Over at the watercooler Ashton recently wondered Got any theories how 'we all' became so insipidly boring.. so soon after Yellow Submarine.. how there could be BOTH a Yanni AND a Kenny g-spot - allowed to live? And Lawrence Welk reruns on PBS (!) Can you explain a 20 yo Cunservative in a Ford Tempo on the fast-track to his accounting degree?

(I would have responded there--or at least essayed a redirect--but the system was unresponsive, a shituation not uncommon at the workplace, and which I lump under the technical heading of "wierd firewall issues.")

How, indeed. I have a number of half-baked theories, but let's begin by remembering that people began to realize that a happy outcome wasn't in the cards a long time ago. Hunter S. Thompson nailed it back in 1971:

"You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning...

"And that, I think, was the handle--that sense of the inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting--on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave...

"So now, less than five ears later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las vegas and look West, and with the right ind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark--that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

Of course, the world seemed fresh and green and fraught with possibility because we were younthful then (well, you were youthful when you taped Mario Savio; I was a dependent minor trapped in a drab SoCal suburb from which I wasn't to be sprung--although in the event it took the form of a summary ejection--until 1970). But I think that, as much as we make of dat ol' Sixties magic, the Fifties--in particular that seductive dream of eternal upward mobility-- also had their hooks into us and I wonder whether, when we "dropped out," that decision was not uninformed by the subliminal awareness that we could opt back in to a life of sleepy conformity and material abundance should the revolution, you, know, ever get, like old. It was easy to play at living "poor" (by the standards of our sheltered suburban upbringings) when $200/mo could rent a house for three or four; not so easy today, and when dropping out took the form of a game of musical chairs the despised middle class existence, now no longer to be taken for granted, began to seem like something to covet, and the necessary compromises and gradually larger betrayals somehow less dire.

I know people who believe that the world is ruled by vast, intricate conspiracies and cabals. My old man, for example, is unshakable in his conviction that Bill Clinton had been pre-selected in his early twenties for the presidency (he has also believed at various times that the shadowy figures in the background are the Freemasons, the Bilderbergers, the Council on Foreign Relations, Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands or the Trilateral Commission until, several years ago, he finally settled upon and stuck with--because the dear man really is a traditionalist at heart--the International Jewish Conspiracy). I am more inclined to believe that the privileged take a deist approach to these things, if only to spare themselves the bother of day-to-day oversight of these matters, and that hungry, ambitious, poor white trash Bill Clinton advanced through the meritocracy as through a sieve, the pricklier, rougher--less slick, if you will--specimens who might actually have grown up to threaten the system being safely diverted years earlier. This being said, I'm prepared to acknowledge that the system sometimes behaves as a virtual conspiracy, as though consciously malevolent decisions are being made. It is accordingly possible to imagine these virtual Powers That Be taking stock of the unruly populace sometime between, say, 1968 and 1970, and concluding "These people have way too much time on their hands. A touch of the lash might be in order." And--not altogether by design or premeditation on the part of the rulng classes, but certainly with their cheerful acquiescence--we have the social dynamic that has prevailed since the mid-Seventies, with an anxious middle class running in place and a conspicuous class of urban paupers serving the dual purpose of cautionary goad ("This is what could happen if you don't toe the line") and handy diversionary receptacle for the resentment this middle class might otherwise be minded to direct against their betters--the "class war" our junta so enjoys deploring.

Incidentaly, I apologize if I've been peckish in the fora these past few days. I've had to endure the visit of my insufferable brother-in-law, now departed. He believes in the War on Terror. He believes in John Ashcroft. If Karl Rove had Dubya announce that Osama bin Laden had been tracked to a gingerbread house at the North Pole, he'd believe that. To preserve family peace, and also because I have not wished to give this lout the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he irritates me, I have maintained a facade of seamless equanimity the holiday weekend long whilst murderous fury burnt and roiled within. The effort may have caused my accustomed suavity to slip once or twice online.

cordially,