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As announcements of Presidential candidatures arise this season – wafting like plump, fecal schooners in a toilet of ineptitude – one is reminded of the many underwhelming facets of this country’s government and politicians. Seeing that this journal is not intended as a political forum, I would like to turn attention toward two of the more deplorable differentiae of democracy: the modern voting machine and the public etiquette of the Body Politico. Wherein the two are not directly related, but nonetheless significant to the recent descent of humankind into a bottomward helix of cultural abomination, they will be discussed separately. I. The Hollow Artifice of Democracy One’s fondest memory of his or her introduction to the democratic process is most likely the trip to the voting machine with Mother or Father. Nothing wholly compared to the sensation that enveloped the senses upon entering that clumsy berth of suffrage. A hushed ushering was countered by the sudden SHUNK of the pallid, rayon curtains. Within the booth – seasoned with the musk of myriad futile votes for the Deweys, Goldwaters and Mondales of our history – one was eclipsed by the analog, inclined grade of levers and names that seemed to graze the gymnasium ceiling. The real apprehension arose soon thereafter, amidst the uncertainty as to whom would not only turn the spring-loaded knobs, but officially cast the vote with a no-turning-back-now tug on the industrial-gauged lever. Another loud SHU-GUNK rattled the booth, simultaneously plugging the ballot card and resetting all of the askew tabs. The proletarian yet mannered process was definitively American in sprit. The experience was real and the vote felt important. But, on par with the demise of all things tangible and grandiose, this hulking icon of laissez faire was soon to become a permanent relic of a time and place as illusory as Toyland.   I was fortunate enough to register to vote on the very precipice of the phasing-out of that beauteous but ill-fated beast. Although the election was simply one of school budgets and local miscellany, it was nonetheless a true rite of passage for me. I felt no less empowered than one casting a mayoral (nay, gubernatorial!) ballot among the tax-paying middle class. However, the following election, I was unexpectedly met (High Noon-style) by a keypad-pocked, plastic abhorrence of all things unholy, resembling a sexed-up Magnavox Odyssey 2 Computer (c. 1980).  I peered hither and thither, expecting to see a huddled semicircle of volunteer registrars laughing into their clipboards at my expense; the victim of an elaborate practical joke involving what appeared to be a Speak & Spell of the Damned. But, in one of the earliest incidents to prompt my loathing of modernity, I found the incident to be anything but a farce. This was the actual conduit betwixt the collective heart and hand of Western Democracy, and the man who would next inhabit the highest house in the history of humanity. This.  This is what it now meant to be a voting American. Reluctantly, I poked at the printed-on keys, which belched back a muted, dimpled pucker of futility. BUCKA. Hmm. BUCKA. BUCKA. I… think I just voted. As I left what I have declared to be my final trip to the ballot box, I felt as though everything that was ever earned and fought for – by revolutionaries, minutemen, blues, grays, suffragettes, Bull Moose, dough boys and the sort – was cheapened to the point of disgrace and disregard for all standards upon which this country was built. Little did I realize at the time that, in the years to follow, the abasement of politics would be rivaled only by the unfortunate decent of the American voting machine. Lesson 1: If you ever feel there’s nothing left that could possibly be ruined, just wait five years. II. The Modern Taboo of Political Righteousness One can, with a somewhat folkloristic reluctance, dust off the annals of American history to find fantastical tales of men whom once ran this country with aptitude and assurance. They boldly waltzed the lines between pretense and humility; magnanimousness and routine; all whilst donning a familial air and a jingoistic disposition. Regarding these quintessential Imperialists, the common citizen could hardly have swallowed the breadth of their Presidential burdens. Yet the ability had, by men like Theodore Roosevelt, to communicate universally with a succinct and forthright language was the key to successful administrations backed by populist confidence. These were men whose ideas literally shaped a country with its share of growing pains, but moreover, an unabashed penchant for Manifest Destiny. It seems all but unbelievable that once there existed a period in our history wherein the building of houses, stores, libraries and firehouses evoked a positive connotation. Towns were conceived with civic competence and buildings possessed grand, inviting character that reflected the essence of their significance and content. Men like Roosevelt were the absolute personification of this boon, in a country coming into its own as a significant World Power. I can wholly explain neither the collapse of political integrity, nor the complete loss of civil entrustment in our entire Body Politico. But what can be clarified is the connection between the aforementioned and the forfeiture of shame as a virtue. Again, it is not my intent to discuss politics, but the secondary and less visceral aspects of a politician’s character. Herein, we will explore the probable causes of their demise. With all the attention paid to the trivialities of despotism, the man’s appearance, fortitude and communicative skills are seemingly neglected. Instead, the modern, Presidential housemaids and wet nurses woefully prim and preen our Hapless Herald into a metrosexual, Seacrestian ‘Little Lord Faulteroy’. It may not be entirely his fault, however. We allow focus groups’ collective stranglehold upon modern decision-making to dictate even the way a speaker uses his hands, as a knotted fist and fervent tone are decidedly threatening. A man with conviction is, evidently, a potential Hitler-esque megalomaniac. And a public servant dressed above the barnacle-plagued watermark of The Dockers Co. is considered unelectable and out-of-touch.  "Give me a woman who loves GATERS and I will conquer the world."  "Speak LOUDLY and carry a SHREAD OF SELF-RESPECT."  "I've had one position, one consistent position, that Saddam Hussein's STYLISH POCKET SQUARES were a threat." ‘Armstrong bracelets’ and relaxed-fit chinos may ‘Rock the Vote’, but they shan’t a respectable office-holder make. If I wanted to vote for a ‘sweet-assed bro’, I’d indubitably engage in the tomfoolery and hi-jinks of television’s “American Idol”. Similarly, upon entering a restaurant of distinguished repute, one expects to be received by a maitre d’ who is besuited, shaven and unscented. We thirst to be presided over by those who emit absolute authority; those who seem smarter, better read and better schooled than ourselves. That is why we read Nabokov, watch Kubrick, eat Nobu and listen to Strauss. This is why we don’t perform our own dental surgeries or cure our own salumi. In acknowledging our certain inferiorities we – in turn – surrender to the superiority of the true savant. And we feel outright solace in it. Lesson 2: There may never in this lifetime be a worthy contender for any post greater than that of Senior Class President. So don’t criticize those who simply abide by the flailing dynamo of a candidate, his lips pursed around the better end of a smoldering Churchill. Post a comment in response: |
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