W is for wood.
While W was asking the substantive questions we all yearned for, tapping that deep square American spiritual void that can be filled no more effectively than by a large, round peg of timber, the rest of the country went on contributing to the furtherance of critical theory, insofar as what the debate analysis digested had little to do with each side's merits and much more to do with the debate's placement into the swirl of narratives surrounding the campaign.
We who are loathe to use the word meta
non-jocularly will not here.
What we said earlier, about campaigners' messages' separation from the substance of the campaigner, is applicable, as we are essentially voting for stories -- us partisans are jostling, screaming, yelling, and cursing over stories, and their dissemination among the public, and the wicked reception they receive in some quarters, and the damn bestseller list omnipotent above all.
But look at us revering substance all of a sudden -- again, it's what we revere in our candidates that excuses their reach for power, though not only might it be illusory but some of us partisans admit so much, in safe times for their candidate, or at least in fawning, hypocritical sportsmanship toward the opponent. Both may be as base or as altruistic as we like, but only so far as we like.
The love for stories is obviously close to sports fans' love of clothing to the detriment of the athletes filling them, and we'll only augment the trite comparison of modern elections to Super Bowl contests by noting the increased sophistication in an election, where deconstruction, metanarratives, and histories of discourse, although differently named, are the game.