Greener Pastures? Dec. 8. 2023
The old saying goes, the more things change, the more they
stay the same, and this has never been truer than with the political scene here
in what may be the most corrupt county in America.
This struck me hard yesterday when I went to a Christmas
Tree lighting in the old county court house, which is the last official act by
the outgoing county executive, who served in that post for 20 years, although his
leaving office only reflects the changes and the sameness of the last decade,
All this comes ten years – almost to the day – when my poet
friend resigned her position was personal secretary to the Virgin Mayor, as if
the changes here and now somehow bring to a final conclusion those turbulent
years.
Some of the players remain although slightly altered. The
congressman, who started out as mayor, has become mayor of the town he helped
get the Virgin Mayor elected to, and the Little Man, remains his aide as he had
been back then and most likely aways will be – although the Virgin Mayor has
long been put out to pasture, returning to his medical practice.
The political war between the State Senator and the Neighboring
Mayor has also ended, partly because the Woke Governor redistricted state
senate districts so that the state Senator and the Neighboring Mayor would have
had to face off against each other, proving too much for the state Senator, who
decided to retire, leaving the crown to the Neighboring Mayor – who is now
trying to replace the U.S. Senator as the county’s political boss, backing a
candidate for mayor of the Big City, now that the Mayor of the Big City is
running for governor again.
The old pollical boss, the U.S. Senator is facing serious
charges and most likely won’t survive, bitter at the fact that the Neighboring
Mayor is contributing to his demise. The two powerful figures have had an on
again off again relationship for decades, but the Neighboring Mayor has always
been a political opportunists and sees the U.S. Senator’s demise as an opportunity
to become undisputed king.
But the U.S. Senator knows where all the bones are buried,
and the Neighboring Mayor’s sexual habits, vowing to publish a picture of all
of the women the Neighboring Mayor has slept with over the last two decades, a significant
list, from what I’m told.
At the end of the day, power is all about who is left
standing after the fist fight concludes, or as the rock band, The Who once
pointed out, “new boss is the same as the old boss,” or better perhaps, the Springsteen
quote about these people aching to be king.
The crew around the retiring county executive is different
from those elsewhere, although the Neighboring Mayor – who once plotted to overthrow
the retiring county executive, has won that victory, too, simply by waiting.
Many of the faces I saw at the Christmas Tree lighting as familiar
faces, who cling to the newly elected County Executive with hope of retaining
their access to power, just as others elsewhere have done on a small scale,
although almost all of those who had rode the Virgin Mayor’s coattails to power
are gone, their plans having come to naught simply because the Virgin Mayor was
not powerful enough to protect them, and when he fell, they fell and slunk back
to the woodwork out of which they originally crawled.
Some luckily fled before the very end, finding life boats long
before most saw the Virgin Mayor’s ship was starting to sink. Joey D and others
sailed into new horizons, made alliances with other virgin mayors, and so
survived. Some, like our poet, simply walked away, got on with their lives, and
found some contentment unconnected to political power, a wise move.
The sadness, of course, is that I still linger on the
fringes of this hateful society, no longer nearly as powerful as I once was now
that the media I originally worked for as gone belly up. People recognize me as
a survivor, but in truth I have no place else to go and cover these less strenuous
events to watch the faces of those who once had power and those who are gaining
power, knowing that ultimately, they too will eventually fade as new faces rise
up out of the dust to replace them.
I have no ties to any of it, except as an observer, someone
who has survived long enough to become one more familiar face in the crowd, nodded
at, even sometimes admired, but often for all the wrong reasons. I feel a lot
like George Bailly, though in my case, I’m lost in the nightmare, watching what
was once a livable village turned into a modern Pottersville, as the once
familiar landscape turns into massive towers I no longer recognize, and the
people who I have rubbed shoulders with move on to greener pastures.
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