Deja View...

"I won't insult your intelligence by suggesting that you really believe what you just said."
Wm. F. Buckley jr.

And now for another direct quote: (This might be the one Mr. Buckley was referring to.)

"Sitting here in these chairs that I’m going to be proposing but in working with these governors who again on the front lines are forced to and it’s our privileged obligation to find solutions to the challenges facing our own states every day being held accountable, not being just one of many just casting votes or voting present every once in a while, we don’t get away with that. We have to balance budgets and we’re dealing with multibillion dollar budgets and tens of thousands of employees in our organizations." sic.
Governor Sarah Palin

Now let us all bow our heads in prayer.......

...Yes friends, I suppose we all thought that with the imminent dethroning of GW the third just around the corner, these kinds of things would also be history, that we would collectively be reduced to either the bland introspective colloquies of the masses of reporters or the clipped incisive precision of William F. Buckley's many adherents.

But,...not so. We were wrong! Another contender for daily massacre of the English language is upon us. Another spectre has reared its head, albeit this one much prettier than George's and I am not talking about 'that one'.

This one, safely hidden away and preserved by the cold for all these years, serenely uninformed on the basics of human experience appears ready to elevate the idiotic beyond the ken of the imbecile, the foolish into the stratosphere of the wise, and the moronic to the level of high art.
( Something George never managed, and I use that term loosely.)

This one who can charm the most vicious adversary with a smile and slay an objection with a conspiratorial wink is poised, positioned, perfumed and polished. She is coiffed, coutured and almost blissfully unprepared for even the most casual of offhand comments and the good news is,....that laughter is still the best medicine.

Leno and Letterman, O'Brien and Maher, none shall lack for material in the next four years. Tina Fey shall be elevated to Jester for Life, with three oak leaf clusters, and Garretson Beekman Trudeau will have a field day.

Let us now conclude with another direct quote that seems apropos to the career in question:

"The more complicated and powerful the job, the more rudimentary the preparation for it."
Wm. F. Buckley jr.

Thus far the gospel from brother William.

People Watching

Every once in a while, I have a Desmond Morris like tendency to notice people more closely than might otherwise be imagined. I do that generally for its irritation value and also because I find that people watching can be nearly as much fun as 'Catwatching'. If another reason should enter the process it would have to be because on the whole people are less likely to adhere to type. Individuality in humans is rampant.

Herewith I present a man I have known and watched for some time, 'Harley' Bill Tanner.

'Harley' Bill's Visitor

‘Harley’ Bill Tanner had been smellin’ that ol’ devil water almost as long as anyone, including Bill himself, could remember. Over the years, it was a trait of his personality that had gotten old Bill into many a scrape, and cost him enough days in jail to allow him the unenviable distinction of being nearly unemployable.

Bill sometimes thought that if he had been one of those people who was lucky enough to grow up in a communist country, why he would have eventually become an occupational reservist. In such a time honored position, he would have continued to draw pay whether he worked or not, but that wasn’t quite the way things had worked out. Nosiree.

Today, right here in the lap of capitalist luxury, if Bill Tanner didn’t work, he didn’t eat and, from his own uniquely jaundiced perspective, if he didn’t work, then he also wouldn’t have anything to spend on alcohol. So, every morning, hung over or not, Bill would drive his van down to the day labor pool, and there await his chances for beer money.

Yep, any way you look at things, the proliferation of wino rental agencies were Bill’s economic salvation for a misspent life. Over the years, Bill had worked for several places answering this unique description, getting to know the soft-touch clerks, busily weeding out the ones who gave out bus tickets from those that operated their own transportation, and finding those that would look the other way on those days when he was a little under the weather so to speak. Generally Bill was content enough where he worked right now, but happy?.......... Shit …….Who’s kidding who? All these places smelled the same and paid the same and minimum wage was minimum wage, wherever you went. You just had to look out for yourself along the way and take the perks as they came, no matter how small they were.

Generally on any given day the tough guys, the real movers and shakers of the temporary labor scene, would force ol' Bill down to the end of the bench whenever he arrived. They would see to it that they were the ones who got the plum jobs of the day.

If you don't know, I’m sure you can figure the type of work we’re talking about here. These were the good jobs. The sweet jobs where a man could run a broom, inside, all day long, and the Super never come upstairs to check on nothin'. Yeah, these were the really coveted jobs. The regulars on the bench knew where all of these jobs were located in a three county radius, and the bullies knew how to guarantee that they got every single one of them as first up.

Bill, as a pushover drunk and most of the newbies who just didn’t know any better, would be relegated to the left over tickets; the crappy jobs and the ones that nobody else wanted.
Most days, there was always something available in the big pile of pink and yellow tickets that was so menial, so absolutely repulsive, that nobody else on the bench wanted to do it. Not even the newbies could be suckered into some things. Bill knew, deep down inside without even halfway having to think about it, that such a nugget of a job was there, waiting just for him, each and every day.

In a way, accepting that kind of work made Bill valuable in the American workforce. After all, the shit jobs needed to be done just the same as the plums did and nobody cared if it was a drunk or a recovered that got it done. After all, the world was full of anonymous alcoholics anywhere you looked, and so Bill took kind of a careful pride in his status as a well known drunk instead.

And so………. everyday on the bench as he waited to be called, he would sit patiently and imagine the words coming from the Super on the job site where he would be sent.

“Here, you!,……Get yore sorry lookin’ ass down in that hole quick time and shovel all that shit back up here topside.”

Without a word, Bill would smile inwardly, obediently take his shovel and crawl right down inside whatever God abandoned hole it was and start shoveling away. He would always give the work a real good snappy start. Let them all see his spirit as it were and after a few minutes the Super would walk away to something vastly more interesting than Bill shoveling whatever shit it happened to be, and then Bill would tone things down a mite and take stock. Down there in the hole, any hole, it was always hot, almost insufferably hot, but it was also a place where nobody would fuck with you all day. So, in that, Bill made out as well as the others with a plum job.

Down in the hole, Bill could smoke and cuss and fart as much as he liked, and if he was skillful enough, why he could even manage to pull a taste now and then from a small bottle he kept hidden inside his pants, and that was OK. Yessiree, that was surely OK with ‘Harley’ Bill Tanner.

Sure, he would get tired; hell, he arrived in the morning tired, but he didn’t care. Bill would sleep on the wino van, both coming and going to whatever shit job there was, day in and day out; they all paid the same.

In spite of his affliction and after all these years to the contrary, Bill still thought of himself as a roofer, and certainly enough grime and coal tar and assorted other filth adhered to his hands at any given time to give anyone the impression that he could be just that. The impression would be wrong though. These days not even the disreputable roofing outfits wanted anything to do with a drunk on the roof. Tightening of the OSHA rules and the horror stories about some pretty stiff fines had seen to that.

No sir, what had actually happened to Bill was the same thing that would happen to anyone who adhered to the same lifestyle he did. You see, after all the years outdoors in the sun, and after all the alcohol he had imbibed, Bill’s skin had drawn the dirt of ages right inside of itself and stubbornly refused to let any part of it go. No matter how hard he might scrub every night after work, and before heading out to Whitey’s, the dirt was there to stay. The dirt was a part of him that he could not shake. Harley Bill’s own dirt; the one possession he could carry wherever he went and that no one could ever take from him. It was there right now, clutched in the tight little folds and creases of his puffy face and hands, gathered into the depression left by his hatband, and deeply embedded beneath all of his fingernails, as Bill returned from the head and assumed his regular place at the bar.

He signaled the barkeep and ordered himself another draft.

Inside Whitey’s Tavern, over on the four lane that ran into and then back out of Hardenton on its way to Tampa, ‘Harley’ Bill Tanner slouched way over that fresh beer of his and again belched loudly. He’d already imbibed well over the legal limit to drive, but didn’t really much give a shit, since his license had been revoked near onto one year ago this very month.

What the fuck, it was Friday, and Friday was Beer Day on any calendar Bill had ever seen; for that matter, any day was Beer Day when he damn well felt like it. He belched loudly again as his sometimes pal grabbed a stool next to him and Bill looked up without entirely focusing into the smiling face of Roach Anders.

“How’s it goin’ bud? Hey barkeep, bring me one of those,……you Billy?…………Thank ya darlin’, Hoooeee, real fine ass you shakin’ there honey….How ‘bout it Billy?... ”

That was Roach for you all right, you were never sure if his comments were directed at you or someone else, or more than one person at a time and in the condition 'Harley' Bill found himself at present, it really didn’t much matter. “Oh,………I’m OK ……I guess; you want a beer?"

“Why you’re real slow at catchin on tonight Billy, I just ordered me one…and maybe I even lined me up a date for later…..Are you shitfaced again, ol’ buddy?”

Belligerently Bill replied, “No,…… I am not! I am three quarters shitfaced though, and if I’ve a mind might stay until I get all the way.” He struggled with himself briefly, as his mind made a labored attempt to accept the annoying interruption, and ultimately failed.

“Fuck!”

This was a baseball night, and even though the Tampa Bay Rays, on the widescreen down at the end of the bar, looked to be dropping another pre-season heartbreaker to the Cards by eight runs in the third inning, the last thing Bill needed was driveling conversation from an unwanted talkative guest.

“What’d you come here for anyway?”

“Well now I am hurt. Why, that’s no way to greet a friend Billy, and after I’ve come all this way to find you ‘specially, and tell you the news…………..Maybe I should,…………. Maybe I should just go.”

A seemingly dejected Roach Anders gathered his keys, patted his pockets, drawing his disappointment out for dramatic effect and turned he on his stool as if to leave.

Even three quarters shitfaced and self absorbed, ‘Harley’ Bill Tanner sighed a good long sigh and then he succumbed to his other lifelong devotion, which just happened to be curiosity. He put his beer down on the counter, looked over and this time, with a silent internal sigh behind half closed eyes said, “What news is that, Roach?”

Roach Anders smiled to himself and warmed visibly at the prospect of imparting an unknown tid-bit. He turned once again towards Bill and began. “The News, Billy my boy, is all. The News.”Roach let that hang for a moment and sipped away on his Beer before continuing, ………….“Why old Millie Barnes just sold the river place to them tourists from A’lan’a. They’s s’posed to be homesteaders… Why I’d be willing to just bet,….

“Shit!..... I don’t know Billy, but we should see if they’re goin’ to dig for all that gold. Anybody with half a brain would have to wonder about it some. Why I’ll just bet…”

“Awwwhhhh!.................I ain’t that drunk Roach………… and, I ain’t your ‘boy’ neither.”
Bill shook his head with disgust and barely retained his place on the stool from the movement.

“ There ain’t no damn gold, an’ you knows it. Shit!……. Ev’body….. knows there ain’t no gold. Just another fool scheme is all this is.”

“Never can tell Billy.” Roach pointed one finger (no, not that one) and stabbed repeatedly with it towards Bill, punctuating each word as he continued. “You just never can tell………. I’m pretty sure no story ever gets started like that one without some truth to it; ……likely, there may be some gold there… Just ‘cause nobody ever found it don’t mean it ain’t there, and I sure wouldn’t mind findin’ it……….Nobody else would mind findin’ it either. “Me,…………….. well I’m goin’ to stay tuned, as they say.”

'Harley' Bill stared at his sometime friend Roach Anders, and wished as hard as he could wish for the man to just go away. How many times had he had to endure this kind of crap talk about more damn fool things than could be imagined. Bill knew from past experience that when Roach got hisself wound up real tight about sum’thin’, there was no way to stop the hemorrhage of words that were sometimes connected to real thoughts and just as often, connected to pure glossy varnished bullshit.

If Bill had been thinking clearly, or been something less of a mouse, he would have told Roach to fuck off, and gone back to whatever it was he wanted to do but that would never happen. Bill’s timid character just wouldn’t allow something like that to even get a start, because no matter how thinly you sliced things, old’ Harley’ Bill Tanner was a coward through and through and deep down inside even he would admit that there had never been a time when he thought all that clearly, about much of anything. Apart from the annoyance, Bill should have run. He should have run far and fast, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. In addition to his cowardice, 'Harley' Bill Tanner was a card-carrying loser; he rode the loser’s trail, and he would stay on that trail right to the very end. A commercial was playing on the TV that Bill didn’t like very much, and so he was distracted once again by the noise of Roach’s insistent ramblings.

“………..suppose……….boy is buildin’ himself a homestead talk is, and may need to dig some. I should mebbe go by for an interduction as they say. You can tag along if you like Billy , but me,……………I’m definitely goin to stay tuned. Yessir, I shorely am goin’ to stay tuned.”
Then, almost as an answer to the unspoken prayer that Bill was repeating over and over in his head, Roach Anders retreated inside his own convoluted thoughts. He sat there staring into the mirror at the Bar Back like a mesmerized zombie, as if an answer was about to appear. Apparently, one did because a few moments later he finished his Beer and abruptly left the bar.

‘Harley’ Bill Tanner, deeply absorbed in a losing baseball game on the widescreen at the end of the bar, and who was now at least seven-eighths drunk, didn’t notice anything at all.