Two Guys With Nothing In Common Except a Rhetorical Device.
By Jeff Smith
IN ANTICIPATION OF last week's state of the union address
I rummaged around in the night stand and found a pencil and a
piece of paper, went downstairs and nuked a batch of popcorn,
and brought in a bottle of Squirt from the front porch where I
leave them so they'll stay cold. We professional journalists know
from long experience how to be prepared for a major news event.
More significant than the Squirt, the popcorn or even the writing
implements, however, I had a word in my head. Surreal. I'm not
sure I'd heard anybody use it in advance of the President's speech,
but under the circumstances it occurred to me that a man on trial
under articles of impeachment--especially on charges founded in
the fact that he'd been getting blowjobs in the Oval Office from
a girl young enough to be his daughter--might appear a little
awkward and out of character reporting to the Congress and the
nation on the state of the union.
"State of the union? You want to know the state of the union?
Hell, it's totally whacked-out."
Of course it is. The President is playing touch-pee-pee with
a twenty-something Valley Girl in butt-floss chonies; the FBI
and the Republican Party are spending high-priority time and cash
setting him up, framing him and trying to lynch him for it; so
he bombs the world's handiest villain for no discernible gain
other than distraction; the stock market soars to record highs;
and through it all Slick Willy Clinton is more popular than any
politician in recent memory. Except with the Republicans in the
House of Representatives, who hate him so much they're willing
to commit political suicide to ruin him.
And in the midst of all this insanity, Willy waltzes into the
Senate Chamber to address us all on matters of high seriousness--like
none of this other shit ever happened.
Yes, you could make a case for surrealism.
And you'd be making a mistake. Because for one, a good reporter
never goes into a story with his mind made up about what's going
to happen.
And number two, Clinton carried off his state of the union address
with such aplomb that there was nothing unusual, let alone surrealistic,
about it. It was standard Clinton: smooth, well-modulated, skillfully
delivered. He invoked heroes and heartwarming, if not heartfelt,
emotion. Sammy Sosa sat next to Hillary. The widows of two murdered
Capitol Hill cops sat nearby and received the applause of the
congresspersons. Clinton spoke with his customary grasp of facts,
stats and hot-buttons. He drew laughs and ringing applause and
a new record for standing ovations. If you didn't already know
the weirdness of the Washington background behind the speech,
you'd have thought this man was the best speaker, the most confident
politician, the most popular leader you ever saw.
If Ronald Reagan was Teflon, Bill Clinton is forbidium. Nothing
touches him.
I guess that's why I don't like the man. I've got very little
problem with his horniness and his fibbing about it. Hell, he
was set up and bushwhacked; no man in his right mind is going
to do anything but lie when asked if he's cheating on his wife.
It's the law of being a guy. The Republicans say, Yeah, but
he lied under oath, before a federal grand jury; and he tried
to get the girl to lie too, which is obstruction of justice.
To which I say, questions about whether a guy is getting something
on the side don't belong before grand juries, and our tax dollars
should not be pissed away by Congress and the FBI trying to frame
a president for being a bad little boy.
So if you want to know what is the state of the union, it is,
in a word (a word which is not surreal), ridiculous.
AND IF YOU want to know what the state of Frank Hillary
is, it's stable. Frank died on the 15th, and being the good Catholic
he was, I expect he'll stay that way. Frank was not a man to get
above his station.
More of you knew Frank than think you did. Maybe you weren't
introduced and couldn't put the name with the face, but the face,
ah the face. Who could forget that waxed, curly-cued mustache,
the maniacal, gold-highlighted grin, or the gleam in the man's
eye? Once seen, Frank Hillary was not a sight one soon forgot.
Of course it was the tattoos that tended to catch your eye, first
off.
That was what got my attention the first time Frank sidled up
and asked me did I think I'd ever get the hang of that motorcycle
I was riding. It was 1969, in the parking lot of The Arizona
Daily Star when the papers were still downtown at 208 N. Stone,
and I was working on wheelying my 250 Suzuki across the parking
lot from the alley. Frank was standing next to an ancient Harley
shovelhead. He had his ponytail wrapped in a bandana, pierced
ear, gold teeth, a vest with a .38 Detective Special in a shoulder
holster peeking from under his left arm, and tattoos--a regular
mural of body art. We talked bikes until I was significantly late
for work and a friendship was born.
Frank could talk your ear off on a range of subjects that would
positively astound a person with the usual preconceptions about
Harley shovelheads, concealed weapons, gold teeth and tattoos.
So I was not at all surprised 15 years later, after my daughter
was conceived, born, grown to high-school age, to hear that her
date for dinner one evening at the Solarium was Frank Hillary.
He was around 61, 62 at the time. Liza met Frank through his son,
Jim, who was her buddy at Safford Junior High. One night at a
party somebody slipped some PCP into the brownies and Liza had
a terrifying surprise. Jim took Liza to see Frank and within a
minute she was bundled up in a comforting blanket, with a cup
of hot coffee and reassuring conversation from Frank. The man
knew the many twists and turns life's path can follow.
He used to be chief of police in South Tucson.
Frank Hillary was one of the best friends my daughter and I could
ever have. I guess he was that good a friend to the whole town,
to life in general and in many specifics. He was a weird, fascinating
guy. Probably because he was fascinated by a broad range of weird
subjects. You couldn't pigeonhole Frank Hillary.
He took on life with a combination of rigid dogma and stunning
open-mindedness: Catholic right-to-lifer and hippie free-thinker;
armed and dangerous, healing and caring. He'd get mad at Liza
over politics and not speak for months: then he'd hear she was
sick or blue and come across the alley from his hovel to hers,
with hot soup and warm words.
Life came Frank Hillary's way in variety and abundance. Just
last year Liza wandered through Frank's back gate, scritched his
old blind wolf-dog Boo behind the ears and went into the house.
There was Frank, talking some Brit photographer into catatonia
while Kate Moss flounced around the bedroom for a photo shoot.
That was Frank. That was Frank's life.
It ended quickly, mercifully, with a heart attack.
Lucky man.
Lucky us.
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