Palestinian denizens need a bit of glam and has taken to gracing them with her magnetic presence. For the past five years, Lady Bush
has been little more than a shadow to her husband, a smiling, doltish woman who raises her forgettable voice in admiration for
something, even if they rest of us have no idea what. At last, we’ve come to that scene in this Theatre of the Absurd: reaching that point
where our Leader and his (then) party of five (Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Wolfowitz, Negroponte) can no longer charm the unwashed
masses with their empty similes. So, the gracious ex-librarian-turned-president’s wife must be trotted out like some show pony,
dazzling us all with her equestrian modesty. I don’t know Mrs. Bush personally, nor do I suspect that she does at this point either. As
of now, Mrs. Bush has decided it is her “mission” to help the brown people, those dirty and lawless people who can’t seem to get their
shit together and stop blowing stuff up. From visiting the dirty Palestinians to visiting the Negro churches full of “those people,” she
does indeed have that street cred we all knew she had. I won’t be the least surprised if I see her down at Go-Chicken-Go next week
and then at the upcoming Gay Pride festival a few weeks after that. After all, that Cheney daughter is a lesbian, even though she heads
that new office in charge of “investigating Iran.” I wonder who her favorite designer is? Nevermind. Nevermind that Mrs. Bush hasn’t
said anything about Palestinian rights in years; nevermind that Mrs. Bush sat silently by as her husband denied DNA tests to over one
hundred minorities on death row in Texas who more likely than not been innocent; nevermind that Mrs. Bush condoned Mr. Bush’s
campaign to “liberate” Iraqis and “support” Vets at Walter Reed. I hope you’re drinking, because this show is longer than that version
of Cleopatra starring Elizabeth Taylor.
Which is to say, Mrs. Bush is not Dame Taylor. Mrs. Bush is politely pretty if not strikingly beautiful or even glamorous, a polished “I’ve
got big money but I’m just like you if you had a tailor” puppet. She is the type of woman who enchants and is easy to dismiss by how
plain and homespun she appears. I wonder when Mrs. Bush tours the wailing wall, does she wear heals or flats? When she enters
the Dome of Rock, does she bite her lip or smile in what is surely her confusion about the origins of the place? (And, dare I say it, is
she forced to put on a hajib?!?) What do you think she had for lunch? Surely not something prepared locally! But you know, for all of
her delightful flaws, I’ll at least give Mrs. Bush credit: she’s not the serpentine Mistress of the State, Condoleeza Rice. At least with
Mrs. Bush, you don’t get the impression that she’d rip your face off if she was a little hungry, if push came to shove…the same cannot
be said for Mistress Rice.
Admittedly, I do get a kick from how irksome her big black presence must be to those Dixiecrats who believe blacks should either be
domestics or strung up to a tree. Dixiecrats are those rare-breed of white Americans, mostly hailing from the South who never trusted
Lincoln and resented the fact that they lost the Civil War. Their humiliation was furthered by the subsequent laws passed by Kennedy,
and Johnson which made them at least on paper recognize that black Americans were the same as everyone else. Dixiecrats are
generally fundamentalist, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, anti-intellectualism, and anti-progressivism. Dixiecrats make up a large
portion of the party to which both Mrs. Bush and Mistress Rice both belong, the Neoconservatives, those good ole’ boys from way back
when. Public good factors in very little and in terms of value almost always comes in last as concerns power and profits. But back to
Mistress Rice, who before her tenure was on the payroll of the oil industry…
It is for them that Mistress Rice speaks. Though our skin pigments are similar, Mistress Rice does not speak for me. I wanted, like
many people of color wanted, to see something extrodinarily progressive about an African American woman serving in such a high
post. This “progress” though is nothing but a supreme insult, the head of corruption now displaying the other side of its face, the black
face (or is it the white face in black face?). The Neoconservatives can both ride the donkey and break the donkey when the time
comes, should she embarrasses the party with an off-the-cuff Russian gaffe. African Americans are not as many believe an
homogenous group. The fabled “black community” does not in fact exist, but is rather, a myth upon which many find sustenance. We
are split demographically, socially, and economically. The “model” African Americans are of course the black bourgeoisie. Mistress
Rice’s ascension is the perfect black bourgeoisie realization of a dream they often don’t verbalize: assimilation through annihilation.
Assimilation through annihilation means that a black must be educated, work, and live in a lily-white world where life can be bettered if
a person works hard enough. For an A.T.A., all ties to all things black (cultural, political, and social) must eventually be severed. One
is only “black”, “African American”, “a minority”, or “colored” when the opportunity to capitalize on some tangible result arises. Though
a successful A.T.A. may be black they in fact see themselves as colorless; they suffer from a racism which is internalized and prods
them to annihilate their sense of black self in order to be reborn as a “colorless self’. Mistress Rice fits the A.T.A. profile: she has no
past, i.e., past ties to other blacks nor groups of color; she has no family, or at least no known family ties; she is a female eunuch
married to the state and bearing the child of “liberty” and “democracy”; she is asexual, not even capable of inspiring the racist
amorous lust which has historically been attributed to the black female in America. I critique Mistress Rice and the black bourgeoisie
because I, despite my wishes to the contrary, was brought up with a thoroughly bourgeoise set of beliefs. I was taught that the goal of
life was Work, a work brought about by education which would lead me ultimately to the supreme bourgeoise dream: a house with a
healthy lawn, a wife and kids, and healthy if not entirely meaningful relationships with my neighbors. According to this dream I would
raise my children in the same way that I’d been raised upon which this cycle of mediocrity would continue to perpetuate itself over and
over again. Only, that wasn’t for me, though it appears to have become Ms. Rice.
Though Mrs. Bush in Jereusulem was at the top of the news, other events of mass importance have been broadcast. Jay Leno
testified at the Michael Jackson trail this week. Michael Jackson, as I recall in my memory of days gone by, was that guy with the Jerry
curl and white glove who would get all glamour-thug with guys in the city at which point they’d take out some blades and ala the ‘80’s,
do a cool choreographed dance, and MJ would turn out all right. He sung lyrics which were alternately sweet and sadomasochistic.
Highlights: “ABC it’s easy as 123”, “I wanna rock with you”, “Just beat it”, and “Who’s bad”. Then in the Clinton era, MJ had decided
that he was the King of Pop and took to singing about love over grandiose videos where he’d play the king of the world. About this time
allegations came out that he’d fucked some kid, but then with a little paper apology (i.e. some money) things were quieted up. His
album sales and popularity, however, never quite recovered. It seems America is willing to forgive anything if you apologize except
pedophilia or homosexuality (which are often one and the same in the collective neurotic mind). Oh, and during the Clinton-era, he
took up an obsession with plastic surgery, lightening his skin, smashing and remoulding his face as if it were clay turned to granite.
The result of that was truly scary, a death mask from which his soft, child’s voice would pour forth to say dandies like: “I am innocent of
all these charges.” Ah, poor MJ. I’d like to call MJ a victim of racism, a victim of celebrity idolatry, maybe a victim of child abuse, but the
guy really is something beyond my lexicon. His face resembles less and less a human face an artifact of some mummy from an
ancient civilization. Do you remember the time? Indeed. MJ, like Mrs. Bush in Israel neè Palestine or Mistress Rice in Manolos is the
seventh chamber of Dante’s Inferno. Smile for the cameras and say cheese, won’t you?
(Written 2006 by JaCory Deon.)
has been little more than a shadow to her husband, a smiling, doltish woman who raises her forgettable voice in admiration for
something, even if they rest of us have no idea what. At last, we’ve come to that scene in this Theatre of the Absurd: reaching that point
where our Leader and his (then) party of five (Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Wolfowitz, Negroponte) can no longer charm the unwashed
masses with their empty similes. So, the gracious ex-librarian-turned-president’s wife must be trotted out like some show pony,
dazzling us all with her equestrian modesty. I don’t know Mrs. Bush personally, nor do I suspect that she does at this point either. As
of now, Mrs. Bush has decided it is her “mission” to help the brown people, those dirty and lawless people who can’t seem to get their
shit together and stop blowing stuff up. From visiting the dirty Palestinians to visiting the Negro churches full of “those people,” she
does indeed have that street cred we all knew she had. I won’t be the least surprised if I see her down at Go-Chicken-Go next week
and then at the upcoming Gay Pride festival a few weeks after that. After all, that Cheney daughter is a lesbian, even though she heads
that new office in charge of “investigating Iran.” I wonder who her favorite designer is? Nevermind. Nevermind that Mrs. Bush hasn’t
said anything about Palestinian rights in years; nevermind that Mrs. Bush sat silently by as her husband denied DNA tests to over one
hundred minorities on death row in Texas who more likely than not been innocent; nevermind that Mrs. Bush condoned Mr. Bush’s
campaign to “liberate” Iraqis and “support” Vets at Walter Reed. I hope you’re drinking, because this show is longer than that version
of Cleopatra starring Elizabeth Taylor.
Which is to say, Mrs. Bush is not Dame Taylor. Mrs. Bush is politely pretty if not strikingly beautiful or even glamorous, a polished “I’ve
got big money but I’m just like you if you had a tailor” puppet. She is the type of woman who enchants and is easy to dismiss by how
plain and homespun she appears. I wonder when Mrs. Bush tours the wailing wall, does she wear heals or flats? When she enters
the Dome of Rock, does she bite her lip or smile in what is surely her confusion about the origins of the place? (And, dare I say it, is
she forced to put on a hajib?!?) What do you think she had for lunch? Surely not something prepared locally! But you know, for all of
her delightful flaws, I’ll at least give Mrs. Bush credit: she’s not the serpentine Mistress of the State, Condoleeza Rice. At least with
Mrs. Bush, you don’t get the impression that she’d rip your face off if she was a little hungry, if push came to shove…the same cannot
be said for Mistress Rice.
Admittedly, I do get a kick from how irksome her big black presence must be to those Dixiecrats who believe blacks should either be
domestics or strung up to a tree. Dixiecrats are those rare-breed of white Americans, mostly hailing from the South who never trusted
Lincoln and resented the fact that they lost the Civil War. Their humiliation was furthered by the subsequent laws passed by Kennedy,
and Johnson which made them at least on paper recognize that black Americans were the same as everyone else. Dixiecrats are
generally fundamentalist, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, anti-intellectualism, and anti-progressivism. Dixiecrats make up a large
portion of the party to which both Mrs. Bush and Mistress Rice both belong, the Neoconservatives, those good ole’ boys from way back
when. Public good factors in very little and in terms of value almost always comes in last as concerns power and profits. But back to
Mistress Rice, who before her tenure was on the payroll of the oil industry…
It is for them that Mistress Rice speaks. Though our skin pigments are similar, Mistress Rice does not speak for me. I wanted, like
many people of color wanted, to see something extrodinarily progressive about an African American woman serving in such a high
post. This “progress” though is nothing but a supreme insult, the head of corruption now displaying the other side of its face, the black
face (or is it the white face in black face?). The Neoconservatives can both ride the donkey and break the donkey when the time
comes, should she embarrasses the party with an off-the-cuff Russian gaffe. African Americans are not as many believe an
homogenous group. The fabled “black community” does not in fact exist, but is rather, a myth upon which many find sustenance. We
are split demographically, socially, and economically. The “model” African Americans are of course the black bourgeoisie. Mistress
Rice’s ascension is the perfect black bourgeoisie realization of a dream they often don’t verbalize: assimilation through annihilation.
Assimilation through annihilation means that a black must be educated, work, and live in a lily-white world where life can be bettered if
a person works hard enough. For an A.T.A., all ties to all things black (cultural, political, and social) must eventually be severed. One
is only “black”, “African American”, “a minority”, or “colored” when the opportunity to capitalize on some tangible result arises. Though
a successful A.T.A. may be black they in fact see themselves as colorless; they suffer from a racism which is internalized and prods
them to annihilate their sense of black self in order to be reborn as a “colorless self’. Mistress Rice fits the A.T.A. profile: she has no
past, i.e., past ties to other blacks nor groups of color; she has no family, or at least no known family ties; she is a female eunuch
married to the state and bearing the child of “liberty” and “democracy”; she is asexual, not even capable of inspiring the racist
amorous lust which has historically been attributed to the black female in America. I critique Mistress Rice and the black bourgeoisie
because I, despite my wishes to the contrary, was brought up with a thoroughly bourgeoise set of beliefs. I was taught that the goal of
life was Work, a work brought about by education which would lead me ultimately to the supreme bourgeoise dream: a house with a
healthy lawn, a wife and kids, and healthy if not entirely meaningful relationships with my neighbors. According to this dream I would
raise my children in the same way that I’d been raised upon which this cycle of mediocrity would continue to perpetuate itself over and
over again. Only, that wasn’t for me, though it appears to have become Ms. Rice.
Though Mrs. Bush in Jereusulem was at the top of the news, other events of mass importance have been broadcast. Jay Leno
testified at the Michael Jackson trail this week. Michael Jackson, as I recall in my memory of days gone by, was that guy with the Jerry
curl and white glove who would get all glamour-thug with guys in the city at which point they’d take out some blades and ala the ‘80’s,
do a cool choreographed dance, and MJ would turn out all right. He sung lyrics which were alternately sweet and sadomasochistic.
Highlights: “ABC it’s easy as 123”, “I wanna rock with you”, “Just beat it”, and “Who’s bad”. Then in the Clinton era, MJ had decided
that he was the King of Pop and took to singing about love over grandiose videos where he’d play the king of the world. About this time
allegations came out that he’d fucked some kid, but then with a little paper apology (i.e. some money) things were quieted up. His
album sales and popularity, however, never quite recovered. It seems America is willing to forgive anything if you apologize except
pedophilia or homosexuality (which are often one and the same in the collective neurotic mind). Oh, and during the Clinton-era, he
took up an obsession with plastic surgery, lightening his skin, smashing and remoulding his face as if it were clay turned to granite.
The result of that was truly scary, a death mask from which his soft, child’s voice would pour forth to say dandies like: “I am innocent of
all these charges.” Ah, poor MJ. I’d like to call MJ a victim of racism, a victim of celebrity idolatry, maybe a victim of child abuse, but the
guy really is something beyond my lexicon. His face resembles less and less a human face an artifact of some mummy from an
ancient civilization. Do you remember the time? Indeed. MJ, like Mrs. Bush in Israel neè Palestine or Mistress Rice in Manolos is the
seventh chamber of Dante’s Inferno. Smile for the cameras and say cheese, won’t you?
(Written 2006 by JaCory Deon.)
On Reality TV, everyone is a star, which is to say their forgettable 15 easily become a fame
even of the cheapest variety where the decidedly average showcase their banalities and
revel in their mediocrity. It is the real world, void of ambiguity, of purpose (save getting On
Reality TV, everyone is a star, which is to say their forgettable 15 easily become a the
money!), and reason. The types are consistent no matter the program and in this way it
forgotten five or ten. Burning out in public desecration, it is a home for people looking for
shares a striking similarity to reputable gonzo pornography: you have The Bitch, one who is
"there to win/not there to make friends" and more often than not endears himself/herself to
the audience by saying what they only think. There's The Nice Girl (or guy), typically the
one who'll win the show by showing how unremarkable they are, save for their general
pleasantness and wry view of the "reality" of "Reality TV". There's The Drunk, the party one
who never met a drink they didn't like and who's prone to tearful blowups or meltdowns and
who is at some point repremanded for drinking in a house stocked like the Vegas Strip.
There's The Mess: the one prone to blow up on the slightest provocation and who comes
the closest to breaking the fourth wall. There's The Ugly/Untalented One, nice enough but
always wondering why they're there until they decide they aren't. There's The Fighter, the
one who enters the situation with all guns ready and who seems to hate everyone (while the
cameras are on) while being the quietest one when another contestant decides they "don't
give a fuck" either and dares them to really swing. There are other stock characters but
those are the core types and can be found from shows varying from cooking shows to dating
shows. The ultimate simulacrum, Reality TV represents nothing but its own digestible self,
the lens recording a performance of "selves" before an eager digital Roma. There is no
Genesis, no Alpha, only the glare of the light in a rented space where someone's time is
always up and all contestants exists so long as they are still in the competition. After that,
who cares?
even of the cheapest variety where the decidedly average showcase their banalities and
revel in their mediocrity. It is the real world, void of ambiguity, of purpose (save getting On
Reality TV, everyone is a star, which is to say their forgettable 15 easily become a the
money!), and reason. The types are consistent no matter the program and in this way it
forgotten five or ten. Burning out in public desecration, it is a home for people looking for
shares a striking similarity to reputable gonzo pornography: you have The Bitch, one who is
"there to win/not there to make friends" and more often than not endears himself/herself to
the audience by saying what they only think. There's The Nice Girl (or guy), typically the
one who'll win the show by showing how unremarkable they are, save for their general
pleasantness and wry view of the "reality" of "Reality TV". There's The Drunk, the party one
who never met a drink they didn't like and who's prone to tearful blowups or meltdowns and
who is at some point repremanded for drinking in a house stocked like the Vegas Strip.
There's The Mess: the one prone to blow up on the slightest provocation and who comes
the closest to breaking the fourth wall. There's The Ugly/Untalented One, nice enough but
always wondering why they're there until they decide they aren't. There's The Fighter, the
one who enters the situation with all guns ready and who seems to hate everyone (while the
cameras are on) while being the quietest one when another contestant decides they "don't
give a fuck" either and dares them to really swing. There are other stock characters but
those are the core types and can be found from shows varying from cooking shows to dating
shows. The ultimate simulacrum, Reality TV represents nothing but its own digestible self,
the lens recording a performance of "selves" before an eager digital Roma. There is no
Genesis, no Alpha, only the glare of the light in a rented space where someone's time is
always up and all contestants exists so long as they are still in the competition. After that,
who cares?
