April 30, 2008

Common, Non-"Elitist" Wisdom

I sat upright at the bar, sliding a fingertip slowly up the cold glass of my first Gin & Tonic of the afternoon, and tossed an occasional glance at the television.  The White Sox were winning, but they just aren't as interesting as the Cubs this year, so I felt justified in taking a sip.  It's a good thing I did, because it wasn't until a full half-drink later that Iggy finally arrived.  "You're late," I snarled and gulped down the remainder of my drink.

"What's the score?"

"Uh, Sox're winning, I think.  So why are you late?"  As we ordered our drinks, Iggy grumbled about problems finding a parking space in Chicago, life in Chicago, Chicago politics, Chicago traffic. . . . You get the point.  So I threw my standard, "Then why don't you move back to Pittsburgh?" at him.  This may have been mean of me.  As any neurologist reading this knows, the very thought of moving back to one's hometown after 20 years can send a shiver down the back so cold, so disruptive, that serious neurological injury can be avoided only by quickly downing a pint of cold beer.

Having the cure at hand, Iggy took his medicine in several quick, decisive gulps, ordered another, belched, and pointed out, "Hey, the Twins just took the lead."

Not only had the beer saved his life, but it had also improved his powers of observation!  Is there no end to the benefits of beer?

Iggy is the kind of guy everybody should know.  He's short and stocky, and his blond hair makes him look shorter.  His black eyes glare at you through thick eyeglasses, but his face hosts a permanent smile that evolves to a smirk when he disagrees with you.  Talk religion or politics with him, and you'll probably see a lot of his smirk.  This is not to suggest that Iggy is a disagreeable fellow ― the contrary is true.  Rather, he understands that common sense just isn't common.  Even through his rant he maintained a friendly smile, fully aware that the displeasure caused by the objects of his complaints was easily outweighed by the pleasure he derived by complaining, i.e., placing blame on others.

Since Iggy's rant had moved to the cost of the gas expended in searching for a parking space in Chicago, I tested my theorem by asking, "So you think the McCain-Clinton Gas Tax Holiday would at least make things a bit better, don't you?"

"That might save me a measly ten bucks a month ― for three months."  Iggy's scowl implied that he felt personally hurt that I could suggest such a stupid idea.  "I hate it when a politician thinks I should support him if he puts a few bucks in my pocket, as if I'm some sort of, of . . ."

"Whore?"

"Cheap whore!" he exclaimed, confident that the distinction was self-explanatory.

And he had a point.  I grew up in Vito Marzullo's 25th Ward where street money often found itself benefitting any number of loyal Democratic voters each election day.  Allowing for inflation, 25th Ward street money back then was probably a bigger financial proposition than the gas tax holiday, at least on a per capita basis.  And it was done without the drudgery of government paperwork!  And it was distributed, not so much as an inducement to vote as it was an expression of appreciation for having voted the right way.  (Best of all, the precinct captain was available every other day of the year as well, to help: navigating government forms, getting a new garbage can, finding a job, etc.)

"But certainly you wouldn't want Obama getting the nomination, would you, not with his connections to Jeremiah Wright?"  It was a stupid question, I know, but I still enjoyed the combination of outrage and anger that formed Iggy's smirk.

"Well, if we're going to hold politicians responsible for what clergy say, then that means that no Catholic should vote for John McCain because of his John Hagee endorsement, right?  And no Jew should support any politician who has associated with Billy Graham because of his anti-Semitic remarks, right?  That's bad news for Hillary, then, since Billy has been 'her solace.'"

"Yeah, but 20 years in that pew, and Barack never . . ."

". . . heard such extreme remarks." Iggy snapped, finishing my sentence for me.  He triumphantly finished his second beer and ordered another round of drinks.  I hadn't touched much of my G&T but was now obliged to gulp it down ― to keep pace, of course: it's a matter of etiquette.

"Yeah, but the talking heads on cable news insist that he must have heard some of that kind of stuff while. . ."

"Then let them document it!"  Iggy was beginning to enjoy interrupting me.  "There's loads of tapes of his sermons.  Why do we see only the same two or three minutes over and over?  Do you know why?  I'll tell you why ―  because a lot of the rest is boring sermon material.  If you take a look at some of the preaching around those sound bytes, it comes out standard Bible preaching ― well, standard for a fiery old Black preacher who's a little angry and judgmental."

Then Iggy snorted, downed his beer, ordered another round of drinks for us, and picked up momentum:

"Jeremiah Wright is now Obama's former pastor.  Hmm, Hillary's former pastor has been convicted of child molestation.  Should we hold that against her?  Or should we investigate her current religious life as a cell-member of 'The Fellowship' and get nervous about her because it sounds a little weird?"

I shrugged and poured gin down my throat, more concerned with keeping pace with Iggy on drinks.  After all, it was clear that he would enjoy answering his own question.

"All religion looks ridiculous when you analyze it.  It has to: it is based on the irrational and the non-empirical, and it must therefore appear illogical.  In fact, the only thing that looks sillier than religion is ―"

And here Iggy paused to down his mug of beer with four slow, angry gulps.  I sipped nervously at my gin, certain that Iggy would once again outdrink me.

"The only thing that looks sillier to the rational eye than religion is a bunch of fashionably pseudo-secularist talking heads either talking about religion as if they understand it ― or heads who admit to religious attendance who then try to analyze religion as if it is politics.  Hour after annoying hour of weeping and gnashing of teeth about what is, truth to tell, a minor thing compared to war and recession and an imperial government gone out of control."

I focused on my gin, hoping an Iggy rant would give me time to catch up.

"I mean, those idiots spent all of Monday talking about Jeremiah Wright at the press club over and over and over, telling us that they had to because it was the important news ― when their only argument to support the notion that it was news was their own fascination with the story.

"So let's get this straight.  Catholics should not vote for McCain because of the Hagee endorsement.  And they will probably vote for Hillary because of the common value that they share with her."

"You mean God, Guns and anti-Gay?"

"No, I mean sticking with your church and its leaders no matter how much bad news they make."

I gulped my gin and tried to change the subject.  "Still, you have to admit, as they say, this Democratic primary campaign has been pretty tame as compared to previous contests."

Iggy snarled, took one quick chug of beer, and then demanded, "You know better than that.  Should we forgive the current stupidity because past stupidity was worse?  That sounds like finding someone not guilty of robbery just because he had been convicted of murder twenty years prior.  That sounds a little too stupid for me."

Most of the remainder of our time at the bar is a blur, but I can report some serious conclusions that Iggy and I eventually reached, albeit, staggeringly so:

John McCain and Hillary Clinton are clearly pandering by pushing a gas tax holiday that will have little good effect for Americans ― and that's OK, because pandering works.

MSM talking heads who remarked on the "ego" of Jeremiah Wright, based on his recent performance at the press club, need mirrors.  Sure the minister appeared egocentric, as do the politicians and the talking heads who presume to tell me what I really should be interested in.

Jeremiah Wright is similar to an appreciable number of Americans who buy into the urban legend that the CIA invented the AIDS virus ― this belief is certainly a minority one, no pun intended, but the number who subscribe to it is significant.  He is similar to other ministers who have blamed various calamities, like 9/11 and Katrina, on American immorality.  He is similar to other ministers who claim that America is headed to Hell in a handbasket.  Unlike the other ministers who get air time to expound on these theses, however, Jeremiah is clearly a Black man who is intelligent, well educated, and angry ― and that is a combination that scares people.

Sound bytes, like slogans, work.  Hillary understands this.  Barack Obama, however, continues to speak in paragraphs rather than in sentence fragments.

Hillary Clinton is an elitist who doesn't know what it is to pump gas or even get her own coffee, but that in itself does not make her a bad person.  What worries us about Hillary is more related to water-boarding and other Geneva Convention type issues: to listen to her is to hear logic tortured.

We both vehemently disagree with voters who want a candidate "who is like me."  I'm pretty good, or so I have been told, even by people on whom I have not spent any money, but I still want a president who is smarter, more insightful, etc., than me. (I currently do not have one.)

But elections don't decide who is smartest or most wise; they only reveal who is most popular.

The Sox lost, 4 - 3, but the Cubs won their night game by a lopsided score.  (Yes, we stayed long enough to watch that game, too.)

I awoke the next morning in a haze, sleep-walking to my mailbox, looking for a tax rebate check that had not arrived and cursing a headache that felt as if it would never leave.

Well, America, as the sadist once said to his victim, "If you ask for something, don't complain later when it hurts."