Apparently nothing is safe from the global makeover. For instance, take the Real American Hero, G.I. Joe. Strip him of his American character, add brawny sidekicks drawn from the world’s exotic hotspots and voilá, you’ve now got yourself a violent international special force that will appeal to the lowest common denominator worldwide.

And, let’s face it, the message is not that different from the motto one Armed Forces branch (in this case, the Navy) fashioned for itself: “A Global Force for Good” and the perorations of a Commander in Chief from nowhere in particular who views himself as a Messianic postmodernistic antidote to national identity.

So, is what’s good for Hollywood, good for the United States? It all depends on what you mean by “is” and of course what you mean by “the United States.” If it’s the bigger, better, and badder borderless one envisioned by the new international media oligopolies, it’s plenty good and profitable to boot. If it’s the distinctive North American republic that George Washington warned in his farewell address to avoid “foreign entanglements,” it’s pretty much the end of the line. And, if you don’t particularly like that situation, the new G.I. Joe will see to it that you do.

Join the Army. Visit exotic places. Meet strange people. And, bill them.

Over a political career of nearly eight years, I probably encountered a dozen or so similar incidents: trash dumped in the yard after a fluoridation vote (probably the closest we ever came to mandating universal health care coverage), anonymous letters and e-mails with hateful messages, a few taunts, and one threatened punch-up. After my resignation, I received a lovely little thank you card that read on the outside “Thank You” to reveal upon opening “for leaving” signed by the pseudonyms of a dozen or so malcontents.

All in all, you learn to take the occasional insult, veiled threat, and gesture of ill will in stride and recognize that it comes with the terrain of political representation. You’re never ever going to satisfy everyone. Moreover, people often have strong reactions to public policy issues. Some citizens can even be a little cantankerous. But it never escalated to the level that it required publicity or law enforcement action. End of story.

Beginning of story for some Congressional politicians who would have us believe that they’ve never been on the receiving end of an insult or taunt. In the past week, a dozen or so Congressmen have come forward with stories of harassment surrounding their positions on recently passed health care legislation. Some serious. Most not. Whether revelations of the latter are just peculiar demonstrations of political thin skin, lame attempts to gain sympathy, or coordinated efforts to demonize public demonstrators is still open to question. What is quite clear, however, is that many of the incidents either didn’t happen as told or involve ordinary, run-of-the-mill insults of a kind that merit no public controversy whatsoever.

As evidence of the latter consider the following. Democratic Congressman Bart Stupak charged that one constituent lectured that “You will rue the day you did this, Mr. Stupak.” Not to be outdone in the victimization department, a Republican Congresswoman retorts that she received an ugly call wishing that she had broken her back in a recent accident. And, of course, there were the “really gross expressions to young, Congressional staffers” telephoned to Congressman Anthony Weiner’s office. For goodness sakes, folks, call in the Marines.

And, then there is the spitting incident. Exhibit Congressman Emmanual Cleaver. In headlines that evoked images of the Selma to Montgomery marches, news headlines blared that a black congressman, Congressman Emmanuel Cleaver, was subject to racial taunts and spat in the face by an angry and vindictive teaparty activist in a tumultuous crowd. Fortunately, the entire incident was captured on video. What the tape clearly shows is a rather orderly crowd of demonstraters and a gentleman cupping his hands, shouting, and inadvertedly releasing a spray.

Fortunately too, Americans long ago became inured to conspiracy theories involving saliva projectiles. We can thank Jerry Seinfeld’s debunking of Cosmo Kramer for that.

That’s gone now. In its stead we have a hyperprocessed Madison Avenue product. It’s still vaguely rural or rather ex-urban but there’s no discernable place. It’s been deracinated. Also, no more drinking and carousing. The forgetable themes seem to be chosen by focus groups and increasingly celebrate different aspects of politically correct consumerism. The melodies are often recycled from older songs and given a pop beat. A procession of perfect blonde twenty-something singer-models strut around in music videos to sexually titillate. In sum, it’s been so thoroughly mainstreamed that it’s practically been absorbed into the global monoculture.

Therefore, it was pleasure to see George Jones in concert last night at the Charlottesville Pavillion. Simple alliterative name. Two syllables. The young waitress at The Nook couldn’t fathom who was performing that evening: “Just some old guy from the 70s.” Seventy-eight years old in September to be precise. He sported a paunch. He missed the high notes.

But, he lived the lyrics that he wrote and the songs are a spontaneous reflection on the challenges and passions of life. Here in the real world.

Or, as he tells it in “The Grand Tour”

Step right up, come on in
If you’d like to take the grand tour
. . .
I have nothing here to sell you.
Just some things that I will tell you.

Ladies and Gentleman, Mr. George Jones.

Next, Slate magazine reports on Burger King’s unappetizing entree, the “Super 7 incher,” and an advertising campaign that must have been inspired by the feats of Linda Lovelace.

A different kind of manwich.

And, now the rest of the industry is trying to get in on the act. If you haven’t heard it yet, T.G.I. Fridays is airing a radio advertisement in many media markets that takes sex in advertising to an entirely new low. The ad features callers who leave what at first appears to be a series of sexually explicit messages on the T.G.I. Friday’s cook’s answering machine, complimenting him on his prowess. The cook proceeds to play back each message but halts right before it is revealed that they are actually alluding to his food and not foreplay. And, in an alltime media low, there is even a veiled reference to getting grandma in on the hot and heavy.

Where's the beef? You don't want to know.

You would think that the restaurant industry, of all businesses, would steer clear of the derriere for at two reasons. First, a sizeable portion of the public is going to be turned off by the use of sexually provocative themes in advertisements. I don’t just mean the prudes at Dr. Dobson’s Focus on the Family, but garden-variety people who seek a safe and family friendly atmosphere for dining with their children, parents, and friends. Second, nobody needs to be subtly reminded of the constant stream of news reports about rogue chain restaurant workers adding bodily fluids to the ingredients of the recipes as this scene from the movie Road Trip demonstrates.

Bon Appetit!

Gordon Solie passed away nine years ago, on July 27th, 2000. But, his legacy lives on in the appreciative wordsmiths he coached.