The Parallel President Missive number 1

The Parallel President Missive number 1

I have the best job in the world. I am the Parallel President. I have all the fun of running the most powerful nation on earth without the responsibility of doing it right. I can shoot off at the mouth, foam even. When furious I can say so. I can swear a little and smoke a joint once in a while. I can enjoy a refined beer and not care if I’m deemed elitist. I can rail against my own cabinet, refer to the blue dog democrats as irritants, and call the opposition names. That said I do take my job seriously. I can posit ideas that might, just might filter through the fog. As the shadow or ghost not behind but next to the leader of the free world, a leader for whom I have the utmost respect, I can whisper in his ear and shape future events. If he cares to listen or not, at least I will have had my say.

My appearances on the Bouncy Banker will focus themselves, as per my host’s area of concern, on art and the current fiscal crisis, a crisis the president is just a little too optimistic about. Anxious not to cause any form of panic he plays it down the middle, is cautious, still reaches out to the lunatic Republican fringe. Reaching across the aisle is one thing but unseating himself as he reaches into the shadowy murk of the far right corner of the musty room approaches the tricky area of dignity loss.

I say my thoughts and policy directives shared here will be mainly those concerning the banking sector but it is all part and parcel—the health crisis, corruption, mortgage lending practices, the insurance industry. These things effect us all. How can you make art when you are trying to find work, or are standing by the road, your forlorn foreclosed upon family at your side, trying to hitch a ride to California—well maybe not California given their proximity to bankruptcy—so you can all break your backs picking berries covered in pesticides for a minimum wage, and later be cause for serious alarm inside the already overburdened healthcare system? Try drawing an absurdist caricature of your crew boss when you fingers are blistered and calloused from shucking a million ears of corn urgently needed to make the high fructose corn syrup required by the food industry if they are ever to keep up with the demand for cheap, nasty, fattening groceries. As the parallel president I understand that I am fortunate, and privileged to be able to make art whenever I wish. I shall make every effort to put myself in your troubled bohemian, blue collar or white collar shoes. I’ll post some of my art alongside these missives as and when the whim strikes.

PP