The One Percent will have their way!
I've successfully immunized myself
to the horse-race fever of presidential elections: the relentless polls and
fundraising totals, the endorsements and lame speeches and could-be-fatal
gaffes, worst of all the dim psychoanalysis and fanzine micro-dissection of
candidates who always looked much alike to me. I was inoculated against most of
this when I was fairly young, thanks in part to reading the convention
reporting of H.L. Mencken, who took American democracy like a recreational drug
and relished every hysterical high.
The political animal at his most
ridiculous never amused me as much as he amused Mencken. His excesses can still
reduce me to tears, even though I'm old enough to remember presidential
candidates with actual convictions and commitments, instead of pollsters,
bundlers and message-masseurs. It always catches me by surprise when the media
resume their election coverage as if they'd learned nothing whatsoever from all
the elections that came before. Are the media themselves now under such a state
of siege, is the public's attention span now so brief that four years is enough
to erase every scrap of residual wisdom? It looked that way to me when I read a
news-service "think piece" in my local daily, an essay explaining
"the stark philosophical differences" that separate Barack Obama and
Mitt Romney.
I groaned so audibly that my wife
asked me if I was having chest pains. This writer, I thought, is he 12 years
old? First of all, no one mentions philosophy in the presence of Romney, who
embraces any philosophy his ambition finds convenient and will, before his race
is run, embrace as many more as his handlers recommend. And Obama, vilified on
right-wing radio as a cross between Jomo Kenyatta and Malcolm X, between Rap
Brown and Toussaint L'Ouverture? This is a white woman's son with a rich white
man's education, a cautious, pragmatic man of the middle, like most Republicans
used to be—like Mitt Romney before the White House bug bit him, like his
father, George Romney, before him. Obama is a mild-mannered white attorney with
a slight genetic handicap. He loves golf. In every way except that
inappropriate pigmentation, he's a country-club Republican (vintage, not
current) like Mitt.
In another climate, another decade,
another turn of the wheel of fortune, they could have been comfortable running
mates—if the fastidious Obama could have put up with an awkward fumbler like
Romney. Philosophy? Romney has no philosophy, Obama only as much as he needs
from week to week. The American political system seems designed to feed
celebrity-addled media, which focus on the forgettable faces and generic
utterances of the latest candidates, never on the forces that produce them or
the deeper issues that tear this country in two.
Rep. Paul Ryan, Romney's running
mate, was featured in another front-page story presenting his intellectual
pedigree. His infatuation with Ayn Rand was enough to convince me that he's an
arrested adolescent, but there in bold letters on Ryan's list of mentors was my
old schoolmate Bill Bennett. Sometimes we literally don't know whether to laugh
or cry.
I chose to laugh. We will see these
faces 10,000 times before Nov. 6. (I'd never stoop to the face game myself, but
is Ryan actually Eddie Munster grown up and Nautilus-hardened?) Yet the only
faces that matter in this election are the faces of the founders and dead
presidents printed on America's folding currency. The U.S. Supreme Court's Citizens
United decision is the Rough Beast whose hour has come round at last,
unleashing evil billionaires and subterranean oceans of corporate cash, tidal
waves of it, under which the American democracy may vanish like lost Atlantis.
We are in deep water, in deep
trouble here. It matters not at all that Romney is a Mormon or that he was mean
to his dog, not at all that Obama is a Protestant with a jump shot and a
wholesome marriage. It does matter, though only symbolically, that Romney was
what Rick Perry calls "a vulture capitalist" and that Obama is not
white—not white according to the old slave-state standard, which established
that there's no such thing as half-white (or three-quarters or seven-eighths).
Who they are, or what they say or
believe is beside the point; everything in this critical election rests on what
they represent. Just because I choose to ignore the conventions, the debates,
the PAC-paid TV commercials and the hurricane of expensive spin doesn't mean I
think this election is meaningless. Quite the opposite. It is, in contention
only with 1968, the most significant presidential election of my not inconsiderable
lifetime. And I remember Ike's first victory over Stevenson very well.
This is one we can't afford to lose.
If you're not sure who "we" might be, I hope to make it clear. Amid
all the inanities and distractions of an election that parliamentary countries
dismiss as a wasteful "beauty contest"—though few beauties
compete—it's still possible to recognize certain omens, subtle signs that lead
us toward the reality of America at a turning point. All summer the signposts
kept appearing. One was the first anniversary of the Occupy Wall Street
movement, less visible now and no longer a media staple, but historic for its
forceful assertion that economic inequality is the fatal malignancy that
politics as usual will not cure.
The One Percent, remember? Between
the bursts of assault-rifle fire that punctuated the summer season's motiveless
massacres, beneath the mindless thunder of huge PACs colliding, behind the
mind-numbing slapstick of Republican congressmen reinventing gynecology and
skinny-dipping in the Sea of Galilee, a populist anthem seemed to be playing
softly, for anyone who would pause to listen.
July 14, Bastille Day, marked the
100th birthday of the Dust Bowl troubadour Woody Guthrie, who wrote "This
Land Is Your Land" to warn the One Percent of his day that other people
lived in this country, people who might not stand idly by while the plutocracy
bought up our birthright and fenced it off. Woody's heroically subversive
verse, "I saw a sign, it said 'No Trespassin', but on the other side, it
didn't say nothin', that side was made for you and me," is a political and
spiritual touchstone that divides Americans, and probably the human race, into
two irreconcilable camps.
Who did I mean by the "we"
who can't afford to lose this election? I meant all of us grinning, instead of
scowling, when we hear that verse of Guthrie's. But the One Percent of 2012
owns a far greater percentage of America's wealth—four times more—than it owned
when Woody rode the rails during the Great Depression. Gated communities, rare
in his day, wall off whole counties in ours. And Lawrence Downes writes in The
New York Times that Woody's son Arlo, the wistful hippy of Alice's
Restaurant, is now a Republican. Say it ain't so, Arlo.
In August, Liveright published the
collected diaries of Guthrie's British contemporary George Orwell, an equally
eloquent champion of the eternal underdog. It seems unlikely, though not
impossible, that they knew each other's work. In an entry dated June 3, 1940,
reacting to some twit's lament that the war would deprive the rich of their
cooks, Orwell wrote a line that would make a fine epitaph for Romney's
candidacy: "Apparently nothing will ever teach these people that the other
99 percent of the population exist."
But the coincidence that grabbed me
most forcefully was the death in August of the science-fiction writer Harry
Harrison, whose 1966 novel Make Room, Make Room became the 1973
film Soylent Green, with Charlton Heston and Edward G. Robinson. If you
could call Soylent Green a cult film, surely the cult is very small. But
I'm one old-timer who remembers it well. It's set in the New York City of a
distant future—2022—when the world is so hopelessly polluted and overpopulated
that the rich have retreated to fortified barbed-wire compounds with armed
guards, where they continue to lead the good life, somewhat circumscribed. The
poor—the rest—mill about the streets in homeless herds, squat in abandoned
buildings and subsist on government-issued crackers known as "soylent
green."
A grisly twist the filmmakers added
to Harrison's plot was that the crackers were actually the processed corpses of
the poor, who could escape their misery in Ethical Suicide Parlors where they
died peacefully amid video images of all the beauty and pleasure their lives
had not included. Heston plays a police detective who lives in a wretched
tenement with his decrepit partner (Robinson). Crimes among the rich
occasionally enable him to enter their fortified apartments, where in one scene
he steals a spoonful of strawberry jam, for him an unimaginable luxury. He also
steals a single leaf of fresh lettuce and takes it home with him, where he and
Robinson marvel over such a windfall before they divide and reverently devour
it.
Most of you reading this are not
arugula-deprived—perhaps you have more salad greens wilting in the crisper at
this moment than the average third-world omnivore has ever seen. One of the
year's most depressing statistics is that obese America now wastes 40 percent
of its food—$165 billion worth annually—while hundreds of millions of human
beings suffer from chronic hunger.
Necrophagia is still rare, even in
depressed and primitive red states, though the tea party (like the Donner
Party) endorses it in cases of "legitimate" starvation. But poverty
is spreading rapidly in America. It's increased by nearly 3 percent since the
beginning of the 2008 recession and now engulfs one in six (47 million)
citizens, its highest level since 1965. Among children the rate is much higher,
22 percent in 2010. And there's still a 10-year countdown to 2022, when Harry
Harrison calculated that overpopulation, depleted resources, poverty, dying
oceans and global warming due to the greenhouse effect would have created the
terminal dystopia of Soylent Green. Once dismissed as science fiction,
in 2012 it's beginning to look more and more like prophecy.
Those of you with a weakness for New
Age eschatology may be anticipating the end of the world on Dec. 21, 2012, a
calculation based on the 5,125-year cycle of the Mayan Calendar. But it's Nov.
6 that frightens me. The first giant step toward Harrison's dystopia was total
corporate control—absorption—of all forms of government. Soylent Green,
manufacturer of the ghastly crackers, is also a huge international
conglomerate. In Harrison's scenario, corporate feudalism has long since
succeeded in disenfranchising and degrading everyone without financial
leverage. If the Republicans win the White House and both houses of Congress
and press forward with a Rand-Ryan-Koch brothers blueprint for America, we'll
be right on schedule for something much like Soylent Green by 2022. The Hard
Right, without apology, opposes unions, federal arbitration and regulation of
the workplace. Are there people who actually hold jobs, or seek them, who
haven't realized that this is a program to reduce them from employees to serfs
to slaves?
You have to give the Republican high
command some credit for the purity, the transparency of its purpose. When it
chose Ryan, Randist ideologue and far-right budget wonk, to run with Romney,
quarter-billionaire and gilded veteran of the vulture markets, the corporate
plutocracy asserted its control of the Republican Party and the urgency of its
desire. No more ego-clowns like Newt Gingrich or Herman Cain, medieval
theo-geeks like Rick Santorum or dizzy morons like Michele Bachmann, whose
agendas only get in the way of the hunger of the One Percent.
What does it want, the big One?
Everything. Everything. This micro-minority of the very rich now holds nearly
40 percent of all the private wealth in this country, a share that's tripled
since 1980. The one-tenth of one percent, the obscenely rich, have tripled
their annual income in that 30-year period, to an average of $5 million, while
the inflation-adjusted income of the "bottom" 90 percent—the American
people—has actually declined by 5 percent.
Numbers are numbing, but there are
volumes of them, many more shocking than these, to attest to the metastasizing
inequality that shames and cripples us. And the response of the very rich who
now control the Republican Party? Well, they resent taxation, environmental
policy and government itself if it threatens to interfere with the flow of
profits and the steady stream of America's wealth into the deep, deep pockets
of the greediest people who ever lived. We own nearly everything, the One
Percent declares when it presents the populist-crushing ticket of Romney and
Ryan, but we won't be satisfied until we get the rest.
If you find this level of
selfishness and cupidity astonishing, you probably haven't read the novels of
Ayn Rand that inspired Rep. Ryan to seek public office, as he has testified. A
fair example of Randian philosophy in action: New Orleans is devastated by a
hurricane, as it was in 2005 and might have been again during the recent
Republican Convention, and there's only one emergency helicopter available. If
you're a faithful Randian, you land it on the roof of the Exxon-Mobil
headquarters, to make sure no top executives are endangered, even though
hundreds of plebeians may be drowning or screaming from their rooftops.
No exaggeration. A less dramatic but
equally effective exercise in social Darwinism is Paul Ryan's magic budget. It
guts Medicaid, food stamp and low-cost housing programs by an estimated $3.3
trillion over 10 years, while tossing the very rich yet another tax cut. Rand's
is a merciless philosophy, an intellectualization of the Law of the Jungle that
says, essentially, screw the weak and the meek and make way for the bold and
the greedy. If you have nothing, it declares, you deserve nothing—not even a
chance to protest that you never had a chance.
The gospel of Ayn Rand is the
perfect contradiction of everything ever preached by Jesus Christ. It's much to
their credit that several Roman Catholic groups, nuns and Jesuits, have
chastised the Catholic Ryan for his attachment to the atheist Rand. Her appeal
is limited to young people, usually male, who are arrested in the infantile
stage Freud describes as pure id—the "Gimme!" stage—and who tend to
overrate themselves as potential supermen.
Not all of them outgrow it. Ryan's
Randian economics, which celebrate avarice and sneer at conscience, are a
made-to-order framework for the Last Grasp, a daring bid for absolute power by
the Republican One Percent. (Every millionaire with a murmur of conscience now
votes Democratic.) How, you might ask if you don't understand America, could
such a tiny minority control an election, with a program that seems to benefit
so few and harm so many? The best answer is that the extremely greedy are not
the only extremists in this country, and the Republican Party has built a
formidable new power base by cynical appeals to every extreme.
A Big Tent the GOP may not be—it's
nearly 90 percent white and weighted heavily toward older males—but a wild and
colorful tent-full it is, more like a carnival sideshow than a circus big top.
The gluttons share their stage with racists, nativists, misogynists,
homophobes, gun freaks, religious fundamentalists and fanatics of all
denominations, and gonzo libertarians who hope to restore the gold standard.
Along, of course, with a healthy harvest of dimwits—the extremely stupid—and a
fair sprinkling of apparent mental patients. In the last group I'm obliged to
include birthers, deniers of climate change, EPA-eliminators and everyone who
thinks a private citizen should be able to acquire 6,000 rounds of ammunition
for an automatic weapon.
If you'll eagerly cut your own
throat—and your childrens' and your neighbors'—to express Caucasian solidarity
or preserve your right to an AK-47, you're just what they're looking for. In a
nation where most people think clearly and behave generously, a party like the
current Republicans would be impossible. The entire unruly menagerie, still
bloody from its raw-meat primaries, hopes to coast to victory behind a
squeaky-clean Mormon mega-millionaire, a reformed moderate who tries to hide
his tax returns and his intimate history with Goldman Sachs.
When you describe this GOP
contraption, it sounds like a vehicle that would never start, far less lap the
field. But there are at least two compelling reasons why it could win. One is
the horrible effect of the Citizens United decision, that triumph of
corporate personhood that has unleashed the great PACs and multiplied the
scandalous influence of money in American elections.
The gross, florid face of the new
reality—pandemic top-dollar "democracy"—is the casino magnate Sheldon
Adelson, the human embodiment of Hunter Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las
Vegas. Adelson is worth roughly $25 billion, which means that if he were a
dollar, the embarrassingly rich Romney would be a Lincoln penny. He has vowed
to spend at least $100 million to defeat President Obama, and since that
announcement Republican candidates have followed him around like hungry
puppies. Romney virtually carried Adelson's suitcase on his recent tour of
Israel; the moment Ryan was chosen as Romney's running mate, he hastened to
Vegas to kiss Adelson's ... ring.
Dirtier money than Adelson's would
be hard to find. Is it a sane legal system that lets marijuana dealers rot in
prison while casino owners, who exploit the far more destructive human
weakness, can live like sultans? Among the many unsavory things about Adelson
are his casinos in Macau and Singapore, where reporters have been exploring
rumors of bribed Chinese officials and prostitution, and his ultra-right
newspaper in Israel, which supports the immediate bombing of Iran and whichever
wars that might precipitate.
The U.S. Department of Justice is
investigating Adelson's Macau operation for possible violations of the Foreign
Corrupt Practices Act. The Daily Mail of London accused him of
"despicable business practices" and charged that he had
"habitually and corruptly bought political favour." The paper was
consequently sued into silence. Unlimited legal intimidation is one of the
great prerogatives of billionaires.
Adelson's lone virtue is a certain
feral honesty. A former Democrat, he admits he became a Republican when he
tried to crush his employees' unions and realized the Democrats wouldn't help
him. He never tries to hide the fact that he uses his money to shape legislation
to his own advantage, as well as Israel's. His billions in overseas income are
currently taxed at the shamefully low rate of 9.8 percent, and no doubt Mitt
Romney has promised him another tax break.
Can you swallow that? Monstrously
wealthy international pirates like Adelson, with agendas that contain no
benefits for America or Americans, are the tragic dead end of our political
system unless we can overturn Citizens United and put Big Money back in
its box. Along with the largesse of the heinous Koch brothers, who bankrolled
the tea party and launched the outrageous crusade against climate science
solely to protect their energy investments, Adelson's millions are now evident
in the flood of televised ads disparaging Obama's health care reforms. According
to Paul Krugman of the Times, hardly neutral but a Nobel laureate in
economics, every one of these ads is a gross distortion and many are impudent
lies. But in the field of political advertising, unlimited resources often
overpower limited intelligence by repetition alone.
Yet Adelson and the Kochs aren't
even the best cards in Romney's hand. The recidivist South, where the electoral
map is now colored solid red by the most optimistic Democrats, is no longer
worth pursuing by a president who isn't colored solid white. I don't know
exactly what the tea party represents in Wisconsin, where it's in love with
Ryan, but I'm pretty sure what it represents in the South. For years now we've
watched surly old white men of modest means raging about "Obamacare,"
using silly words like "socialist" and "fascist," when it
seemed clear that the president's well-intentioned but inadequate overhaul of
the health care system could only work to their advantage.
Health care issues have nothing to
do with their hatred of Obama. But it's still considered bad form (though less
so of late) to say flatly "I want that black man out of the White
House." I'll bet my ranch that 80 percent of the Southern tea party's
active members voted for Jesse Helms and Strom Thurmond, and no doubt George
Wallace before them. Most of them are old enough to have their roots buried
deep in Jim Crow. And so here we go again, with progressive Southerners hanging
our heads in shame.
Down here they don't fool us, the
geezers in the leather vests and Johnny Tremain hats. Obama reanimated a
generation of dormant racists, and they're determined to take back Air Force
One. Of course the One Percent, who for the most part are not racist—or
anti-abortion, or gun-loving, or homophobic, or religious, either—are delighted
to play the race card and hope the Southern Sickness can defeat Obama. Once in
office, the Wall Street Republicans are likely to ignore this unsavory
constituency that elected them. Most ominously, only the NRA and Adelson's
Israel lobby have the money and muscle to make a Republican president keep his
promises.
Adelson-Romney-Ryan is quite a
triumvirate. A colossus spewing rancid money, The Face—handsome, impossibly
rich and remote, no fixed identity—and The Brain, dispensing phony theories to justify
them all. It's cynical and improbable, but it's working well enough. This
election is not at all about voting for a candidate you admire, or a party
platform that echoes your ideals. It's about trying to defeat what you have
every reason to loathe and fear.
Obama has not been the president I
hoped he would be, and the Democratic Party, to which I've never belonged, may
be a poor vehicle for anyone's passions. But the truth is that the bad people,
the worst Americans, were once divided fairly evenly between the two parties.
Not all Republicans were grasping and reactionary, not all Democrats (read the
Dixiecrat, segregationist South) were broad-minded and compassionate. Since the
GOP Southern strategy converted the Old Confederacy, however, most of the bad
people are Republicans—bad as in prejudice, predatory self-interest and
social irresponsibility.
Incredibly, the GOP has convinced
most of its blue-collar foot soldiers that government is their enemy and that
corporations—job creators?—are their friends. This is possibly the greatest
fraud ever perpetrated on the ignorant. To a predatory capitalist, government
is merely another factor, an impediment or a useful tool in his pursuit of
carte blanche, the wide-open hogs-at-the-trough marketplace of his dreams. To the
rest of us, elected government—the result of our votes—is our only leverage,
the only weapon we have left in a "democracy" where clamorous dollars
drown out human voices.
And those jobs? Campaign candy,
free-market myth. If you're unemployed and broke and seeking salvation by
voting Republican, let me assure you that the Soylent suicide parlor is an
equally promising choice. The London-based Tax Justice Network recently
reported that the world's super-rich—a third of them Americans—have cached
between $21 million and $32 trillion in offshore tax havens. Just pick a
middle number, notes Al Lewis in The Wall Street Journal, and
it's a sum that exceeds the annual gross domestic product of the U.S., China
and Japan combined. That's right: Pirates have looted this country of wealth
beyond our comprehension, and buried most of the treasure they're alleged to be
reinvesting.
Though they dominate our world and
covet all that's in it, Mitt and his mega-rich live in a world all their own.
Very often they sound like it. As he dropped a nickel, a mere million, in
Romney's cup and endorsed him, the North Carolina billionaire Julian Robertson
explained that America needs a successful businessman to rebuild its economy.
Excuse my condescension to my eminent fellow Tar Heel, but someone should tell
Robertson that the U.S.A. is not a business, not a profit-seeking entity. A
nation is a cooperative—a commonwealth—whose elected officials are charged with
managing common resources for the common good. Do even Princeton graduates and
hedge-fund wizards recycle Fox News clichés?
This coalition of wealthy vultures,
Kool-Aid drinkers and political neanderthals is not the Republican Party of
even 20 years ago, as Bob Dole and Dan Quayle, of all people, have protested in
their recent warnings against extremists. The most intelligent Republicans are
no longer well-intentioned, and the most well-intentioned are not intelligent.
The party we saw in Tampa has strayed so far from an honest account of itself
that almost nothing it says makes sense or rings true. It's true that the U.S.
economy is still disappointing, but Republicans promise to heal it with the
same Republican policies that made it sick: tax cuts, military misadventures,
and lax regulation of markets and banks.
Their favorite word is freedom, yet
they frown on every form of freedom I can think of—civil rights, reproductive
rights, workplace rights, gay rights, even the right to clean air and water.
The only rights they defend are the right to make or steal as much money as possible
and squirrel it away, and of course the sacred right to arm ourselves like
third-world terrorists.
If they prevail decisively in these
elections, and I'm not betting against them, it probably spells the end of the
U.S.A. as a viable political experiment. Our cannibal capitalism will have
killed us; the One Percent, having devoured the 99 percent, will be suffering
indigestion. Give us just eight years of increasingly obscene inequality,
environmental devastation, unchecked global warming, belligerent foreign
policy, a shredding social safety net and a powerless proletariat, and the
prophet Harrison's Soylent Green will be right here, friends, and right on
time.
Cracker, anyone?
This article appeared in print with the headline
"Soylent Mitt."