If you need another reason to loathe Trump before he actually gets his pussy-grabbing mitts on the American dream, I recommend that he’s already making people regard Bush 43 as a much better president than W ever was. By proximity, folks are already starting to say “Well, Dubya may have started an unprovoked war that killed 4400 Americans and up to a million Iraqis, but he was a genuine guy doing his best,” as if he was anything like either of those and his administration didn’t openly admit to doing things much more impeachable than Watergate.
Also this bullshit.
(And yeah, I know, Obama, drones, homeland surveillance, spying on reporters. The world is not turning the way it should.)
I got some good writing out of the incessant rage of the Bush years. But those were a different class of idiot — they were fully capable of winning, just not of achieving anything. They were able to get everything they wanted no matter how much they were fought and told it was a bad idea. And then, when that proved true, they weren’t able to push their vision all the way into reality. Just into the mess they were told it would be.
The Trump administration’s not going to be like that. It’s going to be a different kind of bad. And weeeeeeiiiird. There’s no aspect of Trump that isn’t repulsive even to a lot of his voters who shrugged and pulled the lever anyway. If you get apoplectic about the mad carnival whose tent flap we all now pass through, you’ll have a stroke by the end of February. So I’m going madcap with my comedy. Satire was fun, but it needs one foot on the ground.
(By the way, wouldn’t it be great if we all refused to say Trump’s name for four years? Say “The President,” call him 45, just drive him crazy by pretending he’s not there.)
In my personal life, I’m trying a new thing of instead of assuming every errant sparrow on the sidewalk is trying to keep me from catching my train, figuring out what the most sublime aspect is of every scene in which I find myself. Just practice for a strong, sane, mind. Leaving my apartment this morning, it was the dappled sunlight on the western side of the 1 train, reflected from the apartment buildings.
First foray, pretty good. I got off the 1 and walked through the West Village to my gym. Crossing the street by a coffee cart, there was a construction worker with an empty muffin liner in both hands like Holy Communion. As I passed by him, he stepped carefully off the curb, over the bike lane, and shook the crumbs in the buffer zone where the sparrows could eat it safe from cars, bikes, and pedestrians.
I could mine a metaphor or three out of that, but I’ll just take it for what it is. Found the beautiful that morning.