ROGER FRANKLIN casts an outsider's eye over the strange process of getting elected in the US
NEW YORK - One of the interesting things about having my surname and living in New York is that I am sometimes mistaken, at least by charity collectors and unsolicited telephone callers, for that which I am not.
The National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People, for example, often invites this pasty pink boy to join its ranks and celebrate his African heritage. The same thing happens with Jewish organisations, apparently because of the Semitic possibilities of my family name's first syllable.
That must have been the reason why Rick Lazio dragged me from the dinner table one night last week to pass on the news that Hillary Clinton, his opponent in the New York Senate race, is a both a boon companion of Arab terrorists, and a woman who quite likely played some part in the recent bombing that all but sank the USS Cole in Aden Harbour. Actually, it wasn't Lazio but a recorded message being speed-dialed into tens of thousands of other likely homes across the state. And to be fair, he didn't quite accuse Hillary of loading explosives on to the suicide skiff - though, if I had drawn that conclusion, the underdog Republican would doubtless have been immensely pleased.
Instead, all he achieved for his telephone time was to provide this foreign reporter with a crowning moment of absurdity: A disembodied, robot voice urging an alien who cannot vote that only Hillary's defeat on Wednesday (New Zealand time) will prevent fanatics blowing up US sailors in ports where common sense says they should never have gone in the first place except, maybe, to demonstrate this country's abiding commitment to Israel's security.
That call was the ultimate proof: In a country with a long-standing weakness for deranged democracy, this year's campaign trail has followed a straight line from standard dopiness to distilled dementia. Fortunately, there have been enough stops along the way for revelatory moments of hypocrisy and sheer stupidity to keep the process interesting. The question is, where to begin?
Perhaps way back in the early primaries with Republican also-ran Gary Bauer, who committed the campaign season's seminal act of loopiness when he attempted to demonstrate his fitness for the White House by flipping pancakes in a New Hampshire diner (Don't ask. To Americans, these things make sense). In any case, he lost his footing, took a pratfall worthy of the young Jerry Lewis and all but killed himself while simultaneously demolishing his host's kitchen.
Or perhaps with Al Gore, who manfully paddled a canoe through a photo op on a Connecticut river to demonstrate his passion for all things green and pure. Unfortunately for Gore, Republican operatives were explaining to reporters even before the Vice-President stepped ashore that the area was in the grip of major drought, and that Gore's handlers had strong-armed state officials into opening the floodgates of a nearby dam. While this squandered a large part of what little was left of the local town's precious water supply, it also made sure Canoe Two did not run aground.
By late this week, with the nine leading national polls showing Gore trailing by anything from one point to eight, he seemed to be stuck up quite a different creek. This time, perhaps, without a paddle.
And who can forget the spectacle of President Bill Clinton boogying down at the Democratic National Convention, the smile on his face never faltering when some nitwit switched the soundtrack to Mambo Number 5, the then-current hit with the memorable line that goes, "A little Monica in my life!"
Nor has Hillary been immune to aural hex. Accepting an award from the Society of Strong Women and Helpless Children, or some-such similar group, she was forced to stand red-faced in the spotlight while Billy Joel's Captain Jack boomed over the PA. For those who might not recall the lyrics, the song ponders that ancient dilemma about whether it is better for a teenager to sit at home and masturbate or cruise Times Square in quest of a friendly drug dealer.
Not the new Times Square, mind you, not the one that Mayor Rudy Giuliani cleaned up before dropping out of the Senate race when his wife took a star part in the Vagina Monologues, his prostate exploded, his mistress was outed, and one of Hillary's tame reporters revealed that 'Hizzoner's' father once owned a speakeasy where, 70 years ago, Mafia types were known to gather (gasp!).
For Rudy, his exit was probably all for the best. Had he actually ascended to the US Senate, the man who sometimes seems to have arrested half of New York would undoubtedly have surveyed his fellow legislators and realised that a good many of them also merit a prolonged spell behind bars.
This is a sentiment apparently shared by many American voters, who will register their contempt by not going to the polls at all - and quite likely in larger numbers than ever before. In any case, if George W. Bush becomes President, Giuliani is likely to come out ahead since he is a hot tip for Attorney-General. This will give him the power to arrest just about everybody in the country, not just devil-may-care New York hellraisers who dance in bars without the appropriate cabaret licenses.
And Giuliani also is better off than Democrat John Corzine, a billionaire investment banker who has spent $US50 million-and-counting of his own money in pursuit of a Senate seat in New Jersey. A major plank in Corzine's platform is the need to get big money out of the electoral process. Yet, he is running neck and neck with his rival, a closeness mirrored in the presidential race.
According to the Gore camp, Bush is dead above the neck. This is unfair if you consider the rivals' respective academic histories. While Bush holds degrees from Yale and Harvard, Gore dropped out of both divinity school and law school. It's just that Dubya's nouns and verbs get on about as well as Arabs and Israelis.
At least Bush will carry his home state of Texas, which cannot be said with equal confidence by Gore, who is now five-or-so points down in Tennessee. In Florida, where Bush's brother, Jeb, is Governor, Gore clings to his lead despite early expectations that the state would be a no-sweat Republican addition to the party's vital tally of Electoral College votes. Go figure. The experts and pollsters certainly haven't been able to nut it out.
The pundits do know that while selecting the Jewish Joe Lieberman as his running mate has helped Gore in Florida, it has not been without unintended consequences. In must-win Michigan, the growing, well-organised Arab-American lobby immediately signed up with Bush. And across the country, the combination of names has given Republican pranksters an opportunity to have a good laugh. By blacking out the 're' in Gore and the last two syllables of "Lieberman," the Democratic team's bumper sticks can easily be made to read, "Go Lie in 2000." Considering Gore's deserved reputation for playing fast and loose with the truth, the altered signs have become a frequent reminder of a trait he would prefer the electorate to forget.
Nor have the pundits been able to figure where Clinton, arguably the greatest stump performer of his age, fits into the equation. The polls demonstrate Americans credit him with an excellent on-the-job performance while simultaneously detest him as a person. Gore has shared the public stage with his boss only once since early August and, just to remind everybody of the Man Who Isn't There, the Vice-President regularly proclaims that he is, "My own man."
To prove the point, he slapped a slobbery smooch on wife Tipper at the convention and his poll ratings shot up 15 points. Gore's trouble is that he cannot decide if he is a lover or a fighter, or even persuade the electorate that it matters one way or the other. In the meantime, a campaign sideshow has focused - quite literally - on the presidential and vice-presidential pudenda. Clinton graces the cover of this month's Esquire magazine with legs akimbo and a tie that points like a blue silk arrow at the organ which has led him into so many tight spots. Not to be outdone, Gore is on the front of Rolling Stone with a bulge in his pants that makes you think he must have had a rolled-up position paper on global warming in his pocket.
Further complicating the Veep's chances are the sub-personalities that rise and fall between the polar extremes of Amorous Al and Go-get-'em Gore. In black churches, he slips into an accent and cadences that could have earned him a job as an extra on the old Amos and Andy show - the one American TV stations won't show anymore, because of its racist stereotypes. In front of average voters, he can sound like a kindergarten teacher lecturing a room full of extraordinarily dim children. In journalist Christopher Hitchens' pungent line, the most memorable thing about the first showdown with Bush was not the make-up slathered Gore's aggressive and pedantic command of facts and figures but his resemblance to a "bronze condom stuffed with walnuts."
There is, however, another explanation for Gore's strange and peripatetic persona. Last week, some wag checked the calendar and figured out that the Vice-President was born exactly nine months to the day after that UFO is reputed to have crashed in Roswell, New Mexico.
Obviously that's the answer: Al Gore is an alien
AdvertisementAdvertise with NZME.