Dear Dirty America


A Mad-at-Summers Night’s Dream

February 25
15:30 2012
New York / Florida

You’re the proverbial fly on the wall…………of the inside of Bill’s skull. It’s around midnight, and he’s growing drowsy but not yet ready for sleep; former President Bill Clinton’s in his upscale Harlem pied-a-terre, so convenient, allowing him to stay busy, so much to do, rebuilding that bridge well into the, then, near future to that century which was looking so very promising.

Besides, the commute to sedate Westchester county’s such drudgery, and Hilly’s in town. ‘Pillow’s real cool’ his racing mind reports, ‘…got a nice scent, new maid’s touch, ah guess, kinda like……..perfume.’ It’s too late for any more phone calls, business or friendship.

His huge mental rolodex pulls up two recent calls. ‘My two treasured……..boys—-come ta think of it, Summers and Rubin never did call me back’ his newfound focus lasers, decompressing that famed compartmentalized brain pan.’Yep, both of ’em turned out ta be a couple a cold bastards, like their predecessor, old Alexander Hamilton—all damn bankers at heart, skewin their advice in that direction’ his candid regret-driven neurons fire away.’Ta think that misogynistic Larry teamed up with Bob and Greenspan to beat up that gal Brooksley for darin ta call attention ta those damned mortgage de-rivatives….and usin my mantra—- “the American financial system takes a major step forward towards the 21st century”—-huh!’

Bill now sits up, punching his now warmer plump scented pillows, one for Larry, the other for Bob.  The extra pillow to his right he leaves untouched, owing to Alan’s wearing glasses. ‘Right, the 21st century, if ya call it a derailed train, like that old one, The 20th Century, the one my momma took me on headin up ta New Haven and Yale.’ Bill’s mouth now in reflexive pout, his upper lip eclipsing his lower in that trademark limbic display.

12:07a is the readout on the LED clock he now stares at, while his well-traveled mind time treks, the former President, cum philanthropist now seeing ‘6:00a’ on a decidedly low-tech clock face, on the very day of his dance with the less devil, more ingenue in a blue dress, his own particular ‘ground hog day’ redundantly reported by cheesy anchor Phil Pauxetawny on a day of perpetual gray, gray like the premature forest now atop his reawakened CPU’s house. He’s that other Bill, Mr. Murray, without the happy ending.

He sinks back down to a supine posture, and flips the pillows—-‘that’s better’ he consoles himself. But that Mitch Ryder tune from 1979 replaces the dull reportage about some furry creature’s peeking out from its dark sleeping place, becoming a soundtrack to the indie horror nearing post-production by the former President’s production company, ‘Country Rhodes Prods.’ It grows louder: “….wearin her perfume, Chanel No. 5, got to be the finest girl alive, not too skinny, not too fat, she’s a real humdinger, and I like it like that.”

A pillow now sits atop his face, his large over-manicured chubby hands slightly depressing it, as if to muffle that soundtrack, maybe for good? His overly bright mind keeps seeing ‘blue’ as ‘blew’. ‘No! Gotta world ta save’ the take-charge neural net in charge of muting, if necessary and opportune, the blubbery limbic system it has learned to use for effect, responsible for that signature ‘feel your pain’ construct his lips dutifully portray on cue.

He determines to do what his role model, JFK, would do: ‘just say fuck it’, being careful to avoid old Mr. & Ms. Coitus, thank you very much, remember the definition of ‘is’ is important.’ Yeah, it’s about sax, not sex’ his Elvis-ometer country boy compartment chimes in, counseling his frontal lobes and, suddenly, Bill is back, like Burt Reynolds in that Woody Allen flick, when all those little white fellers get back, where they came from.

As his eyes now close, peripherally spying 12:10a on the, now, high tech clock face Bill muses ‘Gotta lay a new foundation for that 21st century bridge, yeah, call it ‘infrastructure’s bridge to somewhere, a somewhere where there ain’t no crazy Summers, where Rubes ain’t “in”, somewhere over that Green Span’. Bill flips the pillow once more—-‘cool, very cool, nice scent, too, kinda like………Chanel No. 5’.

NOTE: Thought bubble over Bill’s head reads as follows: “Sorry, Gore, and America fer all that Bush ah stuck ya with! G’night.”

Joseph Baron-Pravda, born Brooklyn, NY, graduate of the University of Florida College of Journalism, began a career in law in 1971, recruited at that university’s law school, for service as a ‘kid’ lawyer with the Federal Government during Watergate, where he immediately ‘Felt’ something was amiss; later as lobbyist and private businessman. He has been a prolific writer in all genres, with an emphasis on short works, including microfiction/flash fiction as well as full length and One Act Plays (he often illustrates his own work via storyboarding, etc.; apropos this artform, of late he has, e.g., designed a new logo for UNESCO’s DREAM Centers, via ). A 10 page excerpt from his play ‘Patsy’, involving a fated ‘reunion’ of JFK Jr. & the oldest daughter of Lee and Marina Oswald, won him a highly competitive place at the Kennedy Center summer 2006, with subsequent lifetime privileges at the annual Intensives featuring such literati as Marsha Norman, Steven Dietz, et. Al. A cancer survivor, now fully recovered and active as a ‘try’-athlete, he writes/paints/designs full time, his writing and visual art having been published in ebook and other electronic media, as well as print; his diversity writing is featured exclusively by the Office of Diversity Initiatives, Office of the President, University of Central Florida website; he resides in New York & Florida. He is unsure as to why he has written this in the third person, as it eerily reminds him of an obituary, in which case he might be much …………………………………………………………………………………………….much
more famous.

Find Joseph’s work at and

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