Notes on the News

One sub-genre of journalism consists of handwringing about the exploitive journalistic coverage of persons who’ve gained notoriety. Contributors to this genre must surely be aware that their handwringing itself is also exploiting this same exploited notoriety.

That season is back: whole pages of pictures of fashion show runways feature females dressed as I never see them dressed at Kroger. This makes me wonder if the economic footprint of haute couture is in any way proportional to its coverage in the papers. My guess is, not—but since this is an international activity, Census won’t have data on it, which is tedious, tedious. Those tall starved figures, those pouty expressions, those languid movements…

With Khadafy refusing to play the role assigned him by our myths, maps of the campaigns in Libya are in the papers, and with a sudden shock I realize that I know where this place is—and I also know the kind of country that it is. Why, isn't this the country that’s nothing but a single road tracing the edge of the world’s greatest desert on its northern extent, the road Rommel fought his way east on and retreated west again on his way back? Yes, it is. Yes. Geographic memories sunk into darkness suddenly surface. And I realize what a fantastic showman Khadafy really is—to make this desert strip into a country in the first place—and so vividly I thought it was somewhere else. But I know this miserable strip. I do. Again.

Note on Note. Brigitte informs me that Tripoli used to be the site of an enormous American air base. Yes. Libya is a part of the globe ambitious powers use to get somewhere else. Okay, so it has a little oil…