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There is something quite remarkable about car rides. You sit encapsulated in a metal pill that zings about as if it were in some sort of manic pinball game. How I ride in cars: on par with those too-cool dogs in car commercials. Window down, head out. Except my tongue and ears are poor comparisions to the wondrous flapping of the mutts. There's something oddly liberating about being whipped about by the wind, for in that moment, control does elude my heavy head. Let me wing on the gusts of risk and irresponsibility; reentry is a dumbfounded, teary-eyed acclimation back to reality. A reasonably lengthy ride through Harvard Square, glittering smugly in a glory of bright-light cafes, ended up in bumper-to-bumper gridlock. Like it or not, there was the sidewalk. Brick. The streetlight buzzing appetizingly. Silly florescent light, your music is far too glorious for me. A paper bag fighting an imaginary enemy. Swish! Whoosh! ...tumbletumbletumble... The roots of the locust tree had twisted and mangled the carefully laid out perfection of the sidewalk... How dare it disturb the pristine brickness? With rabid sorrow, I tore my eyes away. There the sky crouched, an unfathomable wealth of azure crisped by the verdurous leaves of a locust tree. Twilight was descending, the horizon streaked breathless like a cheap watercolor. And there was the river, of quicksilver fame, fleeting like many sardines underneath the somber rumblings of the bridge. How is it then that this all reminds me of Gore and Bush? I have watched them. I have listened to them. Gore sprinkles in a few not-too-shabby vocabulary words here and there, though you know that he ain't got the skills. Almighty Thesaurus! Do confound us with your spiffed-up vocabulary and statistics! Do we not hang in anticipation on your every inflection? But don't bother to understand the crap you spew; you'll make us feel stupid, because we sure as hell don't. I'm glad you empathize with us, Gore, your sincere "as heartbreaking as it was" and "American values" fiblets are as reassuring as exploding turkeys. But, where's the violence? Did you really swallow the malisons everyone knows you want to roast W. with? Tut tut... must you bawd to every sycophant and critic? Get some balls dude; follow your heart and your convictions. But it just might be that you merely lost yourself under the godhead of Clinton. Here you sit before us, shellacked and buffed and glossed and primped like a prize hen. I hear you're wearing Din-Air makeup. Goodness, if you didn't look like a fool, what would we do? We'd have nothing to amuse us. Do not forget W., the little angel. Doesn't he look cute in that suit and tie? Just look at his impish cheeks and flagrant ears. Doesn't W. have the greatest idolect? Mex-hi-ko! Ee-rock! Nay-toe! All those names and countires make the little elf's beauteous ears painpain. Sometimes, W. must repeat words, like, a sixty-mazillion times cuz he's a hopin' that repetition will pour some meaning into all those syllables. Watch as Gore asks him a question. Can you see his deer-caught-in-headlights expression? BLINK WITH US BUSH! Look at the static play as that pout of his. You can just see him erupting into a tantrum of tears, "STOPIT STOPIT! My daddy was the president! I can call him on you! We've got the same name! Pleeeeaaase! You're such a meanie!" It occurred to me, sitting there eating my pastry and drinking my Starbucks Frappachino, exactly what type of Amercia that the G&B are envisioning. They want the glitz behind us, the world of Britney Spears ('nuff said), McDonalds (they have soggy french fries, I'm sorry), Disney (who conincidentally, owns them all), beetling SUVs (god, those scare me shitless... little people, big cars), Dawson's Creek (quality TV, no brain required!), Tommy Hilfiger (hahaha), and cellphones (don't even like regular phones). Will children two hundred years from now study the hieght of America and learn of such things? Will they know how ridiculously mediocre our leaders are? What of the old man, huddled on the park bench, none too gently refridgerated by our indifference? Will these scholars of the future hear of the pale wan Hispanic boy, watching his lonely dreams drift above his head, while the processed packages of food-ish substances winks at his incontinent appetite? Back at home I wander into my backyard. The air is crisp and smells of earth. The grass lies pliant under my feet. The sky has been swathed in its night cloak; the stars sprinkled like sequins. Din-air makeup be damned, this is what's important. |
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« Last modified: January 26, 2002 » |