The New England Journal of My Ass

Thursday, January 06, 2011

I CAN’T HELP BUT THINK THAT THE NAME “BOEHNER” IS RIFE WITH COMEDIC POSSIBILITIES

Hmmm…

Boehner. Boehner. Boehner. It sounds like you could have some laughs with this name, if you really take the time to think about it, ya know?

Let’s see…c’mon, man! Think! Think!!!

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…………………………………………………….

Aaaaaalaaaaaalaaaaaaaa....sha sha sha sha pappa pappa ooo mow hiyahhhh....

OK, I got it: “Hey John! You’re the…Boehner of my existence!”

No. It’s on the right track, but still.

Uh.Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Ummmmm. Wellllll.

Boehner….Boehner…Boehner…um…..Boehnerboehnerboehnerboehner…Boehner-Boehner-Bo-Boehner, banana fanna fo Foehner….

C’MON DUDE! THINK! THINK!

Do-d-doo-d-doo…dum-tee-dum-tee-dum…pfffffff….fffffffffff….pffffffffffffffffff…

Maybe if I, you know, free associate, something will emerge here. Here goes: OK….The cock crows thrice, erecting stiff mistakes in the long hard afternoon balls deep with veiny red and pink hairy sacks made horny with arousal.

Uh. Yeah. Nothing crazy about that sentence, right? And, needless to say, that has everything to do with John Boehner, yeah right, lol.

And the worst thing about it, is that I know I’ll watch Jay Leno, and he’s just gonna NAIL IT. And it’ll be as obvious as a four hour erection, and I’ll be like, “Well, I guess that’s why they get paid the big bucks! There ya go. There. You. Go.”

Sorry, everyone. I got nuthin’.

Nuts.

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Wednesday, January 05, 2011

Chuck Berry Could Be a Sacred Bones Recording Artist

Chuck Berry, I am pleased to say, has still (to use showbiz parlance) “got it.”

He’s 84 now, and in some ways, he’s at his peak. Seeing him at the Congress Theatre on New Year’s Day confirmed this.

He can barely play his instrument now, the jobbers he hired to back him up lurched and fumbled through tempos and keys, it took an eternity for everyone to get in tune, Berry asked the keyboard player to get up and walk away so he could play the thing at one point, songs unseamlessly switched from one to the next in the middle of other songs, endings were looser than the elastic waistband on your Mom’s sweatpants. Oh, and not only were the jobbers backing him up in different keys and tempos, but songs were in different keys and tempos between the jobbers and Berry!

My point is this: It was beautifully discordant arty garage rock that was better than 98% of the practitioners of the genre.

It was outrageous. It was a disaster. It was a mess. It was a tragicomical trainwreck. It was rock and roll at its rawest and most dangerous—at least as dangerous as Chuck Berry could make it at 84 years old.

I mean, he could’ve hired a real tight backing band and done some hokey 50’s nostalgia trip easily enough, and everyone would have left feeling like their $30 admission fee was worthwhile. But instead, he stumbled into the atonal mess of 21st Century noise every 21 year old with a 12 pack of PBR, what remains of their backstock of 4-Loko, and a 4-track aspires to. As Peppermint Patty once said: Way to go, Chuck!

And stupid me, I left for the Bottle five minutes before he passed out on the keyboard. I really don’t want to sound glib here (and I am beyond glad that Chuck Berry was alright in the end), but aren’t some of the most legendary shows in rock and roll history based on members passing out/falling apart on stage? Keith Moon, Darby Crash, Iggy, Bob Stinson, GG, Slash, Keef, (to name a few)…that Clone Defects show at the Beat Kitchen when Timmy couldn’t tune his guitar and Ross took over for him from the front of the stage and played the thing with the band. Legendary!

I spent a few days pondering all of this, too cranky from the inevitable NYE hangover the night before (and having to stand in dehydrated misery through the 90’s reggae/ska of the opening act)(Yeah, I wasn't sure how that happened either, but it seems a fine example of clout—in facets that extend well beyond City Hall--superseding logic in the City by the Lake) and full of expectation that maybe—just maybe—reputation aside—Chuck would actually bring it in the first wave of rock and roll sense and certainly not in the neo-no-wave sense of the Year of Our Lord Twenty Eleven. But Chuck…he was really free to do what he wanted. We were all there for Tribute anyways. Thousands of us gathered together to say: Way to go, Chuck. Thanks for giving us more happiness than we deserve. Thanks for being one of the few surviving pillars of this music we love. And yes, you should be twice as rich as McCartney for doing so. All you had to do was smile, all you had to do was play just a smidge of your trademark solos, to sing just a line, and the audience was yours. I’ve never seen an audience so on the side of the performer, no matter what they were doing on stage. It wasn’t about the Sound anyway. It was about the Sight. The Living Legend. In the flesh.

Will the Rolling Stones sound this raw, chaotic, outré, in their eighties? I doubt it. Mick will cover the beautiful madness up with a symphony, all the brass in New Orleans, and enough black lady singers to fill a Harlem church.

So yeah. Chuck Berry, in the sunset of his life, can still make some confrontational noise. A pleasant surprise, for anyone of the mind that rock and roll has long been a safe slice of retrograded Americana.

Post Script: Here’s Flaiztube’s documentation of Chuck Berry’s return to the stage after falling ill at the keys. It’s profound, poignant, and goes well with the Dylan Thomas poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22hg9na8o2c&feature=related

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Thursday, February 01, 2007

An Inconvenient Truth, An Unconsolable Citizen

In the film "An Inconvenient Truth," Former Vice President Albert Gore Jr. delivers an Oscar-worthy portrayal of a Green Party Candidate with a powerful working knowledge of both global warming and effective Powerpoint presentations.

I'll get to the film in just one moment (bear with me, please), but first, I want to give everyone a fair warning (caution: spoiler ahead): America's Favorite Lesbian Muppet Melissa Etheridge sings the "Theme from 'An Inconvenient Truth'" at the very end. The song is really, really bad, even for Melissa Etheridge. It's a song better-suited for commercials for Massengill douchebags or pharmaceuticals promising liberation from the perils of restless leg syndrome rather than closing an otherwise important movie about "Earth on the Brink." It's acoustic, and "inspirational," and you can almost hear the mumbled overdub: "Headaches, nausea, and anal bleeding are not uncommon. If erections persist for more than six months, call your physician."

OK. Let's continue. Watching "An Inconvenient Truth" is like watching a guy in Triple A ball set homerun records the year after he was in the majors and struck out in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded in game seven of the World Series, caught looking at a pitch hanging in the strike zone that's so perfect for swinging you can't believe it's this good and this easy because there's no way they would make it this easy so you just take it and watch the loss. You're glad to see he's still swinging for the fences and connecting and making these small victories, but there's still that nagging voice: WHERE WAS THIS LAST YEAR???

When it mattered, he picked Joe Lieberman as his running mate. In debates, he said "I agree with you" one too many times with a Debate Champ like George W. Bush.

Watching this movie, I actually laughed out loud at a couple jokes Gore made. Gone is the stuffed-shirt. Gone is the Angry Bearded Guy. Filtering out the direction, clearly designed to give Gore and His Message the importance it deserves, I still liked the man, far more than I ever did in the past. (Although, I did love the irony of how "An Inconvenient Truth" was rated: "PG: Mild Thematic Elements." Looks like the PMRC Monster bit back, eh? Nice to know that Melting Polar Icecaps, Coral Reef Destruction, and Hurricane Katrina are just like the mild thematic elements one would find in any Pixar movie.)

Yes, goddammit, you learn a lot, and yes, goddammit, every weak counterargument is confronted and squashed, but goddammit, you still go back to the goddamn undeniable fact that THIS MOVIE WOULD NOT HAVE NEEDED TO HAVE BEEN MADE HAD AL GORE RUN ANYTHING BETTER THAN A CRAPTASTIC CAMPAIGN IN 2000. Now, seven years later, he reveals this heretofore unseen (electable too!) side of this personality--something like a thoughtful and engaging college professor (you know: like me!).

Was he this way all along, and was I just relatively spoiled seven years ago, as used to barely literate leaders as we are today? Maybe to the former, and Yes to the latter. They gloss over the 2000 Election in about a minute, and that's fine, but 2000 hangs over the whole movie like a bad hangover. You wonder how it's going in the alternate universe that has President Albert Gore, Jr. You wonder if they still have their manufacturing base. You wonder how the 3000 troops who died in this universe are doing on that side. You wonder if Vice President Lieberman is kissing George W. Bush, Middle East Sales Manager of Halliburton.

All that aside and all things considered, "An Inconvenient Truth" does its job. It doesn't ask you to live in a tree and listen to the Indigo Girls (but Melissa Etheridge? [shudder]). The requests are doable. I wouldn't complain if Gore was put in charge of the Environmental Protection Agency. He can't be any worse than the oil lobbyists who have run it in more recent years. So, yeah, go see it...just mute the song at the end. You're welcome.

Just Because We're Floridians, It Doesn't Mean We're Nudists

I met my fellow exiled Floridian friend Delano for drinks at the Gold Star Bar, surrounded by bike messenger lesbians, living breathing Candace Rialson characters, and unwashed art school dropouts, basking in the lighting that makes you feel like you're inside a poorly maintained aquarium.

"Well, I can kiss this new job goodbye," Delano said, taking a seat. He removed his blue winter hat and tossed it on the bar. "My co-workers think I'm a nudist."

"You're not a nudist," I said. "Why did you tell them that?"

"I didn't," he said. "But I met them for drinks after work, and we started talking about where we grew up, and I told them--"

"Florida," I interrupted, the rage bubbling inside of me, the way it always does when faced with this kind of stereotyping from Midwestern-Americans.

Delano ordered an orange dacquiri. I ordered a second Sex on the Beach. Make it a double, bartender.

"I should have told them I was from Alabama," Delano continued. "That would have excused my accent, and they would just think I was an inbred hillbilly instead of a nudist."

"No, dammit!" I said. "We can't hide anymore! I tried hiding it, remember? I covered my tanlines. I called Coke "pop." I changed the way I said "roof," "jack off," and "Afghanistan!" I even pretended that Old Style was a good beer, remember?"

"Oh, Old Style!" Delano said, suppressing a gag. "How could you live that lie?"

"I know. It was tough." I took a big slurp out of my Sex on the Beach to drown the awful memory of that fully kreausened nightmare. "But that was when, after the inevitable Old Style hangover, I took a good hard look in the mirror, and I stared at my golden complexion, my surfer smile, my Margarittavillian devil-may-care countenance, and I said to myself, 'Self. This is who you are. A Floridian.' And this, Delano, this is who we are. Floridians."

I raised my Sex on the Beach in a toast. "To Florida," I said.

"To Florida," Delano answered. "The nudest peninsula in America."

This anecdote is all-too-typical of the struggles and indignities most expatriate Floridians politely endure on a daily basis. While, in the interests of full disclosure, it is not uncommon for parties in Florida to end up with the kind of nudity that would make the average Midwesterner blush like a Kansas Junior Leaguer winning the "Best Casserole" blue ribbon at the County Fair, that does not--repeat: DOES NOT--mean that we Floridians are nudists.

Nor does it mean that our day-to-day existences were as idyllic as your two weeks in your Kissimmee timeshare. To answer all your questions I've received in the past 10 years of living in Chicago in one felt swoop: No, I did not go to theme parks every single day; Yes, the weather is nicer in February than it is in Chicago; No, I am not friends with Mickey; No, I can't think of any place in Orlando that might have "local color;" Yes, that 2000 election was a mess and I had nothing to do with it; Yes, I did go to the beach when I lived there; No, Tampa is not worth your time; No, I am not a fan of Jimmy Buffett, Rob Thomas, Gloria Estefan, the Backstreet Boys, or death metal.

While you Midwestern-Americans have shown great strides in recent years towards your myriad Florida biases, it is my hope that you will make even greater improvements in 2007. You can start by repeating this phrase: Not all Floridians are nudists. Not all Floridians are nudists. Not all Floridians are nudists. Repeat this just like a mantra, until you believe it, and then we'll talk about hooking you up with some prime swampland...before the developers destroy what's left of the swamps in favor of golf courses and mcplantations.

Thank you.

Glenn Beck Needs Luv

Rarely (and by "rarely," I mean "once a week") do I refute an argument by saying "Dude, you really need to get laid," but in the case of Glenn Beck, such ad hominem argments are not without merit.

He's entitled to his opinions. If he wants to advocate the assassination of Michael Moore--hey, it's a free country and the First Amendment...oh, wait. Let me amend this. He can say what he wants to get ratings. I'm just sayin'--the cat needs some trim.

I watched quite a bit of Glenn Beck's program while in Florida, in 5-20 second increments while hitting the clickah from one channel to the next (I don't have cable in my own home) in a fruitless search for anything decent to watch, and what was immediately apparent was how his interviews were like an endless series of bad blind dates.

You imagine Glenn behaving this way over dinner with an unsuspecting woman (or a helpless sheep). Eating off of her/its plate, talking with his mouth full while raving about our republican form of government, Cindy Sheehan, and Al Sharpton's hair. The woman politely disagrees; the sheep baas a civil negatory; Glenn laughs mockingly. Another carafe of Bud Light is served. More one-sided raving. A desperation in the tone, tinged with that annoying whine everyone anywhere develops in their larynx when they argue politics and religion. The woman looks at her watch; the sheep yawns. They go halfsies on the bill; the woman insists; the sheep runs into the kitchen, puts its head on the chopping block and begs to die.

Glenn goes home. Alone again, naturally. He puts an Anita Bryant record on the turntable and masturbates to the cover of Ann Coulter's "How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must)." A lonely drop of semen falls on Coulter's adam's apple, mixed with one tear, then two tears, then a deluge of uncontrollable weeping.

"I can't even get a sheep to fuck me!" Glenn blubbers, sniffles, and wails. "It's the fault of atheist Ivy League professors, activist judges, environmentalists, Susan Sarandon, lesbian folksingers, one billion Muslims, and the entire city of San Francisco!" He continues weeping like an emasculated Champaign, Illinois indie-rocker with a broken four-track until falling asleep in a fit of convulsive sorrowful shudders.

But I digress. I certainly don't mean to suggest that Glenn Beck is into bestiality, and I apologize if I gave off that impression. If I had to guess, I'd say "Probably not." I'm sure the 12 geniuses who comprise the Matthews Meter would also vote "No" on this question 12-0. Even Eleanor Clift. Forget about the sheep. All I'm suggesting here is that maybe if somebody gives Glenn Beck some sexual healing, he might relax, and we'll have, you know, civil discourse.

(Sidenote: I have one other thought about Glenn Beck. We now have TV's made of plasma and mirrors, gigantically detailed with surround sound and high definition. Considering the undeniable fact that 98% of what is on television is total and complete crap from top to bottom, do we really need this technology? Does Glenn Beck, Nancy Grace, Greta Van Susteren, Ryan Seacrest, John Gibson, televangelists, "Gilmore Girls" and so on and so forth deserve this level of visual and aural hyper-clarity? With the exceptions of football and "Six Feet Under," does anything?)

Friday, January 26, 2007

The Tits are Alright

In Orlando, I was eager to see Florida's Best Band (in my line of work, caps=important), Jeanie and the Tits, perform in what I thought was a gay bar, but was really just a former Kinko's with a bar installed where they used to keep the collater, but they removed said collater, replaced the smooth jazz with The Misfits, and painted the walls in muted darktones. In other words: Hip.

I say I was excited not just because I hadn't left my parents' house in almost a week--weary of the drudgery of hottub sessions, cable TV, good books, and January Central Florida relaxation--but because Jeanie and the Tits make me feel just a little like Kim Fowley, without the lechery and showbiz acumen, of course.

In December of 2005, I did a live talkshow in an Orlando bar reminiscent of the taverns in late-70's country/western films where a chairsmashing bottlebreaking fistfight inevitably transpires. Jeanie and the Tits played on the show, billed as the World's First Teddy and the Frat Girls Tribute Band.

(Teddy and the Frat Girls, aka Sheer Shmegma: A mystery from West Palm Beach. The Best Florida Punk Band, and Possibly the Ultimate Proto-Riot Grrl Band (but far better than riot grrl, due to the humor). Songs appear in Kollected by Dorks comps, Homework comps, and the Killed by Florida LP. EP on Alternative Tentacles. Scatalogical and incompetent, nobody sounds like them anywhere, like a hearsay attempt at what punk rock sounds like without actually hearing punk rock, thus making it more punk rock than any authentic "punk rock." One song ends with singer Cookie Mold screaming "RAPE!" for reasons not entirely clear. Legend has it that Cookie later faked her death, then became a born-again Christian, renouncing all involvement with S.S./T&FG. In other words, they put the "Florida" in "Florida Weird," and damn if I don't see this band as being everything truly (as in, not predicated by scenes or ambition) terrific about the advantages of creating in the geographical isolation of Florida, a state with as many bad stereotypes as Utah and Jersey).

At my wonderful talkshow, "the Tits" played the entire Frat Girl recorded output, even (after I shouted for it) "The Eggman Don't Cometh." The set was a marvelous example of four people who don't know what they're doing while knowing exactly what they're doing even if it looks and sounds like they don't know what they're doing. In other words--pure entertainment, unsullied by any ambitions except for F-U-N.

In full bushleague Kim Fowley mode, I wanted to get Jeanie and the Tits to the Almost Bigtime. In other words: The Middle West, because this attitude reflected the kind of thing more bands should be doing. (For example-Sneaky Pinks!) I wanted "the Tits" to play the Blackout, but by the time of the last Blackout, I had about as much clout with them as a 1969 Yippie with the first Mayor Daley (Yowch! Nobody's safe here tonight!).

So the Ta-Tas were forsaken for a couple two three of Jay Reatard's 37 current and former side projects. Time passed. Jeanie and the Tits were now writing and performing their own songs. The Blackout came and went, this time with all the predictable inebriational expectations of New Year's Eve. Summer. Autumn. Winter. I go back to Florida, and Jeanie and the Tits play a show on what remains of Mills Avenue that hasn't been torn down in favor of Orlando's Next Great Transformation--this time not as Hollywood East, or Atlanta South, but as Boca Raton North...in a gussied up ex-Kinko's turned hipster bar.

(Aside: In Central Florida, only the bars look like they've been 2-3 other businesses before being bars. Most of the buildings are under 25 years old and haven't had a chance to really dignify (assuming pink stucco can "dignify") and be more than one business, except for bars in former Kinko's, Long John Silver's, Denny's and Pizza Huts.)

Upwardly mobile Orlandoans throw around the word "fabulous" the way gangbangers on the corner throw around "bitch." But the bartenders actually ask you how you're doing, so if they are in fact trying to be a hipster bar, they have a ways to go, at least compared to their yankee brethren. I talk to Rich from Florida's Dying (Hi Rich!), while the opening band, a couple youngsters from Lakeland, sloppily grungeout like it's 1992. I've been to Lakeland, and my guess is that it is in fact 1992 there. Which beats 1974, the year it was the last time I drove through about seven years ago, but not by much.

The band room was separate from the barroom, so I missed the climactic prop guitar smash (the guitarist even wore a robe and mumbled) finale, talking to Rich while a wasted dude in a Tigers ballcap and gold brah chains like you only see on Florida crackers and Brooklyn Puerto Ricans, laughed like he was trying to imitate Ray Liotta in "Good Fellas" sucking down a helium balloon. Naturally, this laugh was not 1/10th as cool as he thought it was.

Which brings us to Jeanie and the Tits. I'm pleased to say that the original Titsongs are right-on logical extensions beyond the initial idea. Like a snottier Twat Vibe, if that means anything (it should). Amateurish and refreshingly apathetic, energetic without having to make a huge production out of it, you just want more bands to follow their lead. They've been practicing...but don't hold that against them.

In New York, you can get a bagel at 3AM, and in Chicago you can fart into a microphone on a stage and you're guaranteed an audience of at least 50 (or host a talkshow and you'll be sure to pull in at least 25), but only in Orlando can you see what stared out as a Teddy and the Frat Girls tribute band, and then drive home in January with the top down, blasting "The Dicators Go Girl Crazy," down I-4 past the Ugliest Skyscraper in the World (again: caps=Serious Shit)...and maybe it's nothing much, really, but really--you could do much, much worse. Like Indiana....

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Memo to Rockcrits

Nobody playing music today sounds like The Stooges. Nobody.

Please, for 2007, put a moratorium on referencing The Stooges when you hear a garagepunk record. Quit being so lazy. I know, it's tough, and this is hackwork, but please: no more references to The Stooges.

Leave them alone. If a band uses a wah-pedal, that is not an automatic comparison to The Stooges. If a band has a dynamic frontman, that is not an automatic comparison to The Stooges. If a band is from Detroit, that is not an automatic comparison to The Stooges. If a song has a krazy saxophone, that is not an automatic comparison to The Stooges.

What really irks me is when you namedrop The Stooges without mentioning which era of Stooge. As if just saying "Stooges" makes it as homogenous as saying "Ramones, from 1985 onward."

Please stop. There are so many bands you could more accurately compare bands to, if you just made the effort. Thank you.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

An Open Letter to the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences

Academy Members:

It has been brought to my attention that Michael J. Fox, an actor afflicted with Parkinson's Disease, is on TV ads for stem-cell research portraying a man with Parkinson's Disease.

Rush Limbaugh has brought this to our attention, and he is never wrong.

I have seen Fox's stunning performance in the commercial for Missouri Senate Candidate Claire McCaskill. His acting, as always, is superlative. In the 1980's, I was convinced Michael J. Fox was actually a Young Republican, or a werewolf, or a high school timetraveler, and I now believe he actually has severe Parkinson's. If I didn't know any better, I would think he actually really had this disease and he really had it in a bad way. Michael J. Fox's acting was, and is, just that good.

What spirit! What dedication to his craft! One can imagine Fox just immersing himself in this role until all his uncontrollable twitchings ring accurate to the audience! I bet the director Michael Moore and the producer George Soros didn't even have to coach him all that much! He probably did the whole thing in one take, so wrapped up in this role he must have been!

My request is simple. If Michael J. Fox is indeed just acting in these commercials, or, as they say in the business of show, hammin' up the Parkinson's for cynical political gain, he should be nominated for some kind of award.

You may just have to invent a new award. How about "Best Portrayal of a Man Afflicted with Parkinson's Disease?" I think Michael J. Fox would stand a good shot at winning this award. Please give serious consideration to his nomination. Because, in my 34 years of life, I have never seen acting that believable. No, not even on "Melrose Place."

I thank you in advance for taking the time to consider my suggestion.

Yours in Must-Seeing,
Rollie St. Bacon

PS You know that show "According to Jim?" It might actually be kinda funny if Bill Murray played Jim instead of Jim Belushi. Think it over.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Jimmy Carter's Excerpted and Prescient "Malaise" Speech from 1979

--This speech and its perceived bitchiness ("What!?! He's calling us out on our lazy crap? Surely THAT'S not one of the seven habits of highly effective governing!") surely cost Jimmy Carter his Presidency in 1980, and yet, has anybody in government been so honest in these past 26 years? Has anybody since ever been so bold as to suggest that, gosh, maybe a government of, for, and by, the people might have some severe problems because of....the people? Reagan fellated our sense of importance and assuaged the very insecurities Carter had the guts to acknowledge; Bush the First codified myopic self-love into a preemee kind of fascism; Clinton just slowed it down a little bit, and Bush the Second...well, ha ha ha...not much needs to be said about what HE'S done...right? RIGHT?!?
Separated from the perceptions of the times, it's amazing to hear a living/breathing President of the United States question American Decadence, a decadence that has just gotten worse and not the least bit interesting. If you're in disagreement on that one, just take note of what was the big deal last week while Bush Jr. got rid of habeus corpus.....let's see..."Deal or No Deal?"..."Dancing with the Stars?"...Lindsay Lohan's left labial flap?....This Malaise never went away. I wish this speech below could be as quaint as "Disco Inferno," but....nuh-uh. If anything is quaint about it, it's that this was even anything less than a moot point at some moment in our recent collective history. --RSt.B

I know, of course, being President, that government actions and legislation can be very important. That's why I've worked hard to put my campaign promises into law -- and I have to admit, with just mixed success. But after listening to the American people I have been reminded again that all the legislation in the world can't fix what's wrong with America. So, I want to speak to you first tonight about a subject even more serious than energy or inflation. I want to talk to you right now about a fundamental threat to American democracy.

I do not mean our political and civil liberties. They will endure. And I do not refer to the outward strength of America, a nation that is at peace tonight everywhere in the world, with unmatched economic power and military might.

The threat is nearly invisible in ordinary ways. It is a crisis of confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our Nation.

The erosion of our confidence in the future is threatening to destroy the social and the political fabric of America.

The confidence that we have always had as a people is not simply some romantic dream or a proverb in a dusty book that we read just on the Fourth of July. It is the idea which founded our Nation and has guided our development as a people. Confidence in the future has supported everything else -- public institutions and private enterprise, our own families, and the very Constitution of the United States. Confidence has defined our course and has served as a link between generations. We've always believed in something called progress. We've always had a faith that the days of our children would be better than our own.

Our people are losing that faith, not only in government itself but in the ability as citizens to serve as the ultimate rulers and shapers of our democracy. As a people we know our past and we are proud of it. Our progress has been part of the living history of America, even the world. We always believed that we were part of a great movement of humanity itself called democracy, involved in the search for freedom, and that belief has always strengthened us in our purpose. But just as we are losing our confidence in the future, we are also beginning to close the door on our past.

In a nation that was proud of hard work, strong families, close-knit communities, and our faith in God, too many of us now tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption. Human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns. But we've discovered that owning things and consuming things does not satisfy our longing for meaning. We've learned that piling up material goods cannot fill the emptiness of lives which have no confidence or purpose.

The symptoms of this crisis of the American spirit are all around us. For the first time in the history of our country a majority of our people believe that the next 5 years will be worse than the past 5 years. Two-thirds of our people do not even vote. The productivity of American workers is actually dropping, and the willingness of Americans to save for the future has fallen below that of all other people in the Western world.

As you know, there is a growing disrespect for government and for churches and for schools, the news media, and other institutions. This is not a message of happiness or reassurance, but it is the truth and it is a warning.

These changes did not happen overnight. They've come upon us gradually over the last generation, years that were filled with shocks and tragedy.

We were sure that ours was a nation of the ballot, not the bullet, until the murders of John Kennedy and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. We were taught that our armies were always invincible and our causes were always just, only to suffer the agony of Vietnam. We respected the Presidency as a place of honor until the shock of Water gate.

We remember when the phrase "sound as a dollar" was an expression of absolute dependability, until 10 years of inflation began to shrink our dollar and our savings. We believed that our Nation's re sources were limitless until 1973, when we had to face a growing dependence on foreign oil.

These wounds are still very deep. They have never been healed.

Looking for a way out of this crisis, our people have turned to the Federal Government and found it isolated from the mainstream of our Nation's life. Washington, D.C., has become an island. The gap between our citizens and our Government has never been so wide. The people are looking for honest answers, not easy answers; clear leadership, not false claims and evasiveness and politics as usual.

What you see too often in Washington and elsewhere around the country is a system of government that seems incapable of action. You see a Congress twisted and pulled in every direction by hundreds of well financed and powerful special interests. You see every extreme position defended to the last vote, almost to the last breath by one unyielding group or another. You often see a balanced and a fair approach that demands sacrifice, a little sacrifice from everyone, abandoned like an orphan without support and without friends.

Often you see paralysis and stagnation and drift. You don't like, and neither do I. What can we do?

First of all, we must face the truth, and then we can change our course. We simply must have faith in each other, faith in our ability to govern ourselves, and faith in the future of this Nation. Restoring that faith and that confidence to America is now the most important task we face. It is a true challenge of this generation of Americans.