Sixteen
I was sixteen years old in 1972. We were already four years into the Nixon Presidency. He failed on his election promise to end Vietnam. I hoped that Senator McGovern of South Dakota might finally stop what at that time was America’s longest war. I was mistaken. The McGovern campaign self-destructed within days of his nomination, and, as we found out in the next couple of years, Nixon led his campaign to criminally interfere and “help the destruction along”. It was called Watergate.
(By the way, thank you President Biden, for “biting the bullet” and ending America’s new longest war in Afghanistan).
There wasn’t much trust in the government as a whole. The FBI seemed to spend more effort trying to disrupt student protests and civil rights movement, than they did solving crimes. The Director was the aging J Edgar Hoover, entering his forty-eighth year at the helm. His “files” on American public figures were legendary, backed up with the full investigatory power of his federal agency. No one really had authority over Hoover, though Nixon’s campaign manager turned Attorney General John Mitchell was “in charge”. Hoover did whatever Hoover wanted. To go against him was a guaranteed swift trip to political oblivion.
Not On TV
Comedian George Carlin spoke for a lot of younger Americans when he wrote the ground-breaking “Seven Words” sketch. It was about the seven words you couldn’t say on TV. Should one of those words slip out, the Federal Communications Commission could remove a radio or TV station’s license to broadcast.
In the late 1960’s my father had a direct experience with that. His TV station’s morning news show starring Phil Donahue interviewed Jerry Rubin, one of the seven charged for disrupting the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. It was a “live” show. But Dad inserted a seven second delay, literally taping the show on one machine then stringing the tape across the room to “playback” on another. The delay gave Dad time to push the “mute” button for the inevitable profanities that Hoffman was famous for. Missing one might take the Station, WLW-D in Dayton, Ohio, off the air.
We didn’t hear Carlin’s sketch on television or radio. We had to buy his record, or tape, or “pirate” one from a friend. So my copy of “Seven Words” was on a homemade cassette tape, mis-labeled as Joni Mitchell’s “Clouds” in case Mom or Dad checked. And it was through this “underground” method, that Seven Words became famous to an entire generation.
A Strong Word
Ok, I know, you’ve been waiting to read the “seven words”. Here’s a link. Even in my current obstinant old age I’m not comfortable putting them all on paper (or your screen). But I am going to use one, the big one, that one that’s never, ever, OK, even on today’s TV (but fine on cable): F**K. It was (and often still is) one of my favorites, and it’s all because of Carlin. To paraphrase him: “(It’s) a good word, a strong word. It could be the name of a hero: “I am F**K, F**K of the Mountain!!!” I did shout that from the top of the White Mountains, the Rocky Mountains, the Cascades, the Appalachians, the Western Fells in Great Britain; and several smaller hills throughout my backpacking career.
Which gets me back to this essay. Because, like the late sixties and early seventies, we are entering an era where we might not be able to trust the government. When I see who might be leading our most important agencies: Homeland Security, Department of Justice, the CIA and the FBI and the rest; I worry about surveillance and payback. Trump has already promised “retribution”; and if he ever gets down to “bloggers” (I hate the term, I’m an essayist, G*D D*MN IT!!), there’s a million words that connect to me (Our America).
Who’s Listening
As part of Carlin’s skit, he noted this 1960’s concern about surveillance. He answered his phone and assumed there was an FBI wiretap in place: “F**K Hoover, can I help you?” Now, it’s going to be a long two years, or four, or maybe forever until I feel secure from my government again. With MAGA control of the Presidency, the Congress, and Trump and McConnell’s stolen majority on the Supreme Court; who will speak when they come for me?
That’s why I need to write this essay, so folks won’t be quite so put-off when they hear my new phone greeting. And for the few old “hippie” veterans left from the anti-war movement, I hope it brings a smile.
“F**K Trump, Hi it’s Marty!!”
