I didn't understand why Don Lemon called FBI Director James Comey "Big Jim" until yesterday, when TV showed footage of him sauntering into the hearing, verily towering above all the other participants like they were Japanese people scrabbling about on the Tokyo subway. The man is six foot eight. It was a stalwart performance Big Jim gave, fending off the seething little southern Republicans who wanted to berate him with bulging eyes and tense jaws (who the fump is "Trey Gowdy" after all?), and I almost forgive him for handing the election to Trump in the first place.
My only other comment on Big Jim Comey is this. It's:
Has anybody noted (the obvious size difference notwithstanding) the Director's slight resemblance to Dr. Daniel Kane, noted expert on the Lower East Side poetry scene?
Squint and it's there.
Don't and it isn't.
Other matters. Last night Trump was busy entertaining the Iraqi prime minister, enjoying towering over him. He maybe imagined that he was six foot eight. He maybe imagined that he was Big Jim. Do you remember around the time of the inauguration, he "joked" with obvious chagrin to Comey, "You're more famous than me now Jim!"
Many a thing said in jest, Combover Don!
(I Googled "Trump how tall," and found that he is six foot two. Invokana and Melanoma are both five foot eleven apparently. I could not with comfort enjoy towering over them, pretending I was Big Jim Comey. I would have to pretend instead that I was Dr. Daniel Kane.)
("Donald Kane.")
Then I googled "Iraqi prime minister how tall" and it must be the essence of optimism, of faith in technology to hope that such a factoid has been recorded on the world wide web. His height must remain a mystery to everybody but his wife and his Savile Row tailor.
While I was watching that fifth-tier news story about Trump and the Iraqi prime minister I noticed Trump's hair again. Well how can you not notice it. It is an insult to the American flag. I said to wife, "It isn't even there. It's the exact same colour as his bald pate. It's a mirage –– a castle in Spain –– a phantasy –– a parody –– an aporia –– an absence in the body politic –– sprayed on –– a non–thing –– a lie –– a turn–off –– a discarded weave under the BQE –– a not–in–itself not–of–itself –– unglaublich." It is, as I have said earlier, without countenancing the obvious pun, a trompe l'oeil. You could get a migraine trying to make sense of it. It is a migraine.
He is in actuality a baldheaded man but through the permanent enslavement of numerous otherworldly wizards he maintains this illusion –– the weird echo –– of some hair there. The shadow of a hint of his former head of hair, a few chicken scratches on an essentially bald head –– a sketch –– notes towards a hairstyle. A few lines drawn on sideways by a madman with a ruler. His hair is like Charlie Brown's, –– crossed with Hitler's:
M.K. Price tried to comment on this site on this subject, as our tonsorial correspondent in England. He was frustrated by the apparatus so forwarded me his remarks via email. I quite cavalierly presume that he still considers his comments apt for public consumption, and they follow:
23 years ago a barber told me that the hair on top of my head was not what he called "real hair". The thick blonde horse shoe above my ears and around the back, that was "real hair", but the dry, sun bleached, thinning thatch atop was not real, and never could be, however much I cultivated it. Soon after I chopped it off and the Unreal Hair never grew back.
Donald Trump has used his money and sheer brass balls to maintain his Unreal Hair for 70 years; he represents the absolute best possible outcome for those in Unreal Hair Denial and he still looks terrible. No man can defeat Unreal Hair.
Pricey, this wasn't the Fat Barber in Canterbury, was it? He used to harangue me for the fineness of my hair. Like the stagecoach robber Black Bart, the "PO–8" who used to leave doggerel verse at his crime scenes, and who cursed the "fine haired sons of bitches" who trod on his "corns."
I'd visit the barber's with naive dreams of a certain haircut, even a photograph pathetically gripped in my hand, and I would leave with a mohawk because he had butchered me so badly, whittled me down to a nub. I spent most of the 1993–4 season with a mohawk, my default look. In that long season, almost daily, that Mercury Rev line would come into my head on waking: "Waiting for your hair to grow." *
SO much for Donald Tripp–– that gorilla with mist on his head!
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* Note for Pedants: The album version of "Boys Peel Out" (on the excellent Boces) has the line "Waitin' for the phone to blink... prayin' for your hair to grow..." However, the EP Bronx Cheer has a version called "Suzanne Peels Out" where they do indeed say "Waiting for your hair to grow."
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