Altered states |

Altered states

By Jay Meehan
Park Record columnist

“Every passing hour brings the Solar System 43,000 miles closer to Globular Cluster M-13 in Hercules and still there remain misfits who insist there is no such thing as progress.” ~ Ransom K. Fern

OK, so as near as I can tell, the plotline for this theatrical farce of a presidential election cycle has pretty much been going according to script. That is, if, as rumored, the ghosts of Hunter S. Thompson, the Marquis de Sade, and H.P. Lovecraft have indeed been responsible for the deranged, demented and psychotic scenarios emanating from the writer’s bungalow.

Up until now, I’ve come down on the side that refuses to single out massive quantities of mismatched drugs as the usual suspects. With strict monitoring of said pharmaceuticals in place, and the obvious certainty that no one has been pilfering from the Casting Department’s quite sufficient allowance of psychotropic substances, logic points elsewhere.

Of course, logic has taken quite the drubbing this go-around and, as near as can be ascertained by those with coke-bottle fog-lenses in their Virtual Reality apparatus, might just be hunkered down and shape-shifting on peyote somewhere in the neighborhood of Barre de Navidad. The evidence for such a circumstance is, however, circumstantial.

As you may or may not recall, I somewhat recently came out as a racist in this space. Well, I’m sorry to say, the evidence continues to mount. Of late, I’ve been totally unable to bring myself to even gaze for a moment at the televised visages of Donald Trump, his family, and/or Bill or Hillary Clinton. I’ve become “honkyphobic.”

Not only is this cancerous flaw growing but, with the addition of the female, it’s also mutating. As I stated in my original mea culpa, I had come to hold in contempt, in the main, white males. Of course, there were exceptions to that rule. Some of my best friends are white males.

But recently, Hillary’s voice has also begun to nag at my comfort zone. How’s that for scaling the “politically correct” wall in a single bounding leap. Quite possibly, it’s a symptom of “late-onset misogyny.” And if you are looking for further evidence, Senator Elizabeth Warren’s vocals aren’t turning my crank much either.

Most of the problem arrives once Hillary or Elizabeth raises their respective voice for emphasis. But — and the sexism prosecutors are going to love this — I have no such issue with Bernie. Though, in my defense, neither do I have an issue with Michelle Obama in this area. I hear more of a Billie Holiday tonal structure from her.

Now, it goes without saying that the pompous guano coming from The Donald’s vocal chords is the least appealing of all. And I’m not only talking about the “information” that is imprinted via both frequency and amplitude modulation on the audio surface of his mostly ill-advised rants.

It matters not what he is saying. It’s the delivery system. That voice, filled with its sneering off-the-cuff certitude. Imagine, if you will, an angry baboon imitating an Ornette Coleman solo on a chainsaw.

But that being said, I am one who decided long ago, even prior to the advent of “Feel the Bern” and the swinging of the ideological pendulum more toward my side of the political spectrum, that I would be voting against the Republican nominee and the agenda HE rode in on.

To me, it’s all about acquiring a Supreme Court that leans at least a bit further left than the current model, repealing Citizens United, creating Bears Ears National Monument if President Obama, for whatever reason, wavers, freeing Leonard Peltier, blocking the transfer of federal lands to the states, and getting serious about Clean Energy and Climate Justice.

It would also be nice, of course, if the Democrats could regain a majority in the Senate. And while they’re at it, maybe find a presidential candidate for 2020 less entangled with the past and more suitable to the growing youth demographic — you know, just in case things go south this time around.

Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social scenes for more than 40 years.

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