Cotton Dandy

An Essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Dizzy

Few people remember the first time they explored the confectionary wonder in a giant wad of cotton candy.  Most of us were too young, and certainly not sufficiently sophisticated to understand the deception behind so much taste-tickling fun.  Watch any young first-timer, though, and you can see all the stages of true discovery.

First come the big eyes, sheer awe at the unbounded promise of a massive treat bigger than one’s belly.

Then flaring nostrils, as swirling aromas hint of sweet cherries, electric blueberries, or the tartest of tropical limes.

Then arching brows, a conundrum of missing mass, candy so light it barely resists floating away on summer breezes.

Next comes the lookaround, a confirming search for cues: Are others really eating this stuff?  How does a body fit so big a prize into one’s suddenly undersized taster?

Finally we see radiant delight, the realization that it tastes quite good, indeed; that it feels good, too; and that it goes down smooth and sweet . . .  and surprise! there’s room enough for more!

Cotton candy represents the art of faking real, spinning and spinning the inconsequential into an image boasting of substance, yet consisting almost entirely of air.

I think of cotton candy when I watch a political rally.  Don’t get me wrong; I believe some of our most successful politicians stand among our greatest of citizens: brilliant leaders with vision, true believers in their own ability to help us achieve our collective goals.

Still, among those greats, the good politicians are also cotton dandies.  These are the ones who understand that elections are more about, well, style than substance; about presenting what tastes good and pretending it’s real; about who can spin the biggest, prettiest promises, even if they’re mostly air and always leave room for more.

I mean, you don’t see youngsters lining up at a carnival booth clamoring for boiled tripe or spinach on a stick.

Ask any politician a question, and in the campaigner’s mind it’ll be categorized to match the closest flavor, a pre-packaged position statement already focus-grouped and rehearsed.  It’s like software analyzing and classifying a query—subject: orange—then hardware dripping the proper color into a spinner, resulting in the most impressive confection of concern topped by sugary hope and reassuring promises of better and more.

And just to make sure it all goes down smoothly, aides are standing by in the spin room to help spin you some more.

Truly, I don’t begrudge a candidate the artful practice of twirling cotton candy.  That’s one of the basic requirements in passing the skills test: demonstrable expertise in diplomacy and tact, trading for advantage while giving up little more than air, then serving up a solution that provokes the big eyes of unbounded promise.

Still, too much cotton candy can make you sick.  When I consider a candidate, I’m looking for recipes that make even the less-popular but more-substantial dishes at least palatable.

Candy is sweet, but when a cotton dandy starts spinning and spinning you, be careful you don’t get so dizzy you forget . . .

We still live in a boiled-tripe and spinach-on-a-stick world.

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