By John Burtis
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
as much of america gathered to mourn those lost on 9/11 and to steel themselves for a war without end, while our current President girds himself to mingle with the broken families and the survivors of our abrupt fall from innocence, President Clinton, who usually thrives in any vast funereal hubbub, was noticeably absent.
Having gone as far as he can go as a nouveau riche citizen, even while joined by his easily inflatable posse of ingratiating flatterers in the malleable press, and accompanied by his all too willing eyewash ladling fellow travelers in the Democratic leadership, they had all finally exhausted themselves in their brash attempts to subvert the freedoms enjoyed by aBC, Disney and their CEO and President, Robert Iger. and feeling thus expended, Mr. Clinton was off to Canada to party.
Yes, Mr. Clinton - knowing that the five year anniversary of 9/11 was arriving, that this particular celebration would mean ever greater outpouring of grief, of remembrance, of sympathy, of press coverage, of face time - planned one of a series of nearly endless bravura jubilees celebrating his long coming 60th birthday in Toronto, long in advance, where he would allow another posh group of hangers on to be seen with him, talk to him, and to walk with him.
Yup, Hillary's vaudeville partner from that tired old "elect one and you get two" schtick," was stonking it up big on the floor at the Fairmont Royal York hotel on Saturday night with many of the guests at the Toronto Film Festival, where chic velveteen elbows were being rubbed shiny by the likes of John Bon Jovi, Sarah McLachlan, and that sweet guitar strumming crooner - about whom every left wing wag takes the time to explain that he has perfect pitch among his infinite musical attributes - James Taylor.
This foregoing choir was accompanied by the theoreticians and intellectual sopranos like Billy Crystal - fresh from his bravura performance in "Hauru no ugoku shiro," which still has the enceinte critics alternately weeping and clapping - who joked about elderly men urinating, and Tim McGraw, who still waves his dog eared script from Friday Night Lights at the few critics not applauding or sobbing for Mr. Crystal.
In addition, for the few non-millionaires in attendance, Mr. Eugene Levy and a series of sweaty pastry chefs were available for socializing around the mounds of pastries created especially for the former Commander in Chief, who was known to eat prodigious amounts of sweets whenever the nation was under threat of attack from Islamist terror mongers.
and in front of them all, the finely upholstered and infundibular former President exclaimed, concerning the ability to do good, "When you have that sort of ability, it imposes on you an enormous responsibility, so I thank all of you for helping me."
and those in attendance clapped for all they were worth, having donated to aIDS, clasped the ready paws of Mr. Clinton, slapped his back, swooned and blushed before the greatest political persona of all time, Hillary Clinton, swayed to politically charged music, winked and nodded at snide jokes, danced the night away, listened to history being re-written for an uncountable time, and lived it for all it was worth.
and every one of them wished that it would never end, as they looked at each other understanding their oneness, recognizing this paean to their hero, their daemon, their talisman, their totem, as their living idol walked among them, offering each the favor of his smile.
But I recall a poem, "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot, and I'm struck by the similarities by a few of its lines and words to this laughing, clinging empty multitude of "entertainers" and politicians, oblivious as they are, to the war we are fighting for the survival of our way of life, to the sacrifices our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines are making every day, while preening before an empty self-absorbed wastrel.
and they view us through lenses cloudy with arrogance and derision, even while they expect that they alone will be making deals for survival with the devils coming to kill them.
"We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
are quiet and meaningless
as wind in dry grass
Or rat's feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion; "
These liberals are the hollow men and Mr. Clinton is a hollow man.
They are people of show, people of noise, but people devoid of all weight and relevance, just as they, like their cherished golden calf, Mr. Clinton, are with us but do not support us. They see a million shades of gray, but they cannot discern the color of those who are killing us. and they possess a mass of power when they inhabit the White House and houses of the Congress, but they cannot bring themselves to employ motive force to protect the innocent, the poor, the small, and all those whom they despise, when we are being killed.
It is 9/11 and they are missing and their actions are, as T.S. Eliot explains, "paralysed force, gesture without motion," as it has been for nearly five years.
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