After eight years of Ike, it was hard to imagine anyone except a retired board chairman or a senile ex-general having any influence in Government. They were the government—a gang of rich, mean-spirited old fucks who made democracy work by beating us all stupid with a series of billion-dollar hypes they called Defense Contracts, Special Subsidies, and “emergency tax breaks” for anybody with the grease to hire a Congressman. –HST, to Jim Silberman, 1/13/70 (261).
Two weeks until the Presidential
election. I sat in the Wonderful House Chinese Restaurant, in one of the small
pockets of development out here in the high desert, as I waited for my Schezuan
Beef Lunch Combo. The news was still breaking in east coast time, while here in
southeastern Colorado, the two hour delay made each scathing headline more
surreal, each allegation of journalistic collusion more like a fantasy, told
far away from the dry and dusty hills I was hiding out in. In addition to the
coyotes last night one of the Clinton’s main “fixers” was howling last night to
Sean Hannity about Hillary’s torrid sex life, her alleged affair with the
undead Vince Foster, and so much more squawking from the shadows of the past
and not so distant present. The night before that, much of America tuned in to
watch one human beat another with a baseball bat lined with barbed wire on The Walking Dead-- pop
fiction, as if ultra-violence were anything new. There are no fixers for that: people would rather watch humans bash in each other's skulls than confront the political binary. At least the Internet punditry gave up on
berating Bob Dylan for not acknowledging the Nobel committee, and moved on to
rant about the gruesome and gory sequences. I didn’t watch it, but supposedly it
was a high water mark for violence on television—that is, the fictional and
intentionally-scripted stuff. The real violence—be it in Chicago, North Dakota,
or in Cleveland—hasn't been broadcast on the television in a very, very long time. Sometimes it is found inside the clickable windows on our pocket-sized devices; more and more of the time, it is becoming knowledge that one must seek out.
The speakers in the Wonderful House are usually pumping out some Internet audio stream of 1980s music. The last time I was there, NKOTB’s
“Hangin’ Tough” came on while I slowly enjoyed what the menu calls “General” Chicken.
On this visit, however, two songs began playing at once—“Girls Just Want to
Have Fun” and something else from the 1980s, at a much lower volume,
unrecognizable, but with a masculine tenor moan that was likely The Police. I was seated in the back corner,
directly beneath the speaker. Nobody seemed to mind the music; I’m not sure
anyone else even noticed. The waitress refilled my water glass from a plastic
pitcher, unfazed. The two songs—like the two candidates—were cancelling out each other’s
relevance, only adding to the din that was the aural background of the
restaurant. Nobody cared which song was which; we had heard it all before. Both
were recordings completed and distributed over thirty years ago; if both were
to be playing at once, no one would care, and maybe even no one would notice. Because it was so memorable, I will probably always hear NKOTB's "Hangin' Tough" when I eat at the Wonderful House, simply because I will probably never be paying as close attention again. My
food arrived.
As I was eating, another update came
through, from what felt like a faraway location: Democratic running mate Tim
Kaine was holding a rally for thirty people somewhere on the eastern seaboard.
Photos confirmed that there were just about as many people present here in the
Wonderful House. Two weeks remained. Patrons came and went. A new campaign appeared
in my Facebook feed, on behalf of the GOP nominee, offering one’s name forever
emblazoned on the wall of Trump Tower in New York City for a mere $2,000
donation. Could he pull it off? Some polls had him up by one or two; others had her up by twelve, or twenty. Some said the election was over. Some said it never began. I wondered if any of my Facebook friends-- mostly high school peers-- were successful enough to be able to afford to pledge $2,000, and if so, would any want to. It seemed incredibly doubtful that any of my Facebook friends considered attending Tim Kaine's failed attempt at a rally. The simultaneous songs continued as I finished my lunch, still
creating nothing but a cacophony that all of us eating learned to ignore.
###
I am a Hunter S. Thompson fan from way
back, long before he met Johnny Depp, and long before his days as an ESPN
columnist. His collected letters (edited by Douglas Brinkley) were published
while I was completing my MFA degree at Goddard College, and I made these
central to my study of 20th century poetry and creative nonfiction.
I am not, however, an aspiring “gonzo journalist,” nor am I seeking to emulate
or imitate Hunter’s drug-fueled antics, the stuff of legend. I am interested,
however, in how Thompson would view this election, were he still alive. While
Wikileaks’ troves of information have provided at the very least circumstantial
evidence regarding the unethical behavior of Hillary Clinton, I believe
Thompson may have been most disgusted by the collusion of the press with one of
the major party candidates. As we sadly lack Hunter’s voice in our American
political discourse, this blog represents my own—which is in no way to suggest
my chops as a political writer or journalist are even in the same ballpark as
Thompson’s. This blog, to be active in the two weeks prior to the Presidential
Election of 2016, will represent my thoughts and experiences surrounding the
Presidential Election of 2016. It is inspired by Hunter S. Thompson, and thus
posts may include quotes from his collected letters and other works. The
postings on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent the postings,
strategies, or opinions of any employer or client I have at present, or may
have in the future. --CS
