Quote for the ages from Mister National Dialog himself:
"Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago."
This administration's pattern of grand posturing, which conflates exposing their own hypocrisy with instructive reconciliation, is both pretentious and condescending, worthy of its own national dialogue.
Most of the loudest voices at the largest communications networks are too busy pretending to address the greatness of it all to feign ignorance of their own fictions. So they claim intimate knowledge of somebody else's fiction instead, which just as often as not, is only based on a true story.
When I was a tyke, one local hero was Dick the Bruiser. With his aging + sagging pectoral muscles, he pranced + trounced around the ring in the name of the primal + tribal, which, in spite of its being utterly vague as a narrative, inspired wannabe good-guys in living rooms in and around Naptown.
I didn't realize at the time just how limited the scope of projection was. True, the phenomenon of professional wrestling was transnational and legendary, but the cast of characters was parochial, the champions designated by broadcast strength.
Anyone's who's nodded off in front of their idiot box left streaming can attest to the über-relative volume of the commercial advert. My experience is that the independent local channels late-night breaks are the loudest of all. (Who are we as a community if we can't sell our shit screaming at each other?) The strength of the national network affiliates is that they can afford to fool you with their higher-end + hence seemingly slicker squawk.
By the time I became a young adult, a certain three-initial pro-wrestling association had managed to achieve continental prominence that rivaled their boxing counterparts in commercial revenue. I'd been absent from my country of origin just long enough that it felt like I had fallen asleep in front of the distorted image on a black & white teevee with foil splayed upon the top of the rabbit ears, and woken to the firm glimmer of cable color television.
Having long-since outgrown masked men in tight trunks, I didn't quite get the enormous appeal, though it was laid out in simple enough terms: "My kid is trick or treating as Hulk Hogan." "I know it's fake, but some of it's kind of real, don't you reckon?"
It was, however, obvious that a united, bi-coastal champion meant funneling the take into a narrower section of the national pyramid.
Quite self-consciously, the kayfabe of pro wrestling is strikingly similar to political governance funneled through the same idiot box, which given the agglomeration of that which has come to be termed The Media, includes the laptop box with its tabs in place of channels, the hand-held box and its data gathering 'droids, the plasma box, not ultra-broad but extra wide, along with whatever's left of the paper box.
I know the media is corporate engineered bullshit, but some of it's kind of real, don't you reckon?
Yeah, sure, and some of the wrestlers think they're real too.
In this corner, Pretty Boy Bo Mighty Rama aka Drone Ranger... he patrols this globally gated community, chasing suspicious looking Africans to all corners.
When he calls 9-1-1, they respond with a, "Roger that, we got 'im in our sites!" and the suspect is neutralized without so much as a stop-and-frisk... ...before you can say, "Driving while Bla..."
With the current application of the arsenal at the Commander-in-Chief's disposal, the following statement might lead one to think that it sounds artificial coming out of his mouth:
And like the referee who never sees when The Crusher clobbers Dick the Bruiser with a metal folding chair, Massive Media Inc. goes all Terra Haute.
"Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago."
This administration's pattern of grand posturing, which conflates exposing their own hypocrisy with instructive reconciliation, is both pretentious and condescending, worthy of its own national dialogue.
Most of the loudest voices at the largest communications networks are too busy pretending to address the greatness of it all to feign ignorance of their own fictions. So they claim intimate knowledge of somebody else's fiction instead, which just as often as not, is only based on a true story.
__
When I was a tyke, one local hero was Dick the Bruiser. With his aging + sagging pectoral muscles, he pranced + trounced around the ring in the name of the primal + tribal, which, in spite of its being utterly vague as a narrative, inspired wannabe good-guys in living rooms in and around Naptown.
I didn't realize at the time just how limited the scope of projection was. True, the phenomenon of professional wrestling was transnational and legendary, but the cast of characters was parochial, the champions designated by broadcast strength.
__
Anyone's who's nodded off in front of their idiot box left streaming can attest to the über-relative volume of the commercial advert. My experience is that the independent local channels late-night breaks are the loudest of all. (Who are we as a community if we can't sell our shit screaming at each other?) The strength of the national network affiliates is that they can afford to fool you with their higher-end + hence seemingly slicker squawk.
By the time I became a young adult, a certain three-initial pro-wrestling association had managed to achieve continental prominence that rivaled their boxing counterparts in commercial revenue. I'd been absent from my country of origin just long enough that it felt like I had fallen asleep in front of the distorted image on a black & white teevee with foil splayed upon the top of the rabbit ears, and woken to the firm glimmer of cable color television.
Having long-since outgrown masked men in tight trunks, I didn't quite get the enormous appeal, though it was laid out in simple enough terms: "My kid is trick or treating as Hulk Hogan." "I know it's fake, but some of it's kind of real, don't you reckon?"
It was, however, obvious that a united, bi-coastal champion meant funneling the take into a narrower section of the national pyramid.
__
Quite self-consciously, the kayfabe of pro wrestling is strikingly similar to political governance funneled through the same idiot box, which given the agglomeration of that which has come to be termed The Media, includes the laptop box with its tabs in place of channels, the hand-held box and its data gathering 'droids, the plasma box, not ultra-broad but extra wide, along with whatever's left of the paper box.
I know the media is corporate engineered bullshit, but some of it's kind of real, don't you reckon?
Yeah, sure, and some of the wrestlers think they're real too.
__
In this corner, Pretty Boy Bo Mighty Rama aka Drone Ranger... he patrols this globally gated community, chasing suspicious looking Africans to all corners.
When he calls 9-1-1, they respond with a, "Roger that, we got 'im in our sites!" and the suspect is neutralized without so much as a stop-and-frisk... ...before you can say, "Driving while Bla..."
With the current application of the arsenal at the Commander-in-Chief's disposal, the following statement might lead one to think that it sounds artificial coming out of his mouth:
"If we're sending a message as a society in our communities that someone who is armed potentially has the right to use those firearms, even if there's a way for them to exit from a situation, is that really going to be contributing to the kind of peace and security and order that we'd like to see?"
And like the referee who never sees when The Crusher clobbers Dick the Bruiser with a metal folding chair, Massive Media Inc. goes all Terra Haute.
