Part 13
NEWS ALERT:
America is officially in decline. Here
at the end of 2010, the recession is starting to take on the hue of something
bigger, even bigger than a Depression—the collapse of Empire. Glenn Beck would have you believe that it is
a moral failing, the United States unmoored from its Christian dock. And that this is the start of the end times as
“foretold” in scripture. We’re not only Broke to quote the title of his wildly
popular book, we’re morally bankrupt.
Not sure exactly what straw it was that broke the camel’s back other
than the long-term eroding of our blessed Constitution: homosexuals, political correctness, Nancy
Pelosi? The list goes on and seems so
intricately connected to each other on Beck’s conspiracy chalk board that it
would make even the most tightly coiffed tea party matron come. Indeed, this may be why the country is convulsing
as it is with the GOP now in charge of the House—the collective panting of
orgasmic tea party ladies and, undoubtedly those of the closeted homosexual
gents who are privately getting their rocks off on Beck’s quotidian FOX TV screed.
America is officially in decline. Here
at the end of 2010, the recession is starting to take on the hue of something
bigger, even bigger than a Depression—the collapse of Empire. Glenn Beck would have you believe that it is
a moral failing, the United States unmoored from its Christian dock. And that this is the start of the end times as
“foretold” in scripture. We’re not only Broke to quote the title of his wildly
popular book, we’re morally bankrupt.
Not sure exactly what straw it was that broke the camel’s back other
than the long-term eroding of our blessed Constitution: homosexuals, political correctness, Nancy
Pelosi? The list goes on and seems so
intricately connected to each other on Beck’s conspiracy chalk board that it
would make even the most tightly coiffed tea party matron come. Indeed, this may be why the country is convulsing
as it is with the GOP now in charge of the House—the collective panting of
orgasmic tea party ladies and, undoubtedly those of the closeted homosexual
gents who are privately getting their rocks off on Beck’s quotidian FOX TV screed.
There is definitely
something afoot, and it’s not just a speed bump like the last several
recessions despite our perpetually cheery consultant who is now managing our
radically depleted 401K. No. There’s something seismic going on here, and
it is unnerving all of us.
something afoot, and it’s not just a speed bump like the last several
recessions despite our perpetually cheery consultant who is now managing our
radically depleted 401K. No. There’s something seismic going on here, and
it is unnerving all of us.
Except for
Joe. While everywhere the adult
population is either absent from his life or telling him that Jesus is coming
in the near future to burn the wicked and end this joke of a world, he’s
calm. Reflective. Perhaps it’s just all the music he listens
to. Sending him to blessed oblivion but
without the hangover of pot, where his two closest friends have irretrievably
gone. But I don’t think so.
Joe. While everywhere the adult
population is either absent from his life or telling him that Jesus is coming
in the near future to burn the wicked and end this joke of a world, he’s
calm. Reflective. Perhaps it’s just all the music he listens
to. Sending him to blessed oblivion but
without the hangover of pot, where his two closest friends have irretrievably
gone. But I don’t think so.
I remember when we
lived in Brooklyn, before, during and after the attacks on the World Trade
Center, and I was volunteering at St. John’s Episcopal. Though located in sexy North Park Slope, the
church drew from all of over the borough and included a large black Caribbean
population. One day the homely but
utterly charming lesbian assistant priest—to a homosexual male priest who lived
in the parsonage with his main guy, a handsome young blonde guy named
“Steve”–stood up and through her tobacco stained teeth declared the parish’s need
for a youth worker.
lived in Brooklyn, before, during and after the attacks on the World Trade
Center, and I was volunteering at St. John’s Episcopal. Though located in sexy North Park Slope, the
church drew from all of over the borough and included a large black Caribbean
population. One day the homely but
utterly charming lesbian assistant priest—to a homosexual male priest who lived
in the parsonage with his main guy, a handsome young blonde guy named
“Steve”–stood up and through her tobacco stained teeth declared the parish’s need
for a youth worker.
And so it came to
pass that the lapsed Mormon from Utah began working with young black youth at
an Anglican Communion church in New York City.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that these were kids who felt as
though they had a 50/50 chance of making it home alive everyday after
school. One boy, Jason, told me that his
brother had been shot six times on one occasion, but lived through it
somehow. They had none of the advantages
I’d had, nor did they have any of my hang ups, my inhibitions toward life, love
and the pursuit of happiness. They
seemed to catch what wave they could and ride it as far as it would take them,
whether it was the latest Brekka (“Break up”) competitions in the parish hall
or taking in an extremely corny musical version of “A Christmas Carol” at
Madison Square on the dime of the church’s activity board.
pass that the lapsed Mormon from Utah began working with young black youth at
an Anglican Communion church in New York City.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that these were kids who felt as
though they had a 50/50 chance of making it home alive everyday after
school. One boy, Jason, told me that his
brother had been shot six times on one occasion, but lived through it
somehow. They had none of the advantages
I’d had, nor did they have any of my hang ups, my inhibitions toward life, love
and the pursuit of happiness. They
seemed to catch what wave they could and ride it as far as it would take them,
whether it was the latest Brekka (“Break up”) competitions in the parish hall
or taking in an extremely corny musical version of “A Christmas Carol” at
Madison Square on the dime of the church’s activity board.
So it was in this
place that my head was when I saw advertised Tom Brokaw’s blockbuster The Greatest Generation, about the
glorious capacity and self-sacrifice of the Great Depression/WWII folks. Immediately, when I saw the title, and the
author’s byline in the window of a mid-town Barnes and Noble, I thought to
myself: How nice. Brokaw is writing about the up-coming
generation and the challenges that they are facing and how they are, at least
potentially, the greatest generation of all.
place that my head was when I saw advertised Tom Brokaw’s blockbuster The Greatest Generation, about the
glorious capacity and self-sacrifice of the Great Depression/WWII folks. Immediately, when I saw the title, and the
author’s byline in the window of a mid-town Barnes and Noble, I thought to
myself: How nice. Brokaw is writing about the up-coming
generation and the challenges that they are facing and how they are, at least
potentially, the greatest generation of all.
Ha! For the next several years it seemed, the
romance the country had with the generation of Cheryl’s parents was everywhere,
how the greatest generation would survive an economic downturn, fight the Nazis
and then spend us all into oblivion. In
the heat of this geriatric love-fest, I got on the plane to go to work, and
there’s Brokaw. He’s sitting in first
class near the window, and I’m serving him.
I have a mind to tell him about what I think his book really should have
been about, but instead I smile. He’s an
affable enough guy—actually the least pretentious of the three major network
news anchors at the time. But with this
single book and the myriad collateral that will stem from it, a generation of
remarkable Americans will be elevated above all others—especially the Baby
Boomers, of which I am one, those ungrateful brats who went to Woodstock and
ruined it all, the ideals of suburbia, white supremacy and, most importantly,
American hegemony. I wouldn’t put it
beyond Joe and his generation –along with the kids at St. Johns—to be years
getting over being relegated to sub-standard. Hell,
if the boomers can’t get over it, think how handicapped the millenials et al
will be.
romance the country had with the generation of Cheryl’s parents was everywhere,
how the greatest generation would survive an economic downturn, fight the Nazis
and then spend us all into oblivion. In
the heat of this geriatric love-fest, I got on the plane to go to work, and
there’s Brokaw. He’s sitting in first
class near the window, and I’m serving him.
I have a mind to tell him about what I think his book really should have
been about, but instead I smile. He’s an
affable enough guy—actually the least pretentious of the three major network
news anchors at the time. But with this
single book and the myriad collateral that will stem from it, a generation of
remarkable Americans will be elevated above all others—especially the Baby
Boomers, of which I am one, those ungrateful brats who went to Woodstock and
ruined it all, the ideals of suburbia, white supremacy and, most importantly,
American hegemony. I wouldn’t put it
beyond Joe and his generation –along with the kids at St. Johns—to be years
getting over being relegated to sub-standard. Hell,
if the boomers can’t get over it, think how handicapped the millenials et al
will be.
Brokaw has made
his millions by over-stating and over-marketing a history to the American
people that apparently a good number of us “needed.” Fickle public discourse has been bumped into
a new vector. Fact is, Joe and his
brethren and sisters won’t even remember Brokaw or the term “Greatest
generation.” Systems are re-formulating
so fast right now that Joe and Company once they take the I-pod buds out of
their ears will be lucky just to get out of the way of the burning rafters that
are falling. More likely, they will
figure out how to re-imagine the burning building because they refuse to take their ear buds out.
his millions by over-stating and over-marketing a history to the American
people that apparently a good number of us “needed.” Fickle public discourse has been bumped into
a new vector. Fact is, Joe and his
brethren and sisters won’t even remember Brokaw or the term “Greatest
generation.” Systems are re-formulating
so fast right now that Joe and Company once they take the I-pod buds out of
their ears will be lucky just to get out of the way of the burning rafters that
are falling. More likely, they will
figure out how to re-imagine the burning building because they refuse to take their ear buds out.
George
Orwell once wrote compellingly about shooting an elephant, a.k.a., the
declining British Empire of which as an officer in 1930s India, he was an
official representative. Maybe in America it’s time to be doing some shooting
ourselves. Shooting ourself, or more
precisely shooting down our sick sense of American Exceptionalism. Get-R-Done….
Orwell once wrote compellingly about shooting an elephant, a.k.a., the
declining British Empire of which as an officer in 1930s India, he was an
official representative. Maybe in America it’s time to be doing some shooting
ourselves. Shooting ourself, or more
precisely shooting down our sick sense of American Exceptionalism. Get-R-Done….
