The interior of the White House last Tuesday evening must have looked like some drooling, geriatric version of Animal House, with a smug gaggle of well-heeled white guys swapping high-fives and ass-slaps in a congratulatory orgy over the counter-revolutionary coup yanked from the jaws of hope by George Bush and Co. Talk about depressing. With the snarling neo-Cons now controlling simply everything — the Big House, Senate and Congress — the current administration should have no problem shoving through a trainload of utterly repugnant reactionary legislation, not to mention the sure fire congressional go-ahead the Commander in Chief (sic) will get for the apocalyptic firestorm about to carpet the whole Middle East. If you think Israel’s gonna tolerate a provocative hail of Saddam’s scuds this time, then you just don’t know Zion, baby.
The so-called liberal media have failed to harp on the most obvious and ominous aspect of Tuesday’s historic election. Namely, that the Republican sweep gifts a mandated carte blanche for the social darwinists, snakeoil snobs and rich-boy louts now ruling our social and economic wasteland: Say goodbye to Roe v. Wade, whistle toodle-oo to the NEA, kiss unemployment security adieu and bid bittersweet farewell to civil liberties. Might as well pull the already frayed plug on environmental protections, too. Whatever minimal regulations already exist will be tossed out the Oval Office window, and you can bet heavy industry will be kicking their toxic trailers into full, unabated gear any day. America will be a belching smokestack by mid-decade, a Hieronymus Bosch landscape of sickness and ruin, populated by homeless shufflers begging nickels while a handful of blue-blood pols laugh like hyenas from the High Tower.
Sad, scary times. It’s difficult not to view the untimely and tragic death of Sen. Paul Wellstone as an accidental harbinger of the right-wing maelstrom brewing like a nuclear sunrise on the nearshore horizon. Not that the Bush-whacked Democrats have anybody to blame but themselves; at least the Republicans know what they want, and how to get it; Democrats barely even know what they don’t want, and the only thing remotely articulate about the party of Donkeys and Dingbats anymore is the cavernous dent where their collective spine used to be. Good riddance, Mr. Gephardt — you’re the only simp in recent political history to get four strikes, and you couldn’t even pull off a bunt. Way to rally the team, Dick.
By now, Dear Reader, you’re surely beginning to wonder what place this poorman’s Lenny Bruce jeremiad has in a weekly entertainment column. Well, I’ll tell ya. Even in the direst circumstances — with bulbs dimming, winter blowin’ in, Hell & Highwater coming apace, and sanity and safety in galloping retreat — the show must go on, and I’m dedicating this hangman’s screed to something called the Consolation of Art. With things looking so almighty nasty and brutish in this Hobbesian fright-o-rama, it’s not such a bad idea once in a while to pull the turtle’s head back into the pocky shell and hunker down with a bottle of red wine and your favorite book and/or record — in other words, escape for a spell.
Spell, perhaps, is an apt word choice. The key is to give yourself over, as if by magic, to something not of this time and place, to commit yourself to a work of imagination so sublimely and pleasantly and intellectually consuming that you are compelled to forget the anaerobic political misery of everyday existence. This isn’t about giving up; as Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” You’ll live to vote another day, but for now, give yourself a break.
Whenever politics get me down, I immediately reach for Kurt Vonnegut and Mark Twain — two great American authors with a wicked sense of irony and a fury that burns righteously bright for this country’s dispossessed and downtrodden. Both are deeply moral writers, not to mention the fact that each, in his own way, is really, really funny. (Now is an especially good time to reread Vonnegut’s timeless classic about good old American greed and loathing, “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.”) Right now I’m enjoying Paul Auster’s latest novel, “The Book of Illusions,” a wonderful meditation on memory, loss, silent films and redemption. It seems to be doing the trick.
As for music, it’s hard to beat Willie Nelson’s “Stardust,” a collection of Tinpan Alley covers that works wonders on an agitated soul. Nelson’s voice is soothing, canny, inimitably tender and ultimately familiar — like the singing of a countrified and slightly bemused Guardian Angel. Steely Dan is also nice for a little pointed escape, as are Beethoven’s Pastoral, anything by Bob Dylan and maybe some old R.E.M. For something a bit more aggressive but no less comforting, I like to dig out my Replacements albums, such as “Let It Be” or “Tim.” Paul Westerberg’s brilliant songwriting — at once comic, heartbreaking and poetic — is like a tonic.
Lord knows we could all use a tonic ‘bout now.
Art and music combine in Oak Harbor Nov. 23 when Paint Your ‘Art Out presents an evening of music with Kim Breilen and Sharon Ringer at 7 p.m.
Breilen and Ringer are professional musicians who perform around the Pacific Northwest. They recently released their first CD, “Faces of Romance” which highlights “Three Faces of Romance,” a sonata for flute and piano, composed for Breilein by Barry Ulman.
The $12 price includes holiday goodies, apple cider, and an ornament to paint. There is no paint fee on addional bisque. The store is at 860 SE Pioneer Way. Call 679-4115.
