True confessions: from pictures I have seen on the Facebook pages of people I don’t fully respect, I assumed Michael Franti was a douchebag. Maybe he is. Back in the day, however, I got turned on to a band called “The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy” and was thinking about their song “Music and Politics” over the weekend with the ongoings in South Carolina. In particular, I was listening to that part of Race To The Bottom where Jon Reid was laying out and laying into Newt Gingrich.
The sensation was much like that of receiving morphine in the hospital a couple of weeks back. (Though it has not had the same lasting effects on my bowels.) A short painful stick was followed by a vein-numbing rush of the cold dope we call electoral politics. After a brief period of intense nausea, I felt myself slipping into a dull stupor of righteous indignation. Make no mistake about it, my moral outrage will not be assuaged by Democratic campaigning. It will not be assuaged because I will want to wear it like a warm, wet blanket. There is a reason it’s called being a “political junkie.”