October 26, 2007
by Volt and Electra Penn

Life used to be simple, but that was back in the day when hunks on TV commercials posed squinty-eyed in search of fillies to corral. It was the Marlboro dude who made us want to suck on the polluted air of Madison Avenue's Big Country.  Maybe too, it was the fuzz on our cheeks that kept us from understanding how much the media controlled, manipulated and continually lied to us.

In those days I frittered away time, lounging in the University Student Union, cutting classes to stare glassy eyed at the Watts riots on TV.  Oh, I'd smile and wave at other students hurrying to class, but then sink deeper into a hand-me-down camel-haired coat, the principle protector that kept me warm while dodging Uncle Sam's deadly draft.

It was on one of those gloomy afternoons that a well dressed man, lounging in a chair close to mine, started coughing worse than a two-pack a-day hacker. He was skinny with an Errol Flynn's black mustache that made him look at least thirty something, but to a 19 year kid, the guy was ancient. Immediately, he couldn't be trusted, especially wearing an Ernest Tubb Western-cut jacket and dark slacks that almost covered his black Ropers.

After I bummed a couple of cigarettes, he nodded and said, "I'm Maverick." I held out my hand for a shake, but before I could ask why he didn't look like James Gardner on TV, he let me know that his great-grandfather was the original Maverick, and that his firs name was Maury.

Youth is forever trying to be a smarter, so I kidded him about why he was hanging out in the student union with the daytime soap crowd.

"The university invited me here to lecture," he said. "And I've got some time to kill." He checked his watch. "The law school wants to know how I got the Supreme Court to drop sedition charges against a friend and client, John Stanford".

John Stanford hadn't been on my reading list that semester, so Maverick filled me in. It seems the Feds had accused Stanford of being a Commie spy, but in reality the man was a bookworm from San Antonio. His only crime was selling thoughts written by Marx, Sartre and Pope John XXIII.

My parents had tried, they often told me, to tighten my manners, but indignation often loosened the screws. I swore to high heaven, "Fucking Feds. This is still a goddamned free country! I mean except for the draft - and taxes."

Maverick's eyes crinkled up around the edges, but he didn't put me down. Instead, he discretely pulled out a small bottle from inside his briefcase, unscrewed the lid and took a swig. "Like my daddy used to say," he smiled, smacking his lips, "Water's for washin'. Whiskey's for drinkin'."

At the time inexperience and paranoia cautioned me that an important lawyer like Maverick might be making light of a heavy topic. I wanted to impress on this Texas boozer that I was not a 'fortunate' son, my failing grades could be the death of me, plus I had too many personal 'commitments' to let the government haul me off to Viet Nam.

Maverick must have heard it before, because he asked, "Are you a conscientious objector?" Before I could decide, he went on, "Are you homosexual?" I shrugged and shook my head no.

"Look kid," he said, "everything about this war is a damn lie. You already know that without the right connections you're in line for a bullet to your head in a rice paddy. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. My advice to you, son, is don't burn your draft card and don't run to Canada. Find a place to hide, but do it in the system where nobody will think to look for you."

(Article Continues Below)

I learned a lot that day in 1965. Maury Maverick taught me not to base my criteria for trust on a person's age. When it was time, we shook hands and parted, never to meet again. But that brief encounter with a little big man who always championed the 'down and outers' probably saved me from having my name carved on a black granite wall in Washington, D.C.

The very next day I gave away my Magnavox stereo, bongo drums and bong to my roommate, marched down to the recruiting office and joined the U.S. Navy. Four years later after serving on a naval tugboat in Pensacola, Florida, I had learned to body surf, tong for oysters and protect Escambia County from the Viet Cong. But most importantly I hadn't died for a lying politician's career.

So, here we are 40 years older. Not only have the lies gotten bigger, they're more dangerous than ever. This time it's the evangelical big-shots and the Supreme Court puppets who have lied to us, letting the Neocons herd 'we the good people' into the boxed-in canyon of renditions, wire-tapping, fear and out right torture.

Because of those officials we are mired in a pit of the devil's own spit, where the 'born again' pray for Armageddon - just so they won't be left behind. Political cronyism is the rule of law, extremes of wealth and poverty have never been greater, and the powerful elite's unwillingness to make peace with our worldwide neighbors has given murderous felons carte blanc to shoot and kill. 

I can't help but wonder what happened to all the mavericks of my generation who used to question everything, especially authority. Where have they gone? I bet even money it's the Baby Boomers who still have Bush/Cheney 2004 stickers glued to the rear window of their SUVs. With radios cranked, they mindlessly hurry to queue up against the other guy's tail-pipe, to soak up the regurgitated hate of Limbaugh, O'Reilly, Hannity.  

Maury Maverick passed away a few years ago. If he could speak to us for a few minutes, no doubt the truth would be told. The old coot would comment about how we've been 'out to lunch', and nobody's to blame for this pothole we're stuck in but ourselves. 'We the people' have let the banks, mortgage and credit card companies give us a 1st rate shafting. And yes, we're the ones who trusted the mealy-mouthed platitude-spewing, two-faced preachers and prayed to high heaven the buggers would keep their hands out of our kid's pants. Yes folks, Maverick would tell us that we're so faithfully unfaithful we'll follow anybody with a cross and promise.

But the fact is we're no different than our neighbors in Brazil, Mexico and Russia. Like here, there's no majority middleclass, only paper billionaires that come a dime a dozen. But it's only here that our president gets his marching orders from God, and what little is left of America's middleclass has been pushed, squeezed and composted down so far into debt, it can't afford crackers from Big Lots' bargain basement.

This is the only country that levies harsh taxes on those who can ill afford it, declares unnecessary wars which in turn creates staggering national debt. This is the only country where at any given time, on any given day, a street punk could stick a snub-nose in our ribs, a hacker could lift our I.D. or a one-eyed-jack from the corporate criminal class could sell our job to the lowest overseas bidder.

There's no one easy solution to our problems, short of calling in Captain Democracy or cloning Maury Maverick. We're on our own here and I don't think Maverick's advice of 'hiding out' would work this time. There's no place to take cover. So, for the time being we better just stay in the system until the time comes to disappear altogether.

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Have Penn they'll listen. Volt Penn writes speeches for Progressive Populists and reasoned arguments for those on the left of center. He has also written speeches for anybody who has read his work. You can reach Volt Penn through his artist friend, b.b.kemp, at bbkemp@bbkemp.com

Volt/Electra Penn copyright 2007