“Businessmen, they drink my blood, just like the kids in art school said they would.”
—President Barack H. Obama
Politics is a serious business, or so I’m told—and told often—by people across the ideological spectrum. Indeed, so many have imparted this particular turd of wisdom in my direction so frequently and earnestly that I’ve long since ceased to give the idea any credence or respect. Sure, that refusal in itself isn’t exactly novel either—but good goddamn, people sure do take this shit too seriously. Much more so than the people who are actually supposed to be taking it seriously—who usually seem to be having a king-hell orgy of fun—because they have either discovered, or always known, how infinitely ridiculous they are. And they have accepted it.
Well duh, you’d say—and again, you’d be right—but come down to my level here for a minute and humor me. That’s step one, incidentally. Anyway, I know we live in serious times and so we must be serious people when oil spills or floods or hurricanes other disasters are thrust upon us by that fickle and treacherous Mother Nature (not to mention the perverse vagaries of our own frail species)—but I keep getting surveys in the mail from Tim Kaine. Urgent response required. President Obama must know your views immediately. At least that’s what I think it said—I tossed it in the bin almost immediately after ripping it open and seeing URGENT plastered all over the top half.
Sorry, Tim. And double, triple, and quadruple sorry to Mitch Stewart and all those other earnest, do-goody liberals who keep sending me emails—but Your Thing is not really My Thing. I’ve known this for many long years now, and I’m not sure why I ever deluded myself into thinking it might be My Thing (though a few choice spasms of unrelated personal insecurities might be the reason), but no matter—and really, nothing personal. Seriously, Tim—don’t look at me like that. Genuine shock and surprise doesn’t suit you, dude.
What? No no, I haven’t forgotten all those killer nights in Georgetown and Charlottesville and Richmond. That one Cracker show we caught at the 930 club was truly the shit, man. I still appreciate you putting up with my Reverb Theory of Rock and how it applied to David Lowery’s epic trilogy of heartfelt ballads. You were a real trouper back then, man. And hey, remember the time when we TP’d George Allen’s house? That was so fucking awesome, dude. I’d totally do it all over again, and exactly the same—because you and I both know that guy will be back, right? Heh. Staggering into the public eye again, shaking off the dust of obscurity like some hungover, brain-damaged phoenix. It’ll be creepy man, and you’ll need to be ready, and—
Dude, lay off the whiny angst, okay? Don’t worry about the president. He’s got this shit, yo. Didn’t you hear? I mean, you’re only the chair of the D. N. fucking C., right? Didn’t the Doctor show you the ropes when you took on the job? Didn’t he, like, leave you that letter that all outgoing officeholders leave to their successors? You did it for that bastard McDonnell, didn’t you? I remember you going on and on about Warner’s note that you got. It was, like, really embarrassing, you know? Not that there’s anything wrong with a grown man crying with mawkish sentimentality—I’ve done it myself on many occasions—but sometimes you just have to pull your shit together.
Like right now. I’m told there’s, like, an election coming up. I know, seriously! And guess what, man—it’s on my birthday again! No shit! Know what happened the last time those two things coincided? Don’t you remember my shitty little sob story? Bush was re-elected, man. I got so wrapped up in that election that you wouldn’t have recognized me. Indeed, most of my friends and family who got that weepy little screed in their email boxes cringed inwardly, I’m sure—but the ones who did reply were gracious enough to not condescend. Well, all except my high school sweetheart, but she was a Republican, after all.
I know you know where this is going, Tim—so feel free to check out anytime. This hotel has never heard of Don Henley. I know, cool, innit? And dude, I’m telling you—it’s time to take the clippers to that dome of yours. Trust me, I did it over a decade ago, and I’ve been a whole new man ever since. Anyway see you later, Timmeh. It’s time to impart the Wisdom, even though I’m sure any reader with a functioning cerebral cortex and a healthy sense of the absurd has already figured out what that is.
Hell, maybe I don’t even have to say what it is—I mean, if you have to ask, or if you’ve even read this far without clicking away in disgust or boredom or whatever it is the cool kids do these days, then you probably wouldn’t appreciate or get it anyway. But whatever—maybe that’s the new thing now, but somehow, I doubt it. Why? Well, as I’ve mentioned before, the twenty-year nostalgia cycle never stops, and the glorious apathy of the early 1990s will soon envelop all of us in its nurturing womb of self-importance. If’n it hasn’t already, of course—but if it has, my suggestion is to not let people push your buttons about it. When that happens, you have truly elected the way of pain, man.
Personally, I can’t bring myself to take this election seriously. I know, I know—sturm und drang und fear and projection and all that—but really, I’m not interested. Oh, I’ll go vote—I’m not ugly AND stupid—but my perfect record of no canvassing, phone-banking, and other erstwhile pastimes of politicking has yet to be breached. I understand that once it’s broken, I’ll go on a seven-game-losing skid just like those dipshit San Diego Padres (yeah, that bandwagon’s gettin’ mighty crowded, ain’t it?) and never make the post-season. My energy will be spent by Halloween, and I’ve learned from my years in Isla Vista that such a development would be catastrophic.
Because I’ve got things to do, Barack. I’ve got songs to write and gigs to play and novels to publish and marketing to design and websites to build and all that other silliness that makes life worth living in This Great Nation of Ours. Seriously, dude—I’ve accepted being someone who won’t go out there and rip the world in half. Activism sucks from my point of view. I’m not interested in influencing or being in power, not interested in jumping through the hoops required. I don’t have what it takes, as it were. And I refuse to be judged for that—from the righteous leftists and the compromised party people alike.
Yeah, man—you can either get depressed when what you create doesn’t matter, or you can blow it way out of proportion and have some fun. You know this. I know you do—you’ve published books and stuff too. Now, on to more important shit, Mister President. Have you chosen a piece of pie yet? And hey, would you like whipped cream with that? I’ve got other customers, you know? Just sayin’.
