“SING to me, Muse, not of distant cities built from marble and bronze but of that place I call home. Have not great poets given their lands deserved immortality by their very words? Magnificent Greece and Proud Rome had their men, and even lowly Ireland birthed Joyce, it seems, for that very task. Why has America no national poet? Are we truly so ill-bred as to not receive this one thing?”
And so I queried the genie in the bottle of Jack, my thoughts grasping for the reason among the fog. First, I only saw the vaguest shape, scarcely anything more than a shade drifting in and out of my consciousness. But, this imposition would not pass, and I came to recognize the sparkle of a rhinestone bedazzling a Juicy Couture sweat jacket. Eventually, I surmised the form of the thing, and that it was, verily, the Muse I indulgently invoked.
Her sweat suit was what the good people at Crayola call tickle-me-pink, and recently highlighted tresses framed a face with all the usual signs of middle age. She let out the kind of emphysemic cough associated with smokers, and I noticed a bit of coral lipstick smudged on her snaggletooth before she began her reply.
“Yes, we got your paperwork last week,” she told me, as she held up Form 14B and slid it across the counter. “The gods are on a Carnival Cruise to Cancun for the next two weeks, but they laughed out loud when they read your application.” The red “Rejected” printed on the top had already told me as much.
This insult was too much to bear, and I countered with a barrage of questions. For what reasons would my country be any less qualified than those of the past? What inane criteria could she be using? I rattled off a 1,000 narrative possibilities that, if only deigned worthy by her bureaucracy, could seed a mighty epic. What fault did she find with my original proposal, a poetic treatment of the Twelve Labors of Barack Obama?
“Let’s see: health care, stimulus, Iran, America’s apology tour, Guantanamo, Gates-gate, global warming…you only listed seven,” she retorted.
Well, I could not afford 12 in this economy. So picky, surely the gods must understand my struggle. She also replied that such an underwhelming plotline contradicted his character development. The hero was more likely to do 14, and would have Peter Orzsag provide some graphico-statistical basis for how this would bend the cost curve. Well, touché.
Alas, they found my medium of choice equally comic. I had chosen a new style for a new century, and besides, dactylic hexameter is so cliché. But, evidently, three-minute YouTube videos strung together haphazardly don’t fit their preconceived notions of art. Go figure. I was even going to use one of those “Edward and Bella” tribute videos set to a Celine Dion song.
Heartbroken, I resolved that this task must be completed with or without the help of the deities. If the Muses are unwilling, let the Muses be damned.
For days, I penned nothing more than a broken phrase here and there, unable to articulate what exactly I longed to say. Even the proverbial orange mocha frappuccino was not satisfying, and I desired nothing more than to forget it all. Cunning Fate let me anguish until, at length, I found my way.
Strabo, an ancient geographer, once wrote about the history of the Roman people. His contemporaries frequently argued that Rome was particularly disposed to become a great city because of the natural advantages of its location. This was patently false, and Strabo identified that the very disadvantage of the Roman position within the world gave their people a heartier spirit. Later, an American poet, Kanye West, argued the same thing in his masterpiece, “Stronger.” By this logic, among all the prosperous cities dotting the American coasts, I searched for the least beautiful and, on Fran Drescher’s advice, came to find myself in New Jersey. MTV already was camped out and taping a new reality show, but I was still able to find a smorgasbord of human degeneracy among the leftovers. There were girls unable to stay sober for long enough to leave in this veritable Hotel California, and men wearing enough cologne to kill a small woodland creature. They all cried forth to a single overworked bartender for Jagerbombs. Their unified dedication proved either touching or horrifying. At this point, the common refrain that “everyone deserves to have their voice heard” never seemed so counter-intuitive. This, I now see, was the burden of the every-man American hero: to accept and embrace the grandparent who still thinks Nixon was the best President as having the same vote as you.
Emily, as a truly great artist, would like to tell you to burn this as her last request, but secretly hopes you’ll publish it posthumously. Choose your own adventure at [email protected].