by Emmett R Smith
AS An amateur historian of some salience and power, I have long been exercised by the critical task of trying to define in extenso the historical failure of the last late-modern american generation.
The great difficulty is first of all even to establish the sheer full range of capacities for incapacity of my overrated baby boomer fellows. There is indeed something protean if not profoundly damaged and accursed, about our foul and lying, incorporated, credentialized corruption, our midas-like knack for turning everything we touch into some thing other than gold — and, every single time too!
This is a conundrum that shall no doubt vex far-asian scholars of chinese historical exceptionalism, down at the end of the century-after-next as they sow their NeoCon-like seeds of future well-earned theoretical policy disaster. In aid of their somewhen comeuppance (but very probably not our meaningful self-understanding) Mr David Brooks in yesterday’s New York Times has supplied another primary source document.
And please note, it’s significance is not in the fact that superficially it is about the political failure of Mrs New York Democrat Senator Bill Clinton. That is only the manifest content. But ringing dully in it like the muffled gong of inevitability is something perhaps fatally diagnostic, about the real moral condition of a lunatic and all-denying, professionally undignified, generation.
In the New York Democrat Senator’s tale-telling on national Tee Vee about derring-do “under fire” there is revealed starkly our criminalized viagresque condition of categorical denial — of the irredemptible and pharmaceutical, all-subsidized, hypermania which in service of that same nation-wrecking denial denies even a minimum of self-respect and does not spare from indignity, and the demand to lie continuously about ones brief actual activity in this life, even old women.
Indeed, Mrs Bill Clinton has reduced herself to the level of the lost prairie-city southern Minnesota bullshitter, and a load of defunct building contractors of a certain prostatic incompetent age and all lying to beat Hell to each other and dribbling, about when “I was in ‘Nam, man” in our own Old Mankato Mettler’s strip-joint.
But why prolong agony? You may read the depressing tale — like all of ours it is little — for yourself:
[Emmett R Smith all rights reserved 25 March 2008]