Politics – Page 33 – Life on the Wicked Stage: Act 3

Add Freedom of Speech To The Casualty List

The casualty list is growing in the wake of Trumpty Dumpty’s pants on fire attempts to save himself. The latest is Freedom of Speech, so called, and enshrined in the First Amendment. Apparently that’s the current defense the billowing buffoon is going to wield. Most buffoons would know better.

Selfimmolation2 Much of the American Catechism has already been rendered obsolete. Apparently Trump and his defenders think there’s no holy of holies too holy to not poke holes in. The gutter has never had so much flowing through it as they snipe and snip at whatever they can in desperation. Desperation has never worn well.

Sure, Jack Smith headed that off in the early parts of the latest indcitment. Sure, most thinking humans understand what’s going on. Though, there’s apparently not enough Immodium in the world to plug this free flowing Freedom of Speech diarrhea from spewing from what used to look like mouths.

These knuckleheds surely don’t seem to understand that they’re soiling themselves with humilating stains that aren’t going to come out in the wash. Their ignoble profession of politics is becoming more ignoble by the moment. By the time we’re done with this shitshow there’s not going to be enough mouths worth talking out of both sides with. Frankly it stinks.

It would be comical if the stakes weren’t so high. But they are.

And they’ve got company on the casualty list. The Gray Lady apparently thinks there’s a “both sides” argument that can be made between lies and free speech. Take this headline and article: Trump Election Charges Set Up Clash of Lies Versus Free Speech. Set aside the ridiculous headline. Set aside the both-siding. Focus instead on this:

Throughout his careers in business and politics, he has sought to bend reality to his own needs, with lies ranging from relatively small ones, like claiming he was of Swedish and not German descent when trying to rent to Jewish tenants in New York City, to proclaiming that President Barack Obama was not born in the United States.

If you repeat something enough, he has told confidants over time, people will believe it.

By and large, this trait has served him well, helping him bluster and bluff his way through bankruptcies and then to the White House and through crises once he was there: personal scandals, two impeachments and a special counsel’s investigation when he was in office.

For the few folks reading this who might claim to be in the uninitiated, think for a moment which newspaper of record in which big city that prints all the news that’s supposedly fit to print is now essentially admitting that they’ve been content and willing to print lies masquerading as news. That’s a lot of newsprint to hoist on any petard.

Remember this is a journalism outfit that argued over and over that they couldn’t use the word “lie” to describe the decaying orange turd’s behavior because they couldn’t be inside someone’s head. But, hey, Jack Smith has said it in an indictment. So we can too!

Look, when you’re in the middle of a car wreck, an avalanche, or running from a tsunami, it’s tough to understand what’s happening moment to moment. I get it. But folks, we’ve seen whatever you want to call this cataclysmic moment coming for quite some time. Knee-jerking cultists aside, the fact that you’d expect better reactions from elected officials and journalists defies that expectation.

Self-immolation has never burned so bright.

There’s A Corner. And Trump Has Backed Us Into It

Forget all of the somber, obligatory admonitons that Trump’s third indictment is a sad day for America. Forget all the “innocent until proven guilty” catechisms. Yes, both are true. But set them aside. They would be worth holding dear if these were ordinary times. These times they are not ordinary.

Desecratedflag

Trump has backed himself into a corner and taken the United States, all its systems, institutions, and people with him. After all the posturing, all the lying, and all the bullshit, there’s only one way out for the Donald and that’s straight ahead like the wounded beast he is. Otherwise the walls defining the corner will slam shut on him like a book. And us with him. Either way we’re the collateral damage.

This moment Trump has brought us to is consuming our body poliitc like a flesh-eating bacteria. Necrotizing tissue as it goes, it has already left wounds and scars that will never heal. It will gobble up more. Our political and judicial systems have been rendered to the point of irrelevancy. The media has been over exposed as the leeching parasite it always was, content to slurp up any crumbs and drippings the host leaves in its wake. Churches and religious denominations have been cannibalized from within. Family and friendship bonds have been gnawed down to the marrow.

And yet we keep hoping, praying, and, dare I say, pretending that Special Prosecutor Jack Smith is going to bring this despicable criminal to justice so we can turn a corner and find our way back.

There’s no back to find our way to, regardless of the legal outcomes. Frankly there’s no back to find our way to even if somehow this monster suddenly disappeared from the planet. The damage has been done. And I don’t think we collectively have what it takes to bridge the gaping wounds, much less comprehend them. Our political systems are incapable of stopping the slaughter of children with guns. Our spiritual institutions keep remaking foundational tenets into something unreconcilable with their founding. And we’re going to fix this?

The wounds are fresh. The pain is real. There’s a monster in our midst and it’s going to take extraordinary measures to defeat it. Nothing will be the same if we do. Nothing should be the same as we try. And if there’s any healing to come it’s not going to happen without amputations that alter the way we navigate the world.

Tom Nichols defines the situation many of us will face as we battle through these months ahead in his excellent article “This Is The Case.” This is the key paragraph:

“But after today, every American citizen who cares about the Constitution should affirm, without hesitation, that any form of association with Trump is reprehensible, that each of us will draw moral conclusions about anyone who continues to support him, and that these conclusions will guide both our political and our personal choices.”

Tough? You bet. Dangerous? Yup. But this is the moment this pitiful excuse of a man has brought us to. If you’re not ready to face the moment, the challenge, and the stakes I’m sorry for you. Know that those who’ve abandoned their senses and their place in the real world for this monster sure are. Know they’re coming. Each of us needs to be ready to stand in their way.

Iron Fisting

Rods aren’t just for fishing or catching lightning. Metaphorical and figurative rods (often made of iron) seem to be a favorite when it comes to rulers wielding strength. They’ve been around for awhile. The Bible’s Psalms 2 and later the Book of Revelation tells us that God is going to put a figurative iron rod in Jesus’ nail-pierced hand to use in smiting his enemies. There’s an old British idiom about ruling with a rod of iron. Don’t spare the cruelty if you need to make a point. Of course if you spare the rod, you spoil the child, or so says Proverbs 13. And for those who’d like to dish out a bit of up close and personal punishment there’s the ever popular ruling with an iron fist.

Right before and during the disintegration of the USSR I had the privilege to direct several productions in Russia. Omsk and Yekaterinburg to be specific. I was there as the Iron Curtain was coming down. It was a bit on the wild side to be spending time in a country going through so much upheaval. But this isn’t about that.

Vonberlichingen

It’s about the myth of the tough guy needing to wield something of iron to achieve aims and hang on to control.

On this Siberian adventure, in the middle of winter, in a closed city, we were facing creative tensions in the early going of the rehearsal process. Excitement and anxiety were abundant in just about equal measure. The Russian actors and artists were trying to get over the newness of having an American director and this American director was trying to figure out how and why things worked in their much older and storied repertory system. These were exquisitely talented artists and craftspeople. We all worked through translators. I later picked up enough Russian to run a rehearsal, but in the early going it was often comically challenging. To be honest, we were spinning our wheels a bit.

After a particularly tough morning rehearsal session with one of the leads I asked him why his work felt so tenative. I had seen him rule the stage the night before in a performance of another show, so I was a bit confused and concerned and looking for a way in. After a few moments, this marvelously talented actor, all the while avoiding my eyes and looking at the floor, said to me, “Please tell me what I must think and feel so I might do the part I am assigned.” My heart sank.

My Russian assistant director pulled me aside after that conversation. In so many words, (again, all of this was through a translator) he told me straight up that I needed to be more of a dictator and less of a director. Russian directors need to rule with an “iron fist.” The actor was right, he said. Russian actors want to be told what to do and think. They don’t know how to make choices for themselves. They want to do what the director wants and no more.

He emphasized the “iron fist” part by violently pounding his fist on a table and then holding it in my face. The translator, thought he should follow suit and also pounded the table. But instead of holding his fist in my face, he knocked the script pages onto the floor. Drama. And we were doing a musical comedy.

I understood my Russian colleague’s admonitions. Directors, like ship captains, generals, kings, queens, elected leaders, CEOs, etc… have to command to lead. They have to become the gravitational center of those who work with and for them, and in most cases against them. Not really my style, but I understand it and use it more as a tool than a method. Something about attracting more flies with honey.

Yet there was one actress in the company who seemed to thrive on having the freedom to create. She didn’t wait for direction. She just took the material and made choices. You could see in her eyes she was a bit of a firebrand. She forced those in the scenes with her to follow her lead and defined the scenes she was in. In that repertory system that was challenging. But she soared and you either went with her or took your seat while another actor playing the same part stepped up.

You could tell she wasn’t well liked in the company. I noticed she was missing the last digit on one of her fingers. Later on in the rehearsal process she confided to one of my American associates that it had been cut off in an interrogation over something her husband did. So, yeah, I guess she didn’t like being told what to do.

Again, the point here isn’t about the differences between Russian and American theatre artists or me adjusting my way of working to someone eles’s. For me it highlights the two-sided coin of human nature: the desire to be told what to do and in same breath simultaneously saying “NO.” There’s not too many of us who actually graduated beyond the terrible two’s. But some learn to set it aside or hide it. Or maybe have it knocked out of us. (Spare the rod…) Some never grow out of it.

We find ourselves in this moment with so many yearning for, and quite a few pretending to offer, biblical violent gestures and postures as the best approach to our problems. And to be honest, I’d like to take a rod of any make to quite a few heads to stop all the whining that’s become our new national pastime. (So many spoiled children.)

Granted there’s an ever-expanding sheep pasture full of wool being pulled over quite a few eyes. But still. Why are so many looking for a big bad orange Daddy strong man with a fist of iron? His bluff and bluster has already turned into so much fluff and so many feathers. And yet he’s got the gravitational pull of a black hole that’s destructive to all in his orbit, both supporter and foe.

I always thought Daddy issues were about seeking approval, not looking for a pompous protector who pretends he’s got an iron fist with a spine to match. I get that many feel left out of the picture as they sense the world is changing around them. I get their sense of impotence. But nobody is going to harden anybody eles’s resolve by being a blowhard whiner. All that whining is as corrosive as rust. And rust covers better than the orange goo smeared on his face.

Long before my Russian theatre adventures, I directed John Arden’s adaptation of Goethe’s play Götz von Berlichingen entitled Ironhand. The hero was a noble land baron. We’d call him an oligarch today. He had lost his hand in battle and fastened an iron gauntlet on to his handless appendage. Of course the play’s sturm and drang spoke to how his fearsome legend as a warrior struck terror and allegiance into his enemies and his followers.

Our actor wore a well crafted fake iron fist of celastic It looked great on stage. In the second scene of the play there are two big reveals. Our main character is met on the road by a monk. They converse about philosophy and religion. At the conclusion of the scene the monk reveals himself to be Martin Luther. And of course in the next beat, the hero reveals his iron hand from underneath his cape as he introduces himself with his fearsome moniker.

On opening night our lead blew both reveals out of the water. At the top of the scene he choked on his lines and attempting to recover he whipped his celastic covered hand from under his cape and gesturing vigorously to the monk said “Welcome Martin Luther.” Needless to say, not one of our best openings.

That was make believe.

So is much of what’s dominating our lives at the moment. For the life of me, I keep wondering why we’re in thrall to all of this and keep willingly suspending our disbelief to this ham-fisted shit show. We all know how this ends. There’s no new character development coming in Act 2, no deus-ex-machina in the final act. So, let’s cut the drama, cut the comedy, forsake the 11 o’clock number and get to the final curtain.

To borrow from Neil Young, “Rust never sleeps.” So why does it feel like we’re sleep walking?

Can Jack Smith Rid Us Of This Orange Ogre?

So the decaying orange ogre, Donald Trump, announced he got a target letter from Jack Smith and it now appears we’ll move to yet another indcitment with more in the wings. Certainly there will be more to learn about all of this in the days that follow. I’m glad we’re finally getting down to brass tacks. Though I’m not sure how it changes the predicament we’re in.

Orangeogre

Opinions have been hardened for quite some time, even more so by the delay and dilly dallying. You’ve got folks who won’t budge off their support for Trump and you’ve got more folks who can’t wait to see him get his comeuppance. But we’re all still waiting and watching the show that this failed fabulist and crooked carbuncle is starring in. You can hear clocks ticking and smell the powder in the kegs.

I want to see this end. It’s not that I’m tired of the saga. But this story keeps screwing with my moral compass in ways that make it difficult to maintain any true direction.

I’m going to tell you a story from my childhood. Before I do, let me lay out a few points. First, I’m a believer in the Rule of Law. I don’t think we always follow that as intended and it’s getting abused by those who know better. Regardless, I believe in what it stands for. Second, the story you’re about to read is from my memory. There may be some facts I remember inaccurately, there may be some fuzziness on my part. Most of what I know I found out from conversations with relatives. None of that is intended to sway the story one way or the other. The essential facts are what they are. Third, I’m leaving out names here because I don’t know who is still alive and who is not. That doesn’t change the story and if anyone reads this who knows. Well, they know.

Now, the story.

I grew up in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Central Virginia. Rural area. Small population. When I graduated high school the total enrollment for the entire school was around 800 and the school was the only high school in the county. To say most of the folks were of the blue collar, hard working, salt of the earth type would be correct. We lived just outside of the county seat which was the main town. It had three major streets: Main Street, First Street, and Court Street; none long enough to break a sweat while walking them. The local businesses included a drug store, a department store, a hardware store, an appliance store, a bank, an old no longer operating hotel, a car dealership, the funeral parlor, a small general store, a barber shop, and a few offices. There was a church and a movie theatre. The courthouse sat at the top of the hill at the intersection of Main and Court streets. The town also had a small housing subdivision called Green Acres, named long before the TV series.

The main drag wasn’t Main Street. It was First Street. First Street was longer, had more businesses and homes on it and felt more Main. Heck, the parades all marched down First Street, not Main Street. It was confusing. But when the by-pass was completed around the town neither Main Street or First Street soon had anything left resembling what made them First or Main. So you get the picture.

Our county may not have had a large population but it had a disproportionate share of characters for its size. In the early 1960’s I went to grade school with the son of one of those characters. A ne’er-do-well troublemaker who spent most weekends in the county lockup for being drunk and disorderly or worse. One story says he went on a drunken spree one Saturday night and broke the windshield of every parked car along First Street. Another says he pulled a man from his car and almost stomped him to death.

One night, with his son in the car, he met a violent end to his violent life on a country road, (they were all country roads back then) from a shotgun blast.

It was well known how much and how frequently this guy created trouble. He was one of those folks that you just “knew was up to no good and would end up no good,” as one of my grandmothers used to say. Suffice it to say anyone who saw him walking down the street avoided him, and given the sparsity of streets that wasn’t an easy thing to do. Kids were warned about him. I imagine even a dog or two gave a snarl if he passed by.

He married a young girl after getting her pregnant. Their son was my classmate. The son was also constantly in trouble and in the principal’s office or suspended. That one apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Probably because he was constantly getting beaten to the ground. His dad constantly abused him and his mother. When he did show up for school he would often be quite bruised. Tongues wagged and “tsk, tsk’s” were numerous, but mostly there was silence.

One night, his mother had finally had enough after a beating. She called her family. Her dad and two brothers went looking for him. They caught up to him on that country road and one of them pulled the trigger that ended his story. But it didn’t end the story for our community.

The three were arrested. They didn’t put up much of a fuss as I understand it. They admitted what they had done and that they’d done it to protect their daughter/sister’s life. Legal proceedings proceeded. I’m not sure what their pleas were, but there was going to be a trial, so obviously it was not guilty in some form or the other.

And that’s when things got interesting. The local DA did his job and brought the charges. But it was determined that there was no probability of seating a jury that would convinct the three, so the case was dismissed. There was no attempt to move to another jurisdiction by the DA or the judge. As an aside, the judge lived next door to my other grandmother.

And you know what? As I recall I don’t think there was a soul to be found who didn’t think this was the best result. The silence resumed. But it was different. I was still in grade school. So most of how I remember this is through the reactions of my parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and a few other adults. To a person they all thought justice had been done and not in any strange way.

At family gatherings at my maternal grandparents’ home, my cousins and I used to sneak up the stairs and listen to the adults’ conversations through one of the vents in the floor after they retired to the kitchen or the adjacent living room and the kids were dismissed to go out and play. Shortly after all of this came to its end, I remember the adults talking about the events and my grandmother repeatedly trying to change the subject. She finally put her foot down and said, “There’s right and there’s right. We’re all the better for it. Now let’s do the dishes.”

My classmate was never seen by us again. Shipped off to one of the military academies. And not much was ever spoken about the events again. At least not in my presence.

Years later when I was home from college for a weekend I asked my father about the incident. Not a man of many words, he simply said, “The man was bad to the bone. What happened happened and it should have happened a long time ago. Period.” My dad always ended conversations he didn’t want to continue with the word “period.”

And that was that.

I haven’t thought much about these memories in quite awhile. But as we’ve all been forced to live these last six or so years with this menace called Trump debauching everything, everyone and every idea and ideal we’ve supposedly built a society on, I have to admit I’ve found myself losing patience with the Rule of Law. These memories keeps creeping back in each time we hear of some new outrageous moment in this ongoing saga and I find myself mucking around with my moral compass wondering why we just can’t find quicker ways to put what we all know is wrong behind us before anymore damage is done.

I don’t think I’m alone with those feelings. Everyone knows what we’re watching and living through. The ogre is holding the town hostage. Everyone knows it and goes on with life the best they can with his shadow looming large. Maybe Jack Smith is the one to bring the ogre’s reign of terror to an end. Maybe he’ll also restore a bit of my faith in the Rule of Law. I hope so. Give this ogre what he deserves. Do it the right way, sure. But if not, don’t let this decaying orange ogre wriggle out of another one. Paraphrasing grandma and quoting my dad, “there’s right and then there’s right. We’ll all be better off for it. Period.”

The Trump Trial(s) Farce

It’s always a disappointment when you read or view a story and you realize you’re ahead of the characters becuase the plot is too thin and so well worn. You can close the book, click off the remote or leave the theatre. Tougher to do in these fraught times with the Trump farce we’re all forced to live through, because hey, you know it affects our lives. It may be farce. It may feel comical or tragicomic. But the laughs are empty and hollow.

Punch and Judy

At the moment it’s all getting played out as entertainment. Because that’s all that’s really left. It’s obviously lucrative for the players and the storytellers even though the audience knows the storyline, the characters, and what the next moves will be. Will there be surprises? I’m sure there will be a few. But in the end, nothing that happens in the early going will change how you feel about the finale. No one was ever surprised at a Punch and Judy show.

This morning comes the predictable news that the decaying orange turd is asking for a delay. The only possible twist is what his hand-picked judge will do. I’m guessing she’ll stay in character and that will just prolong the story needlessly.

Lordy, I wish someone, somehow tied up in this tale would come up with an original twist or turn.

Off Axis

“Off Axis” is a description I use when directing plays quite a bit. It’s simple really. It’s when a character does something that’s different than we’ve expected from the character. Or it’s when circumstances change around the character, forcing adjustment to new realities.

Lights orbiting planet earth royalty free illustration 1660241936

Being “off axis” is an uncomfortable state. Which in story telling increases the stakes for drama, comedy, or some combination of both. It’s where you want your stories to live whether on a stage, on a screen, or on a page.

Here in the real world I think we’re getting far too comfortable being “off axis” to be comfortable.

Sunday Morning Reading

As the picture says, I’m on lake time this Sunday morning. So the list of suggested Sunday Morning Reading topics is a shorter one. Here’s hoping you find a little weekend time to chill as well.

Theatre and opera director Adele Thomas talks about her beginnings, her art and her career and how artists and the challenges (financial and otherwise) that directors face trying to get a career going. Good interview by Fiona Maddocks.

A great piece from Lisa Melton: My Coming Out Party

A couple of interesting pieces on Artificial Intelligence:

Artificial Stimulated Stupidty by Robert E. Wright and Is AI a Snake That Eats Itself? by Om Malik both reflect some of my thoughts on the topic.

And while the world is watching Orcas attack yachts and other sea-going craft, here’s a piece on The Giant Whale That Terrorized Constantinople.

If you’re interseted in just what the heck Sunday Morning Reading is all about you can read more about the origins of Sunday Morning Reading here.

Everybody’s Happy Now Trump Has Been Indicted Again

Everybody’s happy. Everybody got their wish. The decaying orange turd that is Donald Trump has been indicted. Again. This time in Federal court on charges of…well if you don’t know you’re living in a cave and perhaps better off. But the bottom line is everybody is happy. And I mean everybody.

Greyclowns

Those who want to see him held accountable and get his legal commeuppance will inhale any whiff of hope and chant hallelujahs in helium-like voices. Take your victories when and when you can.

Those deep in the cult or just in thrall to this miserable excuse of a cult leader are thrilled that their leader keeps muddling along on his road to martyrdom.

The Grifters get to keep on grifting like the lickspittle lampreys they are. If their shark ever stops swimming they’ll wash up on shore like fish on a Texas beach or an algae bloom in Florida.

The traditional media is also counting their windfall. They’re thrilled to death that this circus is going to continue so they can continue their clowning.

Social media companies are doing the same kind of accounting knowing users will provide the grist for its mills.

The Dems are thrilled because they know this will be the distraction they need as their counterparts continue to fall over backwards to see who can be the biggest idiot. The ruckus will keep the Dems from having to go on the attack. Which is a blessing and a curse since that they don’t seem to know how to do that.

The Republicans are also thrilled. See Grifters above as a start. But more to the point it keeps them from having to address real issues. On the face of it the Republican candidates for the nomination might look like they have a tough row to hoe, but they don’t. Most were hoping for this and plan on playing the waiting game, hoping the decaying orange turd will eventually self-destruct. It’s a strategy. It’s not a good one. Neither is anything else.

Merrick Garland is overjoyed. The heat is off. For the moment.

The donors are ecstatic. They can keep their money parked and working for them for awhile longer before having to commit.

The rest of the world just keeps laughing.

So, it’s happiness all the way round. And round and round we go. Endlessly.

Sunday Morning Reading

Charisma might be the theme of some of this week’s edition of Sunday Morning Reading. Or maybe it’s our fasicnation with folks who seem to marshall it for mischief. The theme runs through a range of topics from Artificial Intelligence to the media with a few other subjects tossed on the reading pile. Speaking of charisma and mischief marshaling, these articles all came my way as we were absorbing the news of the Trump indictment this week. I wrote a little something about that here.

Om Malik stands as much in dismay as I do at how much time the media spotlights charlatans in Media and Monsters.

Joe Zadeh takes a look at the The Secret History and Strange Future of Charisma. It features this quote from Ernst Glöckner.

“I knew: This man is doing me violence — but I was no longer strong enough. I kissed the hand he offered and with choking voice uttered: ‘Master, what shall I do?’”

We’ve witnessed quite a few falls from grace this week. None more glaring than CNN’s Chris Licht. Mark Jacob in the Courier breaks down the difference between platforming and journalism. The latter Licht’s lickspittling helped slide further down the reputation damage scale.

Morality is declining. That seems to be something most believe at the moment. Data says otherwise according to Mariana Lenharo.

Jeff Jarvis followed a court case in which a couple of lawyers had to own up for submitting nonexistant citations and cases created by ChatGPT.

John Warner lays out an excellent long read on why Speed and Efficiency are Not Human Values. Yes, it’s AI related but you’ll also find a little Korsakov, Tolstoy and Prince in the mix.

James Grissom claims he received a phone call from playwright Tennessee Williams, who asked Grissom to “be my witness.” After a meetiing with Williams, Grissom takes the names Williams gives him and proceeds to follow the playwright’s wish: “I would like you to ask these people if I ever mattered.” Grissom turned it into a calling card, a book and a career. Lots of folks doubt the whole thing. Helen Shaw tackles the story in Did This Writer Actually Know Tennesee Williams?

David Todd McCarthy takes on our fascination with the unprecdented in America Grows Up.

Sabrina Imbler tells us the story of The Strange Case of the Woman Who Gave Birth To Rabbits.

And to end this week’s edition of Sunday Morning Reading here’s a piece by Melissa Cunningham about Jenny Graves. “Why are we still singing about Adam and Eve when there’s so much gorgeous science out thre is the world that explains our origins.” That’s the question Jenny Graves, an evolutionary geneticist, asked herself on her way to creating a libretto based on Joseph Hayden’s The Creation. Melissa Cunningham tells the story

If you’re interseted in just what the heck Sunday Morning Reading is all about you can read more about the origins of Sunday Morning Reading here.

Trump Indictment Argues for Amputation

It’s not everyday you wake in a different world. Today is one of those days. With the news breaking last night that Trump has again been indicted everything and anything about the body politic of the United States has changed. It will never be the same again. It’s different. But not new. Everything actually changed when Trump was elected and stuck the blade in. Hasn’t been the same since. That was the wounding. This is the triage. Bandages are being taken off to prepare for surgery. The wound gapes. The scar that will be forever present has been revealed. Time to consider the ugly option of amputation.

The only way to cure an egotist from bragging is by surgery–amputation at the neck.

-Evan Esar.

This is the first federal indictment of a former president. This is the first time that enough people in what passes as a political party might nominate an indicted conman to assume that office again. Make no mistake. This surgery isn’t going to take place in a safe, sterile environment. This wound has been festering long enough that containing the infection is not assured. Anything and everything could happen. All at once. Or it could take longer than most of us have patience for. There are also other possible wounds to reveal. Roll the body politic over and who knows what other damage we’ll discover because it’s possible the most serious charges against this poor excuse of a conman haven’t even been leveled yet.

In the wake of all of this, what used to be the GOP is already disarrayed beyond cliché. Several lusting for the big chair will now have to choose between advising amputation or giving blood to placate the conman’s bereaved and brainwashed base.

Politics is a funny thing. So is ambition. Slap them together between two slices of bread and you can’t hold your tongue while eating with your mouth full. The laws of political gravity no longer apply. If they did, those opposing Trump for the GOP nomination would be knocking each other down to deliver premature death notices. Granted they’d have to push past Chris Christie, but still. (Update after I wrote that I see Asa Hutchinson is recomending a quick amputation.)

Folks are going to also replay that old tune about this being a sad day for our country. Sure. We wish we didn’t have to go through this. We’ve been sadly sitting in the waiting room for awhile now, know the lyrics all too well, and wish someone would shuffle the playlist. We didn’t have to go through the last seven or so years. We’ve lost so many traditions, possibilities, respect-both self and from others, that it is almost impossible to measure the damage even though we know the diagnosis.

And that’s the thing. We all know what we’re faced with. We’ve limped around with this wound long enough. A reckoning is required. I don’t think we’ll ever be whole again. That’s the unkindest cut of all.

The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters,—a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson