Election night, and the returns are coming in, pretty much as expected. Pete Hoekstra will running against Debbie Stabenow in the fall. Gary Peters will be my new congressman. The Detroit Institute of Arts will most likely get the small tax millage that will allow them to stay open. And my phone will stop ringing. Four more calls today, one coming as late as 3:30 p.m. I was ready to kill. I could have let the all go to voicemail, but our landline rings so infrequently, to have it chirping all day just chaps my ass. So I pick it up, and immediately hang up. And this, my friends, is a first world problem.
The only seriously contested races are small enough that they won’t have clear winners until tomorrow. If only there were a news product that could reveal these things bright and early, that we could read over coffee.
Here’s one: The utterly FUBAR’d mess of the 11th district, left behind by one-time presidential candidate Thaddeus McCotter. The evident winner — at this hour — is inevitably described as a “reindeer farmer,” which he is. I’d like to know more about him, but he’s given virtually no interviews. That’s because it came out some time ago that hey, he’s an actor:
Bentivolio, a Milford teacher, had a prominent role in a low-budget Michigan-made film — “The President Goes to Heaven” — released last year that pokes fun at a fictional character based on Republican former President George W. Bush.
In the 85-minute satire, Bentivolio is the chief physician at a place called the North Oakland Medical Center, where the fictional president has had a stroke and lies in a coma but is able to hear and understand those around him.
The nurses berate the comatose president for ordering the planes to be flown into the towers, killing their loved ones. A conspiracy theorist on a TV screen details the urban myths about “our allies” being responsible for the attack.
And the comatose president, whom the viewers can hear but the actors can’t, says he knew something was in the works, but “only Dick knew all the details.” (An apparent reference to former Vice President Dick Cheney.)
I would like to party with Kerry Bentivolio, reindeer farmer. And he’s very, very likely to be going to Washington by the end of the year.
Because I have an RSS feed set up to search “grosse pointe,” I got this column yesterday, which isn’t about GP at all, but Mitt Romney, and contains this lovely turn of phrase:
Who is Mitt Romney? He’s a public figure for whom, as Gertrude Stein said of Oakland, there’s no “there” there. He’s a shape-shifter, an identity hijacker, a human being who would rather appear to be than actually be. He’s the living incarnation of the self-seeking, ethos-free, “always be closing” vacuousness of the hedge fund set. He’s the Golem of Grosse Pointe, the Dybbuk of Darien, the animated spirit of vapid wealth. He is soulless and amiably amoral ambition made flesh as a candidate for the highest office in the land.
The Dybbuk of Darien — now there’s a movie.
It seems I had more to blog today, but I didn’t write it down. Maybe it will come back to me tomorrow. Oh, I remember: Hank on Honey Boo Boo. A classic. (Link fixed.)