Where’s the fucking salsa, Pat?

The political scene is sickening.  I keep telling folks we have no one to blame but ourselves.  We have evolved, or maybe descended is a better word, into a political system featuring folks who run for office based not on what they believe; but in what will get them elected.  Then, once elected, they are not interested in governing; but simply remaining in the job.

This is a long way from the idealism that stimulated the founding fathers in framing our Constitution.

But in fairness… the ol’ boys had it a bit easier.  They started their day with two litres of Ale, had a bottle of Madeira at lunch and drank the night away on good French Cognac.  They were well read, classically educated and they had the breadth of wisdom that burst thru the alcoholic haze.  And there wasn’t a News Truck with a remote camera team to cover the time that Hamilton tripped on a cobblestone on Chestnut St. 

Sad to say it… but those guys would probably have a tough time in the present tabloid, 30 second sound bite environment.  Shame.

I never thought I would live to see the day when I would think of Dick Nixon as being a desirable President.  But I’m almost there…

It seems a dream… strong leadership, hardnosed thinking, toughness with restraint… real people with red blood flowing thru their veins… Here is President Nixon… taking a step back from battles with Capitol Hill, dealing with the Commies, and the terror of the McGovern Campaign… relaxing on the Sequoia as it makes its way along the Potomac into the setting sun… The President has just refreshed his guests’ martinis with a third round.  Like FDR, he preferred mixing them himself… Tanqueray Gin, a whiff of Noilly Pratt and an olive.  A real cocktail, for real people.  And who would care if the conversation became laced with profanity… or demonstrated a certain mean spirited attitude.  Strong leaders have strong opinions.  Do you think that Jefferson was a saint?

And oh… the martinis flowed, and a bottle of Ch. Margaux ’66 awaited to accompany the thick grilled sirloins that would be prepared for dinner.  But first more martinis and some light hors d’oeuvres.  No cameras, no sound crews… “Where’s the fucking salsa, Pat?”

Dream?  Or Maybe it’s a nightmare.

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