9 August 2021
The List: 1996
The year was 1996, and I was on a list. I was probably on several lists, and I shudder to think of them today!
My research methods can be summed up thusly: off-the-wall and off-the-beaten-path. That wall is so out-there, and that path is so less traveled that even I have a hard time retracing my steps, after having traveled them. But travel them I do.
Case in point is The List of Layoffs that I chanced upon online last week. This site was not your ubiquitous propagandized website of massaged figures and distorted facts and numbers to present a radiant face to one Political Party, and a black eye to the Person Who Shall Not Be Named and Shall Remain Non-existent.
Gosh, the globalists are going broke in certain sectors, especially big-time banking in Spain. The Tekkie Trade is in real trouble over there in India. Air travel, vacationing, recreating, and theme-parking have been blotted out. And the Bank of Germany is buying up more and more chunks of its own auto industry, especially the pension debt packages. Volkswagen has been greened into a fast grave. What a fitting end to the Hippie-Mobile and Bug created by the Third Reich!
Angela really does have a big problem over there!
What has all of this financial inevitability to do with the year 1996?
That year was the re-election of the Clinton Machine, of Clinton the Chin, and his lovely wife Bruno. It was a 3-way contest; once again Ross Perot played the stinker. The choice for who was gonna build that bridge to the 21st century leaned heavily toward the Incumbent Prez-Pervert who couldn’t operate a Mr. Coffee machine, just pull the illegal levers of money-laundering under the guise of You Can’t Trust the Other Guy.
Me, I was in the midst of living it out in suburbia, raising my tots. I’d not yet become infuriatingly appalled enough to commit to the arduous and all-mighty work of home-schooling my offspring, and high-tailing it to the foothills.
The entire nincompoop blob around me of Soccer Moms (and, yes, I was the a-typical mother of an a-typical soccer-playing boy) was suffocating me with their selfishness, arrogance, and materialistic elitism, an uppity stupidity that drove me straight into volunteerism.
Believe me, happy women do not volunteer. Neither do happy men.
The Campaign of 1996 was underway, and I could not, with a clear and clean conscience, do nothing and let the Sleazebag get re-elected without at least raising one fist in the air. I had to lift a finger or two and DO something! Evidently, half a dozen other suburban women felt the same way in this Precinct Headquarters in a vacant retail-stall in a strip mall in central Roseville, CA, USA. (The NJ-style non-corporate pizza joint, named Liberty Pizza, served terrific take-out thin-crust cheese).
The Precinct Captain was a guy with an Italian family name that made this Jersey girl feel right at home. His dad owned the strip-mall, and had “made available” this empty space. That long and narrow building was wedged into the inner corner of the L-shaped rows of commercial real estate. Such a physical arrangement normally makes me claustrophobic, and it did; but I was a real trooper in those days for the cause of trying to wake up California to, well, anything.
I shall call my Captain “Mr. M.” He had a tag-along younger brother; and they were in high dudgeon all the time about what Clinton was doing to the country. He offered to lend me the Videotape About The Mena Airport, but, even at that early point in the scandal-pile-up, I’d decided to live my life and wait for the very ill effects of Clintonism to come a cropper. And this was all pre-Monica.
Those twenty years have passed by so quickly!
I was not in high dudgeon about the high-jinx and lowlifes in the White House. I had The American Spectator (TAS) coming to me, monthly, to comfort, inform and inspire me. I was nonetheless routinely ticked off at the Suburban Citizenry who could not, or would not, see through the very obvious fraud, lies, trickery, corruption, deviancy and incompetence of the entire white-trash crime syndicate from Arkansas.
What irked me even more, though, was the fact that Mr. Dole, Bob Dole, had a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this election, but he was being viewed as the Savoir of the Nation by the people terrified of The Clintons, especially The non-lady Lady Macbeth of Little Rock.
And I’ll confess that the cover of TAS from May 1993 did give me a nightmare. Dear Hubby says that I woke up, shouting, in the middle of the night, to get that drape off of me!
I try to confine my dreams to the symbolism that I can use in fictional work, but that approach does not always work, or, I should say, it never works. My Muse does not permit my direction of the creative REM-sleep impulses. The other night, I had a dream about Dick Cheney entering a shop in Auvers, France. I researched the location; Auvers is where Vincent Van Gogh suicided!
To return to 1996, please.
I must fight the impulse to type “Bob Dole” here when contemplating “Bob Dole”, because this decent upright man had, and might still have, the very unfortunate habit of speaking of himself in the third person. There was something sadly telling in that grammatical construction. Mr. Dole is, nonetheless, a noble man, a proud fighter, and a true war hero.
He did his very best to win with a losing hand at a time when the majority of citizens in this nation preferred to indulge in a holiday from heroism, a holiday from leadership, a holiday from history, a holiday from thinking — every day.
When Candidate Dole asked, during the closing days of the campaign, “Where’s the Outrage?”, he spoke for me. He spoke for many, but not enough, Americans.
In 1996, those Greedy Geezers held sway over the younger generations in America. The Soche Lockbox and Medi-scare tactics of the 1990s and a pre-9/11 America got transformed into the Societal Lockdown and COVID Panic Porn of 2020. By then, those geezers weren’t greedy anymore. Most of them were dead, or they were about to be.
The geezers of 1996, the ones whom the Clintons had worried about being able to have enough $$$$ to buy their pills, those avaricious old duffers would go to their final resting places, and be followed by the geezers who weren’t greedy. Those World War II Babies had become the sitting ducks in the nursing homes of the Campaign of 2020.
Those old folks didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to their loved ones. They’d been tossed overboard as a Voting Bloc, and were locked up, tighter than that Lockbox of Social Security. Those unselfish senior citizens got greeded into their graves by the piggish Governors following the Clinton Machinery SOP.
That campaign of power at any cost started during the Campaign of 1996.
In Placer County, the Campaign of 1996 got off to a late start, due to the organizational $$$$ arriving late, very late, sometime after the convention. I was led in this valiant work by the County Party Chairperson, a woman of that Greatest Generation. She and I discussed many fascinating facts, events, and musical tidbits about those War Years, and the role that women played on the home front.
She and I saw eye-to-eye on so many things that I think my participation in this losing cause proved to her that it wasn’t a losing cause, just a bruising bump in a very long and difficult road.
The other women volunteers were all homemakers; but I was known as The Mom Who’s Also a Writer, because my first novel NORTHSTAR had been published two years earlier. It was in distribution to bookstores across the USA, and was selling well, into the double-digit thousands, in the South.
I was expected by the publisher (who turned out to be a white-collar crook) to conduct my own promotion regionally. I’d sent a copy of my fictional book to my local radio station talk-show “host”. This Moderate had driven me to more than a few phone calls to the radio station, just to let him know the time had come — for him to get off of the middle of the fence to which his derriere was so self-righteously affixed. Obviously, I was not a fan of his, but my succinct mouthing-off (the Jersey in me) must have helped his ratings enormously!
I’d also sent a copy of NORTHSTAR to my District’s State Senator. He read it, enjoyed it, and then handed it to his wife. She read it, late into the night. And she absolutely, positively loved it!! The praise was so effusive and glowing that I tended not to believe it.
I do believe that I was, at that point, put onto a List, albeit without my awareness of it. Mr. M, though, knew it. Anytime that there was An Event, and there were many during that summer and autumn, Mr. M. informed me that I was invited, even before he was. With a mixture of insulted consternation and flat-out confusion, he finally asked me:
“Are you on some kind of list??”
I widened my eyes and shrugged. I honestly did not know. To this day, I still do not know, for sure, but I’ll venture to say that I was put on a list long before the lucrative trick of people paying to get themselves on a list!
I love making my own lists, but I presently work as hard as I can to get my name off of any list outside the realm of my home.
I refuse to pay to get my name removed from anything, but there might be a new profitable cottage industry springing up in America: The Citizen paying to get off of Promotional Lists. Congress ought to capitalize on that issue, by sitting on it for a few decades.