Let Us Now Braise Famous Men, Dept.

Oh my God.  The semiotics of Mitt Romney’s “shopping” cart.  Because he “shops,” you know.  Just like any old multimillionaire.

Some spring water.  Oh, and some Pepsi doubtless stripped of the devil’s twitchin’, what we here in the Mission Lands call ka-fe-yin.  It obviously can’t endorse too many brands at the expense of other brands whose boards might have big purses and small brains.  It’s the Potemkin shopping cart.  I’m surprised he didn’t buy the display food they have in furniture showrooms.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be Mitt Romney.  The self-referentiality of recognizing that one is a construct.  The realization that one’s own personality and thoughts, well, aren’t really primetime material right out of the box, right?  The knowledge that, even should he *God forbid* not lose, he’s really alotalot of people’s second choice.  Maybe third, were Spermin’ Herman Cain’s rapturous self-appraisal today anything but a madman’s oregano-scented ramblings.

The auto-da-fé of our democracy.

Oy Gevalt, Dept.

The Osmonds, “Fiddler on the Roof medley”

To quote from Gold Diggers of 1933, “Remember my forgotten man…”  So very absent from the RNC Tampa clusterfuck were the standard bearers for unthreatening Mormon masculinity: The Osmonds.

This video clip leans toward the mindblowing, as it’s basically five young Mormon American men singing songs associated with an aged Russian Jew while executing Motown-ish choreography.  Are we a fucking melting pot or what?

But once you get past the polyester and 1,000-watt grins, there are some cool vocal harmonies in there.  They occasionally sound like the Hi-Lo’s doing a Fiddler medley.  To the screams of tween girls.

So, why is Mitt Romney turning his back on these avatars of Mormon culture?  Is he a self-loathing Mormon?  What next, airbrush the King Sisters out of American cultural history?  I would hope not, especially given performances like this one: four wholesome Mormon girls applying some close harmonies to a song extolling the delights of coffee.  “Whoops, Mister Moto” indeed.