Many happy returns

The king is dead. Long live the king.

 

That, aside from being a line in a rip-roarin’ Megadeth tune, is a common enough phrase among nations that have boasted monarchies at one time in their history; it originated in France and became a kind of meme, the antiquated version of silly cat pictures on Instagram. The French have said it, the British have said it, and I’m pretty sure they’ve said it in those ambiguous countries in central Europe, the tiny B-listers where the national claim to fame is the production of eye-watering beer that could eat through an engine block. Its spread is understandable. It’s catchy. Tailor-made for use as a rallying cry.

 

It also, superimposed over the 21st Century, fairly encapsulates Americans’ attitudes about politics. By the end of politicians’ terms, we’re so tired of seeing their ingratiating smiles that we project, ponder, and hypothesize their replacements months before an actual election; by the time it’s voting day, we’re so sick of the ads and hype that the returns themselves are almost anti-climactic – one final spurt of democratic fervor before we stumble into work the next morning, dizzy, feeling as though we’ve been creamed by the great lumbering Mack truck of patriotism. All that, and nothing dramatic actually happens. The faces change, the dysfunction stays the same. The king is dead. Long live the king.

 

I’d love to be riffing about something else at the moment – duck farts, body odor, stuff that really matters in my insular, adolescent world. But like many of us, I’m still reeling from a prolonged, post-election hangover that’s far more intense than the most reckless of cocktail benders. It’s a uniquely American sensation. This country’s got several things going for it in the originality department: We wear far more pairs of sweatpants, per capita, than any nation on earth; we’ve pioneered the use of fried chicken as a substitute for hamburger buns; we’re tops in western culture when it comes to the sheer number of amusement parks that feature animatronic puppets. And somehow, we’ve transformed the democratic process into a glittery, all-star  jamboree, with more flash than Riverdance and more celebrity worship than an Oscar party.

 

I’d almost be proud, were it not for the fact that we’ve accepted entertainment in lieu of results.

 

It’s easy to blame that lack of results on political polarization, more difficult to explain how the phenomenon actually happened. Analysts like to point to the Supreme Court’s Citizen’s United ruling, which effectively opened the door to unlimited campaign contributions – most of them coming from donors who wear silk underwear and floss their teeth with whiskers plucked from the snouts of Arctic walruses. But that ruling pitted moneyed interests against those with lesser means, creating a rift based more on class than ideology; fact is, the red-versus-blue, us-versus-them culture took root long before that. 

 

One of the culprits is the corporatization of both major parties. Each is subject to the whims of lobbyists’ pockets, and each has developed a decidedly marketing-based focus on creating brand loyalty. And it works. Making decisions in the voting booth has almost become like purchasing a pair of shoes: You buy Nikes because you’ve always bought Nikes. Reebok might have a better model this year, with a stronger sole and those cool-looking spiral patterns on the heels, but damned if you’ll throw your support behind unpatriotic footwear. Which reminds me, I really do need to buy some new kicks.

 

With Democrats and Republicans reduced to packaged products, the next logical step is to turn political contests into a spectacle. This is something they’ve always been, to a certain degree; there’s something in the American DNA that loves a good showdown. There’s a reason every western ends with two gunslingers in a standoff at high noon. But the recent deluge of TV commercials, op-ed pieces, pep rallies and email blasts made the past election seem more like something out of Wrestlemania, minus only the headlocks and embarrassingly tight speedos. That’s probably the inevitable next phase. In ten years, it’ll be Susan Collins versus Joe Everyman in a no-holds-barred, steel cage spectacular, with a stadium-sized ocean of waving foam fingers and live intro music from Slayer. Throw in some fireworks and a motorcycle cage and you could toss it up on Pay-Per-View.

 

I was shooting photos in Dayton this past summer when I was engaged in conversation by a loyal reader. At one point, she regarded me almost sadly. “You’re too cynical for someone your age,” she said. She’s probably right. And to be fair, the voting process itself is far from cringeworthy. I still get an electric thrill whenever I enter the booth, and the vibe at a polling place is genuinely exciting – maybe not as exciting as sipping champagne in a limousine, or firing a homing missile up Luigi’s tush during a spirited round of “Mario Kart.” But close. Part of what makes voting such a satisfying experience is a communal sense of duty. You may not agree with the view of the person next to you, but you’re nevertheless bonded by a common notion of fulfilling one’s civic duty. Not to whip out the violins and handkerchiefs or anything, but it’s nice to feel you’ve had a hand in shaping the future of your community, state and country.

 

I do, however, wonder what George Washington would think of our biannual, over-the-top brouhaha – Washington, who abhorred the very notion of political parties, and who had as much tolerance for bickering as a moth does flame. Would he find something of his own 18th Century in our thrust-and-parry squabblings? Or would be hop back in his time machine and run screaming back to colonial Virginia, far from the din of attack ads and blowhard pundits?

 

My guess would be the latter. Think of the irony: A champion of self-rule, aghast at do-nothing gridlock, resignedly hanging his head and declaring, “Long live the king.”