6/16/2009, 5:27 pm
Since I am a made progressive, one of my heroes is Mark Morford, who understands better than anyone else the horrors of Republicans, and some of his most insightful work is here. Here is an example:
Is there anything more beautiful to your ears? Such cadence in his prose, such a ring of truth. Worms and the flesh of a sweet little bunny. If only Wordsworth had his skill.
There's more:
This is thinking of a high order—higher than reasoning. It is feeling, or more probably, fweewing.
But one thing bothered me: this continual drum-beat of rage. Don't get me wrong—I can sit up all night hating the Rethuglicans with the best of them, while I'm not engaging in typical prog functions of stealing, preening, and lying, and so I like a fellow traveler as long as he doesn't have my passwords or a key to the house. But there was something just a bit...much...about the volume of Mr. Morford's prose.
I recall when I was in high school I was the worst fag basher around. I made the worst queer jokes. I wanted to draw attention away from the secret that I bore. And so that sound was familiar...
Last night the doorbell at the Rancho de Rio Grande rang and Bruno ran in his platform mules to the door like an overcaffeinated puppy. When it wasn't a delivery for him, he called out, “Theocritus! It's some, like, strange man for you.” I went to the door and the man was Mark Morford.
“Theocritus, can I talk to you?” he asked, staring at his shuffling feet.
Nonplussed I said, “By all means, Mark, come in. Here. Let me take your coat.” I put it on the coat rack which has a built-in scale. Weigh a prog's coat in, weigh it out. Cuts down on the losses.
I led him to the den and asked him to sit and cleared my throat.
“Theocritus, I have been thinking, and it's been very hard. I don't know how to say this…”
“Just say it,” I offered, giving him my kindest non-impaling eyes.
“I've been writing about the Repugs for years and you know how I feel…”
“It's obvious, Mark, for anyone with eyes,” I interrupted soothingly.
“…but lately I've been wondering. What about all that stimulus debt. Won't someone have to, like, uh…”
“What, Mark?” I asked my tone a bit sharp.
“Like, uh, pay it back?”
I started laughing. “My god, Mark, you're doing stand-up now. You're funnier than Margaret Cho, well, who isn't? But don't worry. That will happen like months or years from now and we'll find someone to blame it on. The Repugs of course.”
“But will there be enough money to pay it back without everyone working all his life to do it?”
“Hell, no, we'll just inflate the currency and pay it back with useless dollars.”
“But,” and here he was visibly sweating, “isn't that like, uh, fraud? And will people lend to us any more?”
“Mark,” I said sternly, “Do you think that you should concern yourself with economics when luminaries like Paul Krugman will do your thinking for you? And in The New York Times? The paper of record?”
“Aren't they broke because no one is reading it?”
“Mark, this is getting to be dangerous territory… I'd think carefully if I were you before I'd continue.”
Mark had settled down and was not so nervous.
“And, Theocritus,” here he shot me a defiant look, “I think that actions should have consequences.”
I put my hands over my ears and screamed, “La la la la la la. I can't hear you! I can't hear you!”
“Theocritus, I've thought a lot about it. I repeat. Actions should have consequences!”
“Dear Stalin, make it stop! Make the pain stop! Please make the pain stop,” I shouted, weak and pale, sweating bullets. Finally I ran out of breath, and tears, and my hands fell to my sides. “Mark, why have you done this to me? Why?”
“Theocritus, I came here to ask your advice. I know that you know how to come out of a closet. I think…” he hesitated then squared his shoulders, “…that I am a Republican.”
The room swirled around me and I struggled to catch my breath.
“And I want your advice on how to come out of the closet. As a Republican.”
"WTF are you doing, Morford? I don't mind if people think I'm a pervert, but I'd die if people thought I was a Republican."
At that point I passed out, and woke in the hospital a week later on a ventilator.
------------
A tip of the ushanka to Red Rooster for the shopping
Herr Morford wrote: It used to be so easy. Every day, every headline, every pronouncement or misunderestimation from Dubya brought a new opportunity for your colon to clench and your breath to turn sour and the universe's skin to crawl. A single glance at Karl Rove and you were instantly swarmed with visions of tiny worms eating through the flesh of a sweet little bunny until it turned black and rotten and Rick Santorum. You had but to utter the words "Trent Lott" in the presence of children and the screaming wouldn't subside for three straight days. Remember?
Is there anything more beautiful to your ears? Such cadence in his prose, such a ring of truth. Worms and the flesh of a sweet little bunny. If only Wordsworth had his skill.
There's more:
Many spiritually advanced people I know (not coweringly religious, mind you, but deeply spiritual) identify Obama as a Lightworker, that rare kind of attuned being who has the ability to lead us not merely to new foreign policies or health care plans or whatnot, but who can actually help usher in a new way of being on the planet, of relating and connecting and engaging with this bizarre earthly experiment. These kinds of people actually help us evolve. They are philosophers and peacemakers of a very high order, and they speak not just to reason or emotion, but to the soul.
This is thinking of a high order—higher than reasoning. It is feeling, or more probably, fweewing.
But one thing bothered me: this continual drum-beat of rage. Don't get me wrong—I can sit up all night hating the Rethuglicans with the best of them, while I'm not engaging in typical prog functions of stealing, preening, and lying, and so I like a fellow traveler as long as he doesn't have my passwords or a key to the house. But there was something just a bit...much...about the volume of Mr. Morford's prose.
I recall when I was in high school I was the worst fag basher around. I made the worst queer jokes. I wanted to draw attention away from the secret that I bore. And so that sound was familiar...
Last night the doorbell at the Rancho de Rio Grande rang and Bruno ran in his platform mules to the door like an overcaffeinated puppy. When it wasn't a delivery for him, he called out, “Theocritus! It's some, like, strange man for you.” I went to the door and the man was Mark Morford.
“Theocritus, can I talk to you?” he asked, staring at his shuffling feet.
Nonplussed I said, “By all means, Mark, come in. Here. Let me take your coat.” I put it on the coat rack which has a built-in scale. Weigh a prog's coat in, weigh it out. Cuts down on the losses.
I led him to the den and asked him to sit and cleared my throat.
“Theocritus, I have been thinking, and it's been very hard. I don't know how to say this…”
“Just say it,” I offered, giving him my kindest non-impaling eyes.
“I've been writing about the Repugs for years and you know how I feel…”
“It's obvious, Mark, for anyone with eyes,” I interrupted soothingly.
“…but lately I've been wondering. What about all that stimulus debt. Won't someone have to, like, uh…”
“What, Mark?” I asked my tone a bit sharp.
“Like, uh, pay it back?”
I started laughing. “My god, Mark, you're doing stand-up now. You're funnier than Margaret Cho, well, who isn't? But don't worry. That will happen like months or years from now and we'll find someone to blame it on. The Repugs of course.”
“But will there be enough money to pay it back without everyone working all his life to do it?”
“Hell, no, we'll just inflate the currency and pay it back with useless dollars.”
“But,” and here he was visibly sweating, “isn't that like, uh, fraud? And will people lend to us any more?”
“Mark,” I said sternly, “Do you think that you should concern yourself with economics when luminaries like Paul Krugman will do your thinking for you? And in The New York Times? The paper of record?”
“Aren't they broke because no one is reading it?”
“Mark, this is getting to be dangerous territory… I'd think carefully if I were you before I'd continue.”
Mark had settled down and was not so nervous.
“And, Theocritus,” here he shot me a defiant look, “I think that actions should have consequences.”
I put my hands over my ears and screamed, “La la la la la la. I can't hear you! I can't hear you!”
“Theocritus, I've thought a lot about it. I repeat. Actions should have consequences!”
“Dear Stalin, make it stop! Make the pain stop! Please make the pain stop,” I shouted, weak and pale, sweating bullets. Finally I ran out of breath, and tears, and my hands fell to my sides. “Mark, why have you done this to me? Why?”
“Theocritus, I came here to ask your advice. I know that you know how to come out of a closet. I think…” he hesitated then squared his shoulders, “…that I am a Republican.”
The room swirled around me and I struggled to catch my breath.
“And I want your advice on how to come out of the closet. As a Republican.”
"WTF are you doing, Morford? I don't mind if people think I'm a pervert, but I'd die if people thought I was a Republican."
At that point I passed out, and woke in the hospital a week later on a ventilator.
------------
A tip of the ushanka to Red Rooster for the shopping
