Mitt Romney may be my least favorite politician since Richard Nixon. Actually, I begrudgingly dug Nixon, who might’ve been an all-right chap to hang with in some Pacific Ocean cliffside golf country club cocktail lounge, sucking down old fashioneds and buttering up the old crafty pol to cut loose with those cool stories about squeezing the testicles of the opposition and hiring dirty tricksters to take the bark off them. You know, all that groovy political arcana that’ll turn you into an arachnid-gobbling lizard if you roll with that world for longer than a week.
Romney, however, bothers me on a really visceral level. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; was it the patrician anti-Bob Dobbs look, or the prep-school prick mien? Not quite. Was it the godlike über-Mormon persona, the wielder of the Keys of the Priesthood, that magic-underwear-clad Adonis here to save us “gentiles” from our wicked ways? Partly, but not really.
Finally, I think I figured it out. Mitt Romney is that soccer dad on the opposite team, the yuppie dickhead who’s constantly working every angle with the refs, cajoling, whining, bitching and carrying on like a primadonna, making sure little Biff or Morgen’s team gets every break. Call him on it, and insufferable entitlement will ooze out of every pore as he comes right back at you with his patent neo-robberbaron bullshit.
I saw a guy pull this crap once. My kid was six or seven, and he was pulling for his daughter’s team from the sideline across the soccer pitch. He was nonstop with the refs, wrongly figuring that the working-class Mexican scruffs (i.e., our team’s dads) would take it up the tailpipe just like he’d been serving up Monday through Friday at whatever bank he probably held court in, dishing out laughably high-interest loans to the poor saps who crossed his transom. But they did call him on his tripe act, by yelling back and openly jeering him. And that pissed him off.
“Fuck you,” he snarled, adding two extended middle fingers for punctuation. Suddenly it was on, and one of our dads ran across the soccer pitch and felled him with one punch. The other team’s dads quickly piled on, and then our team’s dads jumped in, and all of a sudden it was like a cartoon punchup: Biff! Bang! Pow! Cops showed up rather quickly. I grabbed my kid and another girl, the daughter of the guy who threw the first punch, and we got the hell out of there.
Anyway, I’d like to see one of those people who has gotten metaphorically prison-raped by one of these “private equity” job-killing enterprises like Romney’s Bain Capital throw a nice roundhouse right at Romney, but that isn’t gonna happen. Actually, I don’t encourage violence at all; it’s wrong, it’s counterproductive, and it’s bad energy. But still, I understand the seething resentment of the underclass, who have yet to break through the One Percent-funded hypnotic propaganda from Rupert Murdoch’s Fox News Channel and the Bain Capital-owned Clear Channel radio network clearly enough to articulate the true nature of who stole their American dream and stomped all over it.
I could go on about Mitt Romney. Is it that Mormon doctrine of “Eternal Progression,” which tells good Latter-day Saints that they will get to play God and Mrs. God on their own planet after their promised resurrection to the Celestial Heaven? I don’t want to pick on his religion, because that wouldn’t be fair or wise; I only want to point out particular doctrinal quirks that may predispose some members to certain behaviors. Eternal Progression, or “as God once was, man is today; as God is now, man someday will be,” certainly poses a weakness for a narcissistic authoritarian like Romney, much in the same way that, say, that Roman Catholic dogma might be a thorn in the side for anyone in that faith who’s predisposed to unnecessary guilt. LDS Eternal Progression, mixed with a bullying tendency here on earth, might make for a recipe for a really weird star-spangled Mussolini figure. This asshat Romney already thinks he’s god, so a coronation by Karl Rove and the Koch brothers’ pocketbook will make an apparently nasty problem even worse.
Nevertheless, I think Romney’s unfitness for public office has more to do with his career as a silver-spoon-fed big business sociopath, a man who will do and say anything to get elected. Anything. He comes off like the character Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, sending out little poker tells to those of us who are really paying attention, but playing the part of the central-casting silver-templed Wall Street sage to the rubes who haven’t sussed out his monster vibe yet.
I hope they do. I don’t believe in the Antichrist, but if I did, I’m guessing he would look a lot like Mitt Romney. So beware, brothers and sisters. Beware. —Jackson Griffith
Comrades, I return from the socialist paradise of Obamastan bringing great tidings! Which is to say, my bee-yotches, that I’m gonna start writing again, because that seems to be one of the things I do well when I apply myself. So, rather than kick off with a really long-winded post, I’m gonna start out simple, kinda.
Where have I been? You know, working, coming home, practicing a bunch of tunes I’ve written on guitar, staying out of trouble, living a boring life, sleeping, getting up, lather, rinse, repeat. It’s hardly the stuff of wonderful comedy. The biggest excitement lately has been the parking lot wars in my apartment complex, which culminated in a jeremiad posted on everyone’s door that included tow-truck threats, stuff about the pool that I never use, and a new sticker, one allotted for each apartment.
Here’s hoping that puts a crimp on those ladies in the back apartment, who take up two spaces plus one more sometimes when one of their boyfriends stays over. Not that it’s a hassle or anything; I can go park on the street if the lot’s full. But I like parking back there since I pay rent here. Stupid, huh? I mean, the rent is reasonable, and I only have to put up with the orgasmic moans of one of my downstairs neighbors once in a while, which can be amusing if you yourself are finding satisfaction somewhere, but when you’re going through a drought, the effect of hearing that can be mild butthurt escalating to full-on crankiness.
The remarkable thing is that I’m not getting cranky or even butthurt, even though this has been one of the more prolonged droughts of my existence since my pre-sexual years. Aside from one brief emotional rocket-ride-slash-crash-and-burn earlier this year that I may or may not have completely hallucinated, I’ve been pretty much the mystified lone single since Jerry Brown got elected governor to replace that little orange Schwarzenshmeggege fellow. The last time ol’ Jer was governor, he supposedly was getting sideways with Linda, and I was working in a record store and dodging the amorous advances of horny MILFs left and right, not to mention getting busy with plenty of fine ladies closer to my age. So I can’t blame Governor Moonbeam, but these days I have a happy day if some sweet lady smiles at me, or gives me a hug.
Anyhoo, it’s gonna be time for Plan B, methinx. Gonna hook me up some fly suits, a low-riding Cadillac, and a new body of mellow but sexxxy songs with a lot more of an Al Green or Marvin Gaye feel, maybe. Gonna get me a band that can walk the jawaka right out into the audience and drop some panties, and I’m gonna work on my neo-soul man act. Yes, that’s it: If I can combine Al Green and Marvin Gaye with maybe a little Leonard Cohen and perhaps a touch of Serge Gainsbourg, I most likely won’t be complaining about any dearth of lovin’ down the line.
Or, maybe I’m just done and don’t know it. Ergo, shuffleboard, horseshoes, bocce ball. More soon. —Jackson Griffith