(another one on spectacular grief, and its uses)
A publicist is murdered. First thought...it must be Oscar season in the City of Nets.
When it becomes clear that this is no ordinary publicist, but the St. Bernadette of publicists -- the anti-Sidney Falco -- the "community", such as any polity of thieves
and sex-soul-murderers can be, is struck with a rare, unfamiliar emotion: Awe.
Because these are the people who usually think that driving a Prius (and wearing ribbons and uttering protective slogans, making spectacular good works, and mostly just having money,) can protect them from the systemic violence that their, uh, creative labors work so hard to hide. And a genuine tragedy in the hollywood (multiple gunshots, like they say on CSI, and in BEVERLY HILLS, dear God...) is more than the usual bourgeois rupture that rocks a small town when bad news hits the evening news. It's the twilight of the gods. For just a moment.
But it is only right that the fearmongers should feel fear once in a while.
In fact one should ask if the perpetual manufactured sunshine, the fine ideological project of a dazzling cinematic Potemkin Culture, of "good examples" and "happy endings", that these Woodlanders specialize in, actually gives rise in perpetuity to the suppressed shadow (THAT WHICH CANNOT BE SHOWN, ONLY LIVED) and sticks them perpetually on the bloody other side of the coin, which is the mechanism that feeds the primal fear that is the true currency of show business.
The Quaids will certainly NOT be refused lunacy asylum in Canada now.
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