The Whiteman Chronicles continue.

A synopsis of what has went so far.  The year is 2031. Whiteman is a southerner of a certain age and of the Caucasian persuasion. He plays by the rules, works hard and hopes life will be better for his children than it was for him. (Click to read Part I or Part II)

Twenty years have gone by since the revolution. A Tea Party-Republican Corporate Monied elite  took their country back by throwing money bombs into the American political and social system. They did it under the guise of helping the Beckmotized white working class who needed tax relief, smaller government and no more hand-outs to the coloreds and shiftless poor. The new social policy was called It’s Time to Thin the Herd. With the collapse of social programs as examples of “fraud, waste and abuse”, the safety net was rolled up and the deaths began to rapidly mount. Preventable fatalities among the homeless, infants, the elderly and, as always, the poor skyrocketed.  By 2015, the second year of Newt Gingrich and John Bolton as co-presidential chief executives, it was estimated that the number of deaths of those no one would help ranged from 100,000 to one million annually.  People didn’t pay attention to figures like that any more. Too depressing.

They got their country back, Whiteman thought ruefully. But why did they have to take mine? Whiteman was conservative but of an older vintage of the politick, concentrating on personal responsibility and values, education, social stability, prudence, knowledge (conserving) for the past, profound respect for the grandeur of the American experience and a deep sense of honor.

He was raised to trust those in authority to do the right thing, from the teachers, hometown bankers to the halls of Congress. This was his essence of conservativism, Whiteman believed. If it’s something else, then it isn’t conservatism.

It assumes darker intent. That was the demon that stalked the land when the TP-GOP ruled.

So Whiteman thought. He did a lot of thinking in these 20 years since the Paralysis followed by Impeachment, Total TP-GOP victory in Senate and Presidency, The Manufactured Terror Incidents, Rise of the New Oligarchs and Corporatocracy, The invasions of Iran, Pakistan, Krizakstan, Venezuela, Cuba and Panama using new weapons systems made in China … hooeee. That globalization thing sure took off under TP-GOP blessing. Lots of Oligarchs got lots of public war money. Wars now consumed 51 percent of the GNP. It seemed to never end.

If only the people, their representatives in Congress, the Democrats, the organized and leaning lefties, the boots on the ground could have gotten together in 2009 at the latest in a common front, (cue the heroic drums) well,it might have all been so different. Public interest and public service now equated to public toilets. Show me the money. Damn! So Whiteman thought as he looked over the vast desolate landscape brought about to serve the eternal I. My interests rule, dude. It had become the ethos of the times.

Wall Street notions of ethical behavior  were now being forced on the American mind: You act only out of greed or fear. Only fools care about the commonwealth. What counts is your wealth, Capiche?  This was the new reality of the nation in 2031.

What about the nearly 300 million adults in the nation while all this was happening? Where they all asleep? Whiteman wanted to know.

For  Americans who could afford such things, there were 3-D infosphere environments that distracted entire families with multisensory experience), For the rest of America the endless reality shows such as Celebrity Vomiting (overweight blondish B movie vixens, hotshot bloggers and Telenova stars) and Ferrets in My Panties Hosted by Bristol Palin!

In short, the common folk, the plebes, the hoi poloi, the proletariat, the inchoate masses didn’t have time to keep up with politics, elections or the future of democracy. It was a nuisance to keep informed. Your friends would say stop boring us. Truth could be screamed, and it was repeatedly as the school bus veered toward the ditch years before the TP-GOP heartbreak. But if you’re attention is diverted like a cat’s when the laser light of media, do you pay the warnings any attention?

People were still relatively sane in 2008. The economy had sprung a leak, nothing more. The election was exciting. Whiteman’s  Deep South ancestry had steeped itself in intrigue by the prospect of a president like Barack Obama. His understanding of the presidency, aspirations for us as a nation, his deep intelligency impressed Whiteman. But in the end he voted McCain/Palin out of respect to veterans.

So in 2008, he had flirted about voting for the first black president.  His McCain/Palin friends– white men all– could not understand his breaking with the orthodoxy of the pack and began to shun him on their high velocity rush to the extreme right. Whiteman’s vintage conservatism was now dangling uncertainly between the mindless nannyism of the welfare state and Ayn Rand suckling piggish individualism taken to the level of The Early Medieval Era in eastern Europe.

What was really bad for Whiteman however was the reemergence of race hate in American politics. He despised that. It cut close to home. Whiteman came from a Louisiana family that included Kluckers and a jolly little band called The White League. He knew racism when he saw it and, boy howdy, it was just like what he had experienced in north central Mississippi the year Wallace ran for president. Similarly, his former friends and colleagues weren’t just happy but frienzied when the Tea Party GOP took the U.S. House Jan. 5, 2011. They had unwittingly set the beast in motion. The New Oligarchs slouched toward Washington to be born.The story now continues.)

The governor of the great state of Georgia, L. Roscoe Poats, took a drag on his $200 Cuban Supremo, exhaled and smiled in his well appointed office on this cold and sunny day under the gold dome in Atlanta.

Skeeter Candler III had just invited him to a party of The New Oligarchs on a mountain enclave in northeastern Georgia. Just the idea that these mind-bogglingly wealthy individuals would extend him the gold-leafed invitation he propped up by the humidor thrilled him to no end.

The party was to celebrate the sale of state land to a holding company representing some of the leading oligarchs. The reputed price for the mountain and lake that used to be a state park was one billion dollars added to the revenue-starved State of Georgia. Georgia. His state, his responsibility, his fiefdom.

It was quite an honor for anyone clocking in at a personal fortune of under $20 million to  crash one of the legendary parties of the New Oligarchs, as they had come to be known. The New Oligarchs were top levels of investment bankers, Chinese entrepreneurs, government asset takeover artists, Saudi petro barons, hedge fund managers, Indian techno investors, Shadowy figures with fistfulls of gold ingots, Fossil fuel honchos, media poohbahs  and hereditary wealth hooligans, in short, those who made things happen in the land of capitalism unrestrained.

Free from any limits on amount or require identity of donor thanks to the Supreme Court rulings, the trillions in the hands of the New Oligarchs to elect compliant political candidates in every state, county, school board office in the country. Judges were bought through campaign donations.

The New Oligarchs were still buying up all the media, from ad agencies and radio networks to multistate cable systems and corporate broadcasting. This was thanks to another handy Supreme Court decision–ruling all monopoly restrictions unconstitutional. Their power was growing exponentially as all things public were privatized or sold off (no taxes allowed, government gurgling while it drowned in the bathtub).  Big Government had been replaced by Big Money.

And Roscoe Poats, a mountain boy from Hahaira, Georgia, would now join their revels for one night of partying and join the glittering ensemble that was the New Oligarchy. New Oligarchy took its debauchery seriously and you had to be willing to pay. The rich beyond measure had some very odd ideas about sex, and if you were new to the game, there were some things you had to do you wish you hadn’t. But the food was terrific.

Skeeter Candler, his friend since childhood, had invited Roscoe to the party.

And it was at Skeeter’s intervention that the state’s need for money (sale of state assets, including state parks and beaches) hooked up with those with the money to spend. The New Oligarchs. Skeeter was the local rep, the macher for this flood of global cash that was coming into the state. All the spigots were on, and Skeeter had his big old cowboy hat turned up when it began to rain $10,000 bills. He identified assets, made the contacts and connected everything up. L. Roscoe Poats was button-bustin’ proud of being connected to this enchanted land of the super rich by his good friend Skeeter Candler III.

The party was to be in a series of large mountain chalets that been constructed last spring and summer on what used to be a state park in Rabun County. Like all things public, it was being raffled off to the highest bidder. The cash was needed to support a state government crippled by 20 years of Tea Party-fueled Republican rule– corporate tax rollbacks, no taxes except for the 20 percent VAT sales tax, and end to public services of any sort. A New Medievalism began to take shape. Castles behind gated walls for the nobility, miserable hovels for the peasantry that was once middle class and damn little in between.

Boyd Lewis

Boyd Lewis

New Orleans family. War baby. Family moved a lot. Secondary and college education in Memphis, TN. Just before 1967 graduation, commissioning and tour of leafy, lovely Vietnam, banged up in auto accident. Decided to go into journalism. Tennessee mountain weekly, small Mississippi daily and nearly three decades in Atlanta. Black and alternative newspapers, freelance photojournalist, public radio news and documentary producer, news writer for CNN. Married Deborah James, followed her to Los Angeles for job. Quit the dismal trade and became middle school English teacher in LA barrio school. Quite happy.

    1. I hope and pray it’s a story that won’t be told. Either this the product of a fevered mind or it is something to print out and fold away to open in 2031 and read in the ruins to grunted laughter. Wake me when the revolution’s over.

  1. “For the rest of America the endless reality shows such as Celebrity Vomiting and Ferrets in My Panties Hosted by Bristol Palin.”

    Ok, that’s funny. A rather dark piece granted, but I guess there is a tiny glimmer of humor in the Toilet Paper Party taking over.

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