Only hours before the dawn of Inauguration Day, a terrorist’s bomb exploded. It was concealed deep within the freshly landscaped and re-turfed lawn of the most-sought after garden party of the entire inaugural season. The blast murdered the President-elect, his wife, and a fair number of functionaries, auxiliaries, hangers-on, media stars, waitpersons, passersby, and other ordinary innocents who had the misfortune to be within 50 yards of the massive infernal device at the terrible moment that it exploded. Secondary explosions from an elaborate outdoor heating apparatus—installed for the celebratory event (cleverly themed “Ain’t It Just a Beach?”)—unfortunately added greatly to the carnage and impeded rescue efforts.
There were surprisingly few of the usual calls from Congressional leaders for an oversight investigation into the U.S. Secret Service, which was responsible for protecting the President-elect, or the CIA, which is responsible for knowing what’s up in the world. Some observers attributed this lack of interest to the fact that it was not yet clear which of the limping, internally fractured political parties would benefit from such an abrasive drumhead inquiry. Others pointed out that there was no need to rush. The campaign was over. Politics was not. Neither the Secret Service nor the CIA were going anywhere. Fault for the terror attack could be determined and blame apportioned later, at a moment more propitious to one or the other (or conceivably even both) political parties.
By Tom Diaz
Every empire has its metropole, its seat of power, culture, and correct reason. Paris. Moscow. Rome. The Vatican City. Washington, D.C.
The Metropolitan state of mind betrays itself in an insular universe of small things, The curled lip. The condescending smile. The shared outrage at the audacity of non-conformity, at the cheeky impudence of the rustic, bark-covered thought. The incorrect thought today is as shocking and repulsive as the wrong spoon at the table of Louis XV.
In short, “the State is us.”
Or, “them,” depending on where one stands.
In times past, the metropolitan cultural and intellectual hive consisted principally of royalty, attendant nobility, a priestly class, and symbiotic entrepreneurs who simultaneously sucked at the royal teat and fed the monarchy its royal jelly.
Royalty today does not look much the way it did in, say, the 19th century. Where it proclaims itself to be royalty today it is in fact a sad, faded, perpetual dress-up costume party thrown at the considerable expense of the tax-paying, besotted commoners–see, e.g., Britain, Spain, and so forth. Where it pretends not to be royalty, it is often every bit as ruthless and arbitrary as Catherine the Great, George III, or The Sun King. Their majesties simply do not wear party dress costumes, or, if they do, they are tailored in a simpler way, and they more often wear sunglasses (see, e.g., any recent Chinese Premier).
Admittedly, there is still a vast difference between the iron-fisted rule of Putin’s “men of steel” and Barack Hussein Obama’s rule by fiat (executive order) and UN resolution.
But what both the Russian and American–indeed all–empires have in common is the Establishment, the apparatchiks, the bureaucratic careerists, and the careerist politicians. The “leaders” of the Congress, the lobbyists, the media-in-residence, and the captains of the military-industrial complex, who are still busy teat-sucking and jelly-feeding.
Every now and then, the climate changes, a horrific storm sweeps the Metropole. This sets up a horrible screeching sound as the incumbent hive rallies to protect its honey and the invading killer bees storm in to seize and loot the inner cells. A Putin or a Trump ascends to the throne.
All would appear, superficially, to be lost. But the hive will settle down. Drones will switch sides without apparent effort. Leaders will strike compromises with former evil–this is after all how they survived politics long enough to become “leaders.” The rabble with the pitchforks will eventually tire of it all and go home.
The Metropole will return to Normalcy. Or “Greatness,” depending on where you stand.
Putting aside the fancy dress of plot, this is what Cronatos Hybamper is about.