Drinking games and the debates

Last week's presidential debate between Senators McCain and Obama offered nothing new. Rehashed, repetitive yammering masqueraded as rhetoric. Moderator Jim Lehrer asked the same question three times before he received a marginally satisfactory answer. With luck, the vice presidential candidates who square off this evening might provide something which may pass as authentic, issue-oriented clash. That is a bit of a pipe dream, given the absurd tenor of the campaign so far. 

 

That being the case, perhaps television viewers looking for substance can use this bit of political theater as an expedient to drowning the collective sorrows of a nation that ought to be on the verge of revolt. Blank checks to fight foreign wars, mounting debt, a cocked-up bailout plan which holds no one to account for either past failure or for future performance - all cause concern that an elite plutocracy, what William S. Burroughs called, "a closed corporation of desirables," do not have much concern for future generations. Other than a few throw-away lines Saturday Night Live will doubtless carve up for its opening five minutes, this debate will have no watershed moment as Bentsen-Quayle. Without a disruptive third party or independent presence (read Perot), mainstream partisan show business, taking its cues from reality TV rancor, will foul the airwaves. 

 

So, drink up, the way we did in high school, when the taste of cheap vodka or bourbon embedded our faces in masochistic contortions. Each time someone refers to cosmetics, take a shot. Each time Biden fights off a stutter, take a shot. Whenever Palin starts in that catty, nasal rebutting tone of the superior omniscience of folksy, homey types - which is just about always - take a shot. Who knows, perhaps she'll flash some skin to make a point, to raise the stakes, and watch a confused, slightly aroused Joe Biden try to call the bluff. Shoot, anyone who may have been lucky or geeky enough to have debated in college or high school and partaken in a pub round knows the dizzying amusement of either constructing or following a syllogism after having a few drinks.

 

It is hard to pay attention to something important and relevant which is simultaneously absurd. Disaffection in the electorate is palpable, and few in the legislature and executive realize they are running AmericaCorp into the ground. We should be outraged. Instead, lassitude, malaise, and a defeatist realism have precipitated into a further fragmented society resigned to despair. So, fill up your glasses with whiskey and rye, with brandy and wine and see how one of the most inside insiders and one of the most outside outsiders propose we keep flying round the track with the pedal to the floor and not miss a turn. With a bleary-eyed nation looking on, perhaps Joe or Sarah might tap into the public sentiment, get up in front of the microphone, slam a bottle of booze on the podium, and, with a straight face, say, "I ain't starting til someone gets me a glass."