(This is a bizarre, autobiographical and exceedingly roundabout introduction to the work of this couple, Bonnie & Clyde, a prolific husband and wife signposting team on the outskirts of LA .)
Yup, today’s my birthday and I’ve got to say at least so far it’s been great! Sun’s been shining, birds are chirping. Got squirrels running around all over the place… what more do you need? (A bunch, actually, but I’ve got all that too.) Although right now I’m feeling each and every one of my one-hundred and fifty nine years, at least now it seems possible I’ll be losing a hundred of them very soon, and things may start returning to normal. “Normal” of course means we have to clean up another Republican mess, but this one’s big enough where I’m thinking we’ll finally have a long overdue talk with our housemate about the kind of men they’ve been bringing over. Of course it could also be that the weird part hasn’t even started yet, but for now I’m feeling optimistic. Or at least what passes for optimistic these days.
For real optimism, let me take you back fifty-nine years and nine months: a young, beautiful couple in formal attire is just leaving the Inaugural Ball for the youngest President ever elected, John F. Kennedy and his glamorous wife Jacqueline. It’s the dawn of the time that will be known as “Camelot” and the feeling of optimism and renewal is everywhere. It’s not just the promise of what will surely be eight years of peace, prosperity, wit, wisdom, glamour and grace under the Kennedys, but the final defeat of Richard Nixon, the McCarthyites and the politics of paranoia and division, buried once and for all with the past. It’s a brand new decade now, the 1960s! A decade that will surely be known as a time of global tranquility and cooperation, where reason reigns supreme… the dawn of a new era of peace, understanding and mutual respect among nations, races, religions and classes.
And in the back of a taxi speeding towards Virginia in the clear chill of the January night, a handsome young Foreign Service officer and his beautiful, intelligent young bride, heady with champagne and the glamour and promise of the evening, stare into each other’s eyes and know that it’s time: the world is only going to get better and better, and they’re going to make a perfect child.
Well, as you probably know, none of that really panned out. Kennedy was assassinated, the 1960s were anything but peaceful and the world frankly just got worse and worse.
I guess it must’ve been obvious after about a year and a half that I wasn’t working out because around the time this picture was taken they’d already started on another baby. Ugly brute too — I forget what they called him.
Anyway, he shows up when I’m two and a half and despite numerous efforts to mail him to the North Pole, I end up with a little brother.
Because of the height difference he always looked up to me, and while I don’t mean to take undue credit here, you could always just sort of tell that he was looking at me and thinking “I wanna grow up to be just like whatever he isn’t.”
As it turns out, that’s exactly what he was doing, and that a life-management system based primarily on using me as a reverse example has worked out spectacularly for him, producing the kind of health, stability and financial security most of us could only dream of. He’s a great dad too, with wonderful kids, who are always calling and texting their Uncle Freewayblogger to see exactly what he’s up to!
By now you’ve probably figured out the people in the headline photo aren’t really my mom and dad on the way to the hospital but Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway. Faye’s laughing cuz I’m telling them about all the money I’ve made recently as John F Kennedy Jr’s agent-just-in-case-he-does-come-back-because-hey-why-not? And the importance of not signing contracts without having read all the fine print. I’m in the back seat with the cigar box we took from Donald Trump Jr’s hotel room after telling him Vladimir Putin was in a strip club down the street with a message for his dad. Ha Ha! And he’s the smart one!
Not sure if it was Jr’s or just a back-up but Warren snagged a cell phone on the way out of the hotel room and started going through the contacts. It took Faye and I everything we had not to laugh because Warren did such a perfect all-coked-up-cuz-it’s-all-goin-down Don Jr.impression, and by the time we got to the car he had the Proud Boys, the Oath-keepers, two Republican youth groups and a 300 person choir from Liberty University all going to the woods around Mitch McConnell’s house. He also told them all to dress all in black and be real careful because there would probably be Antifa everywhere.
Once we got in the car and paid a quick visit to the cigar box, WHAM! Two minutes later we’ve not only forgotten all about Mitch McConnell’s house, we couldn’t even tell you who Mitch McConnell was. The only thing that mattered was getting to San Pedro for some reason that was apparently just too damn hilarious to tell me about and whatever the hell was in that cigar box started kicking my ass during the drive. Take a look at Warren’s face and you’ll see what I mean.
They were either still laughing or they’d started talking excitedly in Arabic when I got my last glimpse of Warren in the rear view mirror with tears streaming down his face. After that I was on the floor of the back seat wondering what made me think getting into Don Jr’s stash was such a good idea to begin with. When I tried to crawl back up on the seat I saw a young couple, immaculately dressed in formal evening wear staring at me wide-eyed with horror and disgust. “Oh Christ! “ I thought, “Now even my own parents don’t want to have me!” and sank back down to the floor feeling utterly forlorn. Somehow I managed to fuck-up so badly I probably won’t even be conceived! I lay my head on the cushion and close my eyes until it all goes away.
I’m lying in back of a large wooden speedboat made out of gorgeous, deeply laminated rosewood or teak. Warren and Faye are sitting on the gunwale with their feet dangling above the water and we’re about 40 or 50 feet offshore from a small beach that has about a dozen buffalo standing on it. The sea around us is absolutely calm, mirrorlike and iridescent in the setting sun. I understand immediately that this is a place I am meant to be. Warren sees I’m awake and says “Took us awhile to figure it out: between trying to drive and all the laughing and crying… not to mention being mostly unable to talk...”
Then Faye says “The key question was ‘When have we EVER been this fucked-up?’ Then finally it hit us...”
“David Carradine’s Christmas Party!” they said in unison.
Warren says “I can’t tell you everything that was in there, but Don Jr.’s been hooving up a LOT of something we used to call Angel Dust.”
“Animal Tranquilizer from the 70s” Faye says, “Used to make people chew their fingers off… You’ve still got all yours, right?”
I looked down: “Yup.”
Then Warren says, “Point is, if that shit’s your maintenance? Like that’s what you’re doing just to get by?” He gave a low whistle. “Listen, however messed-up you think that guy is? He’s way more messed-up than that.”
The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, setting the sky and ocean aflame with the clouds and their reflection. A single buffalo stepped off the beach and began walking towards the boat. Faye said “The reason we brought you here is because the buffalo on the far side of Catalina are something you’ve known about since childhood but never actually seen. Seeing them now is supposed to signify some kind of completion. Some ‘Circle of Life’ kind of thing...”
Warren says “And obviously, buffalo being the classic symbol for the lost grandeur of America, they’re meant to convey some kind of message — so pay attention.”
The buffalo was now just a few feet away and Faye whispered “Be sure to look into its eyes. The message is usually there, along with a sort of general ‘wisdom-of-the-ages...’”
The buffalo slowly lifted it’s head and said “Hello Everyone” and we all shouted “Morgan Freeman!?!?”
Buffalo Morgan Freeman: “Yes, it’s me. I’m assuming this is a dream sequence, right?”
“And we’re all high on Angel Dust!” Faye added helpfully.
BMF: “Alright. I’ll try and make it simple. I am one of the last of the Great Buffalo and this is my message: Bonnie and Clyde were bad people. They were murderers who became celebrated at the dawn of mass-media in what would become a highly malignant symbiosis between evil and publicity under capitalism, blurring the line between fame and notoriety and poisoning the minds and values of Americans ever since. Celebrating assholes may sell papers, but it also encourages those assholes to become bigger assholes and little by little starts turning everyone else into an asshole as well. This effect is intensified when fame and notoriety are blurred to the point where assholes start getting celebrated precisely for being assholes which is a big part of how one of the biggest assholes in the country became President.
Warren, Faye… I think you’re both on record as recognizing how problematic your glamorization of Bonnie and Clyde has been, and your cameo appearance here is just one of many things you’ve done to compensate. Mr. Freewayblogger, Happy Birthday. My gift to you is to let you know that your parents did not regret having you, but yes, did kind of wish you’d been more like your brother. Also, Buffalo James Madison wanted me to tell you on behalf of all the other Founding Fathers, who are incidentally also all buffalo now, that you are indeed correct and public posting of issue-specific political opinion is precisely what they’d intended by the provisions of the First Amendment, and if properly implemented would probably prove to be the panacea for the nation’s ills you believe it would. His advice to you is to concentrate more on the signs and less on the freeways, and to the rest of you from all the Buffalo Founding Fathers, to be sure and vote.
And now I will return to the beach, I believe Warren and Faye will start loudly chattering like dolphins just before jumping into the water and swimming away. This will scare the crap out of you and you’ll wake up immediately with your heart pounding and then spend the first five minutes or so of your day convincing yourself that you’re sane. But I believe that’s something you’ve grown used to.
Buffalo Morgan Freeman turned and began walking back and all the other buffalo began shouting “Vote! Vote! Be sure to Vote!” Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, lit by the fading dusk and looking as stunning as ever, turned to me and smiled just before chattering like dolphins really really loudly and scaring the crap out of me.