Written by Steven Bridenbaugh   

I guess it's out of respect for my past, the life I have enjoyed -- much more so in the past, I have to say -- that I keep the whole show on the road. My constituency, so carefully gerrymandered by my predecessors, to include only the gated communities that once bred all my colleagues, still quietly stands behind me, and always will. And so I remain, alone but unintimidated, just as Strom Thurmond used to carry on, waving the flag of Old Dixie, unashamed, a stalwart scion of times past. Maybe I will be vindicated, as he was, at least for a while.

I started off, you will not be surprised, in Wall Street. At the age of twenty six, I was more than confortable. I took a few years off. Spent a few years in Heidelberg, to polish my German. Taught for a year at Le Rosy. I have a few friends that decided to become Episcopal priests, in such circumstances, but for me, I soon realized, that my calling was politics. I was elected to the House in the State of New Hampshire, riding the reactionary fervor of the times. I joined the Caucus, played that card for a while. We thought of ourselves as Revolutionaries, we really did. The Brat (that's what I call him, the current president) frequently chides my former involvement with those people, but what the hell! It was a gas.

My father was bred in the cloth of the American aristocracy, at least the fringes of it. He ran a small factory that produced perfumes and other feminine products. He hated the regulations that forced him to build additional bathrooms and other amenities for his Puerto Rican employees, all women. Roosevelt was a commie, and everything he did was a crime against civilized society. That was the truth that nourished me, as a young man. In prep school, I wore a two-piece suit, and a bow tie. I read the New York Times, every day, and was at my best in history classes. I learned in prep school, and later at Yale, that there would always be a small number of us. Descendants of Prescott Bush and his allies. It paid off, to be different, in this case.

The reason that I maintain my political stance, despite all the unfortunate circumstances that led to the demise of the Republican Party, is that the current political associations are a complete sham. The Whigs, whom I particularly detest, always manage to get themselves elected on the history issues. As a historian, I am immediately at odds with anyone who wants to rewrite the history books. That set me apart from some of my colleagues, back in the day. Then of course, the Proles/Hipsters, who run everything. Every decision made by a committee. Proletarian, that is a joke. All they do is try to drown me out.

I went to see my old friends, Charlie and David, the other day. They don't have too much longer, but they have a little more peace of mind, now. After they got out of prison, Charlie was particularly manic. I hired a few caregivers to help them out. Both of them were never the same, after that experience. I saw them at the hospital once, cracked a few jokes. Said Martha Stewart died for the sins of your corporation. They didn't laugh. They got kinda weepy, thinking about it. That's when I knew they were never coming back. I brought them books to read. I always say, that if you aren't reading a book, your mind will take you places you don't want to go. But they wouldn't read any of it, even the graphic novels. Thank God for Haldol, and please pass the Prozac.

The Brat and I, we go way back. You might call us enemies, but it's different than that. He never allows himself to get personal in his politics. I have my vulnerabilities, my inappropriate enthusiasms, if you will, but he never brings that into the arena. I could have a wine cellar full of Viagra, and he wouldn't mention it. The other day, he was grilling me about the bombing of Iran. I told him, that it wouldn't have been such a disaster, if it weren't for the goddamn reparations for it that he put in place, after the fact. I was willing to concede that we had made a bad decision, but once the deed is done, you can't go back. I could tell he was furious, because when he is really angry, he becomes quieter, and seems to slow down, even though he is burning up inside. He doesn't even have to say anything. You know the man hates you. But then the cloud passes, and we talk again. I can't think of anybody else who has such a high regard for conversation, even about unpleasant subjects. You can't knock him off balance, no matter what you say. That's because to his mind, Nixon, Reagan, and any of the personages which meant so much to everyone in the past to him are simply something in the Sunday funnies. Henry, Lulu, and Sluggo -- that's all they are to him.

I could tell him what is real, but he would just pretend not to understand. He's good at that. I like to read all the classics of political science. Plato, Aristotle, Machiavelli. For Plato, the idea of the thing is what is real, not the pathetic images we see in the material world. There is no true aristocracy, not anymore. I think we had the right idea, back then. It's the idea of perfection that really counts. Sociology is just a hobby for the bean counters. They ruin everything that is really worthwhile. Too bad that's the only thing that makes any sense to the Brat. We didn't help out all the little people, but it's the idea that we should and could that made sense, to me. Even Kwan Yin can't feed all the people in China. The Chinese, by the way, I started appreciating them more and more back then, before they took over Hawaii and the Phillipines. Some of their philosophy still appeals to me. My father used to crack little silly jokes about Confucius. Not the dirty kind -- I don't think he ever told a dirty joke in his entire life. But Confucius started the first Liberal Arts College. I like that. He didn't think that is was necessary to teach practical subjects. His students practiced archery, but they never went hunting. The purpose of education was to create a moral man, who would make appropriate decisions as a social servant.

I think that what was our downfall, as a political party was, all the Randiness. The trouble with Ayn Rand was, she was a product of Soviet Communism, as well as a rebel from that society. I'm sure she was really good in bed. But she was self seeking in a way that might stab anyone else in the back. Like her, we ended up as a reflection of the Soviet legislature that we supposedly hated. The whole agenda was cooked up by an inner clique. Everyone else just rubber stamped their approval. And everything had to be a piece of the same agenda. It was an excess of practicality, to say the least. You have to go for the right concepts, once in a while. Too much fidgeting about getting results-- it's a trap. Finally, we turned everyone off with our incessant advertising. If there are too many ads, people won't listen to you anymore. We couldn't sell that last war. Nobody came.

They call me a dinosaur, but I don't care. They say it with a kind of respect.