From Daniel Fienberg's, "The Flen Print: London Cast," Fall '98 From Daniel Fienberg's, "The Flen Print: London Cast," Fall '98Green felt. Little squares of cryptically intentioned blue chalk. Six pockets, plastic reinforced, await perfectly round balls carried by the twin forces of luck and imagined geometric skill. Everything in place. Oh yeah, there's also a difference in that since I arrived here two weeks ago, I haven't heard anyone so much as mention Prime Minister Tony Blair's genitals. In this country where chromatic simplicity would seem to reign like another Windsor, you actually can find pool halls which feature the ol' standbys stripes and solids. As for the other?. "So what's the word on Bill Clinton's penis?" Trust me, it sounds even funnier coming in a Liverpool accent. ("Hi. My name is Ringo. I play the drums.") And it sounds even more out of place when all you're doing is playing pool and talking about football (er, soccer) matches. Still, this bloke had made the association that, as an American, my every thought would be tied to the President and his deposition. You see, here in London we're getting ready to go to war, while back in the States (apparently) Paula Jones & Co. are getting all the press. If you trust The Guardian, the best newspaper in this media-glutted city, the U.K. is all set to battle with Iraq. Apparently, let me add, by themselves. The stories make scarce reference to the United Nations and even less to potential U.S. involvement in the conflict. Just as well, because, no doubt, there are more important things happening below the (sorta) Leader of the Free World's belt. Or at least that's what the page 17 blurb on the deposition implies. Our world has stopped. Or at least that's what the Lilliputian (or is that something else?) thinks. I trust it hasn't. With no Philadelphia Inquirer or New York Times in sight, it becomes very difficult to tell. Then you read that Clinton's approval ratings are still hovering over 60 percent and it becomes clear that no one cares about the blemishes. They don't care because, let's face it, things are pretty good. If the stock market were plunging and inflation was soaring and no one was even pretending to balance the budget, how quickly would Newt or Trent or Charleton Heston be calling for Clinton's impeachment on the grounds that he had disgraced the office? Instead, the Paula Jones trial has become something of a joke in the United States. Americans chuckle because Genifer Flowers is coming to Clinton's aid by insisting that when she was having an affair with him, he did not have any distinguishing marks. That's just good comedy. Does anyone really believe Jones? Does anyone really believe Clinton? Basically, the answer is the same: who cares? Now that certainly is not the way things necessarily should be. If the President did sexually harass this woman, the implications are quite serious. For now, that's not the concern. As I said, things are pretty good. Things are good in London as well. Unemployment is down. Wages and union activity are down as well, but no one cares yet. Blair is still riding a large wave of popularity based on the twin achievements that he seems nicer than Margaret Thatcher and cooler than Johnny Majors -- difficult chores, each. As a result, papers have to find other bad things to play up on the front page. We get word of the impending Gulf War II: Tie Another Yellow Ribbon. Oh, and we also get news of a disaster up in Oxford. Someone went back through exams at the world's most prominent university and in the past three years, there have been 140 words misspelled. Apparently this bodes poorly not only for Oxford's reputation, but for all of Western Civilisation as well. I wouldn't want to suggest The Guardian was trying a little hard to print news of Armageddon, but how bad is it that nobody knows how to spell "skepticle?" Oops. In England, reading about the sex lives of politicians is pretty boring. While the British don't obsess about the royal family as much as we Yanks think they do, the idea of a respected public figure getting caught with his trousers down is quite normal (though as I said, Clinton's counterpoint Blair has stayed decent this whole fortnight). London is a city, after all, with at least a half dozen "legitimate" daily tabloids. The "truth" tends to make it into print. If a minor royal or member of parliament were in Clinton's position, it would hardly be news. Still, people hear are amused to see something like this happen across the pond. The Brits on my dorm floor weren't sure whether they should be amazed at how big a deal Americans make about Clinton's affairs du coeur or how small a deal it all is. Back to the game: Playing on the eight ball (yes, still black) and my opponent scratches. Almost victory for me, but British rules dictate otherwise. The game goes on. Back to the politics: Attempting to start an argument, my opponent returns to Clinton's private parts. Possible humiliation for me, but American rules dictate otherwise. "I couldn't care less," I chuckle. The game goes on.
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