What is it with this country? I mean, should we have read our
national horoscope and just stayed in bed, or what? It was such a
short time ago that things were swimming
– we were on top of every heap, we had six-pack abs and money in
the bank, we were buying a new car as soon as the old one got
dirty; we were Da Man.
What is it with this country? I mean, should we have read our national horoscope and just stayed in bed, or what? It was such a short time ago that things were swimming – we were on top of every heap, we had six-pack abs and money in the bank, we were buying a new car as soon as the old one got dirty; we were Da Man.
In the blink of the All-Seeing Eye on the back of the dollar bill, we’re the neighborhood thug with a bad complexion; we’re out of a job and hustling money from loan sharks; we’re entering winner-take-all dance marathons for chump change. We’re outta gas, our boat’s stove in, we drove our Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry – we’re strung out, wiped out and bummed out. We’re Mike Tyson’s career writ large.
If the 6 p.m. news last night were a perfume, it would be called Essence of Tequila Hangover. In a few sparse minutes, I learned that (1) our boys in Iraq are continuing to get picked off like crows on a fence with no end in sight, and it’s getting worse daily; (2) Colin Powell wants us to know that lots of good things are happening there and that he’s very optimistic he will soon convince more countries to share the expense and the death without expecting a say-so in making decisions; (3) the famous Road Map to Peace has become a short road to hell as the Israelis and the Palestinians decide to adopt L.A. street gangs as their paradigm for diplomacy; (4) the projected federal budget deficit has entered a numerical realm formerly visited only by astronomer Carl Sagan when attempting to describe the quantity of molecules in the universe; and (5) the recall has been put on hold by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, which could mean that 135 candidates and the Governor would be allowed to keep incessantly gibbering at us until next March or until we collectively petition to become part of Nevada, whichever comes first. And then, when I’m already spread-eagled on the carpet begging for the swift onset of unconsciousness, the killer:
J’Lo and B’Aff are breaking up? Not only no immediate wedding, but actual kaputsies? Is there no mercy in the cosmos? Is it something we said?
Come on, people, it’s painfully obvious that we have precious little control over what goes on in the world around us – all right, none whatsoever, we’re leaves in the wind – but surely there must be something we can do here. I mean, P. Diddy has already given them matching Bentleys; thousands of tabloid writers have booked their kids into expensive colleges on the expectation of job security. We need these thoroughly lovely and what-passes-these-days-for-significant people to get together in holy matrimony, however fleetingly.
So why isn’t Dubya asking Congress for 87 billion or so to make it worth their while; after all, who could deny that the best defense against terrorism is happy couples? Why isn’t J. Edgar Ashcroft demanding they tie the knot before they do something sinful outside of marriage and destroy the fabric of America? Why aren’t the 74 Democratic presidential candidates arguing with each other over whether they should get hitched or not? Why isn’t Cheney slyly insinuating that they may, just may – he doesn’t want to mislead anybody here – have a nuclear weapons program? Why isn’t Rumsfeld refusing to let the U.N. know where they’re registered?
Our great nation is at a crossroads here; so why is this couple kicking us when we’re down? They’re just giving aid and comfort to our enemies.
