Watching Donald Trump lurch from erratic to downright despicable behavior, I find myself shaking my head in dismay, but am I surprised? By the Donald?
The man is the very picture of consistency. No matter what the circumstances or stakes, when the chips are down, Donald will be, well, Donald.
His demeanor reminds me of Orson Welles’ favourite parable, the one about the scorpion and the frog. I’m sure you’re familiar with it but, just in case, here it is, recited by the Master himself:
The allusion, methinks, is fairly obvious.
Whether it’s shaming an ex-beauty queen or sparring with the bereaved parents of a dead American serviceman, the Donald constantly gives the impression that he just can’t help himself.
Stung by his poor performance in the first presidential debate, the alleged billionaire had to lash out at somebody. What was the name of that gal Hillary referenced in one of her tiresome talking points? Bingo! It’s three in the morning, can’t sleep, guts are acting up, I’ll have a go at her…
That such a mindset is hardly, er, presidential, doesn’t really enter into it. Cultivating a statesmanlike persona is difficult when you’re continually resorting to groin shots and head butts, biting in the clinches. Not sporting, you say? F**k you, pal! You don’t like it, grow thicker skin. Where’s your sense of humour?
This is America, after all: brash, disrespectful, rude. The bad boy of the international scene. USA, dude. Love it or leave it.
Other commentators have described the current poisonous state of American politics, the toxic effect money and the access to power it buys has had on democratic institutions.
The mere fact that a man with the history and background of Donald Trump is one of the last two individuals contesting for the highest office in the land says a lot about the “state of the union”—bad, very bad indeed.
The notion that somehow, through some distortion of reality I cannot comprehend, there are millions of salt of the earth, working class citizens out there actually rooting for the Donald, intending to (God spare their immortal souls) vote for the man, come November 8th, bespeaks of a spirit of profound helplessness and despair present in the American psyche. A drowning man grasping the point of a sword and all that.
But, maybe, and this is just a thought, there’s a method to Trump’s madness. I’m not talking about some bizarre strategy to get himself elected and never mind what the pundits and spin doctors say. I’m proposing that his frequent lapses in judgement, the many times he’s gone “off reservation”, picked fights when he didn’t have to, are actually part of a careful campaign of self-sabotage.
Hear me out.
I believe that as far as the Donald’s concerned, the race is everything and the thought of taking the oath of office, assuming the burdens of being the President of the United States, bores the living hell out of him. Can you imagine D.T. enduring an endless state dinner on behalf of a potentate from some African “republic” or South American kleptocracy, trying to make small talk, grinning through the ordeal?
The mind reels.
No, the Donald has had his fun, his ego boost, but the game is starting to lose his interest. He’s done wonders for the Trump trademark, of course, and maybe that was part of his clever plan all along. When he loses, he goes back to his business empire (its true worth still very much in doubt), cashing in on his heightened media profile. Thanks to his Fox-fuelled campaign, he has successfully climbed and blustered and elbowed his way to the top of the celebrity food chain, assuring himself a place on the “A” list for years to come. Trump Hotels, Trump Casinos filled to capacity with punters hoping to catch a glimpse of that famous orange swatch of hair, ringed by bodyguards, bound for the penthouse, deigning to look neither right nor left.
“That man could have been president,” they’ll whisper among themselves.
As if it would have been a good thing.
I’ve gone through my lists and compiled a roster of favourites–difficult, in many cases, to settle on a definitive order, impose a hierarchy of excellence. Every single selection brilliant in its own right and worthy of inclusion:
Bleeding Edge (Thomas Pynchon)
Purity (Jonathan Franzen)
Stoner (John Williams)
Fat City (Leonard Gardner)
The Book of Aron (Jim Shepard)
Number9Dream (David Mitchell)
Something Rich and Strange (Ron Rash) Short Stories
Gaps (Bohumil Hrabal)
Young Skins (Colin Barrett) Short Stories
The Normals (David Gilbert)
Payback (Gert Ledig)
As Far as the Eye Can See (Robert Bausch)
Cain’s Book (Alexander Trocchi)
The Commissariate of Enlightenment (Ken Kalfus)
Strong Motion (Jonathan Franzen)
All That Outer Space Allows (Ian Sales)
Highrise (J.G. Ballard)
Three Men in a Boat * (Jerome K. Jerome)
The Price of Inequality (Joseph Stiglitz)
The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Ilan Pappé)
Theodore Rex (Edmund Morris)
Colonel Roosevelt (Edmund Morris)
The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible (Charles Eisenstein)
Werner Herzog: Conversations (with Paul Cronin)
Orson Welles’ Last Movie: The Making of “The Other Side of the Wind” (Josh Karp)
Arms: The Culture and Credo of the Gun (A.J. Somerset)
My Father and Myself (J.R. Ackerley)
When in Disgrace (Budd Boetticher)
“Hard to Be a God” (Directed by Aleksei German)
“Amores Perros” * (Dir. Alejandro Inarritu)
“Leviathan” (Dir. Andrey Zuyagintsev)
“Sightseers” (Dir. Ben Wheatley)
“Valerie and Her Week of Wonders” (Dir. Jaromil Jires)
“Blue Ruin” (Dir. Jeremy Saulnier)
“Winter Sleep” (Dir. Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
“Gomorrah” (Dir. Matteo Garrone)
“Amarcord” (Dir. Federico Fellini)
“Boyhood” (Dir. Richard Linklater)
“L’il QuinQuin” (Dir. Bruno Dumont)
“Time Crimes” (Dir. Nacho Vigalondo)
“The Devil’s Backbone” (Dir. Guillermo del Toro)
“The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser” (Dir. Werner Herzog)
“What We Do in the Shadows” (Dir. Taika Waititi; Jermaine Clement)
“Berberian Sound Studio” * (Dir. Peter Strickland)
“2001: A Space Odyssey” * (Dir. Stanley Kubrick)
“Chinatown” * (Dir. Roman Polanski)
“Closely Watched Trains” (Dir. Jiri Menzel)
“Jodorowsky’s ‘Dune'” (Dir. Frank Pavich)
“Wild Tales” (Dir. Damian Szifron)
“Satyricon” (Dir. Federico Fellini)
“Ex Machina” (Dir. Alex Garland)
“Land of Silence and Darkness” (Dir. Werner Herzog)
“Stroszek” (Dir. Werner Herzog)
“Nightcrawler” (Dir. Dan Gilroy)
“Her” (Dir. Spike Jonze)
“Maps to the Stars” (Dir. David Cronenberg)
PLAYLIST (Musical Favourites)
Tom Morello “The Nightwatchman” (World Wide Protest Songs)
Ty Segall “Manipulator”
Porcupine Tree “Up the Down Staircase”
Pere Ubu “Raygun Suitcase”
The Stooges “Raw Power”
Paul Banks “The Base”
Merle Haggard “I Am What I Am”
J.D. Crowe and the New South “Lefty’s Old Guitar”
Best Comedy: Bill Hicks “Salvation: Live at Oxford”
“Rick & Morty” (Seasons 1 & 2)
“True Detective” (Series 1)
“The Mighty Boosh” (Series 1-3)
- Denotes “Previously Read” or “Previously Viewed”
You’re the kind of person who hunts through Google or Yahoo entertainment sidebars looking for “Jennifer Aniston Heats Up Red Carpet” or “Miley Cyrus Grinds Her Way to Adulthood”. You can’t wait to find out the latest poop with the Kardashians and have a sick fascination with the British royal family that borders on obsession.
What is it with you and celebrities? Why do you instinctively reach for a tabloid the way a chimpanzee is drawn to a scatter of dimes?
Take a gander around, look at the culture you and your monkey-brain kind have created with your stupid, acquisitive, wide-eyed ways.
Sequels and spin-offs and comic book adaptations, because your minds are too scattered to grasp original concepts. Bad, derivative art, audio/visual porn, easy to assimilate, just as quickly forgotten.
Here’s a question for you:
Instead of endlessly trolling the internet for a glimpse of Jennifer Aniston’s rather mundane aureole, why aren’t you:
—working on a cure for ovarian cancer or coming up with a new, revolutionary branch of cosmology?
—concocting a plan to end the stalemate in the Middle East?
—devising an all-inclusive religion that will help humankind attain its destiny in the stars?
Yes, indeed. You’re the sort of inane, pathetic asshole who will happily pony up fifteen bucks to see any piece of crap movie and rationalize it afterward: “Yeah, I knew it was just fluff…” Your NetFlix queue would make a twelve year old blush in terms of its sheer vapidity. “Transformers 3”, “Fast & Furious 6″…how about: I/Q. 68.
At what point do you draw the line? What, and I’m deadly serious, is too stupid even for your egregiously short attention span and under-developed forebrain?
How far would you go for a look, the most fleeting glance, at a celeb’s nether regions?
And how much would you be dumb enough to pay?