The Maxine Waters Show

Watching these clips inspires no interest within me. I could very well be in some outlying suburb of Harare; in some thatched community centre where the stout woman serves up cola and beer (and whatever else that can be chewed or smoked) to glaze over one’s nervous energy.

Accused or not, it makes no difference. These people at the palace all are guilty of the most unpardonable of crimes, chief of which is the betrayal of trust - after which theft is only a distant second. The TV is tuned (by law) to a single channel. What I cannot escape seeing is jackals fighting among themselves over the scraps of a dying beast. This bears no relation to us (aside from the suspicion that we, collectively, are the beast) - unlike back in the Bush days when it was still possible to take sides and root for a favorite.

This is ignominious infighting, pure and simple. Any resolution changes nothing for us. The sky has darkened. Static intrudes into the broadcast. It grinds on the nerves. There’s no on/off switch. The plug is hardwired into the grid. The only way to turn it off is to push the TV off it’s pedestal or throw a stone. That, however, is punishable. I see my fellow customers slowly drifting away, trying to reach home before it rains.

Add to this the reported thirty thousand at East Point on Wednesday, seeking a handful of applications for government-subsidized housing. '62 INJURED' read the headlines the next day. This is Obama’s America. No wonder he sends his family to holiday in Spain.

As for me, I’m heading back to India at the end of the month. The thatched-roof deal sounds just fine to me. For one thing, I’ve always enjoyed sitting in a public place where I can’t understand a thing of what the people are saying. I’ll miss out on the midterms, as well as Glenn Beck’s extravaganza at the Lincoln Memorial. He’s been rather circumspect about what’s to happen there. Though, I do think, he knows.