Civil Unrest
My darling, dear friend Julia points me to a piece in that biased Washington Post — you know, the left wing newspaper where all of those liberal reporters rouse the rabble. Here, we have a staff writer, Phillip Kendicott (of the Palm Beach Kendicotts, I wonder?) exposing the shocking incivility displayed by that rabid leftist poet, Calvin Trillin. The man simply doesn’t know how to behave, what what:
As a poet who specializes in skewering the right-wing, he works with both a poetic and a hunting license. And yet, as a poet, there’s something basically reputable about him, no matter how mean he is, that distinguishes him from the psychotic bloggers, obsessive conspiracy theorists and self-appointed prophets of extreme talk radio. Lump him in with other middle-world figures, polemicists like filmmaker Michael Moore and late-night comedians who reduce politicians to pure caricature.
Reputable? Please, I can’t even read the words “Michael Moore” without needing a good stiff Glenlivet colonic just to get through the day. Bastards, wogs and kaffirs one and all, don’t you know. Why, I was just saying to Muffy yesterday how alarmingly disreputable the hoi polloi has become lately. She said “off with their heads,” — only joking, of course. But, would that we had the power to threaten such, I believe we could make a difference.
I find that you can say a lot, so long as it rhymes,” says Trillin, from New York. For instance: Looking to rhyme the last name of former New York Sen. Alfonse D’Amato, Trillin came up with “sleaze-bag obbligato.”
“You can’t say that in prose,” says Trillin. Nor can you breezily call Elliott Abrams (the National Security Council member who pleaded guilty to two misdemeanor counts of misleading Congress during the Iran-contra scandal, and was later pardoned by George H.W. Bush) “a felon,” or imply that the return to grace of John Poindexter (whose conviction on five felony charges after the same scandal was overturned) is a sign of the current administration’s preference for criminals among its top ranks (High-level appointments now favor the guys / With rap sheets instead of CVs).
Really now, that is beyond the pale. After all, who hasn’t committed a misdemeanor or two and been pardoned by a Bush family member? Why, Bushes of one sort or another have been pardoning members of my family for simply ages. How typically lowbrow this all is. Mr Trillin and his ilk are no better than they ought to be and someone should remind them of their place.
Trillin, 68, likes to call himself a “Deadline Poet,” a title that emphasizes his essential poetic talent: speed. More bluntly put, he is a doggerelist, toiling in the service of the poor, maligned Left, countering by example its unmerited reputation for humorlessness.
(One thing we conservatives are is unroariously funny. Why, I was at the club just the other day and I heard a hilarious joke about a jew, a negro and a monkey walking into a (slovenly, I’m sure) tavern somewhere where they said all manner of disgraceful things and we all just laughed and laughed.)
And, I could not agree more with this:
Von Dreele’s style, like his politics, contrasts sharply with Trillin’s. Von Dreele, who is just shy of 80, belongs to the old guard of the National Review. He’s a gracious relic of the magazine’s good old days, when being conservative had less to do with attack-dog politics and religious fundamentalism, and was more about a wry pessimism when it came to the frailties of Man. When you talk to von Dreele, and read his verse, you imagine a world of blue blazers and crisply pressed khakis, a world where the sun hangs low over the golf course and darts of orange light glint on the surface of your glacially chilled martini.
Yes, I remember it well. Indeed I spent just last evening dressed in crisply pressed khakis watching the sun hang low over the golf course, sipping my glacially chilled martini as I pondered the frailties of man. One very special frail man. In a speedo.
The essence of a partisan worldview — and we’re all guilty — is confidence about things that can’t be proved: the motivations of other people, their psychological makeup, the dark truths about their lives for which there is as yet no smoking gun. These speculations are supported with a mix of facts, fantasy and the guiding power of our most basic, operating truths about the world.
Dear God, man. Never say I swim in that fetid swamp. My basic operating truths about the world are simple. Some of us are meant to lead while the rest are meant to follow. You know who you are.
It is the role of the Deadline Poet (and all the other denizens of the political middle-world) to articulate the simple thoughts widely held by half the polarized electorate — e.g. Bush is a moron, Kerry is a snob — yet can’t be directly spoken in respectable journals. Coated with a sweet veneer of verbal virtuosity, these truths slip into the political bloodstream. The pleasure of the poet, and the reader, is seeing these mean little memes circulating freely, doing their damage, a leperous distilment poured into the porches of our ears.
I beg your pardon. Is he comparing one’s ears to a porch? What kind of porch? And what “leperous distilment” does one pour on a porch? Or an ear’s porch. Or a porches ears. I do believe I’ve been insulted. I may have to call him out, what what?
Do read darling Julia’s pithy response to Mr. Kendicott as well. I do believe she puts him in his place.