Thursday, July 19, 2007 12:28 AM CDT
Column: Discussing Blagojevich on a dark and stormy night with Goldenrod
By HARRY REYNOLDS, Editorial Page Editor
hreynolds@jg-tc.com
The rain came, sweeping the street; a narrow rivulet yielding to the slope, riding over long-ago brick.
Rain came in waves, its spray assaulting the porch where I sat contemplating the rage.
I like storms savage; nature’s way of imposing her will on the land. She brings rain on a whim or much denies it when vexed.
I like lighting, firing on all cylinders across night’s sky. Whence it will come, no man fathoms. It wakes the sleeper, sends the dog under the bed, kills the careless, ushers ancient memories.
I like...
“You’re up kind of late.”
Abruptly interrupted by this intrusion into my rumination, I bolted from the squirrel-gnawed vestige of my wicker chair.
“Who’s there?!” I cried.
Just then, a particularly vigorous bolt of lightning crackled, taking leave in lightning’s noisy way.
I jumped.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the figure approaching the porch. He moved casually. From a distance, he looked like a drenched sheet, all folds sagging.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Who do think it is?” the stranger replied, flapping his water-logged wings.
“Goldenrod!” I cried. “What are you doing here in the middle of a thunderstorm?”
“The Boss sent me,” the angel proclaimed as he mounted the stairs to the porch, water dripping from his robe. Directly, he took a seat on the long, green wooden bench for which the squirrel has shown no appetite.
Reaching into the folds of his robe, Goldenrod pulled out a pack of Old Golden cigarettes. He took one out and it immediately drooped. “That’s the trouble with cotton robes,” he said with an edge.
“So, your robes are not waterproof?” I asked.
“Of course not,” retorted the angel, tossing the wet pack into the yard.
“Hey, you’re littering,” I snapped. “Don’t you care about the environment? The Higher Authority won’t like it.”
“He’s got bigger fish to fry,” replied Goldenrod. “That’s why I’m here in the middle of the night talking to you instead of being up there singing and dancing....”
“You actually dance up there? I thought dancing was frowned on?”
“Well, that’s a universal misconception,” the angel ejaculated. “H.A. likes rap music. Particularly, that song by Weird Al Yankovic, ‘Amish Paradise.’
“But, that’s not why I’m here,” he added.
“Yes, I wouldn’t imagine you would show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night during a violent storm to talk about the Higher Authority’s views on dancing and music,” I said.
“Why are you here?”
“Rod Blagojevich,” Goldenrod replied.
Of course, this threw me. On a dark and stormy night, one wouldn’t expect the subject of Gov. Rod Blagojevich being raised by an angel toting a pack of wet cigarettes.
“This seems like a heck of a time to initiate a discussion about the governor,” I said.
“The Boss wants you to write a column about Blagojevich.”
The last thing I wanted to do during my quiet time was talk about the governor.
“Can’t we discuss this during the daytime when I’m in the office?” I pleaded. “I really enjoy listening to the rain.”
“We either talk about it now, or zap.”
“Wait, you don’t mean...?”
“You ever been struck by lightning?”
Resigned, I slumped in my chair, which isn’t comfortable, what with the jagged pieces of wicker jabbing me.
“The Boss wants you to write a column telling Blagojevich to spend time in the Governor’s Mansion in Springfield, or else,” Goldenrod pressed.
“H.A. doesn’t like all this flying about, from Chicago to Springfield, from Springfield to Chicago, from...”
“I get the point,” I said.
“Is that all the Higher Authority wants me to say?”
Goldenrod rubbed his chin.
“Well, no. The Boss wants you to make it clear He’ll ditch Blagojevich if he continues to fly back and forth.”
“Ditch Blagojevich?” I repeated.
“It has a nice rhyme, doesn’t it?” the angel said.
“Not really,” I said.
“What do you actually mean?”
“And you guys are supposed to be the smartest creatures on the planet,” Goldenrod sneered.
“The Boss wants Blagojevich to quit wasting fuel, polluting the environment and racking up a large bill for the state’s poor, hard-working, no-nonsense, home-budget-balancing, God-fearing, honest, thrifty, common-sense, burdened taxpayers to pay.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Let’s just say things can happen to a plane; like, maybe, the engine will catch fire, or, a bolt of lightning might strike it, a sea gull might fly into it, a wing might fall off.
“Or, he could fall down the stairs, get run over by a bus in downtown Chicago, drown in the shower, die of poisoning from Chinese-manufactured toothpaste, be gored by a mad cow, fall into a manhole, get whacked by the mob ...
“You know what I’m saying.”
“That’s horrible!” I gasped.
“Well, what if this thing spreads? What if other governors decided not to live in their state mansions?
“What if George Bush decided to move out of the White House?
“Uh, forget that one.”
Harry Reynolds is editorial page editor of the Journal Gazette/Times-Courier. Contact Reynolds at hreynolds@jg-tc.com or 238-6861.
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Rotty wrote on Jul 19, 2007 3:20 AM: