As we collect the toddlers (tie them down in their stroller and infuse their formula with watered down rum) and start on our way out of the casino, we both spy the film crew across the way. The film crew spies us. This should not matter, There is no tension between us, no bad blood, no "history" but, like rabbits, we were startled for a moment and like a golden retriever, her buxom instinct when she sees harried hares is to chase them.
This is another blond conquest; the crew are literally being dragged across the food court by a butterscotch bombshell in a lavender suit and three inch heels. The outstretched microphone is the straining, elasticity of a (goddamn) leash. Everyone has something they could identify as ambition. And where there is ambition there is a religion of desire.
Nature has placed the fate of three quarters of the race in confluence with "historic accuracy" the only one of "five guiding principals" (so inspirational during her years at Columbia) that Becky retains allegiance to today. The other four--"what were they again?"-- are not worthless just forgotten. Becky is often puzzled in this way. There is a complexity to all these questions that cannot be conveyed. She shrugs quite often. But not today...
Manny is laughing. Standing next to her on the escalator, listening--that course cackle--I smile and smirk while Manny crafts pity out of morbid curiosity. "My babies has been sleeping on the streets since they was born," Becky almost squeals as her microphone gobbles up this quote. The handsome landscape of the Las Vegas media market calls to her. The right clips edited together in the right way is Becky's next priority, her ticket out.
But these are strange days for journalism; meme theory makes a mess out of meaning. "Objectivity" is a quaint idea until your head is lopped off and rolling about in a bucket. Shock and tickle are the only sensible motivations in this new paradigm, this post-post, post, post-modern campaign for hearts and minds. News, be it made of facts or rumors, is the unruly third party at a dinner that leads to a three way that leads to an awkward breakfast where the same topics are discussed....
again.
The mania in its momentum is sweeping through the streets, the back allies, up canals or dusty/muddy dirt tracks that lead nowhere easily, but somewhere rather hard. Manny's bisexual boyfriend is dressed in black. His red socks and the camouflage boxers are at odds with everything he "stands for."
As the old anchor sinks (with majesty) into the dripping wax sunset of that largest of all crayon boxes, Ken, still seated, is stuck on the phrase used an hour earlier. "What," Ken interrogates himself, "do I stand for?" Polite he always stands to share handshakes with confident athletes, with idle flatterers, with children and their mothers. He stands for the pledge of allegiance and to flag down the corn dog vendor, or the guy carrying the tray of honey-bright beer.
He stands to use the urinal. Nervously. Curiosity always gets the better of him. Why be discreet? He compares and contrasts the line-up, the penises whispering into the porcelain. The hiss of piss on the curve of the bowl is comforting. White noise. Like, the old days, when the televised signal would come to an end after sending off bombs in the belly of the jets. The anthem was playing, but you stayed on the couch.
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