This took place over the killing of Cecil the lion. This particular animal, one of the most famous and iconic in Africa, was lured out of the animal sanctuary in which he lived by a hunting party that had tied a dead animal to a car, and later shot with a crossbow by an American dentist (Walter Palmer), and then after two days of bleeding and being tracked, was shot and killed by the same dentist with a high-powered gun, and then left, beheaded and skinned.

It was a big story, and it completely dominated all of my social media streams. People were heartbroken (Jimmy Kimmel wept on his late night talk show while talking about it) and generally, the public was mad enough to club the dentist to death. Threatened from all quarters and publicly shamed, Palmer closed down his practice and went into hiding.

In the midst of this raging solidarity of hate, many people took the time to point out that other atrocities, many unimaginable, were taking place in the world, too, and maybe we could pay the same attention that we do to an animal being killed, to a person being killed? I mean, in terms of popular outrage, Sandra Bland, a black woman who mysteriously died in police custody after committing a traffic violation, was running a distant second to Cecil the lion.

It’s a meaningful observation, that, but I don’t think we should jump to the conclusion that the public values the life of Cecil over Bland.

Every single person on the planet can be angry and disgusted at the thought of a rich, white American, a dentist of all things– a person who makes fake smiles for a living– going over to a poor continent, and then killing, for his pleasure alone, an awe-inspiring creature that’s both a beautiful national symbol and resource.

The horror is plain for all to see. It’s a simple story upon which everybody can agree, and it isn’t as politically toxic or geopolitically complex as racism, police brutality and entitlement, or Boko Haram. You don’t need to be informed to have an opinion on Cecil’s demise—what happened was awful and wrong. There was unanimity on this issue and it wasn’t politicized. For a moment, there was a debate-free zone on the Internet, which I think was a huge relief. For once, people could feel that they were right without having to engage in a long, complex debate, without actually having to defend their position.

We process what we’re capable of, and this was an uncomplicated story that was easily digested and then agreeably shared amongst peers. It’s not the most important story of the day, but it has great symbolic weight, and like an emoji, is breezily transmitted without the necessity of much background context or rumination.

The outpouring on Facebook isn’t evidence of a preference for the superficial over the substantive, or of some political polarity, but of people finding agreement, even celebrating it, and existing in a cease fire for a moment. And in this place where right and wrong are universally agreed upon, they find that their voice– which doesn’t carry very far in the humdrum prose of their daily lives– is now amplified, becoming powerful and vivid, strong enough to go places their bodies will never travel.

Kind of like Academy Award Winner—only in a way that brings absolutely no positive connotations.

Back in 1988, when he won the Olympic gold medal in Seoul, Korea and shattered the world record for the 100 Metre, he was an absolute hero. I was a student in Montreal at the time and my friends and I were so euphoric, so energized by his victory that we sprinted down St. Laurent screaming for joy. It was a completely spontaneous act. We simply could not prevent ourselves from running, as every elated cell in our bodies was commanding us to do this.

Of course, you had to be willfully blind to not realize Johnson was on steroids. Even his nickname, “Big Ben,” implicitly hinted at his usage, and his eyes were jaundiced and yellow– a clear indication his liver was over-taxed from the drugs. He looked like a bull, and his mood was always remote and defensive, happier (if that could ever be a word associated with him) in the shadows than in the spotlight.

Carl Lewis, the great American athlete and his Arch Enemy, was everything that Johnson was not. Lithe, maniacally outgoing and resembling Grace Jones, Lewis loved the spotlight and seemed to effortlessly excel at every sport he touched. He sang, sold sweatshirts and played at being a kind of corporation, a latter day Muhammad Ali (only absent the charisma), if you will, and he was everything we hated about America, and then to have somebody as quiet and unloved as Johnson, not just defeat him but crush him, seemed a titanic victory for underdogs all over the world, and it was this that sent us shouting down the street.

IN YOUR FACE, USA!!

Of course, a couple of days later it was revealed that Johnson was doping. He was stripped of his medal and ever since has been known as “disgraced sprinter Ben Johnson.” Post fall, he has been in trouble for pointing a starter’s pistol– from his Porsche– at another motorist while on the highway, was hired by Gaddafi as a football coach for his son (resulting in the son being suspended from the league for drug use), raced a horse and a stock car, headed a failed clothing line called Catch Me, chased a Romani gang who robbed him of his wallet in Rome and failed to catch them, and endorsed a sport’s drink called Cheetah Power Surge, the commercials of which player off the fact Johnson was a cheater.

It’s been this nearly-forgotten way for almost thirty years, and it must get kind of exhausting, but every once in awhile Johnson raises his head from the shadows, most recently emerging for a photo-op to lend his support to Toronto Mayor Rob Ford’s unceasing and exhaustless bid for re-election. Disgrace, one would presume, and not her better angel redemption, being what brought the two men together under the Big, Confused Tent that is Ford Nation. *1

*1 It’s as if Marvel Comics was creating a super-group of villains in the Ford camp, all readying for some great apocalyptic battle to take place in a future issue.

The suit that Rob Ford wore was heartbreaking. All black but for a lurid, cartoon red tie and hanky, it was the sort of thing that a 16 year-old boy– a not very popular or savvy 16 year-old boy– might wear when he wanted to make a splash at an event in which he was over-invested and nervous. The suit did not evoke thoughts of the sophisticated big city that the mayor was purportedly promoting, but instead suggested an owner/greeter at an affordable, franchised steak house somewhere in between other places.

It’s actually hard to imagine what was going through Rob Ford’s mind when he chose that suit. Did he think it embodied west coast cool, was perhaps iconoclastic, or did he just really, you know, think it was happening?

Regardless, what was written in the shiny need of that suit and the doomed narcissism that propelled him onto the show, was just how much Ford wants to be accepted. He’s dying to be liked by Kimmel and be a part of that elite, celebrity crew, to finally be a cool kid.  Ford wants to have a bold personality and to lead a big, American life free from compromise or mediation, but he doesn’t have the tools to achieve this dream of myth. On the show, this big try-out for the team, Ford was rejected and mocked. Kimmel, the school alpha, ran easy circles around him as if teasing the slow boy– who would always be wearing the wrong clothes– at recess.

In the rigid late-night format where irony trumps earnestness, it was easy to take Ford apart. Removed from the political arena, where nobody knows what the hell to do with him, and putting Ford under the burning lights of show biz, stripped him of whatever institutional defenses he might have. It was fascinating to watch Ford immobilized beside a video monitor as a host of embarrassing and surreal clips of him played as if from the Ghost-of-Christmas future. After each segment Kimmel would make a witty observation or ask a simple, yet penetrating question, and it was clear just how insufficient, ridiculous and craven each one of Ford’s stammering responses were. Right there, in vivid contrast, there was what we were seeing and what we were hearing, and it simply could not have been clearer that the emperor had no clothes.

Ford didn’t come across as fun, unpredictable or larger than life, just dim, even small, like the guy trying unsuccessfully to join a conversation at the bar. Ford needs attention and desperately wants the seal of American celebrity, to step out of parochial Toronto and live amongst giants, but his aspiration is damned. He’s the kid who will never be accepted, and that hunger of his will always circle back to anger and self-annihilation. The man, dense and frustrated, is a charisma free zone, and there’s no better place than Hollywood to make something like that abundantly and mercilessly clear.

Like Andy Kaufman before him, Ford has the ability to create and live in the Venn Diagram overlap between the fiction circle and reality circle. Ford seems happy there, with the rest of us staring on in bewilderment, uncertain if what we’re witnessing is self-aware performance art or the Frankenstein id of some moron bully unleashed upon the world. Currently, Ford’s in the midst of what might be his masterpiece, his descent (with brother Doug and brother Randy) into Hollywood where he was rumoured to be attending the Oscar’s and is to appear on the Jimmy Kimmel show on Monday night.

Last night, while the Academy Awards were taking place, Ford was at the Kimmel party blogging fashion commentary on what the stars were wearing:

Pharrel

Look how small Pharrel is! I tell you, he never would have made the high school football team and if he dared to show up at school in that sissy outfit, we would have beat the crap out of him. I love that Robin Thicke video he’s in, though. Crazy hot.

Jennifer Lawrence

She’s a pretty girl, this one, but I have to say I’d have preferred if she passed on the Dior gown and wore that naked blue get-up she had on in the X-Men. You know what I loved about the name of that character, Mystique? Name of a stripper, and as she was always nude, it was perfect! Mystique was way hotter than any of the chicks from Avatar! Anyway, even with clothes on JLaw definitely deserves an Oscar for best boner!

Jared Leto

Okay, this guy played a sort-of-girl in a movie, so that’s why he has the long, Jesus hair, but that red bow tie? Trying WAY too hard. Why not a simple NFL tie, say a good working class team like the Cleveland Browns? That way he could make a statement, “Yeah, I might have long hair and play a rainbow in a movie, but I still like football!” and could still be an action hero or a guy who steals cars in his next movie. It’s weird what actors will do. You couldn’t pay me enough money to play a woman, even though I have tremendous respect for them and really value them as people and hope that they come out to vote and support Ford Nation on October 27^th!

Glenn Close

Has the appearance of a retired tennis player, somebody who would make you take off your ball cap when you went in her house. A real buzz kill. Looks like she’s going to a funeral, but she might be holding a flask in her left hand so maybe she’s still cool.

Lupita Nyong’o

She’s a string bean, but look at those arms! Really toned. I bet she’d make a great wide receiver or defensive back. She probably runs just as fast as hell. I’m glad that slave movie did well. Many of my voters come from slave people.  Looks like she’s wearing Prada to me.