Princess of America

This is a new category of posts, The Belated. What that means is, whoa, look what I found in my drafts folder. History is entertaining, right? Sara Benincasa sure as hell was, her Sarah Palin eons beyond that darling of TV whom you only liked because you are of the sheep.

So here it is, from that quaint moment when Sarah Palin removed herself to Alaska, along with as much as the belly of the airplane could carry … but  I really publish this as a tribute to Sara B. And Dina, I miss Dina, and I do not think you should have made her cry:

SHE’S GONE. Ran away with herself , taking the whole Republican party  behind her, like one of those dark bags of the Shadow that Jungians believe we all carry around.

And in her bag are worthless cruds like Bill Kristol, the son of old-time radical-turned conservative, Irving Kristol, but at least the old man published a magazine. Is distinguished. (Was.)

What is it that Bill Kristol does besides sit at an undoubtedly tasteless desk and issue forth statements—what is it that anyone in power does, who has no real function in this life.

I just finished reading A Tale of Two Cities, and I know what the French did. I know I have despised the worthless rich since the Sixties. We talked about Bringing It All Down, and types like Kristol were going to be the first to go. Chop-chop. Or should I say, slice-slice. The peasants knew who was a worthless parasite … and that many of them glory under the rubric Pundit … hey, just giving you a clue.

There is an absolutely sickening, excellent article in the October 27 New Yorker, THE INSIDERS: How John McCain Came to Pick Sarah Palin. Of course it has to do with giving worthless old men the first wood they’d had in years. I don’t see it, being a woman, and not of the Jon Benet Ramsey (poor thing) Sarah Palin genre, I wouldn’t.

Then if you believe any internet rumors—which are now all tangled up with print rumors and columnist rumors—I’ve come across more than one reference to the generosity with which she bestows her favors. I mean … oh crap …

You have but to watch a few episodes of Sara Benincasa, replete with her personal assisant/ Pilates coach/ nail technician and stylist, Dina Heath (cousin, Miss Alaska not-even-runner-up, as Sara is wont to remind her.)

Note to Sara Benincasa herself, get the fuck back on the internet trailer-park of YouTube, where you belong, where you can properly exercise the fangs of your genius. The hell with 386com, [defunct] who ever told you it was an honor to move there, you’re vlog is lost, lost I tell you, among all their bits and pieces.

It may be, however, that what I am wishing for is that the first seven or eight episodes—the first three or four—be repeated in and endless loop, of which I am telling you, I would never sicken. The point of genius, of art, the whole insane point of it isn’t how well you can imitate someone, on Saturday Fucking Night Live … ah, hell, I’m going to explain Art to you people? Again?

And okay, maybe I have the teeniest weeniest bias in my heart, a warm spot, you could call it, for the Okie-pipe dreams of a former weathergirl, in her pitiful red swimsuit, twirling for the judges—how much different is that, and is it not perfectly reasonable that Ms. Sarah Palin has by now, lost her mind? How much higher could redneck dreams fly … and how much more anchored to the ground by the tether of her own forever stupidity can that poor woman be?

You understand, she is where she is because that pathetic loser Bill Kristol has been drooling down his front since the moment he met her, him and his loser neocon buddies, I’m telling you—just as low-rent, possibly even moreso because they do believe themselves to have class, living in Noo Yawk City and all. It’s a sickening story.

Did I dream this —I’ve had a cold for days; you know the dreams when you’re feverish and sick—A luxury neo-con cruise, with various luxury neo-con speakers (don’t you want to slit your wrists already) up the Alaskan passage, invited to lunch at the Governor’s house, and what do they find but this boundary-less woman, who, my male friends tell me, broadcasts 24/7 on the Fuck-me network.

Oh must we go there. I know perfectly well the world runs on ghastly sex, that the foulest-of-mouth blogs, Rude Pundit (“Mostly, the Rude Pundit doesn’t give a shit what you have to say”) is probably the truest. I just can’t face it. The idea of William Kristol’s sex life—hell, any neo-con or even just plain con—maybe it’s my cold?—makes me nauseous.

In some ways, you just don’t ever want to be an adult. Or, as I was advising a friend just yesterday, what you want is to block it all out. And why not? Life is really short, and every moment wasted on shabby is … wasted. You and I aren’t going to solve shabby, but must tread carefully instead, in order to do any art or good at all, which require more of an open heart and more of a blind eye than most people can accomplish. A precision-gauged admixture of creative denial.

Such is life. Such is the Hope that arises, in these few days before the election. When it looks as though we are in for some good times. By which I mean, it’s looking like that which we used to count on—basic decency, basic goodness of intention, of heart—before the Bush Administration shattered our national human trust—it looks like … try to remember this … that we are going to return to normal.

Remember that the past eight years have not been business-as-usual, but that Karl Rove is a nasty person, George W. a broken mind. Dick Cheney an embodiment of evil, held together with pacemakers and baling wire. A machine. Someone wrote of him as pacing the halls of the Capitol at night, obsessed with pushing through his program for torture.

We mustn’t forget that. This is nation-building: holding onto the darkest possible truths and at the same time, letting the goodness in, letting it unfold: there aren’t enough racists to defeat Obama.  Now there’s an item of joy.

Talking Points Memo quoting CNN: “Sarah Palin on Sunday sounded off on the $150,000 wardrobe that was purchased for her in September, denouncing the report as ‘ridiculous’ and declaring emphatically: ‘Those clothes, they are not my property.’A senior adviser to John McCain told CNN’s Dana Bash that the comments about her wardrobe ‘were not the remarks we sent to her plane this morning.’

Oh Sara B, couldn’t you just run with this? I can see you and Dina on the plane, knee deep in make-up samples, Sax bags, your pedicure footbath running, ignoring all communication from the outside world, especially whatever that old sap’s advisors want.

I mean, I’m with you, girl: what the fuck do they know. You got shoes to try on.

image copyright The New Yorker