The Fantasy Years

THE HOWLING REVOLUTION in talk radio masked another, quieter one unfolding in rightwing think tanks in Washington in those days. The think tanks had been established throughout the 1970s and 1980s to give a home to the minds of the conservative movement, to cultivate their message and their media savvy. The think tanks churned out paper after paper advocating deregulation, market-based solutions, a strong defense.

But really, the think tanks’ answers weren’t as important as the questions they asked. The think tanks decided on the best explanations, the best descriptions of their ideas. They decided, most of all, on the language.

The think tanks didn’t just seek to change people’s minds by presenting their ideas to the public. They sought to change the public by circulating their ideas directly to the powerful in Washington, in the media, wherever the powerful could be found.

This revolution wasn’t a movement on the streets. Not at all. This movement didn’t stand outside in the rain, its cardboard signs going floppy and blurry while jackbooted policemen pepper sprayed them. No, this movement unfolded on paper, in abstract discussions, in calm, quiet rooms with breakfast buffets of pastries and orange juice. This movement was populated by determined young men and women, scribbling away in unpretentious offices in Foggy Bottom and K Street. Reagan came and Reagan left the scene, but the network of think tanks stayed on. The network grew.

The AM radio hosts popularized the same messages the think tanks proffered. But the radio hosts made the message feelable, speakable, utterable to anyone who happened to tune in.

Rightwing radio hosts learned that the more outrage they could howl into the airwaves, the more dependably the studio’s switchboard lit up with the voices of aggrieved listeners. The hosts led the listeners, pointing out why to be indignant, pointing out the chief offenders in society, accusing those in power in a way newspapers never did.

An ex-sports radio announcer named Rush Limbaugh was the first among them. And the biggest in both popularity and physical size. He raged and he attacked, he bellowed and he mocked, he excoriated and chastised. And even if his listeners didn’t follow every point; even if his listeners didn’t agree with every argument, they understood the tone.

Rush’s listeners understood the outrage perfectly. He growled and his listeners growled. He gloated and they gloated right back. He preened and they preened. He mewled and they mewled. And soon, they were calling themselves “Dittoheads” because their views could be summed up as a ‘ditto’! of his.

“Forget Paula Jones. Whitewater will Clinton’s his downfall,” called a voice in Minnesota.
“Whitewater will be like Clinton’s Watergate,” said another.
“And Watergate, when you really think about it, was like a Republican Tammany Hall,” said still another in Texas.
“And Tammany Hall was how the Democrats came to power.”
“Tammany Hall and Joe Kennedy’s rum running.”
“Joe Kennedy’s rum running and Mayor Daly’s Chicago machine.”
“And Daly’s Chicago machine was like Al Capone’s crime family.”
“And the mafia is how the unions became powerful.”
“And the unions are how the Democrats have stayed in power.”
“They have a grip on power.”
“How else do you explain the liberal media?” asked a listener in Kentucky.
“And who does the liberal media support?”
“Not guys like us, that’s for sure. The liberal media looks down on regular guys like us.”
“The liberal media backs criminals…”
“Guys like Rodney King and OJ Simpson.”
“Because they’re PC.”
“Because they’re black.”

Rush spat. His listeners grumbled. Rush hissed. His listeners booed. Rush rocked. His listeners rattled. And a conversation in Phoenix went this way:

“Ronald Reagan was like the FDR of our time,” said one voice.
“FDR saw us through World War II and Reagan saw us through the Cold War,” said another.
“And both were out of office for the conclusion,” said the one.
“And both couldn’t enjoy the fruits of their labor,” said the other.
“And both were reelected.”
“And reelected.”
“It’s the same.”
“It is the same.”
“And the fireside chats were the same as Reagan’s press conferences in the Rose Garden.”
“And the ranch in California is the same as FDR’s estate wherever that was.”
“And FDR’s polio was the same as Reagan’s Alzheimer’s.”
“And they were both widely popular.”
“And people crossed party lines to vote for them both.”
“The country was in crisis when they took over.”
“That makes Carter the same as Herbert Hoover.”
“And the 1970s the same as the 1930s “
“And the Recession the same as the Depression.”
The others replied: “And let’s face it: they were the same. Different only in their severity.”

Brandon looked back in wonder at the few months since he met Carolyn. How quickly his life had changed. How briskly life unbent itself from whatever direction his had been caroming towards. No wonder life before meeting her felt like a dream: he was drunk or high most of the time. Always waking up hung over on other people’s couches. Finding his car ticketed or parked drunkenly in the morning, hoping it would start when he put the key in the ignition because he didn’t know what he’d do if it didn’t.

And yet, even in the stumbling drunken highness, even then he knew there must be something better to life. He knew there must be.

But how? Brandon wondered, driving his freshly tuned up Cutlass to Blockbuster. How? He’d gotten into a wayward lifestyle pretty hard in high school. He was pretty young when he started getting messed up for fun. So what was it that told him things would be better? That he would meet Carolyn? Or a girl like Carolyn?

Yet deep inside Brandon, he knew there would be a Carolyn to help him find his way, to give him just the slightest encouragement, the slightest nudge he needed so he could do better.

Brandon could have ended up hooked on hard drugs. He could have moved down from weed to pills and pills to blow and blow to heroin and heroin to whatever. He could have at least ended up a real alcoholic, if he wasn’t secretly one already.

It’s a miracle he never wrecked his car for all the times he drove it under the influence. Or ended up with a DWI.

And yet, now as he looked around the tidy, one-bedroom apartment of the new life he and Carolyn shared, he couldn’t believe he lived like that. Only months ago. So recklessly. So slovenly.

Back when he partied hard, working at Denny’s had been just fine. Getting out of work reeking of eggs and cigarette ashes. Thinking tomorrow would take care of itself. Tomorrow wouldn’t take care of itself. Only he would take care of himself. And looking
back now, it was as if his whole adolescence, from fifteen to a few months ago, was a dream. And he was no longer in adolescence. No longer in that lost, stumbling, helpless dream. But how did he know through it all? How? He wondered.