Hollywood, are you watching this boffo performance? I smell Oscar! And it’s not just the whiff of rotting garbage from the overturned trashcan of our favorite Muppet curmudgeon, sadly missing from his second home on Bourbon Street since the levees broke.
When all is said and done, we as a nation/cineplex operator will definitely have to give Mr. Michael Brown, former director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), an award for Best Juvenile Actor in a Cecil B. Demented Tragedy of Biblical Proportions, as well as credit for sheer moxie. I mean, who else could have more than 1,000 people die and a squillion’s worth of damage occur on his watch, have not one but two show-stopping performances before Congress, and yet somehow be the victim in all of this? Now that's talent!
I really must attempt this kind of bravura performance myself some day, playing the public, professional victim to a packed audience. I envision my show-stealing scene going something like so:
“Yes, Senator Hairplug, I realize that by posting on the web a cartoon about Allah’s mother alongside of detailed instructions for bioterrorism, accompanied by an offer for free samples of ricin to the first 100 customers, applicable only to those with Tehran post office boxes, might, in theory, lead to terrorist attacks on the U.S., but . . . well, you see, my superiors, in this case my parents, didn’t tell me what to do and what not to do. As I have no will of my own, let alone any cerebral capacity, I just can’t be held responsible for this incident. Sorry about the deaths. I do understand that New York won’t be habitable again for another thousand years, but, again, not my fault. What can I say? I’m an irresponsible, irrepressible moron. Talk to the hand--and my superiors! Ha ha!”I’d give this performance in a gorgeously tailored, blue Italian suit, a 150 or above; a crisp, dazzling shirt, all-cotton, all-white (for that innocent, virginal effect); and a stunning, perfectly complementary yet rakishly histrionic, silk tie—pulled together by an $85 Hugo Boss belt and some kick-ass loafers, no doubt. The only thing missing from this ensemble would be the blood on my hands from all those deaths caused by my incompetence. I’d have used a hint from Heloise, making a paste out of a combination of anthrax and petrochemical-laden Gulf waters to leech out the stains. Out damn spot.
This is, of course, an oversimplification of the issue. Clearly, in the above scenario, my parents would not be culpable for my gross negligence, serious errors in judgment, and child-like, antisocial behavior. However, I can see some culpability on the part of Michael Chertoff, the Director of Homeland Security (hereafter known as The Zombie for his “caring, feeling” approach to the people of the Gulf Coast during and after Disaster Katrina) and our esteemed President, hereafter known as That Aging Frat Boy (“What’s all the whining about? Ain’t these people ever heard of a Hurricane Party? When life gives you lemons, use 'em in cocktails! Woo-hooooooo!”).
Of course, there are capable culpables on the local and state level, too. (Are you listening to me Mayor Ray Nagin and Governor Kathleen Blanco?) However, my point here is that you need to hire—or vote in—competent people to get competent work. Or rather, you need to be competent in order to hire/vote in competent people to get competent work. So maybe we’re all a little culpable here, but let’s not get off track by taking the high road to Calvinist Misery, Population: All of Us. The low-slung, shore-hugging expressway to Guiltyville, Population: One Michael Brown, will get us to our destination in plenty of time.
Some job skills basics for you, Mr. Brown, as I'm assuming you're looking for work these days: You, as a new hire and a human being, need to know what you’re capable of in life. You don’t just take on a job like the head of the FEMA for the prestige of a triple-digit GS rating or the glamour that only a life among the Trenchcoat Mafia in our nation’s capital can afford.
Knowing what one is capable of, knowing one’s strengths as well as limitations, is an important part of adulthood. It’s necessary, even healthy, to take challenges and chances in life, especially if one tends to undersell one’s self—and, obviously, as a former head of the Arabian Horse Registry of America, you are used to underselling yourself, Mr. Brown.
However, there’s also praise to be garnered for your character in knowing what you’re not capable of, despite what everyone around you says you can do, especially when the risk of someone ending up dead under your direction is a distinct possibility. In other words, if your sole claims to fame are managing a horse fanciers’ association, being chummy with the administration, and having deep pockets filled with Louisiana commemorative quarters, perhaps those don’t qualify you to direct operations during a national crisis—unless, of course, there are regular “shit explosions” after each horse show, and you’ve become especially adept at sweeping up the, um, fall-out.
Yes, you’re so right, there’s so much pressure—these nice people in the administration sooo want you to have the job! And, yes, that title would be a real boost to your résumé, certainly sexier in a career wonk kind of way than your former title of “stable manager.” And, golly, your kids need to go to Harvard or Yale to make something of their lives. Being on the inside of this administration would be a surefire way to make that happen, either through the regular salary or the alumni connections.
Nonetheless, perhaps the strength you should show here involves putting aside what others expect of you and instead thinking about what you want of you.
Life’s about taking on challenges, yes, but it’s also about having the wisdom to take on the right challenges, the one’s we’re suited for, the one’s that might result in blessings or benefits to others, rather than in deaths and destruction. You don’t see tone-deaf me trying out for American Idol—no one needs to hear that many dogs bark simultaneously. No one needs to experience that kind of excruciating, aural pain. Nor do you see me, in a Homer Simpson-esque fit of pique, signing up to manage waste disposal operations at Three Mile Island. I'm just pleased if I empty my garbage regularly, separate my paper from my plastic, and make it to the dump without the bags breaking.
In other words, I know my limits. Perhaps you might have learned yours, Mr. Brown, before thousands died on your watch.
Because look who's crying now . . . .
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