JAM: October/November 2000 Issue: From the Spit Valve

Mike Metheny

The First (and Last?)
Jazz President

If there's one good thing about the 22nd Amendment, it's that we won't have to worry about Bill Clinton's ravenous libido getting the best of him again anytime in the next four years.

...Or at least not in the same place where FDR, Truman, Ike and Ford did what they could to keep the ship of state afloat.

For many jazz musicians, Clinton brought great promise to the campaign of '92. Think of it: a presidential candidate who spoke highly of John Coltrane and Stan Getz. It was too good to be true.

Of course, there was also the big Kenny G kiss-up. But Clinton is a smart politician. He knows the value of a vote, even if it means pandering to the precious moment cup cake crowd. (Said Adlai Stevenson in 1956 when praised for being "the thinking man's candidate," "Thank you, but I will need a majority to get elected.")

Now, scandal-weary, desensitized and dazed, America prepares to take a long-awaited national shower. Off will come the sordid grime of recent years; no more "stained dresses" or yucky "cigars"... no more rumors of copped feels or unwanted gropes; and yes, no more finger-wagging denials of White House romps followed by replays of Rose Garden hugs.

The ironic thing is that, in addition to bringing a healthy jazz vibe to national office (for better and worse), President Clinton is also as bright and capable as they come. He is charismatic, hip and breathtakingly resilient, was born for the job, loves his work, and is clearly on top of (sorry) the many complicated issues that come with the turf. We need people like that in high office.

Yet, despite his many admirable gifts, the Saxophonist-in-Chief managed to lob a softball right into the strike zone of his many rabid detractors, neutralizing so much of what could have been, and leaving the history books to decide how to spin the first presidential impeachment in 130 years. For that alone, may Mr. Bill spend his retirement taking requests for "New York, New York" in a bad wedding band. And may that band's corpulent, middle-aged "girl singer" flirt with him relentlessly during breaks by plopping down on his lap, giggle-snorting and pinching his cheek.

Will America ever again take a chance on a Jazz President? Maybe not. But I say let's give a trumpet player a crack at that gig. Most I know have the same jones for chicks, but at least would be smart enough to arrange secret trysts at a nearby Super 8. Fooling around in the most visible fishbowl on the planet and then lying about it to 250 million people just isn't a trumpet player's style. We're slicker than that.

Therefore, it is with great humility on this historic occasion, that I announce my candidacy for President of the United States. As titular head of the Separation of Oval Office and Motel Room Party (tit-ular...tit-ular... I like the sound of that word), it is the least I can do to serve my country.

My fellow Americans, vote for me in November and I will promise never to hang with a succulent, nubile, pouty, well-hootered intern -- or any other fine young thing more than half my age -- in or near the same chamber where the fate of the free world resides. (And where the whole honkin' White House Press Corps lurks right down the hall ready to fan the flames of presidential indiscretion.)

Vote for me, my fellow Americans, and "Hail To the Chief" will be replaced by "Joy Spring," "Charge!" will be played by a Boy's Nation bugler before every press conference, and all those wasted tax dollars will be put to better use in search of the perfect trumpet mouthpiece.

Vote for me and rowdy jazz club patrons spotted with their backs to the stage while cackling and crowing during wistful ballads will be wrestled to the ground by Secret Service agents, gagged and shackled, injected with a special Top Secret Government Sedative, and dragged away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Vote for me and local TV news "personalities" who burst into phony on-air guffaws for no apparent reason will also be wrestled to the ground, gagged, shackled and sedated. (And possibly strip-searched if they bear even the slightest resemblance to Heather Locklear ...which many now do.)

And most important of all, if you send me to Washington, my fellow citizens, anyone who is caught watching -- not to mention appearing on -- Jenny/Jerry/Ricki/Maury or any other cavalcade of glorified human aberration, will not only be wrestled to the ground, gagged, shackled and sedated, but forced to listen to Kenny G's "Songbird" from now until the day a pro ball player is actually worth the millions he demands.

Yes, it will be a Zero Tolerance For Ennui Administration. And one that you, the righteous, the enlightened and the pro-jazz can make possible.

But only if you vote your conscience on November 7.

And I know you will.

Because, in your heart, you know I'm right.

And because, my fellow Americans, I don't smoke, I'm a Super 8 V.I.P. (really!), and, I believe that the presidential tray table should remain in its original upright and locked position.

(...That is, unless the intern is named "Buffy.")

RETURN TO OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2000 MAIN INDEX

© Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.






	Search our site:		Mike Metheny The First (and Last?) Jazz President If there's one good thing about the 22nd Amendment, it's that we won't have to worry about Bill Clinton's ravenous libido getting the best of him again anytime in the next four years. ...Or at least not in the same place where FDR, Truman, Ike and Ford did what they could to keep the ship of state afloat. For many jazz musicians, Clinton brought great promise to the campaign of '92. Think of it: a presidential candidate who spoke highly of John Coltrane and Stan Getz. It was too good to be true. Of course, there was also the big Kenny G kiss-up. But Clinton is a smart politician. He knows the value of a vote, even if it means pandering to the precious moment cup cake crowd. (Said Adlai Stevenson in 1956 when praised for being "the thinking man's candidate," "Thank you, but I will need a majority to get elected.") Now, scandal-weary, desensitized and dazed, America prepares to take a long-awaited national shower. Off will come the sordid grime of recent years; no more "stained dresses" or yucky "cigars"... no more rumors of copped feels or unwanted gropes; and yes, no more finger-wagging denials of White House romps followed by replays of Rose Garden hugs. The ironic thing is that, in addition to bringing a healthy jazz vibe to national office (for better and worse), President Clinton is also as bright and capable as they come. He is charismatic, hip and breathtakingly resilient, was born for the job, loves his work, and is clearly on top of (sorry) the many complicated issues that come with the turf. We need people like that in high office. Yet, despite his many admirable gifts, the Saxophonist-in-Chief managed to lob a softball right into the strike zone of his many rabid detractors, neutralizing so much of what could have been, and leaving the history books to decide how to spin the first presidential impeachment in 130 years. For that alone, may Mr. Bill spend his retirement taking requests for "New York, New York" in a bad wedding band. And may that band's corpulent, middle-aged "girl singer" flirt with him relentlessly during breaks by plopping down on his lap, giggle-snorting and pinching his cheek. Will America ever again take a chance on a Jazz President? Maybe not. But I say let's give a trumpet player a crack at that gig. Most I know have the same jones for chicks, but at least would be smart enough to arrange secret trysts at a nearby Super 8. Fooling around in the most visible fishbowl on the planet and then lying about it to 250 million people just isn't a trumpet player's style. We're slicker than that. Therefore, it is with great humility on this historic occasion, that I announce my candidacy for President of the United States. As titular head of the Separation of Oval Office and Motel Room Party (tit-ular...tit-ular... I like the sound of that word), it is the least I can do to serve my country. My fellow Americans, vote for me in November and I will promise never to hang with a succulent, nubile, pouty, well-hootered intern -- or any other fine young thing more than half my age -- in or near the same chamber where the fate of the free world resides. (And where the whole honkin' White House Press Corps lurks right down the hall ready to fan the flames of presidential indiscretion.) Vote for me, my fellow Americans, and "Hail To the Chief" will be replaced by "Joy Spring," "Charge!" will be played by a Boy's Nation bugler before every press conference, and all those wasted tax dollars will be put to better use in search of the perfect trumpet mouthpiece. Vote for me and rowdy jazz club patrons spotted with their backs to the stage while cackling and crowing during wistful ballads will be wrestled to the ground by Secret Service agents, gagged and shackled, injected with a special Top Secret Government Sedative, and dragged away, never to be seen or heard from again. Vote for me and local TV news "personalities" who burst into phony on-air guffaws for no apparent reason will also be wrestled to the ground, gagged, shackled and sedated. (And possibly strip-searched if they bear even the slightest resemblance to Heather Locklear ...which many now do.) And most important of all, if you send me to Washington, my fellow citizens, anyone who is caught watching -- not to mention appearing on -- Jenny/Jerry/Ricki/Maury or any other cavalcade of glorified human aberration, will not only be wrestled to the ground, gagged, shackled and sedated, but forced to listen to Kenny G's "Songbird" from now until the day a pro ball player is actually worth the millions he demands. Yes, it will be a Zero Tolerance For Ennui Administration. And one that you, the righteous, the enlightened and the pro-jazz can make possible. But only if you vote your conscience on November 7. And I know you will. Because, in your heart, you know I'm right. And because, my fellow Americans, I don't smoke, I'm a Super 8 V.I.P. (really!), and, I believe that the presidential tray table should remain in its original upright and locked position. (...That is, unless the intern is named "Buffy.") RETURN TO OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2000 MAIN INDEX © Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.