If I were writing a blog about Brad Pitt or David Archuleta (America’s former Really Cute American Idol), instead of a blog about political and intellectual territories re-envisioned through art practice, I would never mention Barack Obama. The sexiest man alive (meaning Pitt rather than Obama, though a strong case could be made for Obama rather than Pitt), might share with us the fastest way to lose ten pounds so I can outrun the tax collector in 2009, though President-Elect Barack Hussein Obama (Say it loud! Say it proud!) promises a refund and a tax cut since the economy’s wheels have come off, and who has money to pay taxes anyway? Certainly not me.

After referring to the news of a remarkable honeyed bandage curing one man’s rotting limb, I might launch into expletives about Bernie Madoff ponziing his way through a million-trillion-gazillion dollars while eating caviar and having his nails done. If my blog were not about art practices as they are affected by the constant re-drawing of geopolitical, socio-political and socio-economic states, I might report on the increasing number of cyborgs in our midst. They walk among us, blatantly, with their machine parts indistinguishable from their meat parts: pacemakers coupled to hearts, dental implants screwed and glued into jaws, injected “smart tags” barely visible under real or synthetic skin over a computerized titanium leg provided by the US government for your service in Iraq.

Going out on a limb, I might blog about news organizations’ fascination with suburban white dads who suddenly up and shoot their wives and children, their boss and themselves. Then there’s the usual bad seed who stabbed his parents ’cause they took away his video game. Across the globe, endless chatter ticky-ticks away on stealthy keyboards (or little cat feet), delivering newsy packages of anxiety and fear to the vivid imagination. Did that Austrian father really keep his daughter in a dungeon for 24 years? Is his wife an idiot? And that lovely-looking Florida mom. How could she tie her baby’s body in a plastic bag and set it in the woods for the meter reader to find and report, find and report, find and… who is this guy anyway?

If I were writing a blog about Brad Pitt or David Archuleta, I would never write about Hilary Clinton, who faces questions before confirmation as Secretary of State (a small hurdle compared to Bill Clinton, who must account for all of his truths and lies). And there’s so much to write about Elvis Costello — whether or not his namesake did leave the building — and if so, did he leave with Roy Orbison or with David Byrne? More importantly, the Israelis and the Palestinians: who do we blame for the tunnels, so well-built and well-supplied lo these many years, apparently by Egypt and others beyond Israel’s control. How to account for the many Palestinian civilians lost while the world fiddles to its own economic dismantle? The stomach burns at the sight of such small hands, lifeless in the cluster-bombed playground of hidden munitions. How to contain the twin states of fear where Israelis can check in any time they want but Palestinians can never check out? Let me hold protest signs in support of Israel, then run across the street to hold protest signs in support of the Palestinians. Better yet, I’ll just run continuously back and forth, my hair on fire, pleading for both sides to stop burning down the house!

If I weren’t writing about David Archuleta and his problems with his overbearing father, this blog entry, the first of 2009, would read, “Everyone makes resolutions to be something other than what they are, i.e. a better person.” My own borders keep changing with no help from “Nip Tuck” or even “Doctor 90210” (where a giggling Dr. Robert Rey karate-kicks his way past his wafer-thin wife who pleads for more of his time, more of his children and a bigger house). My body, my frame, my domain is getting smaller, which means I know how to lose ten pounds a week without Brad Pitt’s help, thank you very much. Actually, it’s probably more like one pound this week and zero pounds next week, then two pounds the following week, but who’s counting? Certainly not me. Certainly not Stella McCartney and Ed Rusche, who recently appeared on the Sundance Channel’s “Iconoclasts” series, though they had nothing to say to each other or about each other, but had plenty to say about themselves.

As for Oprah and the godliness of a unified body and soul, I have no idea what my Real Age® is, even accounting for not ever having smoked but having indeed eaten lots of junk food (anything with orange cheese dust on it), except that I do eat a lot of strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and cherries now. And I keep all bread out of the house. The word Haagen-Dazs® and the product represented by that word-sign have not passed my lips in a year. A ton of anti-oxidants are pulsing through my skin and organs, making me younger, thinner and smarter. My Real Age® might be 18, for all I know. Maybe I’ll die much younger now, like Benjamin Button. And eating those berries is much better than NOT eating, as they do in other parts of the world. That is the pits. I bet Brad Pitt eats a lot of berries. I bet Angelina Jolie does, too. But then they adopt children, so you need a lot of anti-oxidants to support that. (Don’t get me wrong. Pitt has done more for New Orleans than FEMA. His heart is not only healthy and young, it is generous.)

If this blog were not about art practice in the 21st century, I might speculate on Amazon’s 2009 best seller and top product being a book that shows you how to be younger, thinner, smarter, improved and rejuvenated while eradicating all your cellulite, blemishes, distinguishing characteristics, undocumented workers and poor people. Once excised (the 2009 best-selling book would explain), these pesky imperfections could be exported (or rendered, even) to some African country, á la that “Boston Legal” episode about exporting plastic surgery left-overs to Norway for conversion to fuel, thus reducing our carbon footprint. We’d export all the troubling parts of our bodies, our nation (the 2009 best-selling book would explain), along with our acid-oozing batteries and rusted computer innards, so we can continue to shine in our own eyes, unblemished, unflagging and unsagged.

And who knows what Condi Rice saw as she looked in the mirror before making her last official appearance yesterday. Did she see a good person? Did she think she had done her job well? When she left the stage, never to play the White House piano again, did she have regrets? Did she wonder, “Where is everybody?” Nobody in the press covered her. People have stopped asking her the important questions. She wasn’t any good at answering them anyway. Certainly not to the foreign press, who were resting after their labors over who should get a golden globe. Wait wait… don’t tell me: Benjamin Button didn’t win one; Slumdog Millionaire did. The Israeli-animated, documentary on the horrors of the 1982 Lebanon war, Waltz with Bashir, won. Will it help stop the current Israeli-Palestinian craziness? Not likely.

Don’t. Really. Don’t tell me we can save ourselves from ruination by closing our borders like some retro East Germany. In these economic times, there’d be a big sucking sound if all those “illegal aliens” suddenly took off in a spaceship. They stand on our corners, conveniently, for you all to pick up in your work trucks, your vans. They work like dogs in every American Home and Garden. They probably even shaped the topiary dogs for artist Jeff Koons. He could save a “Puppy” and give it to the Obama children. With the exception of our lame duck president, shrubs are hypoallergenic, need no walking and pose no terrorist threat to “the homeland.” Yeesch. I hate that phrase.

For now, it’s time to Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk as I run around recording sounds in the fractious aquarium I call Planet Earth. It’s still here. For now. And I’ve got a post to write about David Archuleta and Brad Pitt.

(Image above is from the cover of the book  Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature, which contains Donna Haraway’s still relevant article, “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century”)