Friday, September 19, 2008

Forgive Us Now For Wasting The Dawn

My father phoned yesterday, pissed about the present economic mess (he's a Wall Street Journal reader with a calculator in his head). Yet he's optimistic about Obama being elected and clearing away some of the wreckage. Dad's so hyped on Obama that I don't have the heart to seriously disagree. This is a guy who voted twice for Reagan, and prospered under Clinton. Either he's moved a little left of center, or the center's moved rightward. I can never really tell. In the end, the ownership stays intact, serving the same minority, trying to expand and strengthen American hegemony. So getting all squishy over Obama or whomever falls more into celeb worship territory.

The old man laughed and said, "I've been reading your blog, son. It's pretty funny. You read it and think, "Jesus, I'm gonna cut my wrists!'"

Who says words lack impact?

But my father is right. I have been a downer of late. I've attracted a lot of new readers over the summer, so they may not know that my mood changes without warning, that a bleak rant can be followed by absurdist observations, or just cheap visual gags. If you're new to the site and wonder how wide the rain cloud is over my head, please be patient. My emotions will shift. Unlike other bloggers, I wear my work on my sleeve. I suppose I could be more "professional" and maintain a rigid neutral mask, or more lucrative, pretend that I love the Democrats and Obama, and lend my talents to making liberals feel better about their prospects, however unlikely or fictitious. There's plenty of money to be made by saying that what ought to be true, is. As I've mentioned before, a few professional lib friends continually scratch their heads, wondering why I don't play this game. One recently opined that I could be "bigger than Greenwald" if I suddenly saw the bright mule light, and fell in with the liblog crowd.

We'll never know, will we?

No my friends -- you are stuck with this humble narrator, whose work is on the verge of some kind of change. Not quite sure what, but it's coming. I feel it more each day. Late at night I tap out extensive, frenzied notes, most of which make no sense until days later, and I ponder who the fuck would confess such insanity, and what happened in their life to create so much emotional turmoil.

You know -- stuff like that.

For the moment, I'm still Mr. Savage Mules, though that's begun to wane, unless there's an unseen wave of appearances about to consume me. My publisher doesn't want me to air this publicly, but the truth is that many liberal or Dem-leaning outlets are backing away from me and my book. Their mad desire to elect Obama, plus the possibility that he may lose, makes them wary of, if not openly hostile to my critique.

Last night, I was to give a reading at a local liberal bookstore just off the main UMich campus. This gig was confirmed in late June by all involved. Then my interview with Glenn Greenwald appeared at Salon; within two days, the bookstore suddenly discovered that they had double-booked September 18.


Would I mind moving the reading to November 20, weeks after the election? Actually, I would mind, I told them through my publicist, and that their "snafu" was bullshit. If you think my reading would in any way hurt Obama's ascension, why not be honest and simply admit it? I don't possess magical powers, and I doubt that many of the college students attending would be swayed by my criticisms, judging from the big Obama love on local display. Hell, it might make a lively event, with plenty of heated discussion back and forth. But the bookstore, which I promised to keep anonymous, continued to pretend that it was a scheduling error. Still, given all that, I may take the later date, but only if Obama wins. Should McCain triumph, I doubt that me trashing the Democrats in that sad wake would go over very well.

I would love to mix it up in the coming weeks. If nothing else, it will further sicken and push me toward another form of writing, or whatever lies beyond this immediate mindset. I wish I could tell you what it is, but I haven't the faintest. Just the person needed to dissect our present condition.