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Edited on Tue Aug-31-04 11:49 PM by hatrack
The Golden State’s Rippling One delivered a speech which may well be the worst on record since Alf Landon kicked off his campaign in 1936 with the immortal declaration that “Everyone I have gone in this country, I have met Americans.” True, Arnold avoided the pure corn-fed banality of the flat and nasal pronouncements of the long -gone Kansas Coolidge. But as sounding brass and tinkling cymbal - or simply as minimally significant sound and fury - it came close to that rare gold standard of those distant Dust Bowl days.
In the space of twenty-odd minutes, Schwarzenegger managed to cite Richard Nixon as his political inspiration, described the horrors of Communism and predictably enough attributed its fall solely to the actions of Americans - Republican Americans, that is - avowed his undying admiration for larger-than-life “heroes” like John Wayne and then ran through a lengthy laundry list of Republican virtues, most of which seemed to involve loving money and hating government.
Fair enough - there’s an ancient and honorable tradition of defending one’s rights and property against overweening tyranny. But his grasp of pretty much all matters beyond pure self-interest seemed deeply shallow. In the face of massive and permanent job loss, falling wages and benefits and unprecedented deficits and debt, he dismissed economic concerns as the province of “girly men.” He also managed to dismiss America’s economic competitors, sniffing at China and India, as well as at Japan and Europe. No need for concern here, since in his words “America always moves forward.” Cabbages also move forward when kicked across parking lots.
A couple of oh-so-predictable movie references lowered the bar for those who were perhaps feeling a bit intimidated by the intellectual rigor of Monday’s proceedings: the Democrats’ convention was nothing more than a bunch of True Lies, a wounded veteran pledged to the California governor that “he’d be back.” Harmless fun, one can argue, and as surely as guppies rise to fish flakes, roaring madness engulfed the hall with each pronouncement. And for those concerned with the long-term import of multi-divisional American expeditionary forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and in most of the other oil-bearing regions around the planet, no worries. America, according to Arnold, simply doesn’t do resource imperialism. No, we’re in it for the human rights, you see.
But it wasn’t just the condescending pseudo-historical bullshit comprising the bulk of his speech that proved irritating. Nor was it the vacuous star-fucking insanity evident on the faces of most of the delegates. Admittedly, maybe the sight of any Austrian rousing a crowd to a political frenzy would have grated on me as an inept dentist scraping a bad bicuspid. No, what stood out was the wishful thinking that erected Arnold’s shining city on the hill. He got lucky, you see, and you can too. “It doesn’t make any difference who your parents were”, said the Governor, jamming the Phenobarbital needle deep into the heart of irony. You may not end up marrying into the Kennedy clan, and you may not become rich and famous, but you can’t win if you don’t play!
Citizenship-as-lottery is something of a new approach in inspiring political activism and in promoting all-American sweat equity, but perhaps in light of lengthening hours, dropping real wages, and the exciting new debt casino that is the shrinking middle class, it’s about all the Republicans have left. As a statesman and spokesman, Schwarzenegger was as venal and vacant as anyone the GOP has offered in the last 20 years. As pitchman of the new political economy he seemed perfect. Sure, Dick Cheney voted against any sanctions against the South African government which imprisoned Mandela - the same Nelson Mandela cited by the Governator as a political hero - but hey, who cares about historical details when there’s a shining city to build?
The less said about the twins’ stuttering, mumbling moment in the spotlight, the better. The best that can be said is that Jenna is no Vanessa Kerry, Barbara is no Caitlin Edwards and it’s probably a safe bet that neither will be taking the MCAT anytime soon.
The brief and hideous televised intrusion of GeeDubya himself into the arena was quickly turned aside, in much the same way that quick-thinking secret agents thwarted the blimp-borne threat in the movie “Black Sunday”, and it was time for First Lady Laura Bush. She got lucky, you see, and you can too. You may not marry the son of a US Senator/CIA Director/Vice-President/President, but you can’t win if you don’t play! Besides, this is America, where it doesn’t make any difference who your parents were.
As presidential surrogates go, Mrs. Bush is certainly better than most offered by the RNC so far. A woman of some warmth and charm, she’s far better than her husband at connecting with people. Her speech was certainly more genuine than that of Bill Frist, who made tens of millions in the HMO business but who’s really in politics in order to protect the friendly family doctor you vaguely remember from television series of the 1950s. Her speech was certainly more effective than that of Lt. Gov. Michael Steele of Maryland, who in the rhetorical equivalent of falling down a flight of stairs with two armloads of groceries, pronounced hope useless before listing muscular traits of Republican self-reliance that would have done Horatio Alger proud while making Ralph Waldo Emerson blow his two bags of groceries.
But sadly for Laura, what matters is that she doesn’t matter all that much. Her popularity with the party’s base may fill Madison Square Garden with heat and noise, but her accounts of watching Hubby wrestle with big decisions do not serve to dismiss evidence that those decisions were made long before he entered the White House. Her accounts of encounters with ordinary Americans do not erase the almost hermetic detachment of her family from the realities and concerns of ordinary Americans and the pressures of their lives. And her assertions of the fundamental decency of her husband cannot erase “Please, don’t kill me,“ “Who cares what you think?”, and “I believe God speaks through me.”
Whatever Night Two was about, it wasn’t about compassion. It was wishful thinking presented as shatterproof facts. It was condescending celebrity worship wobbling in the sandals and robe of Pericles. It was full-throated roars of “USA! USA!” when maybe, just maybe a touch of humility would have been in order. Most of all, it was a great number of people who’ve been given everything, including our collective suspension of disbelief, asking that we suspend it for another four years, knowing what we know.
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