Umm - just so we are clear, his wife DOES NOT dote on him. She always looks like she can't stand the sight of him. She does not live with him. Tax ayers pay for her to be flown in from NY or Palm Beach so she can make an occasional appearance with or without him.
Definition of dote: be extremely and uncritically fond of. Melania only dotes on Barron! At least one Trump is gone most of the time
Sometimes I want to cry. I think about my wonderful history/political science teacher who taught us about democracy and the U.S. constitution. She would be shocked and heartbroken, as we all are.
Which one of the Marx brothers was it who said that there are times in history when people lose sight of their interests and fools and charlatans come to power? … Must’ve been Karl, because Groucho would not have allowed for any halcyon days of sanity, only differences of degree, perhaps.
As you know, Roy, William Faulkner created a character, Flem Snopes, who was a superbly talented backwoods con artist. His schemes even fooled some ordinarily sensible, constitutionally skeptical people. Donald Trump makes me think of Faulkner’s description of Flem, as so cagey that he never even told himself what he was up to when lying in bed, alone, in the dark of the moon.
Trump, however, is not quite as accomplished as Flem Snopes. Flem looked for monetary gain. Trump does as well, of course, but Flem didn’t need validation, adulation, much less redemption, any of those intangibles of human striving the lack of which, I’m convinced, gnaw at Trump’s self-esteem, that eat it away to a crumbly residue that has to be puffed up and sprayed stiff again in those wee X-hours. He never escapes the loser status he so abhors; it’s what he doesn’t tell himself lying alone in the dark of the moon, exhausted by the expenditure of psychic energy. That’s what makes for the pouches under the eyes.
He is one of those rare people who are able to effectively lie not only to others but to himself; this is the ‘superpower’ that keeps him going and his MAGA supporters enthralled, as well as significant numbers of the Congress. We are all prone to self-delusion. I’m reluctant to bring up a German philosopher at this time, but think of Nietzsche’s aphorism: 'Memory tells me I have done this; pride tells me I have not; eventually pride wins'. A sleepless conscience, like a slow acid drip, can eat holes in our sanity, etch lines in the face we present to the world. Only euthanize the conscience and the presentation becomes flawless--in theory, at least. A little hair spray, a bit of tanning gel ….
Trump’s mind, at some critical point, probably under the tutelage of Roy Cohn, defaulted to endless prevarication as not only style, but substance. For him, this is necessity; even if he desired to escape the world of falsehood, he could not; admission of anything resembling ‘truth’, past, present, or future, would reduce his stature in his own eyes as well as his public’s, and it would be a deflation as rapid and thorough as that of the Wicked Witch of the West. (There are many who would pay good money to see this.)
Deep in a heart more constricted than that of the Grinch, Trump knows that the perceptible, acknowledged substance of others, whether met in business, politics, or culture, will never be his; he will never measure up. And measurement is a big deal with him. He lacks the intellect, the wit, the grace – let alone the style! -- to manage in those circles whose embrace he covets. (Does anyone recall his fawning remarks to the Clintons on the day of his first Inauguration, avowing across a room somewhere in the Capitol his deep respect for “these two people”, as Bill smirked knowingly and ‘Hil’ looked daggers so sharp as to castrate the POTUS with one swipe?) He will never find a place to rest, a love to hold and be held by. He slithers, coils, hisses, strikes, slithers away, re-coils (evidence the tariff debacle). Those reptilian defenses are crude, but effective. Reptiles, however, don’t throw their food at walls. That is the action of a warm-blooded, frustrated mammal.
Like so many others, I feel your pain, Roy. But I fear that, for the reasons I’ve given, we’re stuck for a long haul.
You and me and everyone else who reads this, Roy. GO THE FUCK AWAY PERMANENTLY AND MAKE AMERICA TRULY GREAT AGAIN!
And yes, I was shouting.
You and me both, brother. Unfortunately, his handlers are even more repellent and much less befuddled.
Umm - just so we are clear, his wife DOES NOT dote on him. She always looks like she can't stand the sight of him. She does not live with him. Tax ayers pay for her to be flown in from NY or Palm Beach so she can make an occasional appearance with or without him.
Definition of dote: be extremely and uncritically fond of. Melania only dotes on Barron! At least one Trump is gone most of the time
Sometimes I want to cry. I think about my wonderful history/political science teacher who taught us about democracy and the U.S. constitution. She would be shocked and heartbroken, as we all are.
Which one of the Marx brothers was it who said that there are times in history when people lose sight of their interests and fools and charlatans come to power? … Must’ve been Karl, because Groucho would not have allowed for any halcyon days of sanity, only differences of degree, perhaps.
As you know, Roy, William Faulkner created a character, Flem Snopes, who was a superbly talented backwoods con artist. His schemes even fooled some ordinarily sensible, constitutionally skeptical people. Donald Trump makes me think of Faulkner’s description of Flem, as so cagey that he never even told himself what he was up to when lying in bed, alone, in the dark of the moon.
Trump, however, is not quite as accomplished as Flem Snopes. Flem looked for monetary gain. Trump does as well, of course, but Flem didn’t need validation, adulation, much less redemption, any of those intangibles of human striving the lack of which, I’m convinced, gnaw at Trump’s self-esteem, that eat it away to a crumbly residue that has to be puffed up and sprayed stiff again in those wee X-hours. He never escapes the loser status he so abhors; it’s what he doesn’t tell himself lying alone in the dark of the moon, exhausted by the expenditure of psychic energy. That’s what makes for the pouches under the eyes.
He is one of those rare people who are able to effectively lie not only to others but to himself; this is the ‘superpower’ that keeps him going and his MAGA supporters enthralled, as well as significant numbers of the Congress. We are all prone to self-delusion. I’m reluctant to bring up a German philosopher at this time, but think of Nietzsche’s aphorism: 'Memory tells me I have done this; pride tells me I have not; eventually pride wins'. A sleepless conscience, like a slow acid drip, can eat holes in our sanity, etch lines in the face we present to the world. Only euthanize the conscience and the presentation becomes flawless--in theory, at least. A little hair spray, a bit of tanning gel ….
Trump’s mind, at some critical point, probably under the tutelage of Roy Cohn, defaulted to endless prevarication as not only style, but substance. For him, this is necessity; even if he desired to escape the world of falsehood, he could not; admission of anything resembling ‘truth’, past, present, or future, would reduce his stature in his own eyes as well as his public’s, and it would be a deflation as rapid and thorough as that of the Wicked Witch of the West. (There are many who would pay good money to see this.)
Deep in a heart more constricted than that of the Grinch, Trump knows that the perceptible, acknowledged substance of others, whether met in business, politics, or culture, will never be his; he will never measure up. And measurement is a big deal with him. He lacks the intellect, the wit, the grace – let alone the style! -- to manage in those circles whose embrace he covets. (Does anyone recall his fawning remarks to the Clintons on the day of his first Inauguration, avowing across a room somewhere in the Capitol his deep respect for “these two people”, as Bill smirked knowingly and ‘Hil’ looked daggers so sharp as to castrate the POTUS with one swipe?) He will never find a place to rest, a love to hold and be held by. He slithers, coils, hisses, strikes, slithers away, re-coils (evidence the tariff debacle). Those reptilian defenses are crude, but effective. Reptiles, however, don’t throw their food at walls. That is the action of a warm-blooded, frustrated mammal.
Like so many others, I feel your pain, Roy. But I fear that, for the reasons I’ve given, we’re stuck for a long haul.
Perfection.