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One takes a chance when making
cultural references in a general interest column like this. We all live in the
same place, but not the same place; it’s a big country, filled with nooks and
crannies, which seems to shuck its persona every decade. Most folks are
tourists anyplace but their own little corner.
So it is with me. I find myself
lost by “Dawson’s Creek” and “Buffy The Vampire Slayer” allusions, much as the
old “Saturday Night Live” skits once served as a sort of code language for the
young and wannabe hip. Some ingredients of the popular stew are more enduring
than others, of course – I’m guessing that “Suddenly Susan” won’t be adding much
to the lingo. If that offends you, well excuuuuuse me.
While many of our cultural
touchstones come from the entertainment world, politics adds a few as well.
Today’s Reform Party blurs the line, having become a refuge for celebrities who
take themselves a tad too seriously. Consider the results: Billionaire casino
magnate Donald Trump wooing former wrestler Jesse “The Booby” Ventura (who may
or may not run himself), both pitted against billionaire loon Ross Perot and
Republican refugee Pat Buchanan. Throw in Oprah Winfrey and Cybill Shepherd,
also potential Reform presidential candidates, and you have a spectacle even by
American standards. With Perot as their elder statesman, I suppose we should
expect no less.
But back to culture and columns.
Musically I’ve noted everyone from Artie Shaw to Tupac Shakur, both big in their
time and place. I suspect these mentions have left some scratching their heads,
and the truth is I’m only a visitor to Shaw’s and Shakur’s worlds myself. Still
I’m ready to gamble again, this time on rocker Bruce Springsteen.
Anyone within a decade or so of my
age will have at least a passing familiarity with the Boss’ epic paean to
youthful urban angst, “Born to Run.” I can think of no better soundtrack for
the Trump campaign, so with apologies to the Boss I present “Reform to Run:”
In the day I sweat
it out in the suites;
I’m the runaway
American dream.
At night I think
of
White House glory
And political
machines.
Wrung from the
haze of cloud number 9,
Atlantic City
cash-injected,
And bettin’ it to
beat the line.
Perot, this
clown’s got Buchanan on back,
It’s all claptrap,
it’s a death-cage match.
Ivanna got out
while she’s young.
Not Trumps like
us,
Baby we’ll Reform
to run.
Jesse let me in
I wanna be your
friend
I want to fund
your dreams and visions.
Scissor lock your
legs
Round my wallet
whims
Turn your machine
on my ambitions.
Together we could
take this match
We’ll give them
the drop,
Baby we’ll never
back Pat.
Whoa oh!
Will you walk with
me out in the ring,
‘Cause baby I’m
just scum and a lowly thing.
But you gotta know
I got dough,
I wanna wear your
feather boa,
Man I want to join
your tag team.
Beyond the White
House
Starry wild-eyed
drones
Scream for a
billionaire.
Perot keeps an eye
on his rearview mirror
While you boys run
me if you dare.
Bradley and Gore
just befuddle and bore
George W’s thin as
the mist.
I wanna run for
you Jesse
From the suites
tonight
And I don’t care
who I dis.
This Party’s
jammed with token heroes
On a fat-chance
power drive.
Even Cybill and
Oprah might run tonight
Just to sell their
sorry jive.
Together Jesse
we’ll live on the fadness
We’ll make hay
with the badness
Of this goal.
Today I’ll be in
Perot’s face
We’re gonna win
this race.
I could lay that
squirt low
On Marla’s
court-ordered dough.
That’s why Trumps
like us,
Baby we’ll Reform to run.
OK, I should stick to writing
columns. But baby, scamps like us, maybe I’m just born to run ... at the mouth.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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