Mainlining coverage of the ongoing atrocities afflicting the gulf coast has provided me with the perfect metaphor for the America of our current moment in history.
It's a stock character in film and fiction, the BMOC Jock gone to seed.
15 years ago he won the Big Game...now he's 50 pounds overweight and has traded his athletic uniform for a dirty tee shirt that can't quite cover his beer belly and a ball cap that doesn't do enough to hide his thinning hair. Instead of practice, he sits on his port with a 12 pack of whatever was on sale at the 7-11 that morning and runs the tape of his career highlights for anyone who passes by.
He beats up little dudes at the bar on Saturday night and sleeps with a hairdresser who closes her eyes and remembers the golden boy he was, glowing with promise and posibility, and who leaves before the morning light illuminates the aftermath.
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