In the service of fundraising and nostalgia, I am using the occasion of my 10th blogiversary to bring some stuff out of the archives -- a few representational samples from each year.
Writing is a gig from which no writer can truly be fired, but if you want to keep from shaming yourself, you gotta keep your knives sharp and your hands clear. Which means practice, practice every damn day. So whether I was working ludicrous hours for a sadistic creep at a job I considered to be important, or long-term unemployed and in financial free-fall, I wrote. Every day. I still do.
And since no one tells me what to write here, I get wander off into whatever topic pleases me.
Like immigration and how getting used to luxury has despoiled our national soul.
In which Tom Friedman gets this one just about right as far as it goes, but never closes the circle and reaches the Conclusion That Dare Not Speak Its Name: specifically, that George Bush and his pet Republican Party couldn’t be doing a better job of destroying this country if they were the paid agents of a foreign power.
Friedman will never utter those words. Never, ever.
He long ago dropped anchor in the Neverland Lagoon where the problem with the President and his Posse is that – much to Tom’s consternation -- they just don’t realize the harm their doing. It is indeed a puzzlement! That if Captain Obvious could just arrange a 20-minute audience with Himself he could straighten ‘ol Dubya out and explain, for example, that his Iraqi Policy is causing problems, not solving them.
Friedman’s pervasive and fact-free theory is that this “Come to Moses Meeting” would somehow be followed by the thunder of hands slapping foreheads and scales falling from eyes as the GOP collectively comes to grips with their failures; he is stuck in the “technical fix” Universe where people still believe that Bush and his peeps are basically good guys with good intentions, and just suffer from poor execution and being poorly served by a rouge’s gallery of Uriah Heep underlings.
The Captain also treads as lightly as a chubby mouse in a catnip bomber-jacket navigating the main floor of the Lion House just around sup-sup-sup-suppertime, because far too much of his personal well-being is staked to his main gig -- delivering ten-year-old platitudes about globalization to twenty-years-out-of-date, Conservative CEOs. Rich, white men with Republican rock-ribs, who adore George Bush and have voted straight GOP-ticket since they were old enough to golf in ugly pants.
Men who live in First Class – sometimes, to be clear and fair, through dint of long hours and hard work, which are traits to be admired – and have deluded themselves into believing that they can outsource the rivets and steel that hold the plane together, the engines that make it go and the flight crew that navigates it safely though the storm…and yet somehow they will be able to fly on in comfort forever, fueled by consultants and canny financial valuation trickery.