On the Swift-Boat Lollipop

Was anyone else reminded of a saucily eager-to-please Shirley Temple when John Kerry raised his hand to his brow and said "My name is John Kerry, and I'm . . ." (coy pause) "reporting for duty"?

I mean no disservice to the legacy of the brilliant former child star, nor to Shirley Temple Black's subsequent estimable contributions as a public servant. But the aw-shucks earnestness of Kerry's valorous-lieutenant routine and the pluck of The Little Colonel seemed more than passing apposite during the let's-play-soldier theatrics of Kerry's final convention night.

E Pluribus Unum -- You Do the Math

Lots of creative political head-counting from Illinois state senator Barack Obama, the unelected Al Sharpton and U.S. senator John Edwards. In the wake of their cumulative discourse, one might beg pause to ask: so exactly how many Americas are there?

For Obama, there is only one, no matter what deceptive images of multiplicity and social atomization malice has cast upon the walls of our republican cave to confuse and divide us. For Sharpton, on the other hand, many Americas not only are real, they are persistent in grievance and endlessly unsatisfiable claims of reparation. Finally, in the precise analytics of litigator John Edwards, there are exactly two Americas, the perpetually pitched antipathy of the haves and the have-nots -- even if Edwards' own life and achievements are warrant that the antipathy is neither that perpetual nor all that strenuously pitched.

Oh, Mama! (Hubbell-Hubbell)

Teresa Heinz Kerry, with her salutation in five languages, her panegyric to extraterrestrial expansionism and her affirmation of universal woman-wisdom, may well have declared a candidacy of her own, making a fair bid at a previously unidentified constituency; call it Polyglot Cosmic Matriarchy (PCM).

P.S.  Her recent “shove it” remark has been deemed by the spinners “polite” by comparison to Dick Cheney’s now-infamous Capitol muttering toward Vermont Senator Pat Leahy.  Is it really?  Certainly, THK’s phrase appears prima facie more repeatable (I heard Jim Lehrer quote it, in primetime, on PBS, for heaven’s sake).  But isn’t the meaning, the referent action, the same?  The cognate may be more virtuous in, oh, Portuguese (I would yield to Mrs. HK there), but in English, as far as I know, the phrase has a connotation most caustic.  Color me prurient.

Captain, O My Captain!

Before arriving in Boston, Bill Clinton is reported (by Andrea Peyser of the New York Post; 7/27/04) to have felt “pickled and old and half-dead.” He appeared quickened enough by his translation to the Fleet Center’s center stage.

The forensics were typically lively, if a tad collegiate. How can one help but hear the overly precocious American in Oxford in that strained peroration on Kerry the watery warrior?: "we’re all in the same boat,” thus requiring “a captain . . . who knows how to steer a vessel though troubled waters to . . . calm seas.”

Really.

Well, Clinton – himself the ever-intrepid navigator of depths beyond the shoals of truth – made a rare and showy incursion into the shallows of candor (the dissemblings of his personal apologia, My Life, are a matter for another time). Shallow and showy in that he managed to turn a cheekily candid display of avarice, cowardice and vanity to the purpose of ingenious political advocacy.

First, fairly preening over the affluence into which his post-presidential prolixity has lofted him, Clinton blasted Republicans for coddling him and the rest of the country’s “top one percent” of income-earners with unseemly tax cuts. How un-Democratic! The fact that no controlling authority compels Clinton to avail himself of such tax cuts, if he truly conscientiously objects to them, never came up.

And, speaking of conscientious objection, Clinton next, finally, 'fessed up (sort of, and with jaw-droppingly parenthetical casualness) to the meanness of his Viet Nam-era draft evasion. Of course, his non-service was, back for Clinton the candidate, a matter of fiercely asserted personal discretion. But now, contrasted for heroic advantage to John Kerry's voluntary combat duty, what was Clinton admitting of his own choice but that it was bald and craven self-interest? Ah, but how exhilarated Clinton looked as he discovered, albeit belatedly, the wondrous uses of honesty.

Finally, there was the candor of Clinton the piqued dandy. After a scripted apostrophe to vice-presidential candidate John Edwards’ “energy, intellect, and charisma,” Clinton let fly a presumably spontaneous squib of aggrieved ego: “I have to admit, I’m a little bit jealous.” (Spontaneous in that the remark does not appear in the official Dems2004.org Website transcript of Clinton's speech.) Was this (a) another rare Clinton neo-soothsaying, or (b) a clever attempt to transfer the luster of Clinton's own roguish appeal to the rather squeaky and boy-scoutish would-be veep? Anyone for (c) calculatedly, both?

Clinton still has a lot of verbal freight to unload on the sprawlingly long boulevard of his after-career. If he continues in this new habit of uncasing the truth, who knows what stashes fantastical may be disclosed?

Sex, Memory and Political Conventions...

Another four years, another season of national party conventions. Tonight, the Democrats begin.

I find I anticipate it all with an excitement that is in good part libidinal. Don't ask and I won't tell; but, indeed, I find myself reminiscing about unexpected and passionate consummations over the years that came about in a rhythm matching the turn of the political calendar: conventions, election nights, inauguration days; lusts roused at bars or cocktail parties, while discussing the players or just playing spectator myself to these primitive and potent American civic sacraments.

It's not a matter merely of the erotica of power. Put aside the officials, the politicians and the celebrities, and look instead to the indispensable supporting cast, the delegates on the floor. It is they who provoke profound and animal emotions, conflicted envy and desire and even contempt. Witnessing this spiritual transport, the deep engagement, the mystic credulity, the rapture of convicted belief, this community of purposeful madpeople, is necessarily to be fascinated, jealous and scornful all at once.

Yes, it is rightly said that the podium histrionics of modern conventions are choreographed, orchestrated, scripted to a fare-thee-well. But to emphasize that exclusively, and to dismiss the proceedings outright on that account, misses something quite crucial and poignant and provoking: the authentic romance of the choric lovers below. Absurd as lovers always are, undignified, aggravating, self-absorbed and yet indubitably alive, they bear testament to the prospect that all the world can be made new. We shall all be changed; and, if not, even the prospect of a November broken heart is fearlessly embraced.