January 19, 2001
When the dust settled on what has been the most remarkable electoral event in our nation's fitful search for a more perfect union, it was hard to know whether to laugh or cry.
Laughing is easier. This site is about "W", a semi-mythical president from a semi-mythical southwestern state in a semi-mythical superpower. There is, of course, no intentional resemblance to actual presidents, states or superpowers. This is purely a work of fiction — bearing in mind, of course, that fiction is often less strange than truth.
The "Messages" section presents communications that arise when W mistakenly takes a sarcastic letter for an expression of support and responds with heartfelt confidences as he negotiates the perilous descent from the joy of seeking office into the nightmare of having found it. The "Facetiae" section contains poems and random musings on the same subjects.
I refer to W as the "Phantom President" because of a certain
ventriloqual aspect of his public actions: although we know who is in the chair, we can not be certain who is in the office. This phantasmal quality lends an almost scriptural air of inevitability to his election — in one man we now have the Father, The Son and the Wholly Ghost
We can only hope that his "advisors" have at least a modicum of character and genuine concern for our welfare. Otherwise we have, in effect, installed a 100-watt bulb in a lighthouse.
We have, I think, turned a significant corner in American politics. We need to pay close attention to what happens next. Comedy is one way of doing that.
Some may detect a hint of partisanship in these writings. That is as may be. I must admit that, whenever I see our new leader — the earnest, empty face, the bright, little Stepford eyes shining like black marbles in the sun — I am instantly reminded of the nursery rhyme:
As I was climbing up the stairs
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish
he'd go away!
I hope you have as much fun reading these brief vignettes as I — I assure you — had writing them.
Wounded cries of outrage, offers of fealty or remuneration, vicious gossip and innuendo, etc. may be
sent to
wmail@dystopical.com.
Thank you, and, in the words of my protagonist,
"May God save us all".
January 19, 2001
When the dust settled on what has been the most remarkable electoral event in our nation's fitful search for a more perfect union, it was hard to know whether to laugh or cry.
Laughing is easier. This site is about "W", a semi-mythical president from a semi-mythical southwestern state in a semi-mythical superpower. There is, of course, no intentional resemblance to actual presidents, states or superpowers. This is purely a work of fiction — bearing in mind, of course, that fiction is often less strange than truth.
The "Messages" section presents communications that arise when W mistakenly takes a sarcastic letter for an expression of support and responds with heartfelt confidences as he negotiates the perilous descent from the joy of seeking office into the nightmare of having found it. The "Facetiae" section contains poems and random musings on the same subjects.
I refer to W as the "Phantom President" because of a certain
ventriloqual aspect of his public actions: although we know who is in the chair, we can not be certain who is in the office. This phantasmal quality lends an almost scriptural air of inevitability to his election — in one man we now have the Father, The Son and the Wholly Ghost
We can only hope that his "advisors" have at least a modicum of character and genuine concern for our welfare. Otherwise we have, in effect, installed a 100-watt bulb in a lighthouse.
We have, I think, turned a significant corner in American politics. We need to pay close attention to what happens next. Comedy is one way of doing that.
Some may detect a hint of partisanship in these writings. That is as may be. I must admit that, whenever I see our new leader — the earnest, empty face, the bright, little Stepford eyes shining like black marbles in the sun — I am instantly reminded of the nursery rhyme:
As I was climbing up the stairs
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish
he'd go away!
I hope you have as much fun reading these brief vignettes as I — I assure you — had writing them.
Wounded cries of outrage, offers of fealty or remuneration, vicious gossip and innuendo, etc. may be
sent to
wmail@dystopical.com.
Thank you, and, in the words of my protagonist,
"May God save us all".
