Omar Gonzalez needed to see the president. To tell him “the atmosphere is collapsing.” And urge the president to get the Word on this, out to the People.
But Omar Gonzalez was not a person whose pockets were groaning with gold. And so he had no chance to see the president.
Because that’s just the way it is.
Omar Gonzalez in the 1990s—in Clintontime—had made the fatal mistake of enlisting in the United States military. And so, as is its wont with every soul that comes its way, the military then transformed Omar Gonzalez into a serial killer.
For the next 18 years Omar Gonzalez dutifully wandered the world, hither and yon, looking for people he was told by the US military should be killed. And he then killed them.
Until Omar Gonzalez’ mind, it melted. So that the military, which was responsible for melting his mind, vomited him back into the world. So that, when Omar Gonzalez inevitably ran amok, it would be as a civilian, rather than a soldier. And the military could say: hey, not our problem.
And Omar Gonzalez, back in the states, mind melted, he proceeded to live in a car. Wherein, after a year or so, he came to Understand the Reality of the atmosphere-collapse. And determined he Must pass this fearful Wisdom on to the president. So, in turn, the People, would Know.
So Omar Gonzalez loped across the White House lawn. To get to the president. To plead with the president to tell the people that the atmosphere is collapsing.
He made it into the president’s residence, but there he was tackled by many burly men.
Omar Gonzalez is now in a jail. Where he is accused of many Crimes. By doberman prosecutors who want him to be confined to a cage for many decades. Because it is simply Not Permitted. To lope across the White House lawn. To see the president. Even on a matter as grave as the collapse of the atmosphere. Only if your pockets are groaning with gold, may you see the president. Otherwise, you must go to the dungeon.
And, lo, there is now a great foaming, from the blabbering class of the nation. Ceaseless ululation and garment-rending, demanding to know why in the sam-hell-hill Omar Gonzalez did not have his brains blown out, there on the White House lawn, by the sharpshooters stationed 24/7 on the roof of the residence, or have his throat ripped out, by the avid rabid dogs, that ceaselessly patrol the premises, seeking to hamstring gut throat-rip, any Non-Ordinary interloper.
These bellowing blubbering chattering blabberers, they are even now bringing on a New Reality. In which Maginot Lines of fear-crazed donut-bellied uzi-bearing gendarmes will be stationed many blocks from the White House. Manning checkpoints where citizens will be stripped bare physically and psychologically. Before they will be allowed to proceed to the wee mansion, where the wee puppet, the wee president, does weely play.
“Safety,” uber alles.
I wandered through the White House once. I learned, some time later, that my wander occurred on the very day that, somewhere above, Bill Clinton, at the climax of a fine blow-job, spurted his seed upon Monica Lewinsky’s fine blue dress.
I for sure understand that there is a certain charge in spraying one’s semen upon the clothing of one’s lover. I have been there myself.
But I also understand that, if on that day Monica Lewinsky had swallowed, there would have then been no semen-stains upon the blue dress. And said dress would not later have been snatched by false Lewinsky friend Linda Tripp and transported to the puritans of Kenneth Starr, for DNA testing. And, lacking proof of the ceaseless peregrinations of The Clenis, there would have been no Impeachment. And so in 2000 the fumbler-bumbler but basically good-heart Al Gore would easily have defeated the alcoholic no-brain “I Gotta Be A War President, And A Meaner Sum’Bitch Than My Daddy” George II. And so there would have been no 9/11. Because Gore would have Paid Attention to the babbling munchkins of Al Qaeda. Which Clinton I had done. And which George II refused to do. Because Clinton I had. And so, we would not, all over the world, be where we are now. In a really rather rough patch of Hell.
Once upon a time I was going to write a travel guidebook to Washington DC.
(That’s why I was there. In the White House. While Clinton I was spurting semen onto Monica’s dress.)
As it developed, I didn’t possess the requisite ego, or hubris, to complete such a book project.
Before I (wisely) abandoned said project, however, I accumulated many nuggets of useless wisdom.
Among these, included stories of how, and why, and when, in the early days of these United States, people used to easily weave into the White House, and all the time.
I particularly remember the tale of a clot of inebriated backwoods darn-diggy cheesemakers who one night awoke Andrew Jackson as they attempted to roll through the White House doors a giant wheel of rotting cheese.
Now Andrew Jackson was a volatile and violent man—he routinely whipped his slaves and wanted all the Indians in America savagely put to sleep and he would occasionally pass his days killing people in duels and once he memorably slaughtered hundreds of Britishers several weeks after all hostilities between his nation and the UK had ceased.
But when the cheese-men weaved into his house—the White House—Andrew wrapped round him his robe, descended the stairs, joined his bibulous visitors in a round or nine of grog, thanked them muchly for their curds and whey, and then sent them merrily, satisfied, on their way.
“Mr.” Obama, he who is the black curtains in the white room of the White House, in my opinion, he owed it to Omar Gonzalez, to meet with him.
After all, Omar Gonzalez had spent much of his life dutifully killing people, for the various occupants of the White House. Obama. Bush II. Clinton I.
On behalf of all his fellow figureheads, Obama should have, I think it only fair, congratulated Omar Gonzalez, on a job well done.
Then Obama could have patted Omar Gonzalez on the head. And sent him back to live in his car.
And if he was feeling particularly generous, he might even have advised Omar Gonzalez to try to live as he—Barack Obama—lives. Comfortably numb.
Before the racist misogynist plagiarist Quentin Tarantino snapped him up for Pulp Fiction, John Travolta was languishing in such uber-embarrassing filmic horrors as The Devil’s Rain.
I watched that thing several times: because I was deep in the mountains; the time was eons before cable, much less the tubes; I had stems-and-seeds marijuana; and there was but one TV channel to ride, when I wanted to come down, before dawn, from psychedelic interstellar rides; and that one channel perversely, oft-times repeated, this Devil’s Rain ridiculousness.
The plot and such of the film, these are not important.
And that is where we are today.
All the faces, melting into one. Heigh-ho. Truman’s face melts into Reagan’s. Roosevelt’s into Nixon’s. Obama’s into Bush’s. Clinton I’s into Wilson’s. Hoover’s into Kennedy’s. Heigh-ho. All bloody bastards. Fuck ’em all.
Wilfred Owen, a little bit before his body got sliced and diced for no reason by machine-guns, wrote: “All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true poets must be truthful.”
That was 98 years ago, he wrote that.
And so: so sorry, but I just am no longer willing to shit in my own mouth.
Hope you understand.
When a nation reaches a place where bibulous citizens cannot some midnight drunkenly wheel a mammoth round of cheese into the chief executive’s residence, without fear of being throat-ripped by dogs or head-shot by sharpshooters on the roof, then that nation is over.
Apparently a bunch of well-meaning but clueless smoothbrained wankers this past weekend whined to the skies about climate change by assassinating the climate in leaping aboard climate-murdering cars and trains and jets to obscenely congregate in the climate-destroying filth of cities to there accumulate fetid mounds of climate-choking garbage as they belched slogans and waved signs around that no one will pay attention to and that will make no difference to anyone whatsoever.
Reason #348697/.h76(a) why intelligent life-forms from other worlds do not make themselves manifest on this planet.
Instead, they could have gone, all of these people, to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. And, there, following the lead of the true American hero Omar Gonzalez, they, one by one, could have loped across the lawn, to the White House. There to seek an audience with the president. To tell him that the atmosphere is collapsing. And that the president needs to get this Word out to the People. They could have kept this up. All these hundreds of thousands. One by one. Until the Word was not only Received, but Heeded.
Or until there was no president. And no United States.
Of thee I sing.
Tizuvthee, Old Soapy, land where Thoreau sat and Whitman
walked, despised of all nations, Strontium, alone.
L.A. starlet of tiny dream untrue even to your
tiny dream intolerable up-tight dirty noise New
York, rusty muscle Chicago, hopeless Cleveland
Akron Visalia alcoholic San Francisco suicide
Tizuvthee, I sing.