No More Politics Until March 1

Sure, I’m a bit disappointed. Derek, meanwhile, is ready to draw blood in a post entitled “Motherfucker.” I should remind Derek that in the 1999 runoff, Ammiano lost to Brown by 40,000 votes. Gonzalez, meanwhile, tonight lost by a mere 10,000 votes. Sure, it sucks. But this is progress. By all reports, the Gonzalez campaign was disorganized. The Newsom folks hit upon the brilliant idea of victory by absentees. And the voter turnout in the Bayview/Hunters Point, Visitation Valley, and Ingleside areas was nothing short of abysmal, because neither of the candidates wanted to recruit the downtrodden. But don’t listen to me. Look at the precinct breakdown on the SF Department of Elections page.

But, really, that’s enough about politics until March 1, 2004. This blog, in its return, has become polluted with simplistic liberal sentiments within its slightly more informed opinions on literature and the like. And who needs more of that? It’s about as unpalatable as suffering through another warblog. As such, I shall make every effort not to mention politics until things heat up in the inevitable Dean-Bush showdown next year. You deserve better than my chiaroscuro.

Perhaps I should mention that I’m casually drunk right now.

[8/9/05 UPDATE: Boy, there used to be a lot of posts here put up in the evenings after drinking. In the end, I finally figured out that answering email or composing blog entries probably isn’t wise after a few glasses of wine or whiskey. I should still probably drink much less than I do. One of the reasons I refrain from writing about politics (although not thinking about them) all the time is that such silly statements as the above (“the inevitable Dean-Bush showdown”) become so ridiculously dated in mere months. One of the risks with anyone I suppose.]

Viva Gonzalez?

She was across the street, curly blonde locks tucked beneath a snow white cap, flowing down her shoulders, bright teeth matching the hue of the hat on a cold rainy night. It was just close to poll’s close. She raised her arm and accosted me.

“Excuse me, do you know where the polling place is?”

“Who are you voting for?” I asked.

“Gonzalez.”

“I’ll personally escort you there myself.”

But, hey, I would have done it even if she was voting for Newsom. She was a cutie. No. Get that boat back into rational rivulets. She was a voter.

There aren’t election results up yet, but it’s looking pretty good for Gonzalez. I’ve learned that Gavin Newsom sent somewhere in the area of 150,000 abentee applications to potential voters. This despite a Clinton and a Gore endorsement. I’ve never heard of a candidate ever resorting to anything like this.

But just to be safe, I’ve conducted an informal poll among people who are, what I would call, traditional Democrats.

The publisher of a major magazine: “Gonzalez. Begrudgingly.”

A Gore voter with a pragmatic reactionary tilt: “Well, I had to vote for Matt after eight years of Brown.”

Even a person who’s normally apolitical confessed that he’s voting for Gonzalez.

Gonzalez has a momentum here that Ammiano didn’t have back in ’99. It was a hell of a coup to get people to write Tom Ammiano’s name onto the ballot and get him in the runoff. But the minute the runoff went down, momentum shifted. People became painfully aware of Ammiano’s limitations and were willing to let the pragmatic Democrats west of Twin Peaks have the final say.

But not this time. The Financial District signs are split evenly between Gonzalez and Newsom. Pragmatism has shifted. People are hungry for something new. Different. Honest. I suspect the fact that Newsom has never appeared in a photograph with his hair tousled in any way has something to do with it. What were the Newsom people thinking?

I’m amazed to say that it may actually happen tonight. 82% of San Francisco voted against the recall. We do things differently here. And we could be the first city in the United States with a Green Party mayor. If it does go down, I’ll be very proud to be a San Franciscan. Very proud to be part of a movement that tells the nation, “Politics doesn’t have to be an unctuous business. Sometimes, under special circumstances, you can have results.”

UPDATE: We lost. But it was fun ride. Tim Redmond calculates that Newsom spent $34 a vote to Gonzalez’s $4. It’s still a respectable showing.

Matt Gonzalez for Mayor

matt_oval.gifSo I voted for the hippie. And here’s why you should too:

Gavin Newsom isn’t the right-wing nut he’s been painted as. But he’s the obvious choice. A pomaded, well-oiled machine slightly better than Willie Brown, but no less accountable. A man who views San Francisco the way a ladies’ man propositions an easy Friday night lay: a quickie on the way to the top or the next one, wherever that might be. This may be putting it crudely, but would you trust this man to babysit your kids? I rest my case.

But Gonzalez, while not as specific about solutions as his supporters would contend, is perhaps the only shot in a generation at a genuinely passionate and respectable politician in San Francisco. Someone who will try something open and different, someone who actually gives a damn about the problems that plague ths City and won’t turn a blind eye the way that Willie Brown did. Even if Gonzalez falls flat on his face, or should he win tonight, at least we can’t say that we didn’t try.

The results that may come from Gonzalez’s grand experiment, good or bad, are what I’m interested in, and why any San Franciscan should give him the risky vote. Homelessness is abysmal. Apartment rental rates are out of control. You have to clear $200K a year and have the credit of J. Paul Getty to buy a home here. And the local economy’s become as neglected as the pet chihuahua left home to die while the family’s driven four hundred miles to mourn the death of a close family relative. (Remix those metaphors, baby!) Who says that thinking outside of the box won’t help matters? And, for the record, Gonzalez is pro-business. He doesn’t plan on tampering dramatically with current business taxes. He just wants people to have a living wage, and to be able to afford to live here. He’s daring us to rethink our priorities. And the great thing is that if the experiment works, it could make a difference to how things are done nationwide. All Gonzalez asks is that we reconsider our values.

I hereby introduce an eleventh-hour campaign slogan that seems to have eluded Gonzalez’s supporters:

Put Your Balls on the Chopping Block and Vote Matt Gonzalez

The Most Hilarious Political Mailer

newsom.jpg“REPUBLICANS: PROTECT THIS CITY!” next to a smug, airbrushed photo of Gavin Newsom. Man, with a neck-to-neck mayoral race, it’s good to see printed hysteria (for once) from the other side.

[3/22/04 UPDATE: Newsom was elected mayor and has united liberals with his civil disobedience tactics on the same-sex marriage front. During this time, I demonized him without apology. Not a particularly original way of existing, but an altogether common one. This simplistic cave-in to emotional impulse is what happens when one gets caught up in political fervor. November, and election time in general, is the ultimate way for the mind to degenerate. We throw in the towel with the guy who can get elected and, months later, we demonize the victor, completely forgetting that we elected him. Now that I’m nearing 30, I’m beginning to understand why you shouldn’t trust anybody over that threshold. U.S. politics has become more Machiavellian and deceitful than anyone could have possibly predicted two centuries ago.]

[8/8/2005 UPDATE: And now that I’m over 30, I’m realizing how preposterous this last update reads. Strangely enough, politics has become something intermittent. Often I will avoid it for months, only to be dragged back into it against my will upon reading some horrifying development. Of course, I’m also a lot happier now too.]

Of Demagogues and Political Photo Ops

My memory is often hopeless beyond compare, but there are things I remember. Important things. Things that come back in the most unexpected of ways. Back in June 1994, I had the misfortune of listening regularly to Rush Limbaugh on the radio. I was working in a Sacramento copy shop, one of several jobs I was working to save up cash for my move to San Francisco that fall. The jobs had me working anywhere from 60-80 hours a week. I was a scrawny underfed kid, nineteen, just on the cusp of twenty, inexperienced. Despite my ability to type 100 wpm, I couldn’t seem to land so much as a lucrative data entry job. But I somehow talked my way into this morning copy shop job through a temp agency. (Some of my other jobs included doing filing for an insurance company, telemarketing funds for the Sacramento Symphony, working as a movie usher, working as a short-order cook — the job I probably liked the best and took the most pride in — and toiling at a Target snack bar. The latter was the worst job I have ever had. At Target, after you had spent the entire day immersed in grease, often without breaks, after cleaning the fryers and unleashing the remainder of your strength scrubbing the grill, they would literally lock you in the store and force you to restock before you could leave, which meant unpaid overtime and sometimes ten hours recorded as eight. And people wonder why I don’t shop at Target or Wal-Mart. But I digress.)

normandy.jpegThe shop was owned by a quiet, portly and agreeable man with thinning sandy hair, egg-shaped spectacles working wonders accentuating his two thin horizontal slats into an owl-like visage, and a bristling moustache. He was a friendly guy, fond of chatting with the post-teen, pre-college transfer hired help. He outsourced desperate young plebeians like me for low wages to perform mind-numbing tasks that he wouldn’t dare perform himself: in my case, collating thousands of high school newspapers and bland user documentation put out by fledgling startups.

Like many small business owners, he had a radio to get him through the day. On this radio, I was inducted into the world of Rush Limbaugh first-hand.

Limbaugh boomed and blustered like the strange charm of William Shatner gone horribly wrong. There was an element of McCarthyism in his voice. And there was no way to escape his DSM-IV cadences, even with the radio turned down. Perhaps because politicians had softened their voices for the tricky subtleties of television, Limbaugh compensated for radio by regurgitating the flamboyance of Winston Churchill and W.C. Fields. He talked as if he needed complete command of the entire AM radio bandwidth. So in performing my mundane job, concentration was of paramount consideration.

I tried to zone out by delving into the paperwork like a savant, thinking of things I was reading. Raskolnikov’s guilt or the exploits of the Pickwick Society, eagerly awaiting return to those pastures, magical places I had little time to wander through. But this was difficult, because I’d hear the word “liberal” every other minute, inscribed with the same hatred given to words like “cunt” or “nigger” or “motherfucker.” As far as I could tell, I was one of those “people,” even though my politics were rudimentary at best. (In my high school politics class, I was one of only two students to defend the right to burn the flag. The other person ended up as my brother-in-law. Go figure.)

One day, I had come in to the copy shop extremely tired. I had worked about sixteen hours the previous day, managing only about three hours of sleep. (My girlfriend at the time, whom I almost never saw, was exceptionally forgiving of my crabbiness.) Limbaugh came on. And I could no longer keep up the sanguine face, or control my sighs and dismay. The copy shop owner saw this, but was surprisingly forgiving. I confessed I wasn’t exactly a Dittohead, but I did ask him why he liked Limbaugh. He replied that he thought that Limbaugh was funny. Funny? Perhaps. Funny, if introducing terms like “Feminazi” was funny (although admittedly warranted in the cases of extremists like Valerie Solanas, whose legitimate points were undermined by the same hatred extant within the Moral Majority). Funny, if declaring anything even remotely left as Bolshevist was funny (on paper or in relaxed environs, yes; but with blathering audio while performing a mindless task, decidedly not).

Funny, yes. But with humor occluded by the dreariest of labor, possibly a bona-fide authority after years of a small business owner working long and hard for nothing.

clintoncairn.jpgBut one day, Limbaugh eventually revealed his colors. On June 6, 1994, Clinton was in Europe to recognize the 50th anniversary of Normandy. And like any President, he staged the predictable photo ops. Clinton gave a speech. He walked lone along the beach of Normandy, preparing a cairn. Hardly surprising. All politicians are forced to embrace artificiality at some point. It’s only the most gifted politician who can make every moment feel natural.

And it’s hardly the kind of thing that someone would use as backup material for the shameful liberal cabal. But that didn’t stop Limbaugh. He tore into Clinton as if the photo-op was the very embodiment of evil. He declared it an insult to the men who lost their lives. Clinton should be ashamed of himself. And why hadn’t “the mainstream media” picked up on this? To this very day, it is one of Limbaugh’s textbook examples of Clinton’s “phoniness,” ironically enough, standing comparatively against Bush’s honest and sterling nature.

It was then that I knew that Limbaugh was unquestionably an irrational chowderhead let loose on the airwaves.

bushthanks.jpgWhich makes the recent Washington Post news that Bush ‘s Baghdad turkey was decorative all the more hilarious.

Ask yourself what is more artificial: (1) Standing in an admittedly staged position placing a stone upon a cairn, but with the process itself actually standing for some genuine expression of loss or (2) bringing a turkey to Baghdad, posing with reporters with it, but without anyone going to the trouble to eat the turkey! Shouldn’t Limbaugh be drawing upon the same duplicity here?

Personally, I’d rather see a President stumble a bit through a photo op than fall flat on his ass playing 52 Pickup with the flimsiest deck of cards in Washington.

[3/16/14 UPDATE: In addition to some corrected spelling errors, I was forced to update the links. An original version of this post directed to Valerie Solanas’s SCUM Manifesto, as hosted at an MIT page run by Olin Shivers (dead original link). I haven’t looked at this little essay in ten years, but, today, I work much harder for a lot less, although I enjoy all the work. If anything, the terrible labor conditions that I experienced at Target have become much worse in American life. In the late 1990s, it was still possible to accrue any number of part-time jobs. But a visit to any drugstore or a grocery store now reveals an overextended staff working around many closed registers. Who knew that retail conditions would deteriorate further? I wonder whatever happened to the guy who ran the copy shop. I was far too hard on him. He was very kind to give a job to a cocky young loudmouth. One thing I didn’t mention in this piece was my stint at Rally’s, a burger joint in Sacramento that stood on the southeastern corner of Madison and Manzanita — now long gone — where I worked my way up to cashier. At the time, and this was when I was in high school, a few customers compared my theatrical delivery through the speaker system to Rush Limbaugh. Limbaugh was really peaking at the time. I had never listened to Limbaugh for an extended period of time until those weeks in the copy shop. Perhaps there was a part of me that feared turning into him.]

Tomes Out of Touch?

The Washington Post reports* that eight out of the nine Democratic presidential candidates have books out. Here are a few excerpts culled from the article and other places:

Winning Back America by Howard Dean: “I don’t indulge myself when it comes to clothes. . . . I have a suit that cost $125 at J.C. Penney in 1987.” Well, every son of a multimillionaire stockbroker needs a hobby.

A Call to Service: My Vision for a Better America by John Kerry: “I am so addicted to ice hockey that I still fantasize about starting a professional over-fifty senior league.” Too bad that nobody’s told Kerry that he’s also addicted to a primary race he can’t win.

Winning Modern Wars: Iraq, Terrorism, and the American Empire by Wesley K. Clark: Clark’s enamored of awkward clauses and repetition. “America’s primacy in the world — our great power, our vast range of opportunities, the virtual empire we have helped create — have given us a responsibility for leadership and to lead by example. Our actions matter. And we cannot lead by example unless we are sustained by good leadership. Nothing is more important.”

A Prayer for America by Dennis Kucinich: This one’s a collection of essays and speeches. The titular speech offers a blustering homage to the Declaration of Independence.

Al on America by Al Sharpton (with Karen Hunter): Sharpton’s fond of stating the obvious. “Racism may make the workplace and housing market unequal. But racism doesn’t make you put gold teeth in your mouth, spending thousands of dollars when you don’t have enough food to feed your family. Racism doesn’t make you buy a new, expensive car when you don’t own the home you live in. Racism doesn’t make you make babies that you aren’t going to raise and support both financially and spiritually. Racism doesn’t do that.”

In An Even Better Place: America on the 21st Century, Richard Gephardt (with Michael Wessel) offers parenting hints: Read to your children, help kids with your homework, try to make every school function, and spend time with them. It’s nice to know Gephardt’s so in touch with working class realities. Little is said of time and money.

The Joseph Conrad Award goes to Four Trials by John Edwards (with John Auchard): “At first it seemed strange that so few people who came into my office were angry. In some ways they were probably beyond anger, for their lives had been altered completely – completely and forever – and they just sought something that could bring it back and make it good again. Anger might come later, or it might have been there before, but I almost never saw it in my office – for now they only hoped that things would change.” With a campaign contribution to Edwards, you can get a complimentary copy. Not unlike getting a worthless trinket after pledging a sizable sum to PBS.

And then there’s Lieberman, who offers An Amazing Adventure: Joe and Hadassah’s Personal Notes on the 2000 Campaign, co-written with his wife. The books sounds about as fun as being forced to watch a slide show narrated by some hoary, rambling relative. “A funny thing happened in 2000. I became known for being funny. It began on opening day. At the announcement rally in Nashville on August 8, I told the crowd I was surprised that the Republicans’ first reaction to my selection had been to say that ‘George Bush and I think alike.’ Well, I said, ‘With all due respect, I think that’s like saying the veterinarian and the taxidermist are in the same business — because either way you get your dog back.'” I wonder if that came from Bob Hope’s joke file?

Carol Mosley Braun, who has about as much of a chance as Kucinich, has thankfully spared us a book. Not that a book will offer her any additional leverage.

Jimmy Carter, on the other hand, just came out with a historical novel, The Hornet’s Nest, set during the Revolutionary War. The Washington Post‘s Noel Perrin writes*, “I had hoped to love the novel, because I so admire the man. Alas, I don’t love it. Mind you, it’s a true novel, with many effective scenes and a few stunning ones….[b]ut some of the best scenes are only tenuously connected with the American Revolution.” The St. Louis Post-Dispatch‘s Martin Northway notes, “a chilling encounter with a venomous cottonmouth is no time to pause for a treatise on Agkistrodon piscivorus.” The reviews in general have praised Carter’s historical erudition, while quibbling over his lack of character depth. But the great irony is that Carter has seventeen books behind him.

Addendum (May 20, 2013):

The original Washington Post article, published on December 3, 2003, is now behind a paywall. I have switched the link to a rewritten version of the article. Regrettably, the Noel Perrin review is not available anywhere online. Martin Northway’s St. Louis Post-Dispatch review is online, but behind a paywall. Noel Perrin passed away on November 21, 2004 and I have no way of contacting his widow, Sara Coburn. I also can’t find contact details for Martin Northway. But if these two individuals wish to contact me and share the articles, I will happily feature them here. But it looks like these two links are permanently lost to time. (5/20/2013)