måndag, mars 10, 2008

The Albany Curse

Aw, Eliot. You went and proved it. There really aren't any bigger than life heroes anymore. We believed in you because you had the stones to stand up to big time crooks in ridiculously overpriced white collars, but in the end you sweat over how to hide your call girl cash? I can't figure out what is worse, that the whole thing was exponentially hypocritical or stupid. Like it matters.

Nope. No big heroes. And nothing new under the sun, either. John Adams, the closest anyone else has come to a superhuman hero in my eyes, earned his cape by using his wit and tenacity, while risking his neck to fight for what he believed in. But then, having gained the prize, he allowed his own insecurities ("Why doesn't anybody like me, really like me?") to lead him to so greatly challenge the freedom of the American press with the Sedition Act of 1798. Exponentially hypocritical or stupid? It doesn't matter. We owe the existence of the Declaration of Independence more to him than Jefferson. But when Adams' term was up, he hit the road for home under the cloak of darkness.

Silda must still be smashing governor plates in the mansion, with the former Albany first lady Eleanor Roosevelt's ghost trying to calm her with, "There, there, old girl. At least he wasn't sleeping about for years and years under your nose with your own personal secretary - you don't have a secretary, do you? Anyway, wasn't that a funny discovery. Enough to drive one off to Appalachia. Now find your best press suit - no not the pleather - and stiffen that upper lip. Hmmm, maybe not so stiff. Have you heard about those new fangled injections?"