Kabuki Politics

My wife has counselled me several times in the past few weeks to treat politics the same way I would treat Kabuki theatre--as an audience member--separated from the players--forbidden from shouting loud and obscene comments while the performance is in play. To be fair to her, she is offering me this advice, at least in part I think, for my own good. When, as inevitably happens several times a day, George W. Bush’s twhine issues from the radio or TV, I immediately explode into an apoplectic fit of cursing in tongues. Every time another boob announces his or her formation of a presidential exploratory committee (doesn’t that sound a whole lot better than, say, pimping for myself?), I scream bloody ephithets. My political seizures exhaust me and annoy my wife. She wants to hear what Bush has to say. She wants to hear those nuts crowing while throwing their hats in the ring. She came to the Kabuki and she wants to enjoy the Kabuki.

The history of kabuki is fascinating. It dates back to 1603, when Izumo no Okuni, a young Shinto shrine attendant, assembled a company of pariahs, known as kabukimono, on a dry Kyoto riverbed. She taught them acting, dancing and singing, set up a theatre. She was a 17th century social worker who gave a bunch of misfits a break.

The plot of Kabuki, as they say, thickened. With time. The earliest style consisted of little more than song and dance. Soon the plays dealt with ordinary life. By the early 18th century, elements of stylization had largely been determined. Character types and elaborate make-up designs were established. It may have been at this time that shouting at the performers during a performance became to be regarded as rude.

I don't mean to be rude to George. It just sort of happens. It's not unlike shivering when the temperature drops below freezing. It's a natural reaction to a particularly annoying stimulus. I loathe George W. Bush. I know, through divine revelation, he is the son of Satan. The spawn of evil. He looks like a retarded chimpanzee. He talks like a retarded chimpanzee. The sound of his voice drives me up the proverbial wall. I want to scream. And I do. I mean I did.

I’m trying to follow my wife’s recommendation. It’s all Kabuki to me. When George Dumbya mounts the podium, stumbles and bumbles through his "2007 State of the Mess I Got YOU Into" speech, I’m gonna sit there in my easy chair, laid back in the realization it is just a show. "Look at that elaborate make-up," I’m gonna say to myself. "The traditional stylization is breathtaking." And, "Boy howdy! That Karl Rove is one hell of a writer/director." I'm sure as hell gonna be a happy man when the curtain goes down on this show.