We went sailing Sunday, and the long stretches watching the water go by were conducive to deep thinking. So I tried to remember:
When was the last time I was represented in the House of Representatives by someone who didn’t make me fume, wince or cringe?
It wasn’t yesterday, certainly: Carolyn Cheeks Kilpatrick, mother to the vile Kwame, is my representative now. Her tripartite name seems born to be married to “grand jury investigation.” CAR-o-lyn CHEEKS Kil-PAT-rick. GRAND JU-ry in-vest-ti-GA-tion. It’s not quite iambic pentameter, but it works. She leases a vehicle, at taxpayer expense, to carry her around her district. True to the Kilpatrick School of Public Service, it is a Cadillac.
Before her, Mark Souder. No need to rehash that one.
Before him, Dan Coats. I remember Coats most for being author of the Communications Decency Act, although, to be sure, this was when he was a senator, after he’d been replaced in the House by the Goober. The CDA was overturned by the Supreme Court and by other courts in dribs and drabs, but what I mainly recall about it was, the law appeared to be written by people who still thought “the internet” = America Online.
Before Coats, I lived in Ohio. Ah yes — how can I forget Chalmers Wylie? Wylie made headlines when he tried to strip the Library of Congress of $103,000, the precise dollar amount it took to produce Braille editions of Playboy magazine.
Think about that for a minute.
If nothing else, it gave the city’s newspaper columnists enough fodder to fatten a feedlot. “I’m only feeling it for the interviews” was but one of the witticisms our own came up with.
For all the college degrees among its voters, Columbus was in general not well-served by its delegation when I lived there. In fact, this reverie was also prompted by the death this week of Donald “Buz” Lukens, another right-wing hypocrite. He left Congress after he was caught on tape negotiating with — Kirk, correct me if I have the details wrong — the mother of a teenager he wanted to come over for some sexytime. As I recall he was fond of African-American girls, whom he would require to wear fluffy white bathrobes.
Again, the wags and goofs and talk-show hosts gathered at the trough for a heaping pile of slops. My favorite was the classified ad that ran deep in the Dispatch real-estate listings, for a piece of property close to a middle school, touted as a BUZ LUKENS SPECIAL. May God bless all classified-ad takers and their dear, dim dictation. I’m sure after the first week, it’s all Xs and Os.
When I was in college, registered to vote in Athens, it was some guy named Clarence Miller. All I know about him is, he didn’t court the student vote.
I’m probably forgetting somebody, but these are certainly the lowlights. As an American, I hope to someday have the experience of sending someone to Washington whom I feel represented by, someone who, if they don’t share my beliefs, at least understands them. Where do I have to move, guys?
Some quick bloggage today, because I have to start the errand mambo in mere moments:
Jon Carroll salutes the police blotter at the Arcata Eye again:
“Thursday, April 15 9:21 a.m. A TransAm’s inherent awesomeness was kicked up a significant notch with an impressive burnout demonstration (a symbolic representation of the young buffoon’s ever-so-agile sperm motility, though he likely wasn’t thinking about that, or much else) at Sunset and Western avenues. But the display of reproductive prowess took a humiliating plummet when the mouth-breathermobile slammed into a fire hydrant, unleashing a prematurely orgasmic fountain of wa-wa.”
And so on. (You know, a TransAm does have inherent awesomeness. More than a Prius, anyway. You Californians, always harshin’ the domestic product.)
You know, at the military academies’ graduations, when the graduates all throw their hats in the air? I always wondered how they went about retrieving them. Turns out they don’t.
And now I am off.