It’s hard to get away from it, I know, so this post will be entirely free from serious, frowny-faced cogitations about John Boeher’s humble upbringing, or whether Nancy Pelosi’s next lipstick choice will be Lenin Glow Red or Evil Imperial Rose.

One day last week my drive home was accompanied by an infrequently-heard song from The Guess Who called “Second-Hand World.”  Lyric-wise, this was not Kurt Winter’s best work (“Anybody here see the fuzzy-wuzzy lovin’ cup explosion?”).  But it’s catchy, with the cliched 60s feel so common on Kool Oldies radio stations and that makes Baby Boomers feel all misty and want to buy a rusty VW bus.  Then the chorus played as I was turning into the drive:

Don’t give me no
hand me down shoes
Don’t give me no
hand me down love
Don’t give me no
hand me down world
I got one already

And in these words is the essence, the life-force that possessed The Guess Who’s audience then and continues to obsess their scions today:  this present world is an unwanted old shoe, being foisted upon them by unenlightened rubes, defined axiomatically as anyone born previous to them.  The “hand-me-down” wisdom of generations past is to be discarded as irrelevant.  Don’t give me no hand me down world — I got one already, so I’m going to toss it out and remake the world anew in my own image.  In the 60s, at least these people were armed only with cultural argument and social protest.  Today, they literally have their hands on the wheel of your world and are jerking it leftward with all their might, not caring that the scorned “hand-me-down world” was built on the backs of countless selfless Americans, including men whose blood protects the nihilist’s liberty to spit on it if they choose.

Next time I’m in Starbucks, I’m going to order a fuzzy-wuzzy lovin’ cup explosion.