In a proverbial sense, Rome is burning to the ground. And, while much of our national economy lays in ashes and the American Dream smolders in flames, all anyone seems to be talking about is the opera.
That’s the terrible tragedy of tonight’s Presidential Debate, which has been covered and discussed more like the buildup to a Super Bowl game rather than any bona fide exchange of real ideas and actual substance that will solve some very serious problems. At this moment, parading around out in front of the arena where the debate will take place, thousands of “fans” are holding signs cheering for their side. One would think Ohio State is playing Michigan. It’s a contest of who can scream the loudest or who can make the cleverest sign.
Indeed, the gravity of our nation’s problems are very real and quite serious. Yet — while a senseless foreign war continues, while we continue to bleed ourselves dry policing the entire world, while we drown by the trillions in debt, while our inner cities crumble, while affordable health care is more costly and out of reach than ever before, and while millions of Americans remain hopelessly out of work, after tonight’s debate everyone’s going to be asking one utterly baffling question — “who won?”
I’d like to ask my own question — why are we focusing on “who won?” As long as we focus on such trivialities, then we all lose.
That question was posed to me in an email I received this morning from some conservative political group.
It’s a simple question.
Channeling then-candidate Ronald Reagan’s devastating quip from the 1980 Presidential Debates, 11 simple words which effectively ended Jimmy Carter’s political career, has pretty much become the It’s a Wonderful Life of every election cycle. The cozy campaign chestnut is replayed and parroted so frequently (usually by the challenger) that just as soon as the first couple of words are pronounced, a hundred million listeners can complete the sentence on their own. It’s almost like Name that Tune.
Hey, I can name that tune in three notes. All Mitt Romney has to do is cue up the intro, “Are you better…….?”
We all know the rest.
The question is effective because it’s thought provoking.
So, let me give you an answer.
When it comes to political chastity, the Republican Party has no business wearing a white gown.
Oh sure, last week they put on a beautiful wedding. It was lovely. The bride resembled a flower of innocence. She escorted the perfectly-pressed Mitt Romney down the aisle, all the way up to the altar of their party’s presidential nomination.
But before reluctantly tying this uneasy knot and finally settling on the class nerd, the couple went through an ugly courtship period. While dating Mitt, these same Republicans pretty much screwed the entire football team on the side.
Indeed — before being forced to tie the bonds of politial matrimony, these same Republicans slept with just about every living and breathing soul — both in and out of their class. They sucked every cock. Every hole was luciously filled. Their pre-convention gang bang included men and women, Blacks and Whites. Call it an orgy of desperation.
Let’s go back and look at this bride’s recent past, shall we? A warning — it’s not pretty.
LOVE INTEREST #1 — Before the Republican Primaries began last summer, party faithful courted none other than Donald Trump. Incredibly, the party classroom was so void of a real charmer, they had to look way down the hall where they found an egotistical rich kid, who was only too happy to enjoy a quick romp with the cheerleader. After Trump had his way and milked a few months of cheap publicity out of the relationship, he pretty much spurned her further advances and went back to being the class jerk.
So far, I’ve watched every single hour of every single night of both national party conventions.
I follow this practice, not because I aspire to become the ideal civic-minded citizen. My motives are much more selfish. Frankly, I follow politics because it’s great entertainment. It’s the national theater of our society — and there’s a performance every day and night. Best of all, it’s completely free to watch and enjoy. Then, there’s the added bonus of participating in the final act by voting for the candidate of your choice.
Indeed, I like to be entertained. Why would anyone watch a so-called “reality television” show — so much of which is phoney and scripted — when there are bona fide reality shows running day and night which just so happen to have the direction of the country as the storyline?
Yes, politics is great theater. And I want a front row seat.
“Dirty Harry” has finally run out of bullets.
He went 13 minutes instead of only five, he got unlucky, and ended up looking like a punk on national television.
If Clint Eastwood’s act last night would have instead been an audition, his movie career might have been over in an instant.
Yes, it was that bad.
Eastwood’s appearance at the critical moment of the final night of the 2012 Republican National Convention was quite possibly the most painful moment in any political theater within the past twenty years. Reminiscent of Admiral John Stockdale’s cringe-inducing verbal drool in the 1992 Vice Presidential debate, the iconic 82-year-old actor took last night’s stage at the very twinkling of what was supposed to be national coronation. Instead, his stammering speech ended up as such a distraction, he made a totally incoherent Stockdale seem like William F. Buckley, by comparison.
No one could have possibly seen it coming. In fact, the buildup was right on schedule.
For the better part of two hours, the Republican Party establishment had to be creaming all over themselves. Their presidential nominee had largely been humanized for the very first time (no small feat) to tens of millions of viewers and voters — many tuning into the political season for the first time. This was largely achieved by roasting up the all-too-familiar emotional chestnuts manipulatively designed to somehow transform a cold-hearted venture capitalist who made hundeds of millions busting up companies and outsourcing jobs into a warm and fuzzy stuffed teddy bear – you know, an electable human being. Sort of like a political Frankenstein.
Misson largely accomplished, next one of Hollywood’s most revered film legends — particularly to right-wing gun nuts — took the grand stage and then went completey fucking bonkers batshit crazy. Watching the ad lib act and witnessing the carnage of a cherished actor and director who has given society so many memorable roles and memories, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.