'Deciding the Next Decider'
For those of us suffering from Post-election Political Blog Withdrawal Syndrome, Calvin Trillin鈥檚 Deciding the Next Decider, a chronicle in verse about the just completed presidential race, is an irresistible shot of instant nostalgia.
Trillin started writing political poems for The Nation in 1990, setting the bar high for himself with 鈥淚f You Knew What Sununu.鈥�
Since then, he鈥檚 punctured the pretensions of politicians right and left, wielding iambic pentameter and inspired rhymes in the service of insightful, hilariously entertaining liberal-leaning commentary. His dogged doggerel has been collected in 鈥淒eadline Poet鈥� (1994), plus two volumes about the Bush administration, 鈥淥bliviously On He Sails鈥� (2004) and 鈥淎 Heckuva Job鈥� (2006).
One may wonder where Trillin will find humor in a no-drama Obama administration, but as these pithy poems about the 2008 presidential race show, he never has to look far for political punching bags: Trillin is an equal-opportunity critic.
His 26th book begins with the 2006 midterm elections and takes us through Iowa, New Hampshire, Super Tuesday and on, across the bridge to nowhere to Joe the unvetted plumber, the economic meltdown, slime ads, and Democratic neuroses, right up to Obama鈥檚 victory speech in Chicago鈥檚 Grant Park: 鈥淵es, here鈥檚 how presidents are meant to talk.鈥�
Trillin is so good at zeroing in on key moments, it鈥檚 hard to believe he wrote these poems while events were unfolding rather than with the advantage of hindsight. Such adeptness is challenging enough in prose; pulling off incisive commentary in rhyming couplets is akin to dancing backwards in high heels.
Remember the crowded stage at the Republican debates during the primaries? It feels so long ago, yet Trillin鈥檚 lines bring it back sharply. Mike Huckabee? 鈥淗e鈥檚 wacko, yes, but he鈥檚 sure pleasant,鈥� Trillin writes in 鈥淭he Nicest Republican.鈥� He compares Mitt Romney to a Ken doll, 鈥渟o slick of speech and slick of garb,鈥� while of 鈥渁lmost-ran鈥� Bill Frist he writes, 鈥淪ome problems came along, the worst one being/ A blind trust that seemed capable of seeing.鈥�
He describes the early criticism of Barack Obama: 鈥淓xperience was what he seemed to lack./ And to be frank, they pointed out, he鈥檚 black.鈥�
To the suggestion that the young first-term senator acquire more experience before running for president, he comments in a tart parenthetical aside, 鈥淧roducing legislation at a trickle,/ Some Senate members don鈥檛 mature, they pickle.鈥�
Harping repeatedly on John McCain鈥檚 moral compromises, Trillin stresses that not all change is good: 鈥淣o longer did he seem the same man who/ Had charmed the voters (and reporters, too)/ With candor as he鈥檇 cheerfully express/ His willingness to call BS BS.鈥�
He adds, 鈥淎 maverick. Indeed, he鈥檇 earned that word/ 鈥橳il, desperate to win, he joined the herd.鈥�
Nor does he mince words about what he calls the distorted 鈥淩ove-o-Clone鈥� ads and robo-calls released by McCain鈥檚 campaign: 鈥淢cCain of old would not allow such scat./ His honor meant much more to him than that./ But into Bush鈥檚 role with Rove he鈥檇 slid./ What torture couldn鈥檛 do, ambition did.鈥�
Several stanzas are set to familiar tunes, including 鈥淗e鈥檚 Still My Bill,鈥� an update of the 鈥淪how Boat鈥� classic for Hillary Clinton, and 鈥淥n a Clear Day, I See Vladivostok,鈥� a fresh version of the Barbra Streisand hit for Sarah Palin.
Palin, of course, was a gift to comedians, but Trillin unleashes indignation along with zingers. He faults her for trampling on the truth, noting that when challenged, 鈥淪he鈥檇 say it yet again, with no contrition,/ As if she鈥檇 make it true by repetition.鈥� Alluding to her costly sartorial makeover, he concludes, 鈥淭hey dressed her all up. They could put her in Prada/But what she can say that鈥檚 of substance is nada.鈥�
As fun as this is now 鈥� especially for Obama supporters 鈥� 鈥淒eciding the Next Decider鈥� may prove even more valuable down the road as a concise reminder of this amazing chapter in American history.
Heller McAlpin, a freelance critic in New York, is a frequent Monitor contributor.
