TELEGRAM – April 19, 1995, 9:30 a.m.
TO: Nort
Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase
Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber
CANCELING WACO. STOP. EXECUTING U-TURN FOR OK CITY PER
NEWS REPORTS. STOP. PHONE ON ARRIVAL / FOUR HOURS. STOP. NEW STORY OR SAME OLD STORY?
STOP. WIRE CASH AGREED TO DOWNTOWN OK CITY W.U. OFFICE. STOP. HERE WE GO AGAIN.
TELEGRAM – April 19, 1995, 2:00 p.m.
I'd been in
Dallas less than a week for a much needed vacation when I received a message
from my publishers to visit Waco (two hours to the south) to "capture the
mood of the place" two years to the date after David Koresh and his ilk
went up in flames.
Usually, a
drive across this huge and open land of ours is reassuring. But not on this
day. Today, it makes me angry. It's strange, on this day, to be moving across
and observing the beauty of a land that has spawned this newly escalated
culture of hate.
April 19, 1995
Oklahoma City is not OK.
February 1, 1995
You want term limits? Get ye to the voting booth!
I appreciated Ellen Goodman's recent Chicago Tribune column (1/31/95) suggesting that every 2, 4 or 6 years, there is more than one way to skin a political cat. Finally, someone other than myself understands the utter uselessness of a "term limits" amendment.
Now and then, a hot new idea creeps into the public’s collective brain; this time, it is term limits. Many people in this country have reacted positively to the prospect of such a law and why not? They know it's a pet project of the resurrected GOP, a group that suddenly finds itself fashionable again (if the party's own press releases and Rush Limbaugh are to be believed) and we Americans are nothing if not fashionable.
There's an ironic twist to the GOP's embracing of a term limits amendment. How strange that the party which calls for "less government" has found yet another way to infiltrate our personal decisions. I guess this is no shock coming from the bunch who can't remember which books go in our kids' hands at which times. (Here's a refresher: According to our Constitution, it's "Dick & Jane" at school, and "Mary & Joseph" at home or at one's place of worship.) Yes, this is the same gaggle of legislators who can't keep their thoughts off pregnant women’s wombs. Admit it: There are few things more frightening than the idea of Newt Gingrich and Jesse Helms meddling in your honey's panties.
Anyhow, these fine Americans, and many others like them, desperately crave term limits, a concept with an insanity quotient rivaled only by this country's fascination with such a proposal. It's a sad commentary on our society when we opt to replace a most democratic method of limiting a politician's time of service with the fascist method known as the "term limit" amendment.
Right! We already have a way of limiting terms!
It's called an election. People around the world would give their right arm for an opportunity to actually vote. But not our country. Most of us can't seem to get off our asses and execute this right given us. Though, offered a choice between democracy and other forms of rule, we wouldn't want it any other way. Or would we?
Incredible as it may seem, this wacky process of elections works. (Just as Dan Rostenkowski.) It can weed out those we feel have been in office too long or it can leave well enough alone those who represent segments of our population who consider themselves well represented in Washington - "career politicians."
Which brings up one last point. "Career Politician" has long been considered an ugly reference. But I suppose there are worse things than someone who says, “Yes, I'm willing to commit my life to this job, though I have nothing to fall back on and my future is in the hands of you, the voter, every couple of years." You think that sounds evil? Trust me, it's much easier to hold such a person accountable than, say, the alternative....the fellow who, knowing he's out after “X” number of terms, realizes there's not a whole lot of time to get anything done, so he just sits back and collects that six-figure income.
You want term limits? You want the government undermining the electoral process? Then go find yourself another country.
"That which deserves to live - lives." - Anonymous
January 30, 1995
Speaker Gingrich Stakes His Claim
After being up all night pondering the fate of Newt Gingrich, our newly appointed Speaker of the House, I took a walk down the alley to catch my barber the minute he unlocked the door.
"Help yourself to coffee – and there are donuts, too."
"No thanks," I muttered, "I've been drinking coffee and Jim Beam for six hours. But I will help myself to...." and I went into the back room of the shop, emerging with two cans of Old Style from Joe's refrigerator, complaining of hunger. I grabbed a Danish and sat in the chair with the morning's Tribune. After perching myself in the chair, I asked for a second opinion.
"That clod Gingrich is sure getting more than he bargained for, eh, Joe?"
"Right you are," he agreed. "How can all these guys keep thinking they're gonna march right in and start changing things that haven't been changed for years?"
A good question, and one with an easy answer: The "perception is reality" mindset. I'm not convinced that Newt himself realized the enormity of the November sweep until he saw his face plastered across every major news magazine the week following the elections. Newt made a lot of promises during those early weeks of the campaign; enough to keep the Pavlovian press plenty busy. And it has seemed to work as he has fulfilled his wish of getting attention for good or ill, starting with his poor, blabbering mother, who was caught off guard by Connie Chung.
I say "poor," yet any good American familiar with Chung should know that this kind of behavior is right up her alley. She's learned well from that sensationalistic goofball she married, and these days, the only smiling face at CBS belongs to Dan Rather, who lost what little credibility remained under his belt the minute Connie plopped her ass in the seat next to his own. It was enough to make ABC thank their lucky stars that they'd had the foresight to take Barbara Walters off the news so many years ago. Suffice it say to that Connie Chung won't see the '96 Election from her current perch. But back to our boy, Newt, who, himself, might be the first to admit that the position of Speaker, and the supposed inherent power, isn't all it's cracked up to be. (Look where it got Tom Foley.) But that's okay, because this man is all about visibility and nothing about achievement, and anyone who can't see that is blind with false hope.
* * * * *
With a fresh haircut, I made a stop to pick up breakfast: A six pack of Little Kings Cream Ale and a bag of pork tacos. Walking home, I glanced at the green bottle in my hand, noticing that the great Schoenling Brewing name had been replaced on the label by some sort of "statement" which referred to the company's recent commitment to helping to save the grizzly bear and the habitat it roams. Ah, yes, Political Correctness. Oh well, the times they are a’ changing; a fact that is not lost on Newt Gingrich. According to CNN's latest report, the good Speaker is doing a little stripe changing himself. It seems as though he's had a complete turnaround from his once proud admonition that he would do everything in his power to cut off funding to the Public Broadcasting System. How many more decrees will Newt back down on in the coming weeks? I'm really not sure, but it'll be entertaining to watch.
One thing that is not interesting to watch these days is the thrill Rush Limpbrain is deriving from this recent stream of right wing hoopla. Granted, I tune him out whenever possible, as does much of the press. But when a few of these same people give him the degree of prominence as was granted him last November in Newsweek's election issue, they only fuel the fire. Now - I know it's only an illustration on the Newsweek cover, but it was more than even I could stand, and what this cute drawing represented should send a chill up anyone's spine. Indeed, there was an artist's rendering of Bill Clinton as Swift's Gulliver being tied down by five Republican Lilliputians: Gingrich, Bob Dole, Al D'Amato, Phil Gramm and Limbaugh. Here's a thought for anyone with the intelligence to listen:
Rush Limbaugh is not an elected official of Congress. He does NOT create legislation..
Sure, he carries a lot of weight with a few thousand folks around this nation. And this does not include the actors he reportedly hires as dummies for his studio audiences and phone-in voices. But thankfully, most of The Large One's followers are seemingly as lazy as he is, not to mention dumb. Which is why, despite their loyalty to a mere television character, these people couldn't find time in their day to outvote the evil Democrats in November; (total national numbers.) Otherwise, we'd have Oliver North sitting on The Hill.
Fortunately for the elephants, the votes in their favor were well-placed. Well, we'll see how well-placed they are come '96, when Bill Clinton will most likely be re-elected, though not necessarily because he deserves it. A sickness which plagued the Democrats for more than a few years will rise up and strike the Republicans. With so many clowns going for the Top Seat, it's difficult to put your party in the White House, and the donkeys suffered for it until '92. In '96, there will be a role reversal with around six or seven challengers from the Right beating themselves up enough to pave the way for Clinton's re-election. As happened with Clinton's teammates, a few losses at the ballot box will eat at the level of greed which keeps one's party off Pennsylvania Avenue. When this happens in Election 2000, watch out - that's when the fun will really start.
September 1, 1994
Woodstock: The Last Civilization
“History is bunk.” - Henry Ford
Henry Ford would have liked Woodstock, insomuch as it was held on a farm and ’ole Henry was a country boy from way back, having been born and raised on one, and remained a country boy in his heart even after he single-handedly industrialized and modernized the United States during the first half of the 20th century. He loved the old barnyard music and would dance to it any chance he’d get. And like many, I suppose, in that wacky Woodstock crowd, he detested jazz. Also, Henry Ford was a family man, that illegitimate kid aside, and Woodstock began as a communal gathering that evolved into one big happy family.
Lastly, Henry Ford was a believer in progress and wasn’t that what Woodstock all about?
It had been a helluva few years since Jack Kennedy was elected with all that promise of continuing the meek and mild ‘50s. But then we were forced to deal with his murder, that of his brother and Martin Luther King, Jr., plus all that shit over Viet Nam and…and then, Woodstock; proof that the inner strife that can plagued our nation from time to time can be overcome, and we can gather together and co-exist peacefully and…
Oneness. Yeah, Henry Ford would have related to that, too. He felt that a sense of family could cure all of society’s ills, no matter how bad. But enough of Henry Ford; let’s focus on a couple of other larger-than-life characters who also had a somewhat significant impact on the direction of this county in the 1960s, namely, Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon, if for no other reason than that it seemed the people of Woodstock may have gathered to give the powers-that-be the collective finger … “we don’t need you; we can have our very own little town right here and live in uninterrupted harmony.”
Amazingly, it WAS a town. From what I now hear, some eight million people were there, at last count. With those kinds of numbers, it could have turned out to be the “Sea of Madness” that Neil Young sang of, but instead was a sea of Mud and Sex and Drugs and Booze. And races. Which makes it all the more incredible that there wasn’t the kind of chaos which would erupt at Altamont five months later. The music was diverse, too – folk, country, blues, rock, soul and funk, all thrown together in a gargantuan, sweltering melting pot. If I’d been there, maybe I could tell you who sounded good and who was less than stellar. But I wasn’t there, and not even listening to the movie soundtrack can help me much except to remind me that Sly and the Family Stone were, and are, probably the most energetic, spiritual and righteous band in rock history.
Five years ago, I was invited to a party to celebrate the 20th Anniversary of Woodstock. I was barely acquainted with the couple hosting the bash, but I knew them as a fairly sedate pair so, just to be ready, I stashed a 12-pack of Old Style and a frozen blue ice block into a nylon satchel. Any fears were put to rest when I arrived to the music of The Doors and five kegs waiting in a backyard full of oddly dressed people of all ages dancing and drinking. There was a lot of beer and wine being spilled, so it was hard to tell if it was sweat or booze or saliva that glistened off the bare skin of so many on this brutally hot and humid August night in Chicago.
A few hours into the evening, I saw a beautiful black woman of great stature and considerable build grab some skinny white kid – barely of drinking age compared to her 40-plus years. For a few minutes, they danced arm in arm to a feverish beat, laughing until she went for him and they began kissing violently as others continued to move furiously around them, unfazed. In a matter of moments, he managed to stoop down and force his head under her oversized, loose fitting tie-dye shirt, pressing his face against her generous, sweating braless breasts. It was good to see that some of the folks were celebrating the 20th Anniversary of the ultimate festival of love in proper fashion.
Meanwhile, I walked around with my cassette recorder dangling around my neck, asking some teenagers in the crowd what “Woodstock” meant to them. To most of them, the essence and the spirit of the thing meant nothing, though the girls were giggling over Jim Morrison and the guys were digging on the Hendrix that was being played, as if both were still alive. Looking back on the party, almost five years later, I guess that’s not so bad. These people will have their own Woodstock to deal with this summer at the very same location. I wish them luck. Just think of the pressure that’s going to be on them to recall something worthwhile about those events in another two decades.
* * * * *
I walked away from the party feeling drunk, tired and unsatisfied. Had the tribute been merely another excuse to drink beer, get stoned for the first time in ten years and listen to the Jefferson Airplane without being embarrassed? Maybe; and since that was most likely the case the first time around, that’s not such a bad thing.
But as I’ve sat here pondering the event known as “Woodstock,” and its vast and curious repercussions, I have tried to achieve the mood, as it were. I walked down the block and bought a case of Schlitz in cans. (Do you know how hard it is to find Schlitz beer these days?) I drank a 12-pack, and then went out to the backyard to roll around naked in the mud – we’ve had a bit of rain lately. I then came in and put on the record – “Woodstock: Original Soundtrack from the Movie,” which I still possess. I imagine I could have smoked some dope, too, but weed was never my thing, so I periodically downed shots of Cuervo instead.
Well, shit. I’m sad to report that I really don’t feel “transposed” back to the place and time, and I can’t even seem to latch on to any sort of peaceful ebb in my own setting. In fact, I feel lousy, what with this Schlitz beer running through my system and David Crosby whining for more (or was it less?) “bottom end,” and the only repercussion I can pinpoint is that the original concert – all three glorious days of it – gave us a reason to have another, 25 years later. Ah, memories…
Here in 1994, I guess I’m not buying all this hype and sentimentality. It was nice enough while it lasted and there was a scant bit of good music there, in between the political and hippie blithering. But Woodstock wasn’t, as many have attempted to deem it, a “new beginning.” It was a crazed and muddy ending to an era during which we thought anything was possible, even the gathering of “a half-million kids for three days of fun and music.”
Little did we know. We thought the ‘60s had been nuts, having no idea how insane the ‘70s would, in retrospect, show us what a bunch of thugs we were. Far above the music and any symbolism, Woodstock was the final chapter in a book about open-mindedness, generosity and acceptance. It really should have happened in 1967, the same year as the Monterey Pop Festival, which any performer who attended and/or played both will tell you and was a far better gig.
But it didn’t.
I think it’s time to put J. Geils' “Blow Your Face Out” on the turntable and mix a margarita.
