Homeland of the rave?

You have a theory. Actually, you have quite a few theories. Often, your brain is like the Internet. Meaning a farrago of facts, derived from avalanches of information and misinformation, zigzagged with lists of lists, links to links, reams of rumors, trashcans of conjectures, tar pits of innuendo, canisters of fear, dumpsters of faddery, hectares of veiled insinuations, swamps of outright fictions and fabrications.

This particular theory gets launched the day after massive terroristic attacks on the U.S., when, on Wednesday, Sept. 12, the White House was evacuated once or twice in the same afternoon due to bomb scares. Here’s “The Theory”: What if America’s cardiologically challenged Vice President Dick Cheney suffered what let’s call a major and life-threatening heart episode and was evacuated not to Camp David or some other undisclosed top-secret location for national security reasons, as we were told, but relocated perhaps even more insidiously to – shudder – a hospital-type setting where he would be hooked up to sustaining and/or monitoring machines and sleep each night under supervision of a medical team, who would let him out for crucial policy meetings and essential public appearances, so as not to raise suspicions here and abroad, because we would be more vulnerable to attack.

Comforting, huh?

Hence the tears in GWB’s eyes during speechifying – he didn’t reckon on this instant Orwellian nightmare, being thrust into the global spotlight without Cheney constantly by his side. Suddenly GWB seemed to be wondering if all this horror would have happened on, you should pardon the expression, Gore’s watch. Hence, speculation on Cheney’s true whereabouts. Hence Cheney’s own subsequent statement – very useful to defuse such speculations – how he was dragged out of the White House during the evacuation, his feet barely touching the ground, because those Security guys were sooo tall. Hence, another recently generated story GWB’s handlers weren’t thrilled how much Cheney grabbed the spotlight and made decisions during the first hours after the terrorist attacks. Conveniently diverts attention from the nagging notion: Is he ailing?

Wacky theory alright.

You shove it way back into the recesses of your brain, that refuse bin littered with the recent spate of “revelations” about space aliens consorting with various presidential administrations dating back to FDR, and attempt to go about your business, the business of life – increasingly difficult lately because of normal ordinary situations suddenly imbued with freakish overtones, like a trip to the dollar store, where some genius has taped to the glass door a newly minted T-shirt with shrieking capital letters, “WANTED – TERRORISTS – DEAD OR ALIVE,” enough to incite “patriotic” Americans to kill, maim and capture the enemy, Wahoo!

Er, which one? America is soooooo loved these days.

And then – crikey! – something else happens, another bizarro dot to connect: Your president appoints your governor, Tom Ridge, hitherto code-named His Hairpiece, to a new high-powered job with global implications. That’s right, instead of selecting someone – anyone – with relevant experience, the prez, um, actually created a Cabinet-level position for Ridge, chief of Homeland Security, similar to Civil Defense Czar of the ’50s, except now he’ll be overseeing FBI and CIA protection of the terrorism theme park which America is threatened with becoming.

Positively awe-inspiring.

But here’s “The Theory” kicking in again: Think Cheney, disabled or operating at diminished capacity. Then what happens next is, Duh-Be-Ya brings in old pal Tom Ridge, erstwhile Republican vice-presidential hopeful whose abortion stance allegedly displeased Party conservatives so he didn’t make the cut for veep, but now he’s being snuck into this administration through the side door. Well, when the Cheney charade is just about played out and GWB makes a tearful announcement to the nation around January, there’s His Hairpiece, oh so conveniently waiting in the wings, ready to be tapped, suddenly resplendent with the imprimatur of Party legitimacy from his shiny new federal credentials.

Feel the luhhhhhhhv, baby.

Back to the Homeland thing, and why does that word-choice make the hair on the back of your neck prickle? Maybe because … it evokes … Der Fatherland? OK, you’re too busy contemplating the very real eventual possibility of Ashcroft run amok: national identity cards, Carnivore snoops on the Net, iris scans and face prints at the airport, massive wiretaps, routine car searches, stop-and-frisk fests crossing state lines, fingerprints to use public restrooms, and other erosions of our freedoms and civil liberties.

For your own good. Yeah!

Remember, as Ned Rorem once said, “It isn’t evil that’s running the earth, but mediocrity.” And, so, you silly thing, maybe you are having difficulty contemplating the undistinguished Tom Ridge assessing the ramifications of anything, let alone running risk management of this country for biochemical warfare and domestic terrorism. You distract yourself with C-words like competence and confidence. Well, mediocrity floats – it’s hollow. In a few days, Mr. You’ve-Got-A-Friend-In-Pennsylvania will have resigned as governor of Pennsylvania and gone on to Washington, where he will doubtlessly become everybody’s best buddy working overtime to make us more secure.

How reassuring. Ack!