I’m not upset about Donald Trump. What would be the point? Everybody is upset all the time and there’s just no point in it anymore.
Nobody cares because nobody can hear the voices of all the other upset people because everybody is always too upset while expressing their hurt and anger to hear other people expressing hurt and anger. All this anger and upsetness is mostly expressed on social media and in response to stories published by that other media we used to call The News.
Pithy comments and legitimate questions on social media sites about what exactly is going on in the Country are largely met with hostile responses from equally upset social media participants who find all the other participants mostly stupid or racist or afflicted with one of several new social diseases like Republitardism or Democrapism and surely the worst one, Libtardism. What could be worse? The last one sounds fatal.
Anyway, my point is that I’m not upset about Trump. What’s the point? If I were upset about anything Trumpish, it would be more about why we are even talking about him, or to him, or including him in any kind of political debate. He’s not a real candidate. He’s got zero skin in this game. When he drops out it will make no difference to him or his empire. He’ll still be a multi-billionaire who needs nothing—from anybody or any political party. His campaign expenses will barely be a blip on his accountant’s radar. He’s insanely rich now; he’ll be insanely rich when he doesn’t get the party nod. Nothing changes. It’s just another competition and means absolutely nothing to him or anybody else. He’s just playing. Something to do for a minute. Let’s move on, shall we?
Don’t’ get me wrong—I don’t take competitiveness lightly. Extremely competitive people are often vindictive as well–as vindictive as they are competitive. Look at our local candidate Milton Wolf. He nearly handed the U.S. Senate to Harry Reid—just to be a rotten little spoiled-sport-shit. He did a lot of damage within the party.
Trump is likely to act a bit like Wolf. It’s entirely possible the Trumpster will back the opposition when he doesn’t get the GOP nomination and if things continue as they have so far with Hilary Clinton’s campaign it could be additionally disastrous for her to have The Donald on her team. Her perpetual bid for high office is circling the ole’ shitter again,
making room for Joe Biden on the big ass-err donkey ticket.
Scratch that thought.
Clinton is smart though and she’ll humor Trump while she mostly ignores him. Just guessing, her people have already greased the wheels for his inevitable switch-a-roosie to her own or the other party. Talking points are all neatly in place, even now.
Clinton certainly won’t answer for Trump’s enormous contributions to her campaign anymore than she’s answered for Benghazi or Vince Foster or Mary Mahoney or Ron Brown or Jerry Park or…well the list is long and she still walks free. Trump can’t possibly hurt her. She’s faced way bigger trouble than Trump. Besides, she knows the game well. She’s been on auto-pilot for so long now in her march to be the first woman president I’m not even sure if she knows she’s in the actual race yet.
And then of course we have Bernie Sanders. I’m not upset about him either. I don’t even know what to say about the Bern. Every time I see his face on TV or online my
mouth falls open of its own accord but no sound comes out. Sometimes I hear a faint huh? from inside my head but no other words will form after it. He’s like a shadow boxer punching at some deeply buried fear in most voters and a lusty hope in a handful of others. Just impotent really. Like those weird dreams we all have about flying naked with our grandmother’s old cat while we eat gravy-laden tulips in the clouds. Seems so symbolic but you can never really figure out what it means. Courting insanity maybe? I don’t know. At least Trump provides comic relief. There’s always something to laugh at when Trump shows up. Even when he doesn’t talk.
Trump’s popularity can’t be ignored completely, I guess. He’s ahead in hundreds of polls. Nobody actually knows where these handy polls originate or who is voting for him but his controversial stances on immigration and …. let’s see…what’s the other one…yeah, immigration I guess, well, it’s a steaming hot topic these days. At least the real candidates will have a good sampling of what the party base thinks is important. He’s been a good windsock if nothing else.
The big threat is Trump declaring as an independent. Somebody in the party will have to circumvent that because it’s a dangerous idea. That does worry me a little. Trump could easily be the Ross Perot of this election and Independent candidates are how Clintons win the Whitehouse.
I Came across a wonderful storyteller and her blog, Nutsrok. This sweet story about her adventures in a broken-down old camper made me smile and think back on a simpler time in my own life:
Fifty dollars would have bought more than two week’s supply of groceries. Though he gave Mother no end of grief about her extravagant spending at the grocery store, he wasn’t short-sighted and stingy and saw the great potential in this bus-camper. Read here…
Five years ago I visited Mickey’s Surplus in Kansas City and found a sale on Carhartt overalls. I didn’t yet know the full impact of the Carhartt brand but I knew it was a pretty big deal because of a giant family riff some years earlier over a particular Carhartt jacket I’d found in a closet and given to the wrong male family member who procrastinated about returning the jacket when the actual owner turned up and recommended the jacket be given back. It took a while for that little deal to die down.
I found some brand-new Carhartt overalls on sale for $17.00 at Mickey’s and I thought…hmmm…Christmas is coming up. So, I dug through the giant pile of canvas pants until I found two pair in the right sizes, one for my husband and one for my son-in-law.
My husband was almost tickled pink over the outfit and would have been completely pink had the overalls been the preferred tan color, but, the only one in his size was black. “They’ll be so hot,” he complained. Still, he could barely hide his nearly spiritual reaction to the pants and he put them on immediately. He still mentions how hot they are every time he wears them, even five years later. He’s a chronic complainer so I let it go. I’ve seen him actually caress the folded overalls and smile when he puts them back in his dresser. It’s a strange thing.
Right after I bought the overalls, my son-in-law left the Country for Official Immigration Business with the Department of Homeland Security in Juarez—kind of a big deal there. He missed Christmas at my house so I put the overalls where I put everything else that I don’t know what to do with—in the basement, that is, and forgot about them the very second I switched off the light and closed the door. That’s how I do things. Stash and forget. I once had something like six bottles of catsup in the pantry because I kept forgetting that I’d already bought some.
I never thought again about the overalls until the other day when I was down there looking for something and saw them on a shelf. The size of the pants is what threw me. Nobody I know wears a 36×28. The only man short enough is Manny, my son-in-law, but a 36 would be way too big for him. I tossed them on my sewing table to remind myself to ask my husband about them because not only did I forget that I’d stashed them in the basement five years ago, I’d forgotten where they came from or who they belonged to and that I’d actually purchased them my own self.
Before I made it back upstairs, my husband came down for something and spotted the Carhartts on my table. He literally stormed across the room, grabbed the overalls and demanded to know who they belonged to. While we were racking our brains, and I’m not kidding about this, he was running his hand over the fabric like it was some kind of domesticated lion, rare and precious. He kept glancing at the pants with what looked to me like lust.
Between us, we pieced the story back together about where the overalls came from and I flashed back to that fateful day when, for reasons still unknown, I wandered into an army surplus store and stumbled onto a giant pile of deeply discounted Carhartts.
Once I’d remembered the whole thing, I was anxious for my son-in-law to come for a visit so that I could give him the five-year-late Christmas gift. When he arrived is when I witnessed a most profound confirmation that there is something akin to Catnip for men sewn into these heavy, scratchy, manly pants.
Manny is Mexican. Let’s face it, and I don’t care how PC anybody is, Mexican men are manly. Unless they admit to being gay, and per Manny, they never do that unless they become Americans. I can see all kinds of people being offended here but that’s just the way it is in my house. Nobody’s judging anybody, I’m just saying, Manny is Mexican.
He is a man of few words and physically reserved. We don’t hug Manny. He’s not affectionate, except with his children. He is sweet and kind and generous with my grandchildren and this is the reason I love him like a real son. After a few beers he’ll let me steal a hug and he’ll even smile about it, but he won’t hug me back. Except he did that one time—when he got back from his trip to Juarez. He hugged me back, right there in the driveway in front of everybody. Ordinarily though, he’s unflappable. He doesn’t react and there are no histrionics with Manny. He’s as cool as a banana pepper.
He’d actually been at the house twice before I remembered to give him the pants. When my husband saw them still draped across the chair he was stunned, “Why didn’t you give Manny the Carhartts????” I forgot. Is there a pattern here? Anyway, Manny showed up again the next day and my husband, grinning like a proud parent, handed the pants over while I explained how I’d bought them right before that big important meeting he’d attended in Juarez, and then I’d forgotten all about them.
There was a subtle softening in Manny’s face. He reached for the pants like they were his long-lost bicycle from back home, or his first soccer ball or his first girlfriend (similar affection, I assume). The pants remained folded for a minute as he held them horizontal, one hand on top, and yes, he caressed them, as his father-in-law had done. He put the pants on and adjusted the suspenders, snapped the millions of snaps on the legs, flattened the pockets and stroked the fabric.
“Look,” he said quietly. “They fit just right.”
I asked Manny if he thought the Carhartts would come in handy at work. “Oh,” he whispered, “Yessssss.”
Then, and I shit you not, he giggled.
It’s universal, I suspect. I can imagine professional suit and tie types wearing a pair of tan colored Carhartt overalls with the same kind of oozy satisfaction my working class men feel when they think of theirs. Carhartt overalls are like a wearable man-cave. Manly. Weird.
As some of you are aware, my website, bzirkworld.com, was inadvertently deleted. The blame for this technical SNAFU is primarily on me. Godaddy.com is not without fault on this, but in the end, I could have avoided the whole incident had I been more attentive to the endless barrage of misleading emails I receive from the Big Website B
5 Reasons You Should Leave GoDaddy:
This includes buying domain names users search for and then inflating the value of these domains when users return to purchase them so GoDaddy makes a larger profit on the transaction.- Forbes.com
I’m working furiously to restore the site with my backed-up content and will have it completed in coming weeks, however, all the brilliant comments and encouragements from my
readers family and friends are gone. Forever.
I should probably not admit how devastated I am about this because it will reveal how shallow and self-absorbed I am, but, I’ve been sick about it. Really. I’m that needy. I’m even sadder about losing the hateful remarks from the haters. Those little quips make my day. Really. I’m that shallow.
Anyway, for my devoted readers, I’ll be back. Piece by painful piece.
I don’t talk politics much anymore. I’ve been tempted all day to check in with the Gowdy-Clinton affair but I haven’t. It’s just another Washington shitshow. What’s the point?
I’m not looking forward to the inevitable shooting or brutal terrorist attack that will distract Americans in coming days from the House of Cards’ characters we’ve elected to entertain us in our Nation’s capital.
And, I dread the inevitable Photoshopped caricatures of Clinton with her wrinkles made deeper and the circles under her tired 70-year-old eyes made puffier—as if seeing her with her sagging jowls and seething expressions makes her less likable or less credible. This is what we do to our politicians, women in particular. We make them uglier. Because that makes them more wrong. More bad. Bigger liars. Easier to hate.
I have considered in the last few days, prior to the Clinton inquisition, whether anybody actually believes, or has ever believed anything Hillary says, or has ever said. No. That’s what I think. Nobody believes her and it just doesn’t seem to make any difference. That’s why I’m tuned out.
Millions of people—two or three of whom are friends of mine, want her elected to the most powerful office in the world…if you can even believe this…because she owns a pair of breasts. Is it just me here? People have actually admitted, out loud, that they believe that, “we need a woman president.” There is even a suggestion, hard as it may be to completely understand this concept, that she deserves the office.
I don’t need no stinking memes. I couldn’t possibly feel less affection for Hilary Clinton. She’s a heartless, bloodless political robot, the likes of which I’ve no male equivalent to compare. I know there must be one but I can’t think of who it is because men politicians are better actors. They’ve had more practice. But she’s right out there front and center and barely hides her ambition, her only goal in life being the holy grail she’s chased relentlessly and unashamedly and with barely a timeout for weddings and funerals and grandchildren, for nearly fifty years.
It’s right there within reach now and in spite of Benghazi, in spite of Vince Foster, in spite of Whitewater, in spite of affecting insulting accents and racist dialects, in spite of orchestrating the destructive vilification of women who blew the whistle on her despicable and openly adulterous husband, in spite of anything, it’s likely she will finally reach the gold ring this time.
Hillary will never be indicted. Clintons just aren’t indicted. There is no standard low enough to indict a Clinton. The media tried for years to recreate the Camelot of the Kennedys for Bill and Hillary. The visual was just too hard to get past but in this one way, they’ve succeeded. The Clintons are Teflon, just like the Kennedys.
Still, I was tempted to tune in and watch Gowdy give her the ole one-two punches like an old Batman episode. “Did you know you were lying about the video? POW! Did you watch as Stevens was brutalized? ZAP! Did you ignore calls for help? ZOWIE!!” I can imagine that he let her have it with his little uptight comic book villain face and pompadour-lite hairdo. A real feel-good episode of Political Hot Seat. Look at him go! In recent years, however, it’s become less and less satisfying to watch a Clinton squirm. It’s just all so pointless. Nothing hurts them.
I made an offhand comment to my daughter this evening about how our country is in such a shambles. My eight year old grandson, standing away from us, swung around wide-eyed and said, “Our Country is in a shambles??” He looked terrified. I could have slapped my own face. We reassured him, naturally, that everything is fine. It’s all okay. America is doing great. No shambles here. I felt like such a liar. I could barely look at him.
I’d like to personally thank whomever it was in our splendiferous local government that installed these little samples of pure genius. For nearly one hundred years drivers have been scratching their heads and asking why it is they can’t see very far down the road. Now we know.