dimanche 19 octobre 2008

Hoover Dam, Bush's Levees


Boulder City, Nevada: October 19 Stopping at the Hoover Dam en route to see a Palin rally in New Mexico, I took the time off the bus to walk these astonishing vistas, survey this hydroelectric marvel of concrete and engineeriing, this energy-producing behemoth of the Manifest Destiny set within plateaus, mesas, rocks of Black Valley Canyon, and, of course, its namesake, President Herbert Hoover, he of the Great Depression, he who calls to mind the tag "worst President in US history," now re-placed by George W. Bush who has his own problems with water: Persian Gulf uncertainties, Louisiana and Mississippi levees collapsing, all the Anglophone metaphors for financial conditions: foreclosed homes throughout the nation called "under water"; "liquidity" and "solvency" and cash "flow" problems in an economy that has "dried up" and is "on the brink" of a horrible "deluge" of economic woes: corporate "washouts," and bank "bailouts," an impending "flood" of bankruptcies, and a "dam burst" of unemployment rates at "rising levels" Americans haven't seen since, alas, the age of the dam-building Hoover.

samedi 18 octobre 2008

Ce qui se passe à Vegas reste à Vegas: Paris, Las Vegas and The Karaoke of Love

October 17: Las Vegas, Nevada. Now an evening among the swarming pre-Enlightenment aristocracy made of new-money, new millennium plebeians, in this city that is nothing and everything, a glittering nowhere that draws billions of pilgrims from everywhere: it's knowing God is pre-rational pure Chance: animated by accents from Japan to Jersey, Jerusalem to Java, here, in a manifold mecca to the religion of the con and the conquest, the fake silver coin and the genuine poker chip: beyond history, it rolls on without a clock or calendar, like an ever spinning re-cycle of Hegelian history, enough to make even Giambattitsa Vico dizzy: from The Defending the Cavemen comedy show to the ancient Egyptian Luxor Hotel to the (Samuel Taylor Coleridgean) "Xanadu Showcase" ("devoted to imagination and invention") to the Wild Wild West Casino, a city of light bulbs and boas, theme-parks and peep shows, Jehovah Witnesses and snake swallowers, taxi queues and pole dancing sideshows: this is the site of America's open secret, its ultra-private infamous transgression, the pitch black space more brightly lit than an Australian summer beach: Las Vegas, the high price postmodern American prostitute in the frugal feather bed of the American preacher, an infernal rhinestone glittering on a desert's brimstone.

I spent a few Euros at the roulette wheel in the Paris Casino, and true to its Gallic authenticity, this "Parisian" casino's roulette wheel broke with the bastardized double-zero American version of our little wheel. I then settled at the bar for a few "Manhattans" with Pierre Grandier, a croupier, originally from Reims, who'd re-settled with his American wife in San Diego, ostensibly to open a bistro, only to find himself distressed by San Diego's conservative grip, recently divorced, penniless (as Pierre told me, "Le rêve américain est le cauchemar du crédit"). I then left morose Monsieur Grandier and, before boarding my Eastbound flight (to return to the campaign to follow Sarah Palin's entourage after her appearance on Saturday Night Live), I visited with one of the "church leaders" at the many wedding chapels here in Vegas. Here follows my surprisingly Socratic exchange with one 'Reverend Ricky' of the Shotgun Chapel for Latter-day Sinners. (Pardon, as usual the unedited English in this transcript):

Guy: why is it Las Vegas city and weddings became so afffinitied?

Reverend Ricky: well, what happens here in Vegas is inhibitions are lost and love is turned loose. And found. Love, I tell you, is a karaoke of the soul.

Guy: Karaoke? Love is mere imitation?

Rev Ricky: When we use words, are we not imitating other words?

Guy: True.

Reverend Ricky: Then who's to say our emotions, even love, are not just beautiful imitations?

Guy: Do the marriages which you ordain, last?

Reverend Ricky: We don't keep no records Guy. not my concern in the least. Most toxic words ever invented were "happily ever after." If a couple finds a moment of bliss by tying the knot on impulse, even if they lose the magic the moment they hit the highway and leave this desert of mirages, does that mean their nuptials were in vain?Guy: Certainly not.

Reverend Ricky: As a free thinking Italian, surely you--

Guy: I am French, not Italian.

Rev Ricky: Well then even more so then. Why so serious, Guy? Why is it weddings have to be so solemn? Why not have, as we do, a choir of singing Elvises instead of angels. Or our Elvises are angels. We here at the Shotgun Chapel feel very Zen about what we do. The moment is everything. Life is one shimmering illusion after another shimmering illusion. So we honor the surface and leave it to the philosophers like yourself to ponder the depths. A wedding is about glitter--not lead. And who cares if not all that glitters is gold?

Biden 2: Leaving Las Vegas


Las Vegas, Nevada: October 17: After a night spent in the city of the unreal, the Sodom and Gomorrah of the American West (my roundtable with Vegas locals is forthcoming), I was intrigued by the John the Baptist-specter of Biden. At times his tall, jarring white-haired there-ness was striking against the night sky, his wheezy, declamatory vaguely senatorial insistence gave way to pauses which filled the night air with bird-like cries from an audience who seemed painfully away of Biden's (mere) role as Obamian surrogate, a substitution known in advance by the rally attendees and yet (like the toll of words themselves) still we felt Biden's body as the presence of (Obama's) absence, [perhaps the very zero effect posited by the Mayans not far south of here centuries ago]. We stood in the night like ancient Romans awaiting the return of a general from the East who would bring to Rome its Oriental booty (victories in swing states): restless vox populi dutifully applauded Biden who decried the "Robocalls", phone messages sent en masse to recruit right-wing voters scared of Obama's "terrorist" ties. Biden's vulture-like gaze befitted this hard-scrabble earth, here, in God's country, safe outside its opulent city of lush technicolor ruin.

vendredi 17 octobre 2008

Biden 1: Dreaming of the Mission

Mesilla, New Mexico: October 16: Here Joe Biden arrived to contra-dict Palin's claim of patriotism as exclusively located (locus) in "small towns."I have never been to a state that hasn't sent its sons and daughters to serve its country," Biden told his auditors, couching national loyalty as willingness-to-war, a mission (itself calling to mind the genocidal "missions" of imperial Spain against the Mayans, Aztecs, Pueblos: Bush's mission accomplished; McCain's pledge to "complete the mission" in Iraq; Elton John's faux-rebellious lounge hit "Burn Down the Mission"), Biden off-to-war-mission-mirroring Palin's militaristic defintion of patriotism: the fiercely energized roared under the sharp stabs of Southwestern sun (cf the arrow of the sun of Pueblo Native myth) moved (em/bowed--up/ward) by Bidean battle-cry (mission) of/to change which, in its mimicry of Bush militarism, is a self-cancelling erasure shouted into this big sky flatland, to mesas and to the cacti.

jeudi 16 octobre 2008

Joe the Plumber: Addressing the Son of GOP/GOD


Hempstead, New York: October 16: Joe the Plumber descends on the debate like the Word (of the anti-tax Logos) made flesh. Joe is the incarnate Son of the GOD/GOP, an unknown known whose actual identity (nee Samuel J. Wurzelbacher) is effaced by the truncated simplicity of "Joe." This messianic plumber who, alas, is no plumber at all, an unlicensed, unauthorized freelancer in Ohio, an Ohioian ghost to whom Obama and McCain addressed their sacrificial offerings of "No Taxes, Joe." This repeated water-into-wine promise of an invisible and free government (loaves and fishes=you pay no taxes) is the coming of a fleshly god: the son of the GOP/GOD made flesh (Joe-the-Plumber) whose very name evokes a simplistic phallic everyman, the all-good American laborer who yet aspires to transform his self from an invisible being to a ruthlessly visible "owner of a small business." This mere man-to-owner-god-savior transformation threatened to be prevented by the (taxing-terrorist) Barack Obama and his Joe-castrating, Joe-crucifying tax proposal on people (who Joe is not yet nor ever will be) who make $250,000 or more. (McCain to Joe: "Forgive Barack, Joe, for he knows not what he does"). Alas in truth Joe is no God at all: not only not oppressed by taxes he actually owes back taxes. The tyrannical grip of the fictional Joe, the hall of mirrors which language addresses that which is not (Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe), and the falsely messianic narrative (aspiring owner crippled by a tax proposal which is-yet-to-be) are all proven too seductive to a bewildered and newly bankrupt America, and more, impenetrable to Truth.

mercredi 15 octobre 2008

Guy Talks with Hofstra Students


Hempstead, New York: October 15 On the day of the debate, the campus swirling with paranoiac panoptic Secret Service agents, I gave a morning lecture here at Hofstra University ("The Ontic Cringe Behind the Smile: A Semiotics of Michelle Obama's Face"), I ate lunch at one of the many malls of Long Island (at what you call Taco Bell, with its faux-Mexicano flavor signed by "Taco" and it's homespun American front porch signed by the "Bell").
I then retired to the campus grounds for an outdoor Q&A with young Hofstra undergraduates about politics and culture. A sample of our lively exchange is below; my editor of course leaves in my sometimes broken English.

Guy: So are you all voting in this upcoming big day?

Helena (Psych Major): of course Guy, do you think we would have attended your talk on Michelle Obama if we didn't care? And by the way, what did you mean when you said [consults her notes] the smile of Michelle Obama represents an agency of acquiescence about which she is both unaware and aware Guy, are you saying Michelle Obama is letting herself be used, like a pawn by her husband's campaign?

Guy: I do not know how you mean this word used, but, I will say, to be short about this, that she is acting a role which she dislikes and yet which liberates her as well.

Johnny (Business major): You mean, like she's cool with the cost benefit analysis? She puts up with Larry King and all the media jerk-offs and interviewers and in exchange she gets to be First Lady if Barack wins.

Guy: Yes but I meant she surrenders part of her Being, her wholeness is ruptured by the camera lights, a quasi-suicide to be so much in the public and forced to pose.

Kyle (Sociology major): That's called 'false consciousness,' what you're talking about with Michelle Obama, Guy. I think you're a Marxist at heart.

Johnny: Of course he is, all the French are communists, right Guy? But man look at his threads. That's Brooks Brothers tailoring, no?

Guy: No, it is Yves St Laurent. But I do not mean Marxian false consciousness, Monsieur Kyle, though yes I know this concept. What I mean is, ontologically, how you say, in the core of her being, Michelle Obama is displaced from the role she had made, successful lawyer, mother of two, suburban privacy, and has been asked to be, how you say, the white genteel lady of the plantation, if you will, the first lady of power, smiling through the psychological race-warfare waged in these campaigns, no?

Jennifer (English major): It's like the Elizabethans who believed in self-fashioning. Like, a self isn't just some natural thing. You make it up from different material. Like clothes.

Guy: Ah, oui. Perhaps. Alors, in America you can not only make self but re-make self. Like the Tide laundry detergent I see always says New Formula, Better Acting, Faster Stain Remove.

Jacob (Accounting major): So is France like a total socialist dictatorship?

Guy: France is socialist only to some small degree. We have more how you say "safety netting" of social needs and health but, inside that, we French can be very medieval-fascist about class and accent, which I do not see to be the case in America. Here, if you are fascist it is about invading countries to solve problems bot because someone has a lower accent than you. You drop bombs to solve problems but let people speak poor English and you don't think them unequal to you. And now of course socialism in America is okay to save CEOs.

Jacob: I agree, it's total bullshit, this bail out. Even my brother who works for Lehman Brothers and has this huge house in Highland Park, he's not even into this bail out. And McCain and Obama, they just go along.

Maria (undeclared major): At least Obama is going to lower taxes for poor people.

Kyle: All the tax talk is just a phony way to avoid the ideology which is the rich take care of the rich once they have pretended to campaign for the so called middle class. Obama might not own 10 houses like McCain, but if you think he's for the poor, get real, Maria.

Jacob: Yeah, plus Obama's going to raise taxes [much arguing ensues]

Guy: Tell me, each of you, if you were to say, here, here I hold up one single product of American culture that is, how you say, the quintessence, the best of, for you, to hold up and say this person or this business, or a product which is American truly American, what would you say represents America?

Jennifer: Ok. Don't laugh. I have traveled a lot in Europe. In all seriousness, ice cream. Carvel. The old drive-up parlors like the one near my house in Levitown. We make it the best, soft ice cream.


Jacob: Nah, not Carvel. America is not food, it's people, man. Warren fucking Buffet baby, the man got bucks to burn.







Maria: I'd say Jennifer Lopez, because I came out of Parkchester section of the Bronx myself and J Lo made it in movies and music, big time. And I tell you that is not easy being Latina. We are the invisible millions we Latinos and Latinas. J Lo, baby!






Kyle: Charles Bukowski, you know him Guy? He's our Artaud. "What matters most is how well you walk through the fire."


Helena: I'd say Meryl Streep because she has been at it so long and so well.

Johnny: That's all pretty intense, Streep, that Charles Lubowski poetry stuff. But no, I say America is technology, inventions. The Mac computer. What's more USA? Steve Jobs.
What about you, Guy, what single thing in our country do you think sums up America the best for you? And don't say "McDonalds."

Guy: Well, I have not seen everything yet I would say, I come back to that famous collar of Elvis Presley, how you say, 'up turning' collar.
Maria: Upturned collar, yeah.

Guy: Yes that collar up like so. It is sort of James Dean origin too and Fonz, yes, Happy Days? But it is distinctly American. In Paris in the 1950s when I was a student, this turn up collar was a sign that you hated French establishment and believed in American rebellious ideal of partial self concealment. In movies you see this too, the collar up. It is American defiance which yet wants to be seen and yet protects itself, hides a little under this collar which paradoxically also draws uneasy attention to the person. Elvis always wore this, yes? And Top Gun Tom Cruise. And George Bush on his declared mission accomplishment day, on the aircraft ship?

Kyle: Mission Accomplished. Yeah, that sums up America, Guy, that phony phrase. Did you prefer young Elvis or the fat Elvis?

Guy: Of course, fat. Look at me. How can I not prefer fat Elvis? [Guy pats his belly and much laughter ensues]

lundi 13 octobre 2008

Ole Blue Eyes in Scranton

Scranton, Pennsylvania: October 13 The two campaign teams' erotic obsession with "wooing" Pennsylvanian swing voters and its wild fetishization of the color blue is in force here in Scranton, Pennsylvania where I attended a rally of Bidens and Clintons, calling to mind my earlier coverage of Hillary's campaign (see posts Jan-June). Indeed I was able to have a brief lunch with the Senator and former First Lady (see excerpt/transcript below). At this rally, I was most struck by the quartet's emphatic blueness of ensemble, which "signs" both Obama's blue bunting and his "O" and also "signs" a lingering Democratic blue-eyed (devil?) fear of Obama's blackness, a fear which the Biden-Clinton orgy of blue sought to dispel in Bacchanal suburban grandeur among working-class Catholic mid-Atlantic crowds. Note here Bill's patriarchal domination of the podium, his phallic finger wagging in a pointed re-enactment of his post-Monica scolding of the press ("I did not have sex"), and, now ten years on, his finger signs the Obama finger-point histrionics ("yes we can")

Guy: Tell me Hillary, did you feel your defeat to Barack was a defeat for the American femme?

Hillary: Oh Guy, you couldn't be more wrong. On the contrary! What we accomplished was absolutely unprecedented, and, I might add, not unlike the great work done in your own great nation by Segolene Royale.

Guy: A yes but in France she lost very badly, and, anyway, she did not speak after of this "glass ceiling."

Hillary: Well, Guy, the fact is that these ceilings do exist, and for women of my generation it was clear from the outset that we were going to break through to places of leadership and executive positions and, darn gone it, we have.

Guy: And of Palin? And her being, how you say, secreted off from press?
Hillary: Well, you'd have to ask the McCain people about that, but as far as I can tell she's been a very good governor of Alaska.

Guy: But she is not, how you, say, ignorant, estupid, to say she must be a President because she sees Russia from her house? And if she is so incompetent, does this not mean she was picked only for being une femme?

Hillary: Well, I don't want to get into that. Can we talk about Barack?

Guy: Biensur, oui.

Hillary: Well, I'll let you in on a little secret, Guy. Because I know the French are famous for their discretion. But when I lost to Ba-ra-ack, I was in a terrrrrrrrible funk. They had to drag me out of bed that day to go up to that damned Unity New Hampshire lovefest and make nice with that upstart brat. I was gorging myself on ice cream, watching re-runs of "24" and The West Wing, snapping every three seconds at Chelsea, and, at one point, Bill and I had a knock down drag out fight, smashing dishes and all, and I can tell you, it made our Lewinsky, Paula Jones and Gennifer Flowers blow-outs look like days in the park. But in the end, I knew Bill's rough style of campaigning against Ba-ra-ack wasn't the problem. The problem is that I am too white.

Guy: Too white? But you are as white as McCain, though he is, nor is his wife Cindy, not nearly as, how you say, alluring as you.

Hillary: (slaps Guy's arm): That's very nice of you to say Guy, but one thing I am realizing about this great country of ours, is that, frankly, even here in Scranton, given the Bush years, the Iraq war, the economic free fall, Wall Street and banking bail outs, white people are truly getting tired of white people.

Guy: Thank you for your time.

Hillary: Oh it was my pleasure Guy, and Bill and I cannot wait to come visit you in Provence. [Sinatra's "Fly me to the Moon" comes on the jukebox] Oh, ole blue eyes!! I just love this tune, Guy, would you like to dance, we'll create quite the stir in this restaurant. [they rise and dance]