Yep, I am back to rummaging through my father's short (short) stories. It all happened because after a zoom meeting over one of my still lingering projects, I had the sudden urge to reorganize the many drawers in my living room and library, formerly known as the dining room. I moved dad's stories from one in the living room to one in the "library" and pulled one for this blog. The observations hark back to decades ago, ancient history, stuff that the denizens of the Z or whatever generation it is who claim uber knowledge of the universe actually have none at all.
Here goes:
The table in front of Lucky's Supermarket was full of pamphlets and other literature. I caught the headline of a newspaper called the "Federalist". It propounded the cacophony of the day to the world:
"Al GORE, PRINCE PHILIP AND THE DARK NEW AGE. Further down, another revelation: CAUGT IN NEW PLOT! IMPEACH GORE FOR BRIBERY!
A comely young lady stopped me. There were petitions to be signed.
She was young and slim, her hair cut in an attractive boyish style. Beauty is always a reason to stop and remember more important things.
"I see Lyndon is back," I offered.
"He was never gone," she countered. She had the air of an acolyte.
"Where has he been hiding?" I asked.
"He wasn't hiding. He was in jail."
"For what?" I pursued.
"For tax evasion," she said with a cryptic smile.
This is a grievous sin, I thought. It occurred to me that Al Capone, who is reputed to have murdered more than a hundred men--several with his personal application of a baseball bat--was never chastised for those sins. He finally came under the inexorable fist of justice when he failed to pay his taxes. Forever are the ironies of the law.
A handwritten logo appended to the front of the table implored: SAVE US FROM AL GORE!"
"Is Lyndon now a Republican?" I asked.
"No, he is for justice. He wants to save the country. He is a saviour. True, the Republicans want the President impeached for Al to take over. . . ."
I laughed. If there is any terror to inspire Republicans with ear, it is the spectre of the wooden Al in the Oval Office.
"The Republicans would more readily accept Diane Watson," I suggested.
"Al Gore is in a conspiracy with Newt Gingrich," she retorted.
There has to be a time when pure pity calls for drawing a line. Newt was buried under a 50 million dollar demonization, a propaganda campaign. Saint Francis of Assisi could not have withstood such a campaign. How much more sh--t could be piled on the hapless ex-Speaker of the House?
If there is any possible sharing of a community mattress, it is more likely Gingrich was victim of the devastating Clinton charm, and perhaps a few unsubtle reminders of some peccadilloes that might be in one of those sequestered, legendary FBI files.
If ever there was a Republican appeaser of the master, it was Gingrich. He arrived, like a lion, a veritable Savanarola of revolution, and departed a meek lamb. Perhaps he even got an advance copy of "Hustler" as a cautionary bit of advice.
"Gingrich and Gore!" I said. "That's the funniest I ever heard!"
"What's funny?" she replied.
"The idea that Al Gore has the capacity to participate in a complex conspiracy for a ventriloquist dummy.
"He's a willing dupe. There's no limit to which they will go," she insisted.
"Who will go?" I asked.
"Them. They killed Kennedy. And King. And Bobby. They get their money from Armand Hammer's loot, you know, the financier and oil man who was a tool of Stalin, and a favorite of American Intelligentsia."
It occurred to me that she had a strange collction of saints and sinners. They not only crossed party lines; they crossed international longitudes. I suppose when a new god is being created, there have to be pantheons and infernos. Good guys and bad ones. There has to be a melange of new enemies, new evil financiers, and the apotheosis of a new leader, a Duce or a Fuhrer.
"Here," she said, handing me a copy of the Federalist. "Read all about us yourself. A subscription is only twenty dollars."
I accepted the proffer. I am curious. It is always interesting to read about the creation of another Olympian.
There is a fascination in the formation of human robots to evangelize with the new apocrypha, new gospels hidden heretofore by the Corporations, the in priesthoods, and kept from 'we the people'.
I love when that phrase is used and the user includes himself in the plural expression of a democratic royal, "We".
She offered me a pen and held a petition for me to sign. I did not want to discourage her manifest honest zeal.
"Let me read this copy of your newspaper," I offered as an excuse to deflect. "I need a little time."
"Here," she said, handing me a copy of an advisory of a meeting.
It spoke of a "Shiller Institute".
'FINANCIAL CRASH HITS MEXICO, BRAZIL, THE USA! TOWN MEETING, SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1:30 P.M."
I noticed that the leaflet mentioned something about a projection room. Was it only a movie? Would Lyndon appear? There are so manystellar leaders who never do appear. For example, one may ask about the guy who founded Scientology, or Jimmy Hoffa.
"I don't know," she said.
I shook her hand.
The bus was crowded as I wended my way home. A little man was handing out a slip of paper with an important message. "God So Loved the World".
Stamped in fading red print was the name of the sponsors of the printed message, Iglesia De Cristo, the name of the local holy place.
It warned, in part: "Labor not for the meat which perisheth, but for the meat which endurate unto everlasting life. . ."
Now there's a message with a little flesh on it.
