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At Home in Our Police State
People who've read any amount of my early fiction will know that I have never been a big booster of god and country and other undergoder values, but as the Cheney Years have crept along, my political skepticism, not to say horror, at the state of the union has become well nigh all-encompassing. I no longer see left and right as political alternatives but simple as the two stones of an all-grinding mill. The teletubbies' primal scream of "Run away! Run away!" seems the only sane response to a polity in which thugs like Gonzalez face off against the likes of Ted Kennedy and "spokesmen" of the underclass like Sharpton snuggle up to Hillary at singalongs. Money rules in even the tiniest nooks and crannies. It controls poetry, for instance, as recent articles in the Times and the New Yorker demonstrate. It has turned pop music into gangsta rap and grade-schoolers into drunks and potheads. As to the ultimate roots of the pervasive cultural despair they are complex and probably ineradicable. Those with millions suppose they'll be safe in some tax haven high up and far away. Those without hide in their storm cellars.
What's the solution? I suggest mass suicide. Sell handguns that will serve as tickets of admission to a farewll concert by Dylan and the Rolling Stones. When a Jimmy Hendrix look-alike begins the National Anthem everyone should stand, aim his or her gun, at the person just in front of him, and fire. The problem with this is what is to be done with the people in the last row. A good mathematician should have a answer to that.
Ps I must confess to having slightly plagiarized this from a story I wrote almost four decades ago: "One-A." It was more prescient than I could have believed.