Well, shit.

Arnold's our governor.

The thing that's really incomprehensible about this isn't that a celebrity with no real ideas or experience but massive brand recognition can win an election--politics has devolved into that game) long ago. The thing that's baffling and disconcerting is that so many people got off their asses and voted for Arnie. He didn't just win the apathetic joker-vote (which is how Jesse Ventura eked out a win in Minnesota--the 18-to-24 year old turnout was HUGE). Nearly 4 million California voters actually cast a vote for this clown, across all demographic, socio-economic and political segments you can slice and dice.

Man. Politics as usual are sincerely dead. The old model of building a record of service, dedication to causes, campaigning to the rank and file party members has been outclassed by two divergent and equally revolutionary societal movements (these movements have changed other aspects of life, too, but that's a rant for another day.) The first is the move towards sound-bite rich, single-main-idea driven, complexity-free, high-awareness-and-recall celebrity brand gloss, as exemplified above. Done well, it steam-rolls right over old school political campaigns.

To pull it off, the "brand" (also sometimes referred to as "the candidate") needs to have the critical mass to start a chain reaction of media attention, which then feeds on itself and sustains the awareness momentum. It's all about centralization and focus. And the only thing it needs to achieve is an unshakeable mental association with one positive "attribute". The campaign management has only two simple (I didn't say easy, but simple) tasks: (1) make sure that attribute is the single most important thing the majority cares about, and (2) make sure that every single thing the campaign does goes towards building as strong an association with that attribute as possible. Every dollar spent, every media appearance, every press release. (Side note: In the ad world, we often talk about the "Mrs. O'Grady test", aka the "Maytag test": if you wake up Mrs. O'Grady at 2 in the morning and yell "Maytag! What does it mean?" at her, she should correctly respond "Reliable!" rather than "Help! Police! What the hell are you doing in my house?") In the California recall election, the job was really a piece of cake: make Arnold = "Kick Davis' ass."

You might counter by arguing, why did Arnold's campaign spend so much time defending against the accusations about groping women; that was a proof that didn't have anything to do with getting rid of Davis, right? Well, I didn't think they were serious threats in the first place--in fact they were probably helpful to Arnold. Why? Because they furthered the image of Arnold as everything Gray Davis isn't--passionate, red-blooded, unafraid of appearing politically incorrect. A Man's Man. Fuckin'-A. Not to mention that it played up the Democratic hypocrisy of accusing the lech on the opposite side of the aisle after having defended the one on their side of the aisle.

What about his rowdy admiration for Hitler's ability to get the trains full of Jews to run on time? That was a much more serious threat, and my perception was that the Schwarzeneggar campaign was trying much harder to make this one go away quietly. Thankfully, the claims were not well-documented, so they could be relatively easily dismissed. And seriously, no one really was saying Arnold is or was a Nazi-sympathizer, just that he is and was a loud-mouthed jerk who doesn't necessarily put the brain in gear before speaking. At the end of the day, just another example of how different Arnie is from that cold, calculating weasel Davis or the career beaurocrat Bustamante. The Dems were doomed as soon as Dianne Feinstein declared she and no other Democrat of consequence were going to dignify the recall by putting their hats in the ring.

The other movement that's been happening is the only place I think people like us can go once they've realized that 21st century machine politics requires you to have a last name that matches a previous President's or a Q-score over 25, and caring, dedicated, thinking, articulate people don't count for a hill of beans in this world: They blog.

It's the opposite of centralized brand management. It's populist, it's grassroots, it's chaotic, complex and hard to pin down. But that's not to say it's any less empowering or effective than the other way. In fact, the perceived leading Democratic Presidential candidate, Howard Dean, seemingly came storming in from the fringes to stun the establishment after months of online grassroots activity. Figuratively, it's going back to the Minutemen spirit, hiding behind rock walls to plink away at the rigid formations of Redcoats while they seethe about how "unconventional and unfair" the tactics are. Oh yeah? Electing an empty suit based on the free media coverage his face, name and movie catchphrases can bring ain't politics as usual, either. Plink, plink, plink.

So here I am, setting up my 40 acres of vent-space. This thing isn't going to just be about politics--in fact, I hope to only get pissed off enough to re-visit the subject every couple of months or so. I've got a lot of other beefs to air out as well. But in this post-Arnold, corporate-controlled media synergy world, I'm feeling the urge to have my barbaric yawp* heard by at least a couple of kindred souls somewhere out there. Or at least convince myself of the illusion that it is.

* In true pseudo-intellectual form, here's the last stanza of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself. Seems to capture the spirit of the exercise:

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.