When Trump was first elected, many of us spoke of the “end of satire.” We were lamenting the ways in which reality was mocking itself, and no comedic interpretation could be funnier or more abject than the real thing. A couple of months ago, just before social isolation started, I got dinner with a friend of my parents who was in town, and he started talking about John Mulaney and made me watch a video comparing Trump’s presidency to a “horse in a hospital.” This pathetic grasping at comedic analogy is one of far too many failed attempts to satirize Trump - attempts made by SNL of course, but also by my father, a formerly sharp political cartoonist who, like most middle-class white boomers, is absolutely paralyzed by shock at Trump’s election and seems to be in a four-year-long glitching cycle. It makes sense that his friend showed me this video and called me a killjoy when I didn’t laugh. In reality, I’m one of the funniest people I know, and it’s because I never talk about Donald Trump. ANyway, I just got off on a little Googling spiral about Sean Mulaney and discovered that his wife makes lampshades and he referred to in a Valentine’s Day post on Instagram as “a cross between Joan Didion and Erika Jayne,” which brings us back to the topic at hand.
I read The White Album for the first time in 12th grade. It was the first time I read Joan and I got pretty obsessed. I was captivated by her romantic depiction of her particular brand of journalism, by which I mean she’d developed enough of a reputation for herself that she was able to write about whatever she wanted - the packing lists she made so she could leave quickly, the proximity to fame and luxury but always a silent observer, and - suddenly - the proximity to carnage. She so transparently saw herself both as Sharon Tate and Linda Kasabian, living within Hollywood and without. I wish I had the grace to pull that off.
Coronavirus and Charlie Manson and Columbine shared the responsibility of forcing ugliness on those who usually pay to avoid it. The systemic equivalent of holding someone's eyelids open while forcing them to watch, like, Salò. You witness something horrific like this unfold and feel sad for whoever has to deal with it, and maybe feel more, but quickly figure out how to harden yourself to the feeling, because that’s what it takes to function, right? You hold the understanding in the back of your mind that this could possibly “happen” to you, but console yourself with your security, your access, your luck.
In all of these cases, it’s clear that the victims are exceptions to the general law of the land. Some suffer, while others don't, and regardless of the upward or downward posturing we do regularly to mitigate the image cast by having too much or too little, we all know, more or less, where we stand on this spectrum. Many of us understand ourselves to be the rule, not the exception, until we don’t. Shelter-in-place drills and hand-sewn masks are things we do for peace of mind, but viruses don’t operate based on good intentions. I don’t know about school shooters.
Anyway, I’ve developed some lowkey agoraphobia during this time but earlier today I drove around my neighborhood and it really is very beautiful. I spend a lot of time on the front porch and every afternoon there’s a guy who walks down the street with a bluetooth speaker blasting early 2000s bangers like Sexy Love by Ne-Yo. There’s another guy a few doors down who sits on his porch at the same times I do and has long, animated conversations over Zoom. They’re mostly about Star Wars and he talks about the characters like they’re real people and I don’t know if I’d call it endearing but I’m happy for him.I hope Joan Didion is having an okay time wherever she is, and I hope she's able to notice the idiosyncratic behaviors of those around her from a safe distance.
No comments:
Post a Comment