First Line of My Book

He was a 'Vinny' or 'Joey', comfortable in a slick suit that set him back 2 g's  while eating a dripping cheese-steak in wax paper standing on a filthy neighborhood sidewalk, a South Philly guy.

 

IT'S YALE'S FAULT

Yale’s got some splainin to do !! Y’all let us down. All of us out here in fly-over land understand sycophantic catering to well-heeled benefactors,trustees and legacies etc.. But yo rep is on the line now. This dangerous ex-frat boy of yours now holds the keys to the kingdom with the other holding that hammer seen in the smack down game common to any local mall arcade. You know the one – where the targets pop up repeatedly and get whacked for points. Is this what our current prez learned at your admittedly fine institution? Haven’t checked his transcripts but Diplomacy 101 may not be in your curriculum. If it is and he took it, you might have been a little generous on the marking curve. Makes for an interesting foreign policy though. Of course this mall rat behavior would be consistent with one who shuns newspapers let alone briefing papers prepared by a staff of other IVY league grads. “Keep em short folks ! Just the bullet points Sparky, details make my brain hurt!” His obvious love for language and the written word could only have been stroked in those ancient rooms of your gothic cathedrals. The fine linguistic abilities of the residents of your faculty lounges undoubtedly inspired our Georgie boy to aspirations of Churchillian grandeur. Indeed, ‘Bushisms’ will reverberate through the ages, a great neon billboard full of Socratic adages the very proclamation of a virtuous American and Yale (in particular) education to the English speaking people of the world. Revulsion is too weak an adjective for what is felt hearing the ‘Leader of the Free World’ orate. Must have been loads of dropped coffee cups in the lounge, eh? English profs scrambling for cover – “I did not have him!!” Or maybe deceased,retired or senile, thus spared the evidence of their sins. Let’s not forget to give props to the quad’s pride and joy: Drama School. Yes sir, the ‘hot babes’ were all there at the ‘acting thing’. Method acting? Sounds like fun! “I am a Texan and I am president, I am a Texan and I am president. Hippies are scum, Hippies are scum!! Cool, be the creature, I can use this stuff. Get on back to Tejas , get me a Stetson and some Tony Lama’s – ain’t NO Bubba gonna know ah’m frontin.” Skull & Bones? What kind of initiation rites can be imagined that would put lead in the spines of Waspy frat boys? One imagines enduring caviar sans crackers as a feat to beat at future ‘Annual Chickenhawks and Sunshine Patriots Reunion Keggers’. Perhaps the forced march across New Haven green carrying Kmart shopping bags full of senior brother’s dirty laundry. Laughter and loud guffaws as tales of washer overflows and discolored Polo shirts fill the air. But boy, it sure was worth it for the ‘secret handshake’ that would stand them well for decades to come. W no doubt views these rites every bit as tough as anything those ‘Swifties’ did in the Nam. Yes sir, certain traditions foster the best in our ‘best and brightest’. One is reminded of the film ‘Animal House’, our boy Georgie as Pluto Plutarsky in dedicated pursuit of besotted bacchanals. It is a mystery how the young man dodged all the clouds of counter-culture smoke which enveloped most U.S. campuses of the time. Indeed G.W. went straight for the ‘peruvian marching powder’ missing a much needed date with mary jane. The ‘Doors of Perception were down a hall this preppie would not venture. Give the boy props though for bravery, cruising top down with Merle’s “Okie from Muskogee” on his wannabe Texan soundtrack. Especially as all around him eight-tracks were blaring Hendrix “Are you Experienced”. No sir , from the first toot this ‘Good Ole Boy’ found his potion. This was the powder in the bullets chambered in the naked aggression gun of his psyche. A bronc busting out of a chute for that wild ride with a hard landing. Ask any rodeo cowboy, just one hit and yer back for more! No mellow groovy navel gazing for our George. Shot and a beer with those tough Bubbas back in Midland. Ten foot tall and bullet-proof. Made for crazy summers and inspiration for ‘branding’ his fraternity’s new initiates. Psychedelic journeys were not his kind of road trip. A bottle of Jack in a pickup with empty longnecks in the bed and shotgun rack were just what fit his geographically misplaced Id. Out there with ‘Billy Bob and them’ he could deny his privileged waspy core. In Tejas it’s “Git er done”, spur that mustang til he’s lathered. Ride roughshod over everything. Yes sirree, shortest way is a straight line and don’t no man ask for directions. “Hell boys, let me get my sheepskins and I’ll be back so’s we can make us a pile a money!! Daddy knows all them stud hosses down Houston who can punch my tickets. I just gotta get this aggravatin school bidness outta the way.” And so he did. Run another pennant up the flagpole and salute one more commander in chief who passed through your hallowed halls. Of course another fine Ivy League Grand Dame had a part to play, but that’s merely a postscript to this particular saga.