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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 an 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.
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