It Needs A Name.

According to the revered Heritage Foundation, the modern American Conservative movement was born in 1953 with publication of Russell Kirk’s masterwork — The Conservative Mind. Kirk deserves profound acclaim, as do many other legendary heroes of Conservatism — among them, Goldwater, Friedman, Buckley, Reagan, Gingrich — even media stalwarts like Limbaugh and Levin. Too bad all of that stunning brainpower doesn’t include the name of one mediocre marketer of average intellect. Too bad some competent people with common sense didn’t convene to create a compelling brand name that would coincide with compelling brand principles. But, typical of many “think-tank” scholars, Kirk and other stalwart authors ignored their audience. They planted the seeds of Conservatism all across fertile political fields; and in doing so, forever alienated the majority of voters under the age of 35 — those living and those yet to be conceived (in the Biblical sense). They failed to consider that millions of people would reject the word “conservative” — but not because they would reject Conservative beliefs. They reject the word — the word. They reject it simply because no self respecting millennial wants to be thought of as “conservative.” As that famous intellectual Gomer Pyle was so fond of saying, “Surprise, surprise! Because who can blame them? Nobody should. “Conservative” is the wrong term for a political ideology that is potent, powerful and productive. If you think you’re a Conservative, take a simple test to prove it. List the known synonyms of “conservative” that you can find in any thesaurus or dictionary. Do it. Do it now. Ready? They are:

Bourgeois, Controlled, Conventional, Die-hard, Fearful, Firm, Fogeyish, Fuddy-duddy, Guarded, Hard Hat, Hidebound, Holding, Illiberal, In a Rut, Inflexible, Obstinate, Old Guard, Old Line, Orthodox, Prejudiced, Reactionary, Redneck, Right of Center, Right Winger, Sober, Stable, Traditional, Unchangeable, Uncreative, Un-Daring, Unimaginative, White Bread.

By contrast to these published definitions of “conservative,”you should also familiarize yourself with the “liberal” counterparts:

Advanced, Avante-Garde, Broad-minded, Enlightened, Flexible, Free, High-minded, Humanistic, Humanitarian, Intelligent, Interested, Left, Loose, Lenient, Libertarian, Magnanimous, Permissive, Rational, Reasonable, Receptive, Receiving, Reformist, Tolerant, Unbiased, Unbigoted, Unconventional, Understanding, Unorthodox, Unprejudiced.

These words are not perceptions. These words are published in the most respected anthologies. These words and definitions are taught, used and accepted in the best schools — grammar schools, high schools and colleges. Conservatives are “Right Wingers.” But Liberals are not “Left Wingers.” Liberals are “Understanding.” Conservatives are “Obstinate.” Conservatives are “reactionary.” Liberals are “rational.” With few exceptions, Conservative is synonymous with negativity, antagonism and deprecation. Liberal is synonymous with thoughtfulness, intelligence and enlightenment. These perceptions may be false but nothing can change them. Conservative gurus in academia and in media work tirelessly to reverse these wrong impressions in an effort to sway young voters — to believe that Conservatism is in their self interest and can indeed be “cool.” They will be successful — when Hell freezes over. At best, Conservatism is an anemic name for a muscular doctrine. Conservatism didn’t elect Trump. The true Conservative candidates lost. The self-avowed Conservative Inner Circle rejected Trump and still does, along with the GOP Beltway Boys. If the Democrat Party had placed in nomination an authentic American Centrist — someone other than their anointed serial criminal or whacko Socialist — Donald and Melania would¬† be living happily together in Manhattan, doing what billionaires do. Trump didn’t create a new brand, but he did create a new coalition — a coalition that doesn’t walk lock-step with the GOP or any other established party. The Outsider defeated the Establishment. But demographics are not on the side of the new coalition without attracting millennials in much greater numbers. The case has to be made and marketed. The window is open — temporarily. It needs a name.

Equal Compensation.

Seat 6F is on the window, up front in coach, a step behind the curtain that separates first class from the cheap seats. Surprisingly and happily, at almost 10 AM on a swarming Saturday, the AA Airbus wasn’t at capacity. Then, in the rarest of circumstances, seats 6D & 6E were still vacant when the doors were shut and locked down. Heavenly day. You could put up the seat arms and stretch out for the 4+ hour cruise to Los Cabos International, the 6th busiest airport in Mexico. Lucky you. But as Flight 836 taxied, an uneasy feeling — a premonition — rolled in. Somehow, you knew you would pay for the exclusive use of D,E & F. The thought wasn’t unduly pessimistic — simply an acknowledgment of something called the Universal Law of Equal Compensation. Payback was swift. It came first from 7F. He couldn’t have been more than eight, but his cough belonged in a seventy-year-old chest — deep and raspy, promising nothing less than contagion. You began counting the seconds between his eruptions to predict when you should cover your face with the airsick bag. Briefly, you considered retrieving the life vest as a more impressive barrier but the female flight attendant already had you in her crosshairs, pegged as a nutcase. Thankfully, at least little Johnny was consistent. Every two minutes, give or take the count of ten, he distributed a cloud of pathogens for your consumption. You did the quick math. Thirty coughs per hour times 4.5 hours equals 135. At least you had the good sense to pack a Z-pack. When the 250+ pound husband in 5F put his seat back and began twisting and rocking his blubber back and forth, you were sorry you couldn’t have packed your Ruger 380. The hulk had spacious bulkhead room but that wasn’t good enough. No, he couldn’t stop tossing about. Neither could your laptop. It danced precariously on the seat-back tray table as you held it under one thumb. You would have used two thumbs; but your left hand was compelled to keep the ubiquitous airsick bag poised for action — every flippin’ two minutes. Unfortunately, Tubby’s movements were not as predictable. When he lurched out of his seat for a trip to the head, his sleeping wife in 5D would never see you drop a double dose of Ambien powder into his drink. You wish. Fantasies helped cope with the stress. You imagined Mrs. Tubby wouldn’t have cared anyway. You imagined that hubby’s restlessness drove her from the marital bed a long time ago. Meanwhile, Johnny Boy and Mr. Tubby had a competitor on your nuisance scale. She sat in 7A. You heard her piercing, irritating voice for 20 minutes before turning to see the person who owned it. She was a millennial, apparently connected to Skype — fixated on her device — oblivious to anything that approaches manners — delivering a tiresome monologue. The experienced guy next to her in 7C, likely her significant other, came prepared. He crashed early. Maybe her unending prattle bothered no one but you; however, four hours of chatter added to four hours of hacking added to four hours of human turbulence, added up to a type of human bondage. Please God, you could not wait to touch down and get out — you thought. You should have guessed this flight was only¬† prologue to a new, more horrifying experience — a look at utter chaos. When the airline staff announced they had no immigration or custom forms, your antenna should have vibrated. When a city bus showed up at the south forty tarmac, the term “gridlock” should have been at least a whisper. When you finally entered the main entry of the main building, the crush of people could mean only one thing — you were now a refugee and you were being processed for internment to a prisoner of war camp. Inch by interminable inch, you and thousands of other passengers — schlepping baggage — were funneled down two stairwells into a massive assembly hall already filled with a sea of humanity. Half the hall was divided by crowd control line barriers — perhaps 25-30 of them, parallel lines 75 yards long. You would creep every step of the way. Back and forth, like sheep to slaughter. Immediately, therefore, you weighed priorities. Absent facilities, would your bladder persevere? Would you be trapped with hundreds of people whose bladders collapse? You had a random thought that someone selling Adult Depends could make a fortune. Stumbling along, the mob resembled a scene from The Walking Dead. Only 10 immigration officers were positioned to process thousands. They were in no hurry, chatting among themselves. Then it hit you — this was Mexico’s revenge for Trump’s promised wall. Two hours after debarking, you retrieved a checked bag and made a beeline for the sun and ground transportation. It was then, in a guilty flashback, you thought about little Johnny. That cough wasn’t trivial. He needed to have it looked after. You worried that Mr, and Mrs. Tubby would suffer in the mile long queue. Maybe he suffered debilitating back pain. Ms. Millennial was probably traveling alone, nervous, without family. They each had their story to tell. Could it be you were in them? Most likely not.

Rap.

Positive thinkers — those of charitable spirit — always see the single bloom poking out of rampant weeds. Those of forgiving nature always choose to extol virtue amidst a sea of depravity. Those of saintly disposition always cultivate, nourish and bring out the best in human behavior. Like Mother Teresa, their prescriptions for a good life glorify any number of Biblical admonitions and principles, including self sacrifice and the Golden Rule — in all things, seek and find the Good, however microscopic, in everyone and every thing — because Good does exist, even in the most hideous of places and within the most repugnant of personalities. With all due respect and admiration for Mother T. and other saintly souls, she never ran into Cordozar Calvin Broadus, Jr., aka Snoop Dogg, an American rapper and “actor.” You wouldn’t suggest that this individual is either hideous or repugnant, since either term would be unduly flattering. You may think this individual is an example of human slime, a deviant who could appeal only to a cult mentality — a tiny, ignorant minority — a sub-human species as primitive and profane as their hero. But that opinion crumbles quickly with the realization that this individual has sold over twenty-three million albums in the U.S., and thirty-five million albums worldwide. This statistic doesn’t count those who applaud and don’t buy. You have zero interest in performing the kind of exhaustive research necessary to identify and analyze the demographic profiles of living souls who would choose, with premeditation, to cozy up to the sound and smell of sewage. Twenty-thirty million Americans simply could not identify with, could not respect, could not embrace the Dogg or his garbage, could they? Silly question. Of course they could — and do, as every generation has before them. Each successive generation always produces more garbage, or more than likely, recycled garbage. But you must never lose hope. Instead, do your best to emulate M. Teresa. Tell yourself that these lovers of filth do have something to offer the world — something worthwhile — something of redeeming value — if not now, perhaps someday, God willing. Take solace in that. Learn to accept the unacceptable. Not even God will rid creation of ignorance, immorality and evil. Dogg is here to stay until he ages out and passes his fetid baton to the next version of human decay. Therefore, as you pass out judgment, you must overlook the vacuous and the primitive — those coarse beings who relish obscenity. Save your wrath for the enablers, the facilitators, who give people like Dogg the international conduit to serve up his swill. Save it for the “entertainment” industry and the vaunted Media whose moral compass vanished years ago. Unrestricted by any self imposed ethic, they relentlessly broadcast the worst of humanity — and in the process often elevate what is evil over what is good. Energized by broadcast media, profaneness has hijacked America’s historic values — its ideals, virtues and principles. Profaneness was always here but it lurked in dark places, illegitimate and condemned. Now Snoop Dogg visits preschool children in their homes. He has First Amendment rights. So has the Church. But guess which the Entertainment Industry and Media push? You guessed right. Not the Church. The media has no interest in the Church until religious liberty infringes on their definition of political correctness. This is the world you live in. Slam the Church and support the Dogg. It’s a bad rap.

The ranting and raving of critical Dick.