ninety nine.

Tone deaf and bone weary, these days have seemed. Let’s say the Democrats get a majority in the House, and then they meet in a large cavernous board room with oak walls and luxurious 19th century portraits of people who fought for the People to decide whether to pursue impeachment against Monsieur Bush. Would you cheer them on?

Honestly, I’m too worn out for all that. I don’t want to see another circus, even though I know that to cavil against the uproarious and unwashed in our culture is to battle against historical precedent. Andrew Jackson on down, and probably prior to that as well – we like spectacles and the public downfalls of the picaresque. We like loud talkers, fast spenders, loose women, strong whiskey, and so on, even if our liking is confined to an exfoliating mythology that digs deeper, rather than spreads westerly, now that the frontier is gone.

What does this have to do with Mr. Foley and old frumpy Hastert? I have always had Hastert, DeLay, and Cheney coupled in my mind as the most unlikely overachievers that we could possible disgorge from the middling maw of the late baby boom generation. DeLay was a god damn exterminator, and if I recall correctly Hastert coached football for some odd years before making his unlikely ascent. What is this planet?

“Only connect.” Of course the man who said that was British. Connect with what, exactly? Across space? I don’t know about that one. Space seems to mediate any interaction to a degree that renders uncertainty necessary. Or at least conscious acceptance of the possibility that you are operating under very different principles than other people. But disconnect – been there done that. It has its fructifying rewards, but they are unbecoming of anyone who wants no truck with narcissism. Anyway. As I was saying.