CommunityTBogg

It’s time to shove a cock out the Overton Window

I’m a big fan of punk rock, irreverence, even the long con – but to make them work, you have to punch up. Weasels like Glen Beck who leech off the witless, while skewering the poor and co-opting the Civil Rights movement by draping it in the flag, well, it’s enough to get me to re-up my membership in the Jacobin Club. I’m tired to death of the haves whinging about not having more. And worse yet, crying about it.

I mean, sure, I’m glad there are those looking to puncture that self-important glob of laughable self-pity and Bircher charm:

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But to me he’s a moral vuvuzela, spewing endlessly skronking media pollution. And it gets me angry enough to be earnest. No one needs that, least of all you guys.

Still, beyond the “divinely inspired” scheduling of having his White Man Jamboree on the Mall on the same day and time as MLK’s “I have a dream” speech what particularly offends me about the gushing gelatinous fuckstickery he spits out at 54000 psi every day is the shamelessness he puts into the effort.

Check out this quote from the LA Times about his “novel” the Overton Window:

Beck is quite open about the fact he didn’t write the book. “I don’t write,” he told USA Today, “I speak. I get bogged down in writing.”

No shit:

“Suit yourself, lady. I’m telling you right now, you made the rules, but you’re playing with fire here. I’ve got some rules, too, and rule number one is, don’t tease the panther.”

Maybe that’s it. Maybe what really gets me about Beck is that, in the end, he’s just another cancer in an already teetering host. So his cynical shtick is to be just a little crueler than the legion of other cheap millionaire hustlers larding the airwaves and bookshelves. A little “crazier”. A little more pancreatic than testicular.

The romantic in me wants something cathartic to happen — a Welchian moment where the fucker evaporates from a plaintive, human question of decency at long last and disappears back into the swamp. But I fear that even in eras where people felt shame, those moments were few and far between. In this completely un-reflective epoch, where the only thing worse than being helpful to those less fortunate is being unnoticed, Beck isn’t a pariah, he’s a poster boy.

Someone needs to punch up. And hard.

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Jay B.

Jay B.

Writer. Bon Vivant. Jerk. I've been called many things, but in my heart I still like to think of myself as that quiet, ultra-shy shut in from Massachusetts who wrote poetry that moved that moved the world. Wait. That's Emily Dickinson.

I'm someone else.

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