was sitting down to a hangover breakfast with some young, idealistic and educated people and I told a joke. I asked : “How is John Kerry like a gay man?” They shook their heads and I answered loudly in a crowded café “You won’t see either one of them beating bush!” My friends sat stone faced, blinking heavily until one of them asked, “who’s John Kerry?” To compound things, it was May and Kerry had long since secured the nomination. This time around, we’ve got sixteen year olds watching the Iowa Caucus.

It’s not Obama. It’s not the pending doom of a nuclear Pakistan toppling into the laps of lunatics or Iran swallowing Iraq. It’s not four dollar gas or dead polar bears. It’s not student loans or Mexican dishwashers without paperwork. It’s just time for us to take the wheel and do something right. Or even something dastardly wrong. But something different.

I can’t say whether I’m more excited about Obama’s victory, though, or Hilary’s defeat. As much as I love Bill, I just can’t get behind that woman. She’s a shrew, a tired old partisan with a paranoid conscience and an irritably scripted routine. Her husband is a genuinely great man whom I will always respect and admire, but as they say: every John has his Yoko.

I rejected Hilary’s “patina of inevitability” from the start, but I was afraid hers was a machine that couldn’t be stopped. Much as I considered the maniacally hawkish neo cons and corporate goons calling the shots right now unstoppable, I was afraid we’d be stuck with a Botox-addled Queen Clinton on the Pennsylvania throne for the next four years. But Iowa knew better. And more accurately, the young people of Iowa knew better.

Barack said, “I want youth.” He built the Field of Dreams. And the kids
showed up. They came pouring over the gently rolling, snow dusted plains of the tall corn state with the highest percentage of Radon in its soil (true), the birthplace of Tom Arnold, Ashton Kutcher and Buffalo Bill, where 3 million white people work the land for its corn to sweeten our soda pop and curl our Fritos and they sent a clear message: Apathy is dead. Or whatever.

MEET ME AT THE MALL, IT'S GOIN DOWWWNNNN: BODY BAGS IN OMAHA

Sorry to quote Young Joc, but it had to happen.
I think I am going to have to rename my blog “times I’ve cried while watching cable news.” As you may have gathered already, I cried today. Like most times I shed tears, there were several contributing factors. Sleep deprivation, nagging hangover, three hour marathon masturbation session, candy cane themed Christmas tree, but I think the thing that put me over was when the teenager walked into the mall in Omaha and killed nine people.
Jesus Christ. I guess it’s time to put the Virginia tech football jersey back in the closet and break out my conhuskers gear. When I heard about it is not when I cried. I cried when this little, plain woman in a Christmas sweater with a keychain lanyard around her neck told the story of what she saw. She works in one of the department stores and she was fitting a pregnant Mexican woman for a pair of shoes when the shooting began. To skip a few steps, she saved a barefoot pregnant immigrant from getting shot in the mall and she couldn’t stop crying. So I started.
What I want to do is be glib and flippant and make off color jokes, but for some reason the tragedy hasn’t settled in my sick pot belly of irony yet.
I hate cars. I’m over it, done. I hate that they crash and pollute and make places like phoenix and Atlanta impossible and labyrinthian, I hate the idea of paying 30 dollars to pour liquefied Iraqi orphans into the tank. To clarify : I don’s HATE cars, I mean I like Xzibit and Jay Leno’s cars, I just can’t comply with people who spend four hours a day eating buffalo snackers in their Hyundai. That’s just me.
I crashed a car the other day. Nobody was hurt (although that median won’t be talking any more shit), but it surely was terrifying. And annoying. And a reminder I did not need: I am seconds from death at all times. Go to the mall, get shot. Drive a car on prom night, get a steering wheel wrapped around your neck. It’s all so absurdly random that it’s pushing me further into “nothing means anything. I am the victim of a series of accidents called my life, as are we all”, and so forth.
And then the other night, two people were shot and killed on my girl’s block. Nosy and inquisitive as I am, I went up to the line and I saw that man’s brains on the floor and his sister was screaming and spitting in my face. The whole community of adorable, hard working Mexican expatriates was devastated.
I shuffled home and sat up all night talking to God.
So I came full circle from dark, dismissive nihilism back to divine purpose: there IS a reason. It’s God’s symphony. Our universe is a grand and beautiful performance and I am proud to witness it and oil its gears as I do as I wilt.
When I was 17, my girlfriend was shot in the head and died. She was beautiful and brilliant and honestly, hilarious. The police officer who mistakenly shot her never suffered any consequesnces. I’ve thought many times about abducting him and putting a bullet in his brain, but that’s absurd. It would strike a sour note in the symphony.
The day I saw that man’s brain on my girl’s sidewalk, I found out that an old friend of mine had also been shot and killed. His name was Robert Chatman and I was in juvenile hall and a group home with him for nearly three years. He was insane and unintentionally hilarious and also an idiot. He used to pretend that he was Chinese (though he was as black as the night is long) and make up Chinese words and scream them at people. My favorite was a word that went bachhheeeeyaaahhh!!, which I screamed at a french woman in her basement behind the Eiffel tower. He would also pretend that he was a car and “drive” around the house all day, screeching and shifting invisible gears and turning his invisible steering wheel and doing donuts and figure eights and such. He got out, became a tranny and then he was shot and killed.
I found this out from a thirteen year old boy with dust in his afro, who laughed and said, “that nigga got lit up. Clap! Clap! Buck! Buck” and so forth. I wanted to slap the nap off of that child, making light of my friend’s murder. But that., too, would disrupt the symphony. Instead, I let the guy go ahead of me in line at McDonalds today. And I told the woman with the red weave at the salvation army that she looked pretty. And I hung out with the guys at the comic book shop and told a few jokes. I drew a picture of a fat man eating alone. And then I came home and wrote.
I’m going back to God. I like the symphony. The death and carnage and tragedy are just as vital and gorgeous as the birds and girls and little kids.
So, yes. Smoke that roach. Draw a hopscotch on the sidewalk. Read the guiness book of world records. Watch sesame street. Hold hands with a girl. Tell gay couples to get married. Send a Christmas card. Go to a weird church some time. Hand out candy canes. Give a homeless guy a bottle of scotch. Call your grandfather. Get oddly colored shoelaces.
This is our symphony. It’s our job to do these things. There is a divine, beautiful energy keeping this leaky tub afloat. You are third chair violin on the deck of the titanic. And it’s gonna be great.

IF THE MOTHERS RULED THE WORLD, WE'D HAVE NO GODDAMN OIL IN THE FIRST PLACE (maybe cooking oil)

So . . . I won't pretend that I'm going to read Alan Greenspan's rousing new thriller, but damn, the boy can write some pull quotes. The dashingly snoozy bean counter apparently wasn't happy with being master of the universe for 20 years, now he's got to write a tell all in which he claims, and get this: THE WAR IN IRAQ WAS FOR OIL! What the hump? Next he's gonna tell me OJ did it.
This on the day that I thought I fell aleep in a time machine. After week two of the NFL season, the 49ers, Cowboys AND the Packers are undefeated. Hilary's got a plan to save health care. Then I hear O.J.'s back in jail. Not to be all hetero-male with the sports references, but are we back in 1995? If so, I should be getting a lot more house party handjobs.
Let's turn away from that mess for a moment and have a gander at today in Judeo-Muslim relations. Sadly, September 17 was a bad day for the tribe. First, Iran declares its official policy is to wipe Israel off the map and there are 600 missiles aimed at them as we schlep. And then Israeli Prime Minister Simon Peres plays host to Madonna, who tells him she is an ambasador for Judaism. Dear god. We should up the ante and have Lyndsay Lohan tell the Ayatollah she's the ambassador for Islam.
Seriously, could there be a more perfect totem for the Islamic perception of the lunacy of the western world than the blonde (fake) Jew who introduced slutty to the globe? Bin Laden must be spinning in his grave. Oh wait . . .
Let's move from one crazy broad to another. If Sally Field thought people were never going to stop yelling "you like me, you really like me" at her in the street, she may have permanenetly erased that from our collective memory with her embarrassing tirade at last night's emmys. From what I can gather from her largely indecipherable shrieks, she thinks war is bad and mothers are unappreciated. Sure, Sally. Tell that to Tupac. Everybody loves moms. It's dads that aren't appreciated. Watch any cell phone commercial and you'll know that dads are just bumbling, know nothing dumb asses who need to get the hell out of my room and stop pestering me about my text messaging! I pray that one day, we can have a well spoken, intelligent celebrity to articulate the rational fears and reasonable desires of the left. Sad to say, the Not Without My Daughter/Boniva Spokeswoman isn't doing it for me.
Also, it's no longer an edgy or risky position to take that the war is bad. We're all with you Sally, but what does that have to do with your role on "Brothers and Sisters"?
Also, the suspicion has been floated that Ms. Field was censored by the FOX network because she was cut off mid sentence. Well, that's another no doye. FOX is a crooked corporation with all of its eggs in an evil basket, so OF COURSE she was censored. But before Sally Field said it, did you really think the war in Iraq was cool?
Take a breath.
Between Greenspan and Sally, I say we declare September 17th No Duh Iraq day. Yes, it was for oil and yes, it sucks. But that doesn't mean we can't fly Lyndsay to Tehran for some face time with the clerics to get a head start on the NEXT war.

9/11 IS PLAYED OUT -OR- MISTER ROGERS IS MY GENERAL PETRAEUS

I don't cry very often, but I cried today. Sometimes when girls play the piano or I'm bargaining with God, I'll let a few drops go. Today, as General Petraeus articulately bumbled through his performance on capital hill, I couldn't hold it. It was one of those cries where your lip quivers and you have to work to catch your breath. A real good, cleansing cry.
Six years ago, I went to a Sade concert the day after 3500 people died under the weight of some rather large office buildings in manhatan. She sang a song with the line, "you didn't suffer in vain" and again, I had to cry a little. At the time I thought, "she's right. these people suffered and died, but now that the world has seen what hate and hostility has spawned, humanity will purge itself of the fuel of fear, so they didn't die for naught." As you might recall, that fruity new age masturbatory hippie idealism was shattered in short order by the clumsiest foreign policy since the third reich.
To be fair, I have to say that I cannot report on Petraeus' testimony, because after I vomited last night's Tecates and an ecstacy pill, I changed the channel.
Wiping bile from my chin and tears from my eyes, I turned to what I knew would flush my brain: E entertainment television.
They've been going bonkers all day about Britney's dastardly performance at the VMAs. That, too, made my lip quiver. To know that every bored and lonely desk jockey in America is youtubing Britney's prozac-induced shuffle to ease the pain of the desert bloodbath also makes me cry. It is comforting, however, to know that General Petraeus isn't the only one phoning in a forced performance.
So I turned to PBS and an was surprised by an old friend: Mister Rogers. He was playing the piano and singing a lullaby and I was on the verge of tears yet again when I realized that the public demi-god of gentle kindness who essentially raised me looks EXACTLY LIKE GENERAL PETRAEUS! If only Mister Rogers could gauge the success of our troop surge in a warm and soothing voice. Before we get on the imagination train which takes us to the white house, where it's a winnable war and not a repulsive scam, Mister Rogers will preface it with "Let's have some make believe now". And then I'll know what's pretend.
I've spent a lot of time in NYC this summer, where every guido in a tank top has a 9/11 tattoo and girls are still flashing their boobs at passing fire trucks. One of my favorite things to do in New York is tell my 9/11 joke.

Me:Knock Knock.
Police Man: Who's there?
Me: September Eleventh.
Police Man: September Eleventh who?
Me: I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU'D NEVER FORGET!

I'm done with 9/11. I'm over it. And I think we all should be. It was a tragic event which stole the lives of thousands of innocent, beautiful people and I acknowledge that. But it's become the preface for illegal wars, constitution shredding and the misery of thousands MORE innocent, beautiful people. 3500 people died in that rubble. More people than that die every WEEK from lung cancer. Are we going to declare a war on tobacco?
Soon after the towers fell, a pundit famously coined the phrase "irony is dead." At the time, we were so emotionally wounded that it seemed we would never be able to be smart asses or make sideways comments again. Six years later, irony has become an untamable and tyrannical beast that my generation relies on to blind us from the lunacy and carnage of our modern world. Irony is how we cope.
The hippies had LSD. We have Stephen Colbert. How else to process the tragedy?

So I have no choice. This is my America and I embrace it. I'm gonna go see about a sub prime mortgage to buy some property in New Orleans where I can curl up on the couch and watch Deuce Bigalow: Osama Bin Gigolo.