What the hell happened to Sam?

            Really, what the hell happened? Sam Blakeslee used to be our Git ‘r Done state assemblyman, later state senator.  Mr. Fix It, Mr. Let’s Work Together Across the Aisles Kinda Guy.  Very popular, well liked, going places. 

            But then it happened.  That pang of hunger, that first grip of wanting, that lust, that hankering, the hands twitching and reaching out for . . .  fame, for power, vanity stoked, the whispers in the ears from the state’s makers & breakers, the Big GOP Party Boys, the soft susurrus with the head bent near, the soft white manicured hands on the shoulder, the whiff of expensive cologne; “You can go places, Sam.  Big places.  Play ball with us and you’re a made man.  National office, Sam.  National office.”

            It was the devil and Sam’s soul was the prize and Sam listened and drank the Kool-Aid and signed on with Grover Norquist and his Blood Oath and was lost forever.

            Then something happened.  The district was redistricted and Sam was facing a tough election race that he may well have lost because more and more people were realizing that the Republican Party had gone batshit crazy and was heading off a cliff, a party of crazy old white guys with no future being led around by the nose by some Ayn Rand fanboy still living in his grandmother’s basement muttering about John Galt. 

            So did Sam see the handwriting on the wall and put on the fake mantle of elder statesman and announce he wouldn’t be running and, as the August 10^th L.A. Times story put it, was “putting personal ambition aside” to announce “he would leave politics to run a nonprofit bankrolled by a big donor?”  A nonprofit called the California Reform Institute that was supposed to “promote common-sense solutions to big policy problems vexing Sacramento.”  A nonprofit 501(c) 4 “think tank” bought and paid for by Charles Munger Jr, one of Sam’s Republican gazillionaire donors, a guy who “has been working to push the party in a more moderate direction.”

            In other words, exactly the kind of front organization a guy like Sam, with his previous Git ‘r Done reputation tarnished by Norquist, would need if he wanted to rehab and reposition himself quietly until it was time for the payoff – national office.

            Bankrolled with $750,000 of Mr. Munger’s money, Sam announced he would take no salary, thereby doing a 180’ from the usual politico’s practice of rolling their political office into lucrative “private” consulting jobs or fake-front PACs before revolving back again into political office. But he did take his chief of staff, Christine Roberts, with him, plus another staffer. (Said the Times, “Christine stepped down for now.  But a letter from Munger’s attorney to the institute’s officials’ attorney said it is ‘anticipated’ that she will become the compensated executive director when Blakeslee’s term ends,” which is just the usual this-looks-bad-so-let’s-fluff-a bit-until-the-press-turns-away” shuffle.)

            And there it sat, until a “Stragetic Plan” memo escaped, a memo that outlined the strategy so typical in these rehabbing/repositioning fake-front 501s: Use the institute’s stated goals of promoting common-sense solutions to California’s problems, as a “vehicle” to “create messenger credibility” in order to make Blakeslee’s future gubernatorial run possible.  And the plan included getting Sam to submit lots of bills in Sacramento, even hopeless, futile bills in order to get the Democrats’ goat, and get the media’s attention as a “maverick” swimming against the tide, and do that before he left office and became a nobody again.

            The plan was pretty standard stuff for these shadow organizations but somebody leaked it and the proverbial shit it the fan.

            Sam, of course, and his money-guy boss, declared the plan to have been some “blue sky” thinking that was in the original plans but have since been removed from the bylaws.  Wink nudge. Wink nudge.  And Sam stoutly reiterated that he was done with politics and had no intention of seeking higher office.  His boss also noted that, “I did not discuss with Sen. Blakeslee the possibility of this being a vehicle that would propel him to state-wide office.  Whatever other ideas were developed in Blakeslee’s shop, that’s not what I signed on for and it’s not what the institute is set up for.” Wink nudge.

            Well, yes.  Such denouncements are vital since using 501s as political vehicles is an IRS no-no.  The same problem besets the 501s’ sisters, the various SuperPACS who wink-nudge their way into bankrolling political ads that, of course, are in no way related to or controlled by the candidate they are supporting, nossir, nossir.

            And there it sits.  The IRS will look into Mr. Munger’s 501 and will announce that there’s nobody there but us mice and everyone will happily go forward to Reform California with “big ideas,” and everyone will be shocked! Shocked! in a few years to see Sam again.  Scrubbed fresh, not a drop of Norquist’s blood oaths on his new suit, hands full of great new ideas, ready for a draft that would allow him to overcome his “I will not run” pledge.  After all, California is in dire straits, so if a public servant with great ideas that will save the state refused to serve? Well that would be churlish.

            Unless, of course, Sam’s fall from his ass on the road to Damascus was real.  That his temptation into the alluring world of fame and political ambition temporarily blinded him.  Until he woke up on the ground, tasted Grover Norquist’s hot blood on his lips and realized with abject horror that his soul was in mortal peril and if he continued down that road he would be doomed. And so he fled.

            Leaving the rest of us to ask, What the hell really happened to Sam? 

            Personally, I wish Mr. Munger’s wink-nudge organization luck.  God knows we need some sort of think tank that will figure out ways to cure all these batshit crazy Republicans before the party completely implodes. And God knows California’s got enough problems to be solved that we need more such think-tanks filled with smart, Git 'r Done people putting their heads together.

             And for the sake of Sam’s soul, I hope the second scenario I suggested above is the real one.  If it is, then I wish him well.  Much good in the world can be done without drinking poison.        

              

Bring in the Clowns

Calhoun’s Can(n)ons for June 2,  2012

The very purpose of existence is to reconcile the glowing opinion we hold of ourselves with the appalling things that other people think about us.

                                                   Quentin Crisp.

            No matter how I try, it just keeps returning to the ridiculous.  With all those ruined lives, the whole, sad story should firmly remain in the realm of tragedy.  But like one of those Shmoo boppy toys, it keeps whipping back into farce.

            He was the golden boy; a wealthy, highly successful litigator, a poor boy from one America who now lived in the other America, a presidential candidate who gave a whole gaggle of Democratic hopefuls a run for their money.  John Edwards had it all.  

           And lost it all.  It’s a tale that should cause feelings of sad empathy, perhaps a moment of smug self-righteousness. But for me it all just keeps turning from a sad-faced tsk-tsk moment back into snort-through-the-nose laughter.

            I think it’s just the sheer wretched excess of it all.  This wasn’t a story of one man’s ego and libido getting the better of him in a moment of weakness.  This was epic!--  a traveling road-show that included a cast of players larger than “Cats” that turned the action into a Max Sennett comedy, all zippy rattle-trap cars whizzing up and down and back and forth while a speeding train crashes into a water tower.

            And somewhere along its sorry way, the tale passed the point of mini-gravitas and tipped into a clown car jammed full of fools, each more embarrassing than the other. 

            I mean . . . Rielle?  the hideous high-maintenance mistress, one of those Hollywood wannabes who was originally hired to make a series of “webisodes” of Edward’s campaign.  Between making stump speeches, shaking endless hands, and kissing babies, the two of them fell into bed.  The expensive video log Ms. Hunter made turned out to be so poorly shot it was unusable (Goodbye Hollywood), but the baby the two of them made in that hotel room stuck around (Hello Pampers).

            And had to be hidden from the ferociously ambitious and now-suspicious wife.

            Who was suffering from cancer.  Did I forget to mention that part?  

            Enter Andrew Young, the loyal lickspittle willing to fall on his sword by volunteering to claim that the child was his, which prompts a few moments of delight picturing how Mr. Young explained that baby’s existence to his own wife.  Cue the pie in the face.

            And best of all, this hugger-mugger traveling hide-the-baby Klown Karnival was financed by a loopy heiress, the fabulously wealthy  “Bunny” Mellon, and a couple of Edward’s rich lawyer pals, all of whom thought nothing of dropping over a million smackaroonies just to keep this ridiculous production on the road.

            And so it shambled on, wheels creaking, calliope booming, the dying wife raging, the whining mistress demanding shopping trips to Los Angeles, the golden coins pouring out of the purses and pockets of  the Sugar Daddies and Sugar Mommy Mellon, while the baby-hiding aide stopped feeling the love and started sulking and plotting his own cover-his-ass revenge.

            And above it all, the master juggler floated, the smiling, golden-haired Edwards.   Campaigning for President, then, when that wasn’t working, maneuvering to cut a deal to become the Veep.  No?  Well how’s about giving me some kind of high-powered State Dept. office? Astonishing. Brazen. Shameless.  Deluded.  Oblivious.

            Until the wheels came off.

            And the wife died, and Edwards sought absolution from the obligatory TV confession – My bad.  My bad.  My maxima culpa bad -- followed by a trial for political corruption (all that nice Mellon money), where even more grisly, cringe-worthy details spilled out.  And the poor jurors had to struggle with confusing, conflicting election laws filled to the Swiss-cheese brim with deliberately written convenient, wink-nudge loopholes.

            All of which should elicit sympathy, perhaps some sorrow.  A long face?  I mean, how much more can one man be humiliated?

            But there it is.  That stubborn snicker.  

            In classic literature, the downfall of the tragic hero should inspire fear and pity. But this wasn’t tragedy, it was comeuppance. Somewhere along the way this sorry saga passed melodrama and fell onto the banana peel of not guilty on one charge and a mistrial on the other five.   

            That the DOJ wasted a dump-truck load of tax dollars on a political corruption case in the era of  Citizens United and all our now-legal corrupt and corrupting Super PAC spending, well, that’s the biggest laugh of all.

            Cue the Whoopee Cushion.

Gaak, Well, There Goes California

            Once again, the forces of  destruction are about to rain down on poor California.  People are going to run riot in the streets.  Whole towns will be swallowed whole.  Small children will weep and run amok.

            Yes, once again, judges have ruled that Prop 8 is unconstitutional.  This time it was the Ninth Circuit court.  So, the state Supreme Court and now one clump of judicial feds have basically found that “Proposition 8 serves no purpose, and has no effect, other than to lessen the status and human dignity of gay men and lesbians in California.”

            Let’s repeat that:  “Proposition 8 serves no purpose, and has no effect, other than to lessen the status and human dignity of gay men and lesbians in California.”

            So what is it about that brief, honest observation is so impossible for so many people to accept?

            Besides the inability to be honest about one’s true feelings and motives, may I suggest another reason this battle has been so fierce and long and irrational?  Words.  Wrong words that describe the wrong issue and hence create a wrong reality.

            Take the acronym, “DOMA.” Defense of Marriage.  Defense.  Did anybody recall gay people saying they wanted to eliminate marriage?  Destroy it? Get rid of it?  Change the laws so the states wouldn’t be allowed to marry anybody any more? Kaput, no more marriage anywhere?

            I didn’t either.  All I saw was a bunch of people who wanted to join the ranks of the married, have marriage ceremonies of their own, so the net result was MORE marriage, not less.  How do you “defend” against people who want to join you as fellow participants?  You don’t “defend” a castle against friends who show up and say, “Hey, we want to join you.”  You “defend” against enemies who are trying to destroy you.

            So, there was the false reality – gay people as “the enemy” that needed “defending” against because, somehow, their getting married would “destroy” marriage. Yet, not once during this whole battle, did I hear from any straight couple explaining just how, exactly, their marriage would be “destroyed” if a gay couple next door got married.  Not a single explanation that made any sense. Not one.

            If a whole gaggle of people had been honest from day one (We don’t like gay people and anyway, full civil rights and privileges go only to the people the dominant majority says should receive them; nobody else.), they wouldn’t have deceived and trapped themselves and others in the false language of their own making.

            Luckily, the courts have seen through those lies.  Unfortunately, gay people will still have to wait for their full rights for several more years and pray that the Supreme court will also concur that, “Although the Constitution permits communities to enact most laws they believe to be desirable, it requires that there be at least a legitimate reason for the passage of a law that treats different classes of people differently. There was no such reason that proposition 8 could have been enacted.  All that Proposition 8 accomplished was to take away from same-sex couples the right to be granted marriage licenses and thus legally to use the designation ‘marriage.’  Proposition 8 serves no purpose, and has no effect, other than to lessen the status and human dignity of gay men and lesbians in California.”

            Meanwhile, the hate and fear continues. Comedian Ellen Degeneres is now the subject of a boycott by a so-called “Million Moms,” who want her removed as the spokesperson for J.C. Penny.  Ellen noted dryly on her TV show, the Million Moms’ Facebook page shows a membership of 45,000 so she guessed they just rounded up to get their fake number.

Meanwhile, Never Miss An Opportunity To Gin Up The Culture Wars 

            The Republican culture wars heated up over the issue of the “Obama Care” program requiring that insurance companies offer full, comprehensive coverage for all women’s health issues, including birth control, to all businesses that offer insurance to their employees, including Catholic institutions that primarily “serve the public interest,” with exemptions made for institutions that are primarily religious and not serving “the public.”  These provisions are already in place at Catholic institutions in 28 states and these institutions have made different kinds of “wink-nudge” accommodations.  Like Hawaii, “where the rule is in effect, but where employees at religious institutions that do not offer free contraception can get birth control through side benefits, which the employees nominally pay for but which often end up being free.”

            Considering that polls show that the vast majority of even Catholic women use birth control of some kind, and a good number of people working at Catholic institutions such as hospitals are not Catholic, all this “wink-nudge” has been going on under the Bishop’s noses for years. 

            But, it’s an election year, so you can be sure that a Church under real scrutiny for years of child molesting that went unexamined at best, and covered up at worst, won’t lose an opportunity to flip the frame and come out playing the role of victim here – Christianity under assault! And Republicans sure aren’t going to miss a chance to portray our Muslim Kenyan Christian-Hating President as a man out to “Destroy Religious Freedom!”  

            The issue is simple:  Equal insurance coverage requirements for all employees whose employers offer insurance, with exceptions for primarily religious institutions, and all kinds of wink-nudge accommodations to allow Catholics to pretend that the wink-nudge accommodations aren’t there.  Win-Win. 

            But in the culture wars, the political wars, women’s bodies, women’s reproductive health, will once again be used as a fake battlefield. While Catholics suit up in fake hair-shirts to play the fake victim card, and Republicans gin up the fake outrage.

            The real question is this:  Are women stupid enough to fall for this?  Stay tuned. 

Congress/Prez for Sale.  Cheap, Considering.

           

            Stephen Colbert gave formal thanks for the 22 rich guys who, to date, have financed the Republican Primary via the Super PACS.  Then wittily declared that he sure those 22 will pick a president he likes.

            Twenty-two.

            At the same time, President Obama, who originally decried Super PACS, has succumbed to unleashing the Democratic PACS and so turned into Omar Sharif in “Lawrence of Arabia.”  Remember the scene, the Turkish retreat from Deraa, the demoralized army fleeing while behind them massed Lawrence’s band of fierce Bedouin and Lawrence declared, “No quarter! No quarter,” and at first Omar objected, then, caught up in the moment, brandished his sword and galloped into battle.  No quarter!  And the slaughter commenced.

            We will now see what will be unleashed by the Roberts’ Supreme Court and their Citizens United disaster.  Battle of the Super PACS.  Government by Twenty-Two?  Forty-Four?  Which returns us to the pre-Jacksonian America: Rule by Rich Aristocrats. 

            Who needs One man, one vote, anyway?