Youth for McCain!

A short and passionate tale of elderly street theater.

Senator McCain scheduled a nice, dull town hall meeting here in Albuquerque. Some of the younger ones wanted to travel down to the UNM (University of New Mexico) campus and stand around demonstrating.

All that seemed reasonable enough. After all, it was a magnificent New Mexico autumn day, sunny and mild, and who knows? A friendly crowd offered the portent of pleasant company and new acquaintances.

I got busy on my home-made sign right away. Spreading the cardboard out on the living room floor and unceremoniously dumping all three boxes of various, colored magic markers nearby on the carpet, I began. As a neighborhood organizer for the Obama Campaign, all manner of aggressive and outlandish ideas for my sign's message were rushing through my mind. Still, there was my anticipation of some design problems, not the least of them the fact that half of the markers were, well, frankly, dried up and useless. Naturally, those would be all the good sign colors.

Furtive memories of that now ancient rebellious glory in Chicago at the Convention in 1968 were, by now, coursing through these old bones like an IV of adrenalin. One lesson of those halcyon days was to always use at least a 1" x 2" for a holding board. Another lesson was to never underestimate the persuasive impact of, yes -- you've got it -- street theater!

The right wording and a few of my "most geezerly" old people clothes would be enough for me to launch my one man mission to sign up young people for my "Youth for McCain" movement! Taping an American flag from WalMart (spelled: China) on the handle of my cane, finished the picture!




Of course, it would take both sides of this masterpiece to fully communicate the compelling nature of this invitation to these, till now, misdirected young people. I added a great, paper sunflower from Dollar General to "draw in the young girls."

That Obama rally was clearly on its last legs. Moving bravely into the midst of the crowd, I began.

"Get a haircut!"
"Join the Army!"
"Buy some stock!"
"Get with the McCain ticket, you spoiled back sliders!"

For those intrepid enough to endure these "American Dream" introductions, I immediately followed up with:

"I'll bet you don't even have a mortgage."

It was a great success! The mortgage crack kept eliciting responses such as "I'm only eighteen," but nothing could deter me once I was obviously on a run. To top off any of these dramatic epithets which got this far, I went on:

"Damned spoiled punk kids! Ingrates! Can't you appreciate all the sacrifices and hard work us old geezers have done to make this world what it is?"

"Grampy McCain is better than you deserve! Now. just hold your nose and get out there and vote for him!"

"You'll look good with a uniform and a rifle!"

Naturally, I offered some well seasoned geriatric advice to the young ladies, too. The astounding and inspiring fecundity of the second candidate in the "Youth for McCain" movement could hardly be overlooked. They were all transfixed by me, my well aged wisdom, that is.

"Have some babies, dammit!"

"America's tax paying future is depending on you!"

Oh well, I assume you have a fairly good picture by this point. Everyone had a good time except the Republicans who found themselves trapped in the auditorium.

Obama for President!

The Merciless Heiropass

Blogdoc 10 Canes and Reconciliation November 22, 2007

For a while after the cane became necessary in a good “common sense” sense, I still clung to the old American ambitions of constant improvement and that sacred hope of rejoining a contemporary moment of “those good old days.” I would walk around with it, absolutely obsessed with my image of maturity and dignity. As was the case with most of my “images,” this was, I finally concluded, not amounting to much more that “singing to the choir.”

My bliss-filled ambitions were finally quelled when I fully, deeply down inside, could no longer escape the verdict that “I am the choir!”

Oh yes, I can effortlessly remember that impetuous and infectious stride, years past, of the young Marine, usurping the independent eyes of all the pretty girls for furtive, longing attention before they glanced away. It occurs to me that they were somehow easier then. They have grown ominously more suspicious here and now in my seventh decade.

Reflecting on the world, I can hardly blame them.

Have the famous three fold aspects of Beelzebub’s Triamazikamno manifested themselves, finally revealing the parts, qualities and periods of my wonderful planetary life? Is this a knowing vision only available now, that is, just now, after the lightening and thunder of my adolescent humanity have calmed a little?

Perhaps I have successfully completed my Affirming and Denying work, leaving me now with this pleasant and reassuring sabbatical for my final Reconciliation. Most of us never get the lucky chance for the cane before this esoteric Phase Three.

Now this incredible old wooden cane, purchased for me at a thrift store by one of my students, is an unthinking affront to the young, a coarse invasion into the temporary luxury of a new world filled with beauty, sexual excitement, troubling Narcissism and what seems to be a perpetual “toothache” inflicted by the sorrow of continuous codependence. If this cane had a voice, it would speak to the young, disquietingly, of geriatric challenges, mortality and inevitable, yet reconstructed, humility. I had supposed that I had lived too long already to, once more, be transformed by unexpected external influences.

Just think. For a while when it was new to me, I toyed with the possibility that this cane might reconstitute itself as a “latter day chick magnet!”

As for the morning of this particular day, I’ll just sit here and enjoy my morning coffee now, thank you.