I can tell you what it is. Why anyone with a per capita of under a million casts their vote for Dubya.
It was there in the debates, it’s been there all along, but there are moments when the trick is particularly naked.
Four years ago, sitting in a hotel room watching election results, George didn’t dare do it in front of dad. (Discuss the psychosexual implications amongst yourselves.) But tonight, in his own living room, wife, family, four years on, hey, the man can do whatever he wants. Do it, do it. And, midway through every bumbling remark, he does. He gives the camera The Look.
The twitch of the shoulders, the crinkled brow, the John Wayne shrug and pause. Like a trained dog, George looks into the camera as if it were you (sucker) and barks out—well, it doesn’t matter what the fuck he barks, does it. It’s The Look, and if ever there were an example of the supranormal power of the image. The Look says, I am your father, I am going to take care of you, and just for good measure, I’m going to fuck the bejesus out of you, too.
Kinda speaks to the state of things, doesn’t it. How lonely and adrift we all are. Especially those without time or means to think, those are the ones who, on the other end of The Look, just melt. Opening their hearts and pocketbooks. Hell, we’re all needy. What would be nice is if in our common human neediness, we weren’t quite so prepared to sell to the first bidder.
If, like a good and cherished woman, those in need of leadership—which is most of us—would for hold out for something more than appearances . . .
If you would not, America, fall for the first thing that comes along, but use your noggin instead. Am I going to respect myself in the morning. Do I know this person, or is this projective identification (look it up.)
But no. People, you are easy. And that means you are going to continue to fall for—and be royally screwed by—trash who exploit you.
for RS
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