SECOND CHANCES

SECOND CHANCES

1964 was the year of my first presidential vote. I was living in an area that heavily favored Barry Goldwater, and everyone there was certain he would win because everyone they knew was planning to vote for him, a matter of simple math. I had a state by state side bet with 2 to 1 odds on every Southern state; of all of them, I called Georgia wrong. But here’s the thing: I voted for LBJ because he was the guy who promised not to send American boys to fight a war in Vietnam, even as he was manufacturing a lie to do exactly that. Since then, I have lacked sufficient trust and confidence in any candidate to give the process a second chance, until now, and I have so much faith in Barack Obama, I don’t even second guess him (well, except for Afghanistan, and even there I deep down hope he gets it right). It’s been a long recovery from LBJ’s big lie, a long time before I was could give that second chance to any candidate for the presidency.

Let me tell you who I do like, this guy Robert Gates who is getting a second chance to shake off the taint of being appointed by George W. Bush. I was glad when Obama kept him on, not just because changing the Secretary of Defense while fighting two wars seems stupid on its face, but because Gates alone, when he came to the podium as a nominee, did not flash his vanity by talking about policy, strategy, programs, or his resume, he spoke of his patriotic duty to respond to his President’s request. A class act always deserves a second chance.

I trust in second chances, maybe even more than seconds, as well I should. I was 6 years getting out of high school and took sophomore English 4 of those 6 before I got it right. But I was just playing out the hand I dealt myself. Mickey Roark, now there’s a guy who made good use of a second chance. The director of the Wrestler wanted him for the role, but warned the truculent former boxer that he was to do exactly as he was told, no more, no less, or no deal. If only Mickey had a second chance with his plastic surgeon. John Travolta had used a string of foolish movies to run his career down to where he was getting second billing to child actors when out-of-the-blue smart Quentin Tarantino cast him in Pulp Fiction, and Travolta turned it into a big pay-back second chance—“Do you know what they call a Big Mac in Amsterdam?”
Bill Clinton needs a second chance, for my sake. I want to consider the good his foundation has done around the world, particularly with AIDS in Africa, without reservations, without having to think about a blue dress with a stain down the front.

George W. Bush, Dick Chaney and Donald Rumsfeld have squandered all the second chances any three people deserve in a lifetime, several lifetimes. They are war criminals many times over, shit-wallowing swine who murdered thousands of Americas’ sons and husbands and tens of thousands of Afghans and Iraqis all rationalized behind conscious lies and egomaniacal visions. I want to see the three of them locked up in a community cell inside a Guatemalan prison filled with full-body-tattooed gang bangers who eat acid by day and shoot crystal meth all night. I want them to live out their lives in the fear and brutality they have visited on so many blameless people in this world. Then I want them to burn in an endless, fiery Hell. I want them to suffer because they deserve to and because their suffering might be a note of caution for the next group of evil dregs who gain power and seek to abuse it.

But here’s the thing, boys and girls, you got to smarten up enough to want it, and then play it right if you get it. And if you get your hands on power or authority of any measure, use it in such a manner that you don’t need a second chance, for redemption or salvation.

Dr. Huesos is an unrepentant New Leftist who rebuilds old Harleys