| tHE
LONG COUNt
nOVEMBER,
2000 - nEVER
put off 'till
tomorrow what you avoid doing forever. Instead, just pretend it's no big
deal. That was the guiding principal behind my back-to-back runs through
grade three, and is clearly the guiding principal behind Florida's election
mechanism. You know the old saying ... as goes Florida, so goes the country.
So as we learn more about our inability to count we'll see that all those
stories about consistently falling SAT scores are starting to make sense.
The big question is not so much who the next president will be but who
the past presidents really were? Did Bill Clinton really beat Bob Dole?
Given what is clearly emerging as a national system of pains taking electoral
accuracy, I'm wondering if Pat Paulson might have beaten Richard Nixon.
Instead of torment over Vietnam, washed out news clips from The Smothers
Brothers would be haunting the nation foreign policy. Kids today would
hear their parents clarion call ... "No More Nic At Nite."
And what of other elections? Did Dewey really beat Truman? Did Roosevelt
really beat Hoover? Did Richard Hatch really win Survivor? Now start asking
yourself about all those high school prom queens. Makes you wonder. During
my second tour of third grade I remember asking one of my teachers if
it were possible that we were all living in a parrallel universe? To avoid
a third tour of third grade I dropped the subject quickly and returned
to reciting multiplication tables. But this election has me thinking once
again. Maybe the parrallel is not so much what might have been, but what
actually was. Maybe ... I never really did flunk third grade after all.
But for some faulty counting on the part of the powers-that-were I skipped
third grade, maybe skipped fourth grade too and all that annoying long-division,
got to college and graduated early, then squeezed in an extra career as
the copy boy in-chief of an on-line magazine that actually makes money!
Ridiculous? Yeah, well maybe I happen to have ended up getting rich.
As rich as Bob Guccione, wearing gold chains, speaking like a thug, driving
garish limos, loaded with equally garish - an more importantly, naked
- on-line models. With all my winnings, maybe I came to New York to team
up with Donald Trump after he begged me to help advise him on snazy hair
cuts and appropriate ties. That might have triggered a bit of a twist
of course, when I inadvertantly fell into becoming one of Ivana's boy-toys,
performing a variety of sexual acrobatics in a diaper while she sat cross-legged,
filing her nails, and barking " ... again, and faster this time"
before dismissing me along with all her other previous "experiments."
Traumatised and somewhat hurt, maybe I retreated to rececitudes of vitaman
laced narcotics and practiced solo-sexuality, expressing my self only
in the art of distant poems, fearing that more direct expression might
otherwise offend or confuse those who I loved most.
Then, maybe one morning I took charge of my pain, awaking to take my
rightfull place a motivational speaker with bright dental work and infomercials
to match. I'd hire Ivana on as my private driver, uniformed like a French
maid. Now divorced and eager for a new revenue source, she'd accept with
appropriate obsequiousness.
With my re-gained wealth, fame, and Ivana now in tow, I'd return to those
third grade powers-that-were to show off my accomplishments. That's when
the real twist would kick in.
"Xandor," old Mrs. McGainalgrub would gently whisper leaning forward,
"none of this ever happened. It couldn't, because you flunked third grade."
"But ..."
She'd hold up her hand. "We counted your grades once. You flunked."
Hanging my head, I'd then look back up at Mrs. G., my eyes pleading for
a re-count. No, she would nod sadly, there's no time for that now. It's
too difficult. Plus, we've got a holiday weekend coming up.
Suddenly disgusted, Ivana would spit in my eye and stalk off, tripping
on her high heels as she hailed a cab.
"Just conceed," Mrs. McGainalgrub would urge as we curiously watched
Ivana scramble inside then berate the driver, accusing him of inappropriate
use of his air freshener.
With no accurate tally to be had, and no re-count to be taken I would
have to accept my third grade flunkery and all that I remember following
it, eventually re-taking my place as the copy boy without the expense
account. Limping home, I'd pass Pat Paulson, Thomas Dewey, Herbert Hoover,
and then a few steps later Al Gore. Beaten back, in a parrallel universe
every one. So annoying.
Xandor
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