…what about the third, fourth, and fifth times?

When does history start to feel like a endless loop repeat of past “Real World” episodes – sickeningly, pathetically, predictably, banally, sad?

Between reading Io’s columns, reading the newspaper, and the fact that 1000 yard signs were stolen last weekend here in Fort Worth (1 sign is a prank, 2 signs is hooliganism. But 1000 signs? That shit takes planning and organization), I’ve been having trouble sustaining the emotional energy for the fight ahead. And that got me thinking about the problematic lessons of history.

I started from the point that, as anyone with a half a brain and even just a 45 second attention span would know, BushCo is willing to do anything, anything to remain in power – lie to the American public, cheat the American taxpayer, steal the election.

And I was thinking not just how monstrously wrong that is, but how, as Io suggested, how this kind of wholesale rule-flouting seems to be new in American politics. It’s as if, after 9-11, the administration came to the view that the dictum “everything has changed” applied not just foreign relations and national security but also to the state of our democracy.

Only, it’s not really new. I mean, think about it. When was the last time we saw the Republicans engaging in dirty tricks to win an election?

Oh, come one. You mean you don’t remember Ken Starr and the witchhunt to discredit President Clinton?

You mean you don’t remember Willie Horton?

Or the Iran hostage crisis?

Or Watergate?

Every time the Republican party has been in serious danger of losing an election anytime in the past 30 years, they pull some bullshit stunt. The only exception I can think of, honestly, is Gerald Ford. And sometimes it works (all of the above), and sometimes it doesn’t (the impact of the Gennifer Flowers allegations was blunted by the candidacy of Perot). But unless they’re rock-solid on the road to winning from the get-go (i.e., Reagan in ’84), they spread the sleaze around (Kitty is a drunk, Bill is a sex fiend), or sucker-punch the opposition (Swift Boat Veterans for Truth, the Tehran embassy, I can’t wait for this year’s October Surprise) so as to ensure themselves a win. I’d like to think that Gerald was too principled for that kind of thing, but maybe it’s as simple as Jimmy was too personally pure to attack that way.

This brings to my mind three questions:

a.) why do we think what the current administration is doing is “new?” Is it the scale, or the flagrancy, of the medacity that seems new? Or are the stakes somehow higher because we’ve bought the line about how the country is always, already in danger in this brave new world of terror? Maybe it’s something along the following lines: Clinton proved immune to their attacks, and this made them so angry they decided that ratcheting up the viciousness was the only way to win.

b.) Are the Democrats really purer? I’ve been racking my brain for counter-examples at the national level, but I couldn’t think of any. Am I so blinded by partisanship that I don’t see my own party’s failings?

c.) I know I’ve asked this before, but given this shameful record, why in God’s name are people voting for Bush? How could any reasonable person support a party that subverts the very system of rules it claims to defend?

This was not my brand-new rant. That is still to come.

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Will someone please explain to me how it is that I am a threat to the institution of marriage, but Britney Spears is not? Hmmm? According to the NYT, she “forgot” to file her marriage licence, and while she know’s she’s not, you know, “completely legal” and all, but like, “…in a real sense, a spiritual sense, we’re married.”

Funny how whenever I try to give that “real sense,” “spiritual sense” bullshit line to the IRS they tell me and my partner to fuck off.

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So, two notes of interest:

a.) Michael Moore has a great new blog about how the Dems need to shut up already and put their shoulder back to the wheel.

b.) One of the people running for state rep down here told me that an older lady — and self-described born-again Christian — she door-knocked in her district told her straight up we are in the end times and that George W. Bush is the Antichrist.

Sometimes it’s refreshing to find out that there’s actually someone out there who’s even crazier than I am.

I’m honing a new rant. Details to come. Hope these kibbles suffice in the interim.

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In the words of my good friend Iocaste, this will take about 5 seconds to hit the blog stratosphere, but…

The terrorists have made an endorsement in this year’s election. So, to quote the bumper sticker I see all over the fucking place here in Texas, who would Osama vote for?

George W. Bush.

Or at least his Madrid-bombing henchmen would. See the International Herald Tribune if you don’t believe me. It’s a multi-page article. Skip ahead to page four for the juicy bit.

Many thanks to Io for picking this up.

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So I was walking precincts for Kerry this past weekend, here in Texas. For those of you who do not know, walking precincts is one of three absolute most basic grass-roots kinds of volunteer political activities*: you literally walk up to people’s houses, knock on their door, and say something along the lines of, “Hi! Are you planning on voting for John Kerry on November 2nd?”

I have been walking precincts since before I could walk. No, for real. And I must confess that I live for those moments when I knock on some middle-aged Hispanic churchlady’s door and when I ask whether she’ll be voting for John Kerry she says “Of course! I’m sure as hell not voting for that other prick!” (I shit you not, this really happened. I think she might even have been a Baptist). These are the moments when I know that, yes, even here in Texas there are good people, people who are paying attention to the news, and who realize how important this coming election really is.

Precinct-walking normally restores in me the kind of basic faith in the democratic process which does wonders to counter my normally high levels of Texas-induced cynicism and despair. Precinct-walking is great for so many reasons: you walk around on a sunny Saturday morning and gain a little exercise; you see new neighborhoods and so get to know the city better; even when you meet someone who’s not voting for Kerry, most folks find it real hard to be rude to your face (more on this later), and so they’ll bid you good morning anyway; and finally, it is face-to-face retail politics. It’s the moment where homo socialis and homo politicus give each other a buss on the cheek in a wonderful sort of Aristotelian/Durkheimian/Tocquevillian intimacy.

But then something happens to knock my boots out from under me. I had two instances of this the other day. Now let me explain a little background: precinct-walking is a highly developed art. You don’t just go knocking on random people’s doors. We were only knocking on the doors of people who have voted in at least one of the last three general elections (this is public information, in case you didn’t know, as is your party registration and/or primary election voting history), and we were only knocking on doors in swing precincts (i.e., neither strongly Democratic, nor strongly Republican). So I was expecting a few people to be confirmed Republicans (to whom I am always unfailingly polite) and probably many more to be undecideds (to whom I am also unfailingly polite, even though my first instinct is to say “what do you mean you don’t know? Are you a fucking moron? How can you not have an opinion?”). In all cases, the main thing is to find out where they stand, hand them a slate card if they’re even halfway there, and move on. The last thing in the world I want is a sustained conversation. Not only does jabbering on slow me down (it gets too hot to walk here by about 10:30), but “pushing” people is not what we’re trained to do on these walks. We’re simply out there to give people slate cards and find out which way they’re voting, so that we can then call them later and remind them to vote.

Unfortunately, I ran into two loquacious households. And it really made me tired. At the first, a very polite couple came to the door. The husband informed me that no, he was planning on voting Republican. I was thanking him for his time and about to turn away when his wife began to motormouth about how she was raised a Democrat but she just couldn’t support a man like Kerry who held such views on abortion and gay marriage. I was still trying to back down their walkway when the husband said something about how he hoped the “other side” would come by. I thank my mother’s excellent raising of me that I was able to leave and say merely “oh, I’m sure they will be! They’re organized. Have a nice day!”

Meanwhile the partisan demons in my head were screaming: “Listen, you pasty fat Baptist bitch, don’t like abortion? Don’t fucking have one. Don’t like gay marriage? Don’t fucking go to one. Cause it’s none of your goddamned business what I do with my body just as it’s none of my goddamned business that you won’t be able to pick up your already-obese child pretty soon unless you lay off the Little Debbie snacks. Oh, and sir? Yeah, the Republicans won’t be knocking on your door. You know why? They fucking hate poor people, and they have no interest whatsofuckingever in getting out the vote when they don’t need to.”

Sometimes I wonder if there really is comeuppance in this world, as the essential problems (and there were several) with my internal reaction to the pleasant-but-socially-conservative couple was brought home by the gentleman living at a house down the road. When I asked him (for the third time, as he was about 75 and nearly deaf) whether or not he would be voting for Kerry in the fall, he responded with the following:

“I wouldn’t vote for that bastard if he was the last [technically inappropriate racial slur so ugly I won’t repeat it here] on earth. Is that a strong enough no for you? He’s a fucking liar. He lies! Lies! Lies! He’s a goddamned liar! You hear me, you young man? Go back and tell that to the Democrats – he’s a goddamned lying son of a bitch!”

What’s the lesson from all this? Well, let me see. I take two lessons away:

a.) At this time in my life, I won’t argue with people over the legal regulation of choice. If the nice young couple really does feel strongly about abortion, and feels that abortion is more important than, say, taxes or foreign policy, then I actually think they should vote Republican. They have evidently put some thought into what they want changed about the world, and they are committed to acting on what they perceive to be their interests and issues. I cannot fault them for that, although I disagree with their positions. At the end of the day, I think this sort of disagreement can and should be settled by public debates and votes, and even by lawsuits – the essence of politics within our divided-powers system of government. And abortion is, to be quite frank, one of the few substantive areas in which Republicans and Democrats really do disagree. If you will recall, I did not discuss abortion in my “Republicans as crackheads” argument. I did not do so for the simple reason that I actually think that pro-life people, for the most part, understand fully the consequences of their views on the issue (such as, for instance, the massively enlarged foster care and adoption system that would necessarily result from the recriminalization of abortion). And this facing-of-the-consequences is of a very different order than the sticking-our-heads-in-the-sand that accompanies the rhetoric of “government is evil.” So, bully for them. Though the wife really should lay off the Little Debbies.

b.) The second lesson is that hate is ugly. There are very few times in my life where I have seen true hate, real hate. Sure, I was called “queer boy” once, but the guy was drunk and trying to start a fight – it was more sporting than hateful. And people have used racial epithets in my presence (never toward me, by the way), but it wasn’t accompanied by what I saw as real hatred toward black people. Rather, it appeared to be a misguided attempt to evoke solidarity between “us.” In both cases, the invective was worrisome, but ultimately kind of pathetic more than anything. But real hate, true hate, is an ugly, ugly thing. And ultimately it cannot be argued with – cause it was damn clear that that asshole wasn’t ever going to change his mind. It can be fought, but not argued. And how it must be fought is through politics.

In sum, even though dealing with these two household tired me out, physically and emotionally, I came away with the conclusion that politics is actually really really important. So come next Saturday, I’ll be back on the street, pounding the pavement for the Democrats. Here’s to hoping that the nice cheerful smile of an honest Democrat convinces a few undecideds that they should vote for Kerry.

*The other two, in case you are wondering, consist of phone banking (which I hate doing, especially in these days of “how did you get my number? I’m on the do not call list!”), and envelope stuffing. Of the three, precinct-walking is normally my favorite, because it’s easier than phone-banking, and more effective (as measured by actually getting people to the polls) than mass-mailing. Note that I do not really consider “talking politics”/consciousness-raising (i.e., getting together with your friends for a bitch session about the state of the world today) to be a volunteer activity. That I consider a basic requirement for being a thinking citizen in a democracy.

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This weekend I went on a little trip to hand out flyers and talk to voters on behalf of my state representative, Lon Burnam. Burnam, bless him, is the last white liberal Democrat left in Texas, at least outside of Travis County (that would be Austin, in case you were wondering).

The idea (and it seemed like a good idea at the time) was this: instead of their usual Labor Day picnic, the North Texas Labor Fed (i.e., the local branch of the AFL-CIO) sponsored a “salute to Labor” day at the Ball Park at Arlington, the home field for the Texas Rangers. Presumably (note the switch to the conditional voice), all the good Transport Workers, United Food and Commercial Workers, Teamsters, Carpenters, Electricians, Locomotive Engineers, etc. were going to come to enjoy a day at the park, bring their sons and daughters, drink beer and eat chili dogs and cheese fries, and watch the Rangers battle it out with the White Sox. And thinking, there in the muggy Texas late-summer sun, and maybe even telling their sons and daughters the story, of how it was the labor movement that fought for their 40-hour workweek, their safe job sites, their pension plans, their health care, and even this holiday (Labor Day) upon which they could sit on their asses and get drunk in public while watching the All-American pastime. And we Burnam volunteers would, by carefully identifying union members by their “proud to be union” t-shirts, would discreetly talk to them about the importance of walking precincts this fall for Lon, for John (Sweeney, that is), and for the Johns (Kerry/Edwards, that is).

That was the idea. Needless to say, it was an utter and complete failure.

Point #1: The Ball Park at Arlington was, amazingly, the only successful business venture George II ever ran. You will recall, gentle reader, that after a number of bankruptcies in the oil drilling biz, desperately trying to fill his father’s shoes, Georgie Porky managed to turn the Rangers into a profitable franchise. He did this by first calling all of his family friends and asking them to pony up some dough (George’s ownership share of the team came, if I recall correctly, to 2%, and to say that he was involved in the active management of the team is to stretch the truth mightily), and then convincing the city of Arlington to pony up land and tax abatements to the tune of $150 million.

Can you spell “government handout” children? I knew you could! George II was the biggest fucking welfare queen of them all, and yet he managed to spin that little boondoggle into his “bring sound MBA principles to wasteful government” message.

So I’m walking into the house that George built, and what do I find?

Point #2: We had to park three-quarters of a mile away (and pay $10 to do so), and then walk past what appeared to be randomly-placed parking lots, empty fields, an immaculate but quite obviously seldom-used junior-league stadium, and a “dramatic water accent” (read: stagnant and mosquito-infested pond with a concrete bank). There were no sidewalks, no bus stops (Arlington is the largest U.S. city without public transportation), no Trinity Rail Express stop, in fact no way to get to the park except to drive.

Point #3: When we arrived at the gate, with our $20 tickets in hand, one of us (Drew, my partner) was singled out for a random “wand-wave” with a metal detector. It was unclear if they were afraid of gang-bangers or terrorists, but either way I suppose I have to give the guards props for not singling out the two obviously Hispanic people we were with. We then freely entered into the gated and barred sacred precincts. High bars, by the way, with spikes on top.

Point #4: In order to find our seats, we had to walk past an endless loop of Starbucks/Baseball Crap Shop/Hot Dog Stand/Tex-Mex Restaurants that repeated every 150 feet (I so wish I were joking). Drew and I partook of the ritual ballpark franks (I mean, how could we not?), and for one beer (Bud Light, for Drew is a man of the people), one diet coke (for I am a metropolitan faggot snob), and two hot dogs, we paid $15. This was discounted by $2.50, as I had a coupon for the coke. Total tab so far for our day at the park? $65, and we haven’t even fuckin sat down yet. I wouldn’t spend that much at the goddamn theatre, even with a glass of chardonnay at intermission (so there!).

Point #5: The young woman who sang the National Anthem fucked it up (she skipped a line because the teleprompter moved too fast, spent the next two lines recovering the melody, and managed to hang on for a big finish). Who fucks up the National Anthem? Someone who’s too ignorant to know the words by heart, that’s who.

Point #6: So we sit down. And what do we find? There isn’t a union member in sight, in the whole blessed stadium. After a perfectly pathetic opening pitch, and some kind of photo op, the state AFL-CIO president leaves and doesn’t even stay to meet and greet people in the “suite.” Oh, and did I mention the fact that my father represents over half as many union workers (150,000) – just in Sacramento and the surrounding 5 counties, mind you – as there are in the entire state of Texas (240,000)? This is what comes of “right to work” laws. They destroys the labor movement, exactly as they are meant to.

Point #7: The game is so bad (Chicago walked a guy into home base. Who does that? Are the White Sox like the worst team on the planet?), that I find myself looking around the stadium. And aside from the complete lack of identifiable union members, what I see are ads. Lots and lots of ads. For Ameriquest (the mortgage company that bought the naming rights for the stadium, in case you were wondering, because I knew you were), for MBNA, for Puma, for who knows what else. But ads covering every possible vertical space that might conceivably receive some TV time.

Point #8: We finally see someone with a Transport Workers t-shirt on, and walk on over to hand him a little flyer about our Saturday precinct walking program. And you can guess what happens next, right?

Security swooped down on us like flies on shit. We were told to “put those away immediately,” that “that sort of thing isn’t allowed in the park,” and in any case “the guests don’t want that sort of thing going on.” [Note “guests” and not “customers,” or even, hah!, "fans"].

And that’s when I noticed just how many security people there really were. Looking around, there were all over the place, with their innocuous white t-shirts, and their walkie-talkies, and their sunglasses. All they were lacking was the earpiece and the night-stick. I felt like Neo, noticing that every third face on the street is in fact Agent Smith, and not a “real person” like I thought they were.

We left at the end of the second inning.

Lesson learned, ladies and gentlemen: Baseball is still the best metaphor for American life. Sadly, though, that metaphor connotes corporate fascism, civic disengagement, and the all-consuming power of commodity fetishization.

Welcome to the house that George built. Spend and do not count the cost. Cheer, but do not think. And always keep your eye on the glowing box.

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