Blogging Before the Fact

Back in the 20th century, I watched in horror as the first Republican crusade began its onslaught against our democracy. Feeding on a craven media and the absence of oppositional voices, the juggernaut gathered power in a relentless drive to dismantle the institutions and consensus that had guided us through depression, world war, civil rights, and the spectre of mutually assured destruction.

Like others who sought to speak out, my efforts were thwarted by the depth of the subversion being perpetrated. The means of political discourse were overtaken by a corporate media whose frame of reference legitimized the new order and marginalized dissent. Those who refused this framework were confined to the isolated subcultures of leftist politics or alternative culture, without the possibility of engaging the multitude, let alone building a community of opposition.

Throughout the Reagan-Bush years, I attempted to contest the media in its own terms. Not simply to respond to the latest Republican atrocity, but to scramble the words and phrases in which such outrages were imbued with legitimacy. Using satire, sarcasm and rank derision, I pushed the absurdity of the prevailing narratives to the point of collapse, revealing a world run by photo opp and simulation, where democratic values had surrendered to production values.

Today, in our 3rd or 4th iteration of the Republican revolution, these things are well known. At the time, however, the point was somewhat harder to get across. The outlets were few and far between and the language was novel -- further complicated by the fact that in those preGenX, preDaily Show days, comedy venues eschewed politics and political publications had no sense of humor.

Looking back, it's obvious that these outbursts of political passion, snark, and ad hoc analysis were stranded blog posts waiting for the blogosphere to happen. The familiar playlist is all here: bloodthirsty neocons, sanctimonious pundits, presidential imbecility, Sadam, and a media intent on insinuating its artifice into the skein of reality.

I offer them now in the format and to the communtiy for which they were unconsciously intended: A retroblog of the origins of our current catastrophe, which hopefully will add historical resonance to the critique rising like a beacon of hope from the progressive blogosphere.

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Now available on Amazon.

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Greetings from GrungeTown

November 1992. The long, bitter struggle was over -- the Republicans defeated. My comrades in the Resistance laid down their arms and settled back to their civilian lives. Me, I couldn't forget so easy. I'd been fighting so long I couldn't remember any other life. The nightmare was over. . . . so why was I still waking up screaming?

The medics called it Post-Yuppie Stress Syndrome (PYSS). The hiss of a cappuccino-maker was enough to send me tumbling for cover. The sight of a brunch menu left me shaking. I couldn't open an op-ed page or watch a Sunday morning pundit without breaking into a cold sweat, on guard against some new assault upon my sense of truth, justice, and humanity. I could still feel them lurking behind every cafe window, hear the echo of their running shoes as they race-walked across our democracy.

I needed a break. So I packed up and headed out to Grungetown. The Republicans had never captured much of this rainy, backwoods terrain. The local people were simple folk who worked hard and played by the rules, preferring electric guitars to dreams of corporate empire. I got a job at the Grunge Works running the jeans-shredder.

Then one day the people of Grungetown awoke to find the clothes they'd always worn and lives they'd always led coveted by a world seeking to forget its LaCoste-sbirted past. The orders started pouring in and the Grunge Works hummed day and night.

Kachunk rrrip. Kachunk rrrip.

The plaid fader, the denim deconstructor, stain-maker, permanent-crusher and the other machines whirred and spun as the tokens of authenticity swarmed off the assembly line. Kachunk rrrip. Kachunk rrrip.

Like the sound of cash registers ... of Margarita blenders... of buildings gouged for renovation....

Suddenly, I was back on the battlefield. The foreman came toward me, only he was a waiter and his clipboard was a blackboard. I dashed for the storeroom before he could mesquite grill me. A trail of red spots stained the floor. Sun-dried tomatoes! They led to a trapdoor. I tugged it open and descended into darkness.

I lit a match. A thousand impressions surged out of the darkness. Barrels of bottled water. Wheels within wheels of Brie. California rolls. Photos of troops in full Yuppie uniform, all-cotton ensembles bearing the fearsome Polo Western insignia, Dockers and Nike crosstrainers, laptops and cellular phones at the ready. The Stairmaster race! Arms outstretched in the dreaded Yuppie salute, Gold Cards extended to the sky. I could hear their fevered chanting: "Heil, Gipper! Go for the burn! Greed is good! Government is not the answer!' Somewhere an alarm was sounding. My legs felt weak. Something thudded against my head....

I came to in an office, tied to a futon frame. A balding man in a power tie and suspenders hovered above me. "Vot vere you doing in ze grunge locker?" he asked, removing his monocle.

"Grunge! Why tbere are enough junk bonds down there to crash the world's economy five times over. You're nothing but a nest of Yuppie scum.'

"Yuppies?!' he interrupted. 'Ve vere not Yuppies, Sure ve drank Perrier but ve did not like ze bubbles. Ve did not know vot was happening in ze S&L's."

'That's what they all say. Never met a Yup yet who'd admit to it. Destroy and deny. That's how you guys operate.'

He leafed through my file. "It seems that u vere wounded in the Siege of Clarence Thomas." Ye

"Listen, buster, I was stranded behind enemy lines - so far up the Upper West Side even the homeless drank latte. For twelve years I lived by my wit and fought with any weapon I could get my hands on - puns, one-liners, sarcasm, collage, allegory, illogic, absurdism. But no satirical device on earth could match the insanity of those hearings."

"Ze last few years have been hard on us all. But now ve are in recovery. You must forget ze past!"

"Like the War never happened. Like you and your kind never tried to wipe out everything I believed in, No, Buddy, I've seen too many hostile takeovers, too many innocents gentrified before they knew what hit them, dodged too many J. Crews missiles... Remember the Marathon Oil Merger. A thousand temps went down in one arbitrage barrage. The Battle of the Brownstones - the poor, the old, the infirm, deported to make way for your co-ops. You never bothered to ask where they went, to wonder at the walking corpses you stepped over on the way to brunch."

"Ve vere only following orders!"

'Whose orders? That's what I want to know. Who gives the orders? Who tells you guys when to stop selling the Emperor’s New Clothes and start selling his old ones? To stop pushing smugness, greed, and self-seeking indifference in favor of caring, sharing and love of planet."

"I guess that's vhy ve're still in charge. Und you're just a two-bit satirist."

'I'm just satirist alright. Just another one of the faceless millions who look at the world and say this is absurd!' The guys without brains enough to know when to whistle a new tune. But a satirist's gotta do what a satirist’s gotta do, even if it's dated, even if it's been done, even if he'll be preempted by tomorrow's news. Someone's gotta set the record straight, to make sure your crimes are not forgotten.'

I wrenched at my restraints ... only to find that there was nothing binding me. My interrogator went in and out of focus. His suspenders were a stethoscope and his monocle was the ophthalmoscope with which he peered into my pupil.

'Worst case I've seen. This guy is so PYSSed I don't know if we'll ever get him back to reality.' I was lying on a cot.

"Where am I?" I said.

"In the infirmary. Delirious. You've been talking to yourself for hours."

"Years,' I said....

It's midwinter now. We've got a new President and a new look. I'm still not sure who's who or what to trust -- the rosy world of rehabilitation and recovery or my vision in the darkness. I only know that I'm through talking to myself.

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Gulf Today, Gaul Tomorrow

Just as victory over Hitler brought us face to face with Soviet expansionism, the Gulf War has nurtured a new menace within our midst: the French!

A medium-sized European nation not much larger than the state of Wyoming souffléd, France has never renounced its Napoleonic ambition to rule the world. With vast reserves of crude style, its stranglehold on consumers reaches far beyond the boutiques of Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive to the malls of middle America. The United States and its fashion-loving allies have no choice but to draw a hemline in the sand and declare war on France.

America's dependence on foreign style first reached critical proportions during the Jeans Crisis of the late 70s. OFAB (Organization of Fashion-Aggressive Bullies) exercised its longstanding designs upon our social fabric, glutting the market with over-stitched, status-mongering Euro-denim. Americans reacted by turning to domestic style sources, rallying under the leadership of Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein and the GAP to beat back the buttock-captioned behemoth.

But the upwardly mobile excess of the 1980s has renewed America's style dependency. Over the last decade France (and its Northern Italian client state) have taken control of the trendy dollar, imposing a regimen of haute couture and cuisine on status guzzling Americans. No major city or university is without its fifth column of Eurotrash, willfully deconstructing and recycling our culture at five times the price.

Many believe a war with France would be long and bloody. Not so the experts. According to retired general Helmet Shirtscuff, military consultant to the Home Shopping Channel:
“We'll probably knock out most of their fall line right on the runway. Seventh Avenue and the Millinery-Industrial complex have developed a whole toolbox of high-fashion weaponry. Once we've established hair superiority with our coiffure-seeking missiles, we can decoordinate their ensembles in a matter of days. Our chic bombs will demolish their shoulder pads and designer labels while leaving foundation garments intact. Of course, there's bound to be collateral damage -- some accessories may not survive the war. But we want to avoid couture house-to-house combat. If we have to send in the models, fighting could get Condé Nasty.

“We've heard a lot about the enemy's fabulous wardrobe, but much of it's overrated. It looks great on the rack, but try maneuvering in it without making stains. Sure they've got Charles Jourdans, but they're no match for our Air Jordans. We can run faster, jump higher . . . when it comes to sportswear those sedentary café potatoes are hopelessly passé. In short, nothings too haute for our troops to handle....

"They do possess weapons of mass deconstruction. They've assembled a gruesome semiotech arsenal. They may resort to verbal-mental terrorism, leaving a cloud of verbiage and Gauloise smoke that could hover over Europe for years to come. But we've stockpiled enough Sartre bombs to give them a bad case of existential anguish if they so much as try.

“Our only real worry is their underwear. The French are well ahead of us down there. But if they resort to lingerie warfare, they're in for a few surprises. They have the bustiers, but we have the bodies. A couple of our well-toned battalions will have them retreating in shame if they try to outstrip us on the battlefield.

"Our ultimate weapon, though, is our own bad taste. No self-respecting Fashionist can take it. Our attacky helicopters armed with leisure-guided missiles can swathe them in enough polyester to destroy their fighting fiber. After the screams of humiliation subside, we can just strike a pose and watch them crowd into our POW camps. After all we’ll be showing Jerry Lewis movies in the commissary."

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Armies of the Blight

Amid the confusing welter of organizations and armies marching in next Monday's parade, lesser known groups tend to fall between the cracks. This is unfortunate. The Gulf War stirred patriotism in many unlikely sectors, whose representatives deserve no less recognition than their better-known peers. In the interest of fairness I have compiled brief statements from the leadership of several groups omitted from the official roster of participants:

Association of Vietnam War Movie Veterans - We were there for the big ones -- Apocalypse Now, Platoon. The enemy came at us in quadraphonic, dolbies blazing. Some of us still wake up screaming the soundtracks. We're glad we've finally got the Vietnam War Movie Syndrome out of our system. Desert Storm gave us a great new set of special effects and enough hightech ordinance to keep the Cineplexes air-conditioned till the year 2000. Gulf War movies may not be as bloody, but we can take the whole family and leave the theater smiling. You bet we'll be at the parade -- if we can pry our members loose from their smart bomb videos.

National Organization of Ambivalents - We were and were not for and against the war, but we are totally behind the parade. Many of us were sorry to see the Cold War go. America was at war and peace simultaneously. But the Gulf War taught us that you can fight and not fight a hot war just easily. Kill and not confront death, kick butt and still watch Oprah, win without defeating the enemy. Desert Storm gave new meaning to ambivalence. We consider it our duty to march, though we're not quite sure in which direction.

Lord Jim (Crow) Society - We are a group of middle-aged white men who avoided service in Vietnam through grad school, ROTC, and national guard commissions. Though we have risen to positions of power and prominence, we have always wondered whether we would have the courage to do the right thing if tested again. We need question no longer, for when the clarion sounded we were able to send our troops off without cowardice or hesitation. It is an honor to march with the dark young men and women who risked their lives for our conscience, as long as they don't get too close.

Committee in Solidarity with People of Royal Families - Queen Elizabeth's visit demonstrated America's deep-seated longing for monarchy. But what is bowing before a king or queen compared to dying for one. Our victorious troops have the honor of being the first American soldiers to shed blood for a hereditary monarchy since our forefathers brought forth freedom upon this continent. The Gulf experience has done more to kick the 1776 Syndrome than a thousand Nancy Reagans, Leona Helmsleys and Madonnas put together.

Committee to Abolish Sixties Nostalgia - America's been romanticizing the sixties since the day they were over. For years kids have been running around with pony-tails and peace signs, scalping Grateful Dead tickets. The Gulf War showed how truly terrifying it is to be a long-haired peacenik when the majority of Americans would just as soon string you up by a yellow ribbon. Now that they've had a taste of the real thing, we can start reviving the 70s. You'll recognize our contingent in the parade -- we'll be wearing leisure suits.

The American Lesion - Most thinking Americans agree that their brain is an outmoded organ. It doesn't have remote control or as many channels as cable. As lesionnaires, we welcome the wound the Gulf War opened in our craniums as the portal through which mind and video will merge. The War helped us achieve oneness with our TV sets. Regardless of our physical location, we will all be at the parade. Many bodies, one consciousness linked by satellite and the voice of Bernie Shaw.

Act-out - We are a collective of passive-aggressive former yuppies who will never know a six-figure income or a Corner office. The recession has robbed us of our birthright and our future. The Gulf War gave us a focus for our hostility and helped restore our self-esteem. We may never boss around our countrymen, but our countrymen can boss around the world. Marching at the side of conquerors is a far more fulfilling way to pound the pavement than what we've been doing for the last then months.

People for the Orwellian Way - 1984 came and went and all we had to show for it was a teflon ninny in White House and some junior league photo opps. But in one short year we've seen the advent of global television brainwashing, a war to rival Oceania's assault on Eurasia, and a president worthy of the name Big Brother. We will join the masses in celebration of the Brave New World Order, and no matter how lost we feel in the crowd, we know someone will be watching.

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Soundbiting the News They Feed Us

America cannot stand by and let Saddam Hussein massacre his people -- we reserve that right for ourselves.

If stun guns were outlawed, only outlaws would be cops.

There are no bad policemen, just bad victims.

The People camcorded will never be defeated,

Stalin: socialism in one country. Gorbachev: no socialism, no country.

How many Poles does it take to restore capitalism? One to hold power, ten million to be unemployed.

To incur debt is human. To forgive it, executive privilege.

If I accept capitalism, will they forgive my debts too?

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Lessons of the New War Order

Never have so few killed so may with so much.

The price of freedom is eternal vigilanteism.

We would have won in Vietnam too, if we'd all worn yellow ribbons and the enemy hadn't fought back.

The Mother of God beats the Mother of All Wars, when deployed in a Hail Mary play.

Former allies makes the best enemies. Former enemies make the best financial contributors.

Hell hath no fury like a president slipping in the polls.

Americans support just causes -- just the causes, not the consequences.

The Republican Guard is easier to defeat than the Republican party.

You can fool all of the people all of the time.

The world should have listened when Kurt Waldheim met with Saddam and said, "I knew Hitler. I worked with Hitler. And Mr. Hussein, you're no Hitler!"

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