Sometimes, I think it’s a shame when I get feelin’ better when I’m feelin’ no pain” – Gordon Lightfoot
California has three seasons. They are, to quote Bugs Bunny’s great adversary Elmer Fudd: Duck, Wabbit and Fire. We are currently in the latter, which means it’s time for our own more regal Fudd-proxy to shine. Now is when Governor Gavin Newsom dons his best Golden Bear khaki suit and, like some kind of reverse-phoenix, returns to the ashes. It’s a striking look for the tall, gel-haired, toothsome politician, and he knows it. Where former Gov and gap-toothed action star Arnold Schwarzenegger shone behind an oak desk with a stogie in hand, the current head of state prefers the subtle hue of an obscured sun and plenty of Blade Runner gravitas. Newsom is also fond of the fire-seasonal, period-laden Preachy Tweet, like “Climate. Change. Is. Real.” It gives those cavemen Yorba Linda deniers reason for pause. Just out of the tweeting frame, beyond his well-coiffed bean, one can find failed, charred PG&E transmission lines that pre-date Gavin’s Redwood High days (my alma mater — home of the Giants!) by some forty years. Further still is acre after acre of crowded, toasted timber, and, in the ominous distance, motionless windmills upon golden hills. Finally, one finds Newsom’s denizens: powerless, hot, breathing smoked air, sitting in the dark.
As with pronoun preference and grievance qualification, there is no one answer to why the forests burn every year. California is a non-binary state and skies brown for a multitude of reasons. Climate change is the canopy and big top of blame, but underneath is a multi-ringed circus of triggers. Failed electrical infrastructure and unchecked timber (despite what the Sierra Club preaches) have provided plenty of spark and kindling. And PG&E, our electrical utility, is to corporate arson what Ted Bundy was to serial killing. Historically, the state has burned. But it didn’t always have forty million inhabitants. Native Americans practiced controlled fires and tended to keep their own tented McMansions on the reservation. That was a long time ago, though, and complexity abounds where the white man multiplies.
The important thing, in an election season, is that the Governor’s photo-ops keep coming. Between wildfires and wildfire-viruses, Gavin has plenty. To be fair I don’t know much about the man, besides his having an affair with his best-friend campaign manager’s wife and playing on the same Little League team as my childhood buddy’s kid brother. His ex-wife is currently dating Trump Jr, which lends sufficient insight into the world of political power. He’s family friends with the Gettys, which puts him on another stratum of Marin County elite. And he’s well-attuned to the first rule of politics: people always listen to those with more money, teeth, and hair. Add height to that trio and you’ve got gubernatorial, and potentially presidential material. Conversely, you’ve also got the potential for a colossal fall from grace, which tends to happen when you mix righteousness with abysmal air quality. It’s all about timing and message and Newsom has pushed his chips forward on shiny green deals and apocalyptic admonishment. Obviously, he has his sights set on loftier perches.
But enough of that. Everybody’s choking on the political these days. “Don’t leave home without a mask” has become “don’t leave home.” These scribblings are proof of just how fucked-up one’s brain becomes without the outlet of daily, moderate exercise. Small wonder those San Quentin inmates get so jacked in such short order. Thank God for the Joe Biden Corn Pop story.
Corn Pop, for the few who still don’t know, was a bad dude. He ran a gang at the same Delaware pool where Biden lifeguarded in his golden youth. Back then, you weren’t allowed in the pool sans bathing cap if you favored the Pomade, but the Pop wasn’t one for rules. This riveting hodgepodge of circumstances set up the great Joe Biden – Corn Pop Parking Lot Showdown of nineteen-sixty-something. Replete with rusty rain barrel straight-blades and bicycle chains, it’s a glorious, glorious tale, impervious to succinct retelling, even with the benefit of a laptop computer and time to think. So you can imagine where Biden went with it. For those who have yet to Google “Joe Biden Corn Pop story”, I urge doing so. There’s so little left to rise for on a smoky morning, but this one might just keep you going until skies clear. The highlight of the story (blink and you’ll miss it) is when Biden disses the Pop by referring to him as “Esther Williams.” Williams, a competitive swimmer and actress, starred in such delicately-titled motion pictures as “Million Dollar Mermaid” and “Dangerous When Wet” (don’t have to be Fellini to figure out that last one.) It just wasn’t in the cards for an urban-dwelling, swimming-capless gang leader to allow such comments to go unchecked. They aren’t allowing Biden to go unchecked these days, either, which I think is a shame (see Gordon Lightfoot.) Were I running things, I’d advise leaning harder into the crazy. It hasn’t hurt his opponent any and let’s face it — Crazy Biden is Fun Biden. Hell, the whole state’s on fire anyway.
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