Once upon a time, in a not so very far away land.......America was the most wonderful place on the face of the earth to live in the whole wide world. Mommies and daddies and sisters and brothers were strong of character and whip snapper clean behind the ears. Athletic, every last one, and sound of mind and spirit and chock full-o cringing wholesome respect for the machinations of the Divine sway. Back when terror was on our side. Father knew best, and father brought home the bacon. Enough bacon to give each member of a white Christian non-communist family of four six heart attacks, collectively, by the age of seventy. Submissive dutiful wives who adhored their husbands and asked little in return but time for tending to the needs of attentive obedient children, and of the home, could be relied upon to fulfill their tasks while still having plenty of time to make themselves charming and pretty for evening's heroic return of Dad, and the humble presentation of the sacrificial bacon. Housekeeping responsibilities such as the ritual preparation of the sacrificial bacon and commiting laundry and ironing socks and sewing jumpers for Sally and Sue and changing the diapers on baby Stu and flower gardening and frilly curtain arranging and all that other girly stuff was performed by mom with a fresh Pepsodent smile and snappy General Electric Theater jingle in her heart. And each of our names began with an 's', because it kept things simple, which also begins with an 's' - thats how simple it was, a long long time ago.
But NONE of that kind of thing ever happens today. No. Never. None of it, and nothing like it. GE Theater is gone too. Its now been twisted into a freakish fishhook of liberalism called MSNBC. At least thats pretty much what William Lind, the Captain Ahab of the cultural conservative armada told me recently.
And thats too bad too. I can still remember those days as if they were yesterday - or maybe the day before yesterday. In any case, on Sunday mom would present hereself in white glove and modest black dress and be off to service to pray for all our happy endings while Dad would regale us with harrowing tales of lawn maintainence battles fought long ago on far away lawns and remind us how we would one day fight those same battles ourselves, and for naught, should we allow ourselves to wander astray of William F. Buckley or Montgomery Ward. Thems was the days, and I can still remember them right now, clear as a ding-dong from a distant doorbell. Yup, sure enough. I remember the drive-in movie. I did the twist when the twist was cool. I can remember exactly where I was when I heard the news that John F. Kennedy was shot stone cold dead in Dallas. I remember the egg man. I was there when Lassie came bounding out the back screen door in joyous loyal service to master Timmy. I always liked Timmy and Lassie and of course I always wanted to share an intimate knowing moment with June Lockhart. For all the right reasons of course. Back in them days such urges were quaint and honorable and free of the taint of lustful sweaty genital grinding passion and grunting carnal perversions that prowl the dampened forecastles of todays postmodernist-multiculturalism obsessed cultural conservative imagination. Back in the day, as they say, we were all angels, innocents, whispers on summer breeze, one flower's petals turning in a splendid equipoise, we were all the June Taylor Dancers, beautiful were we, pirouetting upon the crown of a blessed golden pin. Once upon a time, in a land, not so very far away.
Oh sure.
But don't try to "oh sure" William Lind. Although he has informed me that he is thinking of giving up whaling altogether. Thats right. No more chasing the great leviathan of pluralistic multicultural politically correct liberalism around the high political seas with a rusty harpoon any more. Aye. Too much fish for one old piscator I guess. Hard to imagine as it is.
Come with me now salty dogs of the eschaton, I'd like you to listen to the captain, William Lind, flagship commander of the Center for Cultural Conservatism. He's chartered a new course for the promised land. The course for the discovery of lost western civilization can be found right in his ships manifest. Or rather, manifesto. Really. Should any of you care to book passage. Here ya go, from the charter docks at the Free Congress Foundation, the Declaration of Cultural Independence.
See. Maybe they'll just float away like driftwood. Oh sure.
Alas, skipper Lind has nevertheless recharted and redefined the cultural conservative voyage. It has become an exodus if you will. Off to old distant past ports of call. He's scraped away the shipworms and christened his new galleon The Spring of Marah and she will ride high on the billows and hold fast to the hidden currents of ebb-time as she roars away from the shoals of Baal. He and his mates will seek out the City of the Immortals (which is no fun from what I've read) and cleanse themselves of cultural death in the cold spring fed waters of the river Sempiternal. This will be Captain Lind's errand in a watery wilderness. His retreat forward. His odyssey - backforward, where once upon a time, in a land not so far away, thee chosen were dominion. He will guide the pilgrims into bygone harbors, an heroic Ulysses aborad a ship of fools, bound for an oblivion, where only the right kind of castaways will be set ashore.
Or at least thats the plan. Should enough coxswains and boatswains and other kinds of swains be convinced to scuttle aboard for some galley duty and spinnaker yanking and other general culture warrior ship rigging chores. Perhaps there will be onboard gambling and Bill Bennet will come along. That outta bring the faithful scurring up the gunwales.
So hoist the mainsails and anchors away! Cast off ye Cap'n and crew! Beware the songs of sirens and the giant squid that guards the edge of the earth! May the wind be in your sails and your masts be strong and straight and your crows nest filled with crow eggs. Or whatever the hell it is they say.
In any case, Bye! Bon voyage! Have a nice lifestyle! Drop a message into a bottle sometime if you feel like it. Yup. I'll be dockside waving a tearful hanky in farewell. Sure I will. And then I'll be off to the nearest quay for some clear sailing of my own and some wild shindy dancing with June Lockhart.
Glug.
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