The Rising
The word lamppost is popping up lately with alarming frequency in
connection with the word banker in all kinds of respectable places, and
I don't think this refers to, say, men in Armani suits searching for
their car keys where the light is shining on the sidewalk after
quaffing a few rare cuvee jeroboams of Louis Roederer Cristal. Rather,
it seems to suggest a certain unease with the levers of jurisprudence
in this republic of grifters, stooges, and bought-off lackeys.
Also of late come rumblings from the most august newspaper in the
land that certain questions concerning LIBOR-fixing among American bank
officials might soon be entertained in a federal courtroom. But isn't
it a fact that the US Department of Justice has its hands full - not to
mention its dockets - with cases of alleged performance-doping by star
athletes? Just think: all that effort (and expense!) at repeated
prosecutions and Roger Clemens remains at large! His fastball might yet
shred the constitution and dishonor all the combined sacrifices of our
men in uniform in countless heroic wars.
Meanwhile, has The New York Times
sent a reporter to chat up the elusive John Corzine? It must be an
easier job than, say, trekking to a cave in Tora Bora to interview the
late Mr. Osama bin Laden - which a few plucky reporters actually
accomplished back when - yet Mr. Corzine is now better hidden than the
Orang-pendek of Sumatra. And higher-functioning, too, considering his
current role as Uncle Scrooge McDuck to the Obama reelection campaign.
In what 5th sub-basement of a Robert A. M. Stern-designed luxury
high-rise does Mr. Corzine sit with his moneybags of purloined MF
Global customer funds writing checks to the Democratic National
Committee?
All this is to say that when a few lame
rumors of prosecutorial zeal appear in old gray mouthpiece for the
status quo, you can bet that the true tipping point of public
impatience has probably been breeched and the fall of the elites is
closer than you think. In the sizzling sauna that the US has become
under the regime of climate change denial, the black swans of political
turmoil are moistly hatching. Who knows what form the mischief might
take and how the trouble starts. Perhaps a hostage crisis at the
Maidstone Club where families of a dozen hedge fund chiefs are held in
the pool house by an out-of-work pipefitter from Wantagh high on bath
salts. Or a swindled soybean farmer in a Semtex-rigged vest pays a call
on the PFG-Best futures trading headquarters in Cedar Falls, Iowa, just
as the lawyers and their financier clients sit down in the conference
room to an ordered-in lunch of sloppy joes, fries, and slurpees. Or
maybe a part-time evangelist off his Zoloft in some broiling strip-mall
in a bankrupt California shit-hole sees the numbers 666 resolve among
the remnants of his half-eaten enchilada on a Mitt Romney for President
commemorative plate and packs up an arsenal of legally-acquired small
arms for his journey to the Republican Convention in Tampa....
This is, after all, the country where the Kardashians reign. Anything might happen.
This is also the fruit of utterly failed moral leadership in a
rudderless society adrift on a sea of delusion and untruth in an age of
accounts unsettled. The battle over which empty suit gets elected
president is a preface to the discovery that the national government
only pretends to be in charge of anything. As the reality of total,
comprehensive bankruptcy simmers up, perhaps a critical number of
citizens stop forking over their quarterly taxes - since it would be
the same thing as pounding sand down a rat-hole. Then, things really go
south governance-wise. The next revolution in North America could make
1793 Paris look like an Ace of Cakes episode. Lamppost lynchings will seem too merciful. Rather, look for a new realty TV launch: Kardashian Kangaroo Kourt,
in which every week a score of obscenely wealthy celebrities plucked
from the realms of banking, showbiz and politics are dragged over three
miles of barrel cactus in the Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge
behind a Dodge Mopar-loaded Ram Runner (mostly American-made).
In the meantime, let's just all kick back these hot summer nights on
the front porch with a few vodka and Red Bulls and enjoy Jack
Abramoff's new radio show on Clear Channel in which the re-branded
"lobbying reformer" offers advice on improving the transaction of
public business in our nation's capital. This is Mr. Abramoff's first
job since completing his prison work-release gig in a kosher Baltimore
pizza store. God bless you, Jack.
