Tuesday, August 28, 2018
"John McCain."
It seems as though the outpouring of eulogies for John McCain is secretly driven by –– what else ––animus towards Trump. They're saying what a great American McCain was as though every word is an awful insult to Trump. Every kind word is a nail in Trump's coffin –– or at least in his leg.
People love the double-whammy of appearing to be respectful and grieving when also getting to shaft the Pres.
By the way I still can't believe that Donald Trump is the President of the United States.
People want to say, "Trump killed McCain! There, I said what everyone else is thinking, I said it aloud! It was Trump that killed him!"
I felt it too when Aretha Franklin died. It was all the CNN pundits could do not to say, "Fuckin' Trump!"
In other news they say that Doug Cowie has officially applied to have the address of his flat in Archway changed to "The London Think Tank and Archive for John McCain Studies." It is unknown whether the Royal Mail will comply with this nonsensical but obviously heartfelt request.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
"Eight Is the Magic Number."
On CNN last night two news items broke simultaneously:–– Paul Manafort was convicted on eight counts, and Cohen surrendered and took eight lashes for sins against the Republic. My wife gripped her fists and cheered. It was like when Obama won the election. I was more jaded about it.
"This is a turning point in history," remarked one of CNN's knowing ones. This would carry greater weight perhaps if they didn't apply it to sundry occurrences on a daily basis, if not an hourly one. Either they are given to hyperbole or we are living in a heightened age.
Could be both.
(I was in a hospital in LA a couple of years back, being prepped for ear surgery. I was having tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums –– those self-same holes previously bored permanently into my eardrums using lasers by ingenious doctors in New York years earlier.)
(There was something of an East Coast–West Coast divergence of opinion. I don't say it was an inter-coastal war but my LA doctor pronounced the practice of his Eastern brethren barbaric. He referred to the time it had happened as though it were the dim Dark Ages when he chuckled and said, "They loved lasers then. They thought everything could be solved with lasers." I was actually passed around quite roughly like a common wanton, a sort of Barnum incroyable for the edification and amusement of medical students visiting the ENT wing in those days. I remember one lady doctor, a specialist on the ear who ironically was a very poor listener, asking a young naif if she would like to look closely into the zone of scarified trauma within my "shell likes". The girl backed away –– she shrank back –– shaking her head in horror just at the thought of it.)
(And as I went through all the preliminary processes one of the lady nurses told me that eight was a lucky number in Chinese numerology. 'Yes, I'm really lucky," I said, waiting to have as I said tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums.)
That was six thousand miles away and two years ago –– wonder why I even mentioned it actually –– it's not like I'm getting paid by the word –– and now here I was, drool cup in hand, hearing through –– aye –– admittedly imperfect ears, the verdict against Trump's hench flunkies. CNN's anchors kept interrupting their pundits because new footage was rolling in. Wolf even cut off the great Toobin in his Connecticut retreat.
They had a shot of the front of the courthouse where Cohen had just sung like a canary. A cluster of microphones was all, and everyday New Yorkers going past on their way home. Perhaps to a bar, perhaps to Grand Central for the commute to Long Island. Westchester. Connecticut. Points west. Yonkers. All out for Bronxville. Suddenly Wolf became excited because Michael Cohen emerged from the courthouse and swiftly darted off to the left. His right, our left. He dashed into the crowd and disappeared. I had a premonition –– the scene recalled to me Lee Harvey Oswald being led out in front of Jack Ruby –– RFK's ill-fated trip through the hotel kitchens –– it had that air of the ungluablich that precedes political assassinations.
"Somebody's going to shoot him," I told my wife. "Trump's going to shoot him –– on Fifth Avenue! It's finally going to happen!"
Good joke but it was at a downtown federal courthouse and Fifth Avenue only starts above Washington Square, about twenty blocks north.
Still I wonder if that's how Trump will signal his resignation –– by shooting somebody on Fifth Avenue. It's like –– yes –– the gun in the Chekhov play.
I used to think that that was quite a learned reference –– read it in a Phillip Roth novel I think –– but it actually cropped up in an issue of Squirrel Girl recently.
"This is a turning point in history," remarked one of CNN's knowing ones. This would carry greater weight perhaps if they didn't apply it to sundry occurrences on a daily basis, if not an hourly one. Either they are given to hyperbole or we are living in a heightened age.
Could be both.
(I was in a hospital in LA a couple of years back, being prepped for ear surgery. I was having tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums –– those self-same holes previously bored permanently into my eardrums using lasers by ingenious doctors in New York years earlier.)
(There was something of an East Coast–West Coast divergence of opinion. I don't say it was an inter-coastal war but my LA doctor pronounced the practice of his Eastern brethren barbaric. He referred to the time it had happened as though it were the dim Dark Ages when he chuckled and said, "They loved lasers then. They thought everything could be solved with lasers." I was actually passed around quite roughly like a common wanton, a sort of Barnum incroyable for the edification and amusement of medical students visiting the ENT wing in those days. I remember one lady doctor, a specialist on the ear who ironically was a very poor listener, asking a young naif if she would like to look closely into the zone of scarified trauma within my "shell likes". The girl backed away –– she shrank back –– shaking her head in horror just at the thought of it.)
(And as I went through all the preliminary processes one of the lady nurses told me that eight was a lucky number in Chinese numerology. 'Yes, I'm really lucky," I said, waiting to have as I said tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums.)
That was six thousand miles away and two years ago –– wonder why I even mentioned it actually –– it's not like I'm getting paid by the word –– and now here I was, drool cup in hand, hearing through –– aye –– admittedly imperfect ears, the verdict against Trump's hench flunkies. CNN's anchors kept interrupting their pundits because new footage was rolling in. Wolf even cut off the great Toobin in his Connecticut retreat.
They had a shot of the front of the courthouse where Cohen had just sung like a canary. A cluster of microphones was all, and everyday New Yorkers going past on their way home. Perhaps to a bar, perhaps to Grand Central for the commute to Long Island. Westchester. Connecticut. Points west. Yonkers. All out for Bronxville. Suddenly Wolf became excited because Michael Cohen emerged from the courthouse and swiftly darted off to the left. His right, our left. He dashed into the crowd and disappeared. I had a premonition –– the scene recalled to me Lee Harvey Oswald being led out in front of Jack Ruby –– RFK's ill-fated trip through the hotel kitchens –– it had that air of the ungluablich that precedes political assassinations.
"Somebody's going to shoot him," I told my wife. "Trump's going to shoot him –– on Fifth Avenue! It's finally going to happen!"
Good joke but it was at a downtown federal courthouse and Fifth Avenue only starts above Washington Square, about twenty blocks north.
Still I wonder if that's how Trump will signal his resignation –– by shooting somebody on Fifth Avenue. It's like –– yes –– the gun in the Chekhov play.
I used to think that that was quite a learned reference –– read it in a Phillip Roth novel I think –– but it actually cropped up in an issue of Squirrel Girl recently.
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