First of all, poor Heath. We hardly knew ye.

At least he got to make out with Jake Gyllenhaal before he died. Which is more than most of us will ever get out of this life (most of you, at least — Jake and I go way back).

Now. Onto tawdrier but more tedious territories. I want to say up front that I have not watched a single one of these ridonkulous Democratic debates, and just as I would not apologize for never having gone to see Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, I don't think these pseudo-events are by any means required viewing, especially for those  living in non-swing states with late primaries.

Speaking of Creed and Co. (sort of), I'm reading an excellent little book — I got through The Pesthouse, and, as expected, it had a twee, happy little ending — my new book is called Still Life With Oysters and Lemon, and is a meditation on a work of art by that name by a certain Jan Davidsz de Heem. What the author, Mark Doty, describes as his encounter with the painting is a classic I-Thou:


Doty says, rightly, I think, that great art invites not only relation, but unguarded intimacy. Its generosity can't be battled with the meager shield of irony, or the sword of cynicism that we're so adept at wielding to protect ourselves from what is.

There's great art out there, and a lot of good stuff besides, of course, but there's also a lot that while momentarily distracting, amusing, or piquant never quite transcends its own cleverness. And cleverness on its own is never quite transcendent.

Which is fine.  We all like to be a part of something clever. It's always better to be in on the joke, after all, than the butt of it. But cleverness alone is not substantial enough stuff to properly nourish the soul.

Smart-allecky art that aspires to cleverness can be fun, but we're a culture awash in smart-allecks. AssMart — I mean, MassArt (damn, I always do that!) — is pumping them out by the baker's dozen. The blogosphere is logjammed with 'em. Everybody's a wiseguy nowadays.

It's all good, as the saying goes, but I'm not a tweenie. My soul can't survive on Sugar Puffs and soda pop alone. Give me meat and fat and ligaments to gnaw from the bone, and livers and blood to make sausages from. And stinky cheese and earthy beets and pungent radishes and bitter Brussels sprouts. I'll have my cakes when I'm finished, too. Give me the salty and sour and bitter along with the sweet.

But we were talking about these Democratic debates, weren't we? Specifically about not watching them. It shows no special insight to liken the process to American Idol, as has been done. Nothing about the way we go about things these days is particularly subtle. The only thing missing here is Simon bitching at Paula while she ogles Obama.

This endless cycle of televised debates is a function of round-the-clock news networks, of course, and the main purpose of this daunting schedule of democratic "slugfests," aside from legitimizing those candidates invited to participate in them, is to give pundits something to parse into the wee hours. There is also always the hope that heightened scrutiny will eventually expose the cracks in a candidate's veneer (especially if that candidate is Hillary Clinton).  Cameras running day and night will have a better chance of capturing that defining, authentic moment that can make or break a candidate.

The media are forever sifting through the slag heap for the next "defining moment." If they find something flinty, something sparkly catches their eye, they hold it up to the light for all to see. They ooh and ahh and pass it around. "Mmm," this one says.  "Errrr?" that one says.  "Oo-oo-ah-ah!" says another to appreciative nods.  They examine it minutely, finger it, turn it over and over in their clumsy hands, smell it, lick it, rub and caress it. They thwack it and bang it and bash it. Is it a tool? Is it a weapon? Can I stick it in my ear? Will it fit up my bum? Is that Also Sprach Zarathustra I hear in the distance? 

Like Creed's Lights Going On and Off, it's not the work — the debate among the candidates — itself that is compelling, but that frenzy of parsing on the part of pundits it sets off that is the real and satisfying amusement.

Yesterday I caught about fifteen minutes of The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer, while taking a break from nonstop coverage of Heath Ledger's death, about which there appeared to be three pieces of irrefutable information they were flogging (he was dead, and his body had been found in his loft along with some sleeping pills). There was no footage available but of the exterior of his building in Soho, and nothing for the network to do but call up their seemingly inexhaustible supply of "experts," and set to parsing.

Meanwhile, Wolf and his panel were embroiled in a fierce debate about how Hillary had never turned to face Obama in past debates, but in this one she did. Wolf asked his guest "experts" if this latest move was going to make or break her.  He seemed to be leaning toward the latter. Was turning to face her opponent in the debate her "Rick Lazio moment"? Was this going to be Hillary's "Dean Scream"?

Gloria Borger kept hissing "Calculated! It was all calculated! Edwards, too!" Jack Cafferty said it was a continuation of the Clintons' campaign of slander against Obama. "They brought race into it!" he harrumphed. "They'd better start treading lightly." Jeffrey Toobin went meta on them. The media sounds the death knell of the Democratic party every time sharp words are exchanged among candidates, he said, but this is all pretty run-of-the-mill for a primary battle. Oo-oo-ah-ah!

Nothing of special value or insight was said, but airtime was filled, advertisers placated, and a tiny bit of the slag heap had been excavated and sifted through to everyone's satisfaction. There were no diamonds here, but it'd do for a Tuesday night.  Especially with the death of a movie star beckoning.

It's good TV.  Better than the real thing.  We take our democratic duties very seriously in these parts, but anyone who says they're voting on policy alone is a prig and a liar. Of course it's not all about who has the best programs and speaks the most sense. Don't be such an old stick in the mud.

What we are witnessing is the modern iteration of a primal rite. Nothing anyone can say will make any of this make any sense, because choosing a leader is never a sensible thing. We like to think we choose the wisest and kindest of the clan, but for most of our history as a species the most vicious have self-selected.  We may have evolved a little in the past couple hundred years, but under optimal conditions we'd still seek out the one who best embodied whatever intrinsic idealized superficial features we deem worthiest of passing on as a people.

If Obama looked like Don Rickles no one would give him the time of day.  Heck, forget Don Rickles, think Dennis Kucinich.  Kucinich actually voted against authorizing Bush's war in Iraq. 

People have all sorts of highly moral excuses for choosing one candidate over another, and more power to them.  But try to keep in mind that politics is the art of Truthiness (a great site to sober you up a bit on this count is factcheck.org) and that most of us understand we have to forgive our candidate for playing fast and loose with a few facts now and then.  Things get said in the heat of the moment.  It happens.

It's no secret I'm rooting for Hillary mainly to annoy my mother, a rank-and-file Republican who has openly delighted in my suffering these past eight years under George W. Bush.  This is an old score I'm settling, and it is very personal.  Before ol' Barack Hussein here showed up I could almost smell Total Victory. 

Not to worry.  I wouldn't be backing The Hillorator if I didn't think she was competent enough — and more competent than most (although, admittedly, the bar is not too high these days) — and in addition to irritating my mother no end, I think it would be fascinating to see Hillary morph (over two terms, of course) into an American Margaret Thatcher. Our own Iron Lady.

But, yes, it's the day-to-day suffering it would inflict on those whose day-to-day joy over our current commander-in-chief has caused so much suffering in the rest of us that would, frankly, be transcendent. So you might say I'm voting for Hillary for religious reasons.

Besides that, I have never seen the special appeal of Obama. I am neither impressed by his race, which is very clearly a factor in his appeal to many (I'm currently on a tall, beefy Asian kick — there's a gorgeous Japanese-American trainer at my new gym I'd vote for if he was running), nor by necessarily specious claims of being untouched by impure thoughts.

If Jesus Christ came back he would not live in a 1.65 million dollar Georgian mansion. If you've got 1.65 million bucks to spend on a Georgian mansion in the first place, you're not even getting to Heaven, so quit talking like you've got the keys to the Kingdom on your fob, and lets get on with the race. 

It's all in good fun, of course.  And whatever happens — whoever captures the nomination — it won't be the end of the world.  Or maybe it will be.  Who knows?  But at least I got to make out with Jake Gyllenhaal before I died.