Tuesday, March 25, 2008


Did you miss me? Taking it easy. Just a few thoughts. I rambled the other day about Easter -- said it wasn't the Resurrection but the Crucifixion that was the big deal. All men die. Presumably. Enoch and Elijah seem to be exceptions. Then again, no man looks upon God and lives. But generally, everyone dies. Not all men come back to life. We can name some exceptions, but the rule is that people seem to stay dead. No man, though, has died for me. No man but one. That's why the Crucifixion matters. Some men have died for some men. Only one man died for all men. Either you get it, or you don't.

Then I was listening just now to the radio, and some guy asked Chelsea on her campaign junket what she thought about the Monica Lewinsky thing -- how did it reflect on her mother's credibility. "Wow, you're the first person actually that's ever asked me that question, in the maybe 70 college campuses that I've been to. And I don't think that's any of your business." You go, girl.

Yes, it does reflect on Hillary's judgment and character. And it's a question that may legitimately be asked of Mrs. clinton. And Chelsea has put herself in that arena, where almost everything is fair game. But it's not fair game. Because there's only one answer she can give, honest or not, and a gentleman would not put a young woman in that position. Even the mere appearance of loyalty is lovely, and it should be respected. Chelsea seems to have had a pretty easy ride of it. She was a gawky adolescent whom we all protected. I recall hearing only one joke about her, and it was rightly booed by the audience. There's still a tiny bit of class left, in our pop culture. For all that she's had it pretty good, that's not an excuse to invite disloyalty toward her parents. The question about Hillary's credibility is fair. The question about the daughter's opinion is not.

The only bullets Hillary is dodging are the ones about her lies re Bosnia. She pretended that she was racing under sniper fire back in '96. Alas, leisurely news coverage shows her placidly listening to a poem read on the tarmac by a little 8 year old Slavic girl -- standing, by the way, next to a smiling Chelsea. "I misspoke," excuses herself Mrs. clinton. Shades of Watergate, and yet another reason Hillary should be thankful for that wonderful time: it gave us so many useful euphemism. I misspoke myself. How really pathetic. I'm sure there must be a Democrat war hero who has run for the presidency. Andrew Jackson? I'm pretty sure it isn't and never will be a clinton. Unless Chelsea volunteers.

Has Obama been caught out in any such lies? I seem to recall that there was something, but it slips my mind. It's odd, though, how his supporters seem to be such a very strangely blame America first crowd -- even more than the usual suspects, I mean. His God damning pastor, and his proud for the first time ever wife -- and his Che poster pinning volunteers. The phrase bully pulpit comes to mind, which to my mind suggests a starting position of enthusiastic love for this country. Unambiguous, unnuanced, unapologetic love. It just seems like that is the foundation of all genuine patriotism, and patriotism seems like it must be the first requirement of all candidates for high office. If not that, why run? Power? We've seen enough of that in the world. Aren't we better than that?

Did you miss me? As I say, I'm taking it easy. I'll be competing on Saturday, against the young 30s. I'm late 40s. Yes, it makes a huge difference. I don't know why you have such a hard time believing that. I'm a bit nervous about it. Don't want to just get my ass handed to me. But it's just a way of fine tuning where I'm at. My age group was too easy. I'm not conditioned for any great physical test -- I'm in great walking-around shape, but nothing special for competition. I'll have to pull it off on will power. Not my strong suit. Just don't want to embarrass myself. No worries though. By the time the Mundials come around in August, I'll be strong again.

Did you miss me? In decades to come, scholars and biographers will scour these pages searching for clues as to the man Jack H truly was, and for insights into what formed his exceptional character. With sufficient intervening time, he will seem an almost legendary figure, too fantastic in his accomplishments to have been real. You know better. You have the privilege of a coeval existence. Don't you feel a little ashamed, squandering these opportunities as you do?



Will C. said...

Enoch, what a cool figure and for that matter a cool name. You see, besides the Bible there was a character in Land of the Lost named Enoch (spelled Enik). Related to the evil/primeval Sleestak but different in that he had high intelligence and even showed kindness to the Marshalls. He was sort of trapped like them...out of place and out of time in what he thought was his race's primitive past.

Thank goodness for Sid & Marty Krofft. What else was there for a boy to do early saturday mornings before the YMCA soccer game?

Jack H said...

Now who did Charles Nelson Reilly play? Such a versatile actor.

It's so pleasant to realize that my writings here provide the springboard for such salient responses.

Will C. said...

Ah Jack, often you leave no room for on-topic commentary. We can only absorb your wisdom nodding gently. My only hope is to awaken you to my world a I am TV whilest you are books. ;)
Remember too, you must accept your fans both Cretanic as well as luminarious.
And my responses weren't salty, were they?

Jack H said...

I am not insensate to your dilemma. My efforts are heroic in the Classical sense -- only partly divine. Alas for me, bestride two worlds, suspended between glory and the profane like a fairy caught in amber. As it were. I'm not really a fairy, you understand. That was a metaphor. See? It would be ridiculous to suppose that anyone as manly as myself could be actually mistaken for a fairy. It's laughable, just laughable. Someone would have to be crazy to think that. It's ridiculous, is all. Totally absurd. Just stupid. I don't know why people are saying that. What, nobody else takes the trouble to pluck out their unibrow? So what if I wear form-fitting doeskin pants. That's so sexy. I'm a sexy boy. So hot and sexy. Would you like to see my headshots? I like the one where I'm looking all sultry and pouty. You know, looking over my shoulder, so you can see the tattoo on the small of my back? Man. Hot. Talk about salty -- I'll butter your popcorn, sugar, and don't you doubt it. Yum. That's my street name. Yum-yum.