The Necropolitics of Boredom

I think we’ve all known for a long time that the president was bored. His attention span is (to put it charitably) notoriously brief at the best of times. He does best when he can bounce from strength to strength, like a stone skipping across the surface of a placid sea of nothingness. But now he is so starved for positive feedback that he has been reduced to half-filled arenas in areas slowly being transformed into viral petri dishes.


What are the necropolitics of boredom? In the case of Mr. Trump, they seem to veer wildly between attempts to blame the super-(duper)-boring virus currently devastating the country on the Chinese, and the project of replicating the worst elements of their approach.


In the ecology of Trump administration, the president’s underlings work feverishly to convert his utterances into things which aren’t illegal, immoral, inappropriate, or incomprehensible (or some combination of all of them). These efforts generally last only as long as it takes for the president to utter some other combination of ridiculousness and atrocity, at which point a new metabolic cycle begins, the previous one being consigned to a media-generated memory hole.


The most recent iterations of this have focused on the president’s stated intention to draw down coronavirus testing programs. This has been coming for a while. A couple of weeks ago, the president issued the following pronouncement: “If we stop testing right now, we’d have very few cases, actually…”


The logic underlying this statement will be familiar to any five year old or the parents thereof, but just in case it was unclear, the president’s can be made clear by reference to a remark he made in a meeting with the governor of Iowa last month: “So the media likes to say we have the most cases, but we do, by far, the most testing. If we did very little testing, we wouldn’t have the most cases. So in a way, by doing all of this testing, we make ourselves look bad.”


According to the Trumpist way of thinking, the testing is itself driving the spread of the disease. Let us pause for a moment to consider the fact that public discourse in a modern, nuclear-armed state now permits that sort of flat denial of object permanence that would seem out of place in the average kindergarten.


What is really being asserted here is not that COVID-19 would go away, but that people would stop talking about it to the detriment of the president’s prospects for re-election. The fact that meat sacks might still be coughing out their lives on ventilators or in back alleys is simply not something that enters Mr. Trump’s appreciation of the considerable virtues of his own personal brand.


The current project of digestion being undertaken by the redoubtable Kayleigh McEneny and company is Mr. Trump’s determination to make his word flesh, so to speak, by curtailing government funding for virus testing. Mr. Trump hopes thereby to turn a trick of which he was quite fond in his days as white male real-estate speculator and creator of synergy: the creation of alternate realities by simple assertion. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God…


Let us here take a moment to ruminate on the character of the stalwart Ms. McEneny. Armed with a BA from Georgetown and a JD from Harvard Law, author of two books, she is the apotheosis of the role of presidential spokesmodel formerly held by (among others) the joie de vivre-laden Sean Spicer and the glum and grumpy Sarah Huckabee Sanders. She is certainly on-model for the sort of profile that Mr. Trump seems to prefer: young, blonde, female, and evincing an apparent willingness to take a position whose job description is alarmingly similar to that of Josef Goebbels.


She is now the mouthpiece for Mr. Trump’s singular obsession: the presidential election in November. The obsession with re-election is common to the vast majority of politicians and their entourages. But it takes on a particular cast in the case of Mr. Trump. Intimately aware of his status as a parvenu among what he once considered to be the “right sort of people” (mostly inhabiting the Upper West Side), he is hypersensitive to the prospect of failure. Having convinced himself that he wanted to be president (maybe that would show the haters) and having, against all odds, actually managed to do so, the most proximate threat to his ever so fragile ego is that he will fail at the next hurdle.


Now, of course, one might find oneself wondering whether bungling the response to a viral outbreak in such a way as to condemn tens (perhaps hundreds) of thousands of Americans to grim demise might be considered a failure. Perhaps. But if real estate speculation has taught him nothing else, it has taught Mr. Trump that you’re only as culpable as your next big deal. If he can only close on this second election thing, then the nattering nabobs of negativism in the press and the liberal elites can curse in vain. He’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.


For now, though, life is kind of boring. Mr. Trump’s new spate schedule of rallies/pandemic vector events notwithstanding, he is still condemned to a seemingly endless expanse of days burdened by abstract, boring, non-Trump-related problems. The coronavirus isn’t sexy and doesn’t have a vagina that can be forcibly appropriated. It doesn’t respond to taunts. The Chinese do, but only in ways that probably seem prejudicial to the rolling over of the extensive debts that Mr. Trump owes to their banks.


Worst of all (for Mr. Trump), he can’t seem to get the news cycles reliably rolling the right direction. People seem to have gotten very tired of winning. Except the losers, the ones in the streets or those crying about lost jobs or dead relatives. They’ve been winning too, they’re just too dumb to understand it, and explaining it to them is just another boring feature of this boring, boring world.

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