October 2019
Growing up in New Jersey, I departed at a young age from that state with the conclusion that corruption between politicians and the money-men was a very necessary part of the slobs in government being kept in line — so that things stayed in line for the money-makers:
The trains ran on time, the utility power usually worked, the water flowed (except during a drought), the trash got collected by the garbage men, unless Mayor John V. Lindsay of NYC was involved in the contract negotiation.
Incest between government and business was there, but there was no need to publicize it. Lust for power was a must, but incest among the power brokers and the political pawns was always best left behind closed doors. The secrecy was perhaps a rare act of mercy among the power-mongers. Idealistic queasy stomachs do not easily abide the sight of the sausage-making of “law”.
Whenever I hear outrage about the incompetent political pond scum in the incestuous California cesspool, I recall my first days in California. I found the typical Californian, then, as now, to be comically naive regarding politics. It was with a sense of insult and indecency, which somewhat persists to this day, that I quickly discerned the ginormous distance between Mythic California (tolerant and open-minded, sooo cool, trend-setting its way into the future) and Real California (stiffly nativist, close-minded and tight-fisted to outsiders, snootily cold, stuck in the past, sucking off its past glories). (Also see Paradise July 2015.)
Before arriving in the going-broke Golden State of 1979, I’d worked in the Federal government in Washington, D.C., pre-swamp, but the arrogance of those public employees paled in comparison to the entrenched and coddled California State Employee. If dinosaurs ever ruled the Earth, they were re-incarnated by those overpaid, lazy, supercilious boars at the taxpayer trough.
Yes, the legend of California has been tended to like a finely-aged wine, turned in its fantasy-bottle at ever-increasing intervals by the CEOS in Sonoma Valley, before they give the next turn of the screw to the California citizen. The legend of California is largely the legend of Hollywood, and the Hollywood Legend dies hard. People still tend to think of California as Los Angeles, which is understandable, considering how much the Image of the State has been fabricated much like a film.
California is now a bad movie, a wretchedly bad movie, a seedy B flick production of hilarious proportions, a sequel of itself that loses more money at every turn. The term “blackout” is nearly banned, along the lines of “blackface.” The tradition of Hollywood hogwash demands that we try to think of the California Debacle of the past 25 years in cinematic terms.
A few summers ago, I opined online that it is best to think of the EU mess in realistic, which is to say, cinematic terms:
The 1974 Murder on The Orient Express, wherein the Hun Merkel completely botches the role of Ingrid Bergman, having sweet nothings whispered into her ear by a little brown boy, only to find out too late she’s been given the shiv . . .
In reality, however, there is no film to exemplify the Idiots in Charge of California. But there is a song that came to my mind this sunny morning as the gusting wind of 15 mph slowed to a whisper . . . and the temperature outside is a nice brisk 45 F. I therefore thought of this current reality of the Grid in rhythmic terms.
I am no fan of the late John Lennon. Indeed, I cleared the entire side of one large room of media elites, over to the other side, when I remarked, during discussion of his murder, “Someone finally shot the dog and put him out of his misery.”
Comrade Lennon did make one good point: “It’s the peaceniks who are the truly violent ones." Consistent with his misanthropic mean streak, he wrote this empty-headed song that made him millions: Imagine.
This song has long irked a creative type like myself, but I have realized newfound use for it, in political parody. I shall leave behind the atheist whine, “And So This is Christmas and What Have We Done?” because, as of late, for the peaceniks, the answer is NOTHING.
My take-off on “Imagine” was conceived and written in the bright light of day, this morning, after yet another candlelit, windless night in my part of Placer County. The twinkling lights on the ridge 1 mile away told me that PG&E had blinked for those customers. Once again, I slept like a bear for 9 hours. I seem to sleep so much more deeply during blackouts. And there was a new moon last night. All of that silent pitch-black darkness! Hello, darkness, my old friend . . .
I did put my non-electric time last night to good use, adding online pix to adorn the somewhat sterile texts of my very early essays on this website. They’re classics!
In the dimming, flickering candlelight of the calm night, I managed to scribble onto the 5x7 pad of paper the website instructions for my Webmaster — right over his carefully penciled words of an Irishman giving directions to a stranger:
“If I was you, Sir, I wouldn’t start from here.”
Unfortunately, here is where we all presently find ourselves, no matter where we are amidst the messes made by the Political Classes of the World!
It’s a small world, after all, and so, before this survival activity becomes banned, let us all, if you will, imagine . . .
Imagine life without Liberals
It’s easy if you try
No hell around us
Above us only blue sky
Imagine all the people
Living reality day by day . . .
Imagine life without Commies
It isn’t hard to do
No one to mandate edicts
And no Commissars too
Imagine all the citizens
Living life in peace . . .
You may say I’m a cynic
But I’m not the only one
I hope one day you’ll wake up
To see the mess They’re running from.
Imagine no politicians
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or payoffs
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Keeping their hard-earned wealth!
You may say I’m a cynic
But I’m not the only one
I hope one day you’ll vote
With me
To elect a Leader — a Real Person.