MY TWO CENTS…

On the G-20 summit.

First, ignore the AP reports (or CNN, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah).

A month from now, they’ll be as credible as last month’s “all 17 American intelligence agencies have concluded that Russia hacked the election” stories.

Today’s official stories, too, will soon be “clarified.”

My sense is that, in the last two weeks, the Trump Fever broke. On the evening of the day he punked the G-20 summit that was the latest in a long line of Security State backstops which, assuming the key operatives (in this case various heads of state) could get the stars out of their eyes and quit staring at Ivanka’s ass or keep their knees from buckling when Melania flashed that fragile smile, were supposed to humiliate him beyond all hope of recovery, it became pretty clear that–barring some drastic, pyrrhic action like an assassination–he’ll now march from victory to victory.

You know, just like he’s been doing since June, 2015. Back when “the Republican Establishment” was going to put paid to him–by driving him not only from political life, but society itself…remember?–in the impossible event he became a problem.

Oh. there will be speed bumps along the way, and, just like the obstacles now fading in the rear view mirror (faster and faster, I might add), they’ll be celebrated as mortal wounds by whatever’s left of that creaky old Establishment (and breathlessly Re-Tweeted by those who are still certain–certain I say!–that this time, we’ve got him).

Those who put their faith in such folks, needn’t worry. There’s probably a month or two of real entertainment value left before your champions do what they were always going to do and kick you to the curb, the better to curry favor with the new boss.

My puny, unsolicited advice is to kick them out of the tent before they get the chance.

Why let them co-opt you one last time and destroy even your one-in-a-million hope of igniting a grass roots movement with real teeth in it? The fake ones you’ve been relying on aren’t getting it done. If you’re looking for a leader to emerge from the current crop, you’re trading in fool’s gold. (To wit, there’s real talk Bernie Sanders will carry the flag in 2020. God help us. But, believe me, Kamala Harris won’t be any less chumped and compromised by then, even if you buy the sketchy assumption that she is now.)

As we sit here tonight, Trump has a conservative majority entrenched on the Supreme Court, with more to come. His trial-balloon travel ban (sorry, did you think it was something else?), is now, with a few negotiating ploy caveats, in place. Contracts for the border wall are proceeding apace. The regulatory wall, built from used tissue by the Bi-partisan Consensus over the last thirty-five years for the express purpose of enriching themselves at everybody’s-but-their-own expense, is being torn to shreds. He’s tied the “Russian thing” tin can to Obama’s tail, and, by extension, Hillary Clinton’s. (Rhetorically, conspiratorially, theatrically, that is–i.e., the ways that matter in a land where concepts like the Rule of Law were reduced to laughless-punchlines by the very folks who now insist they are Never Trumpers long before Forever Donald Trump happened along.)

And, oh by the way, while you weren’t looking, the Alt-Right has seized the language and the messaging.

And oh by the way….

They view Trump as a loss leader.

Albeit in blind-squirrel fashion, Kathy Griffin–one of many useful-idiot celebrities whose brains apparently function as test patterns–had it right.

If Trump’s head isn’t on a platter by the end of the summer, there’s gonna be some deep and lasting changes around here–and perhaps more than a few.

Up to now, the main question since election night has been whether Trump understood that he was in a war with the Security State that would end in his utter defeat or theirs.

Tonight, for the first time, the question has changed.

Do they understand?

Bet they do…

Which means it must finally be time for Trump to ditch “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and keep what’s left of his opposition really confused, by switching up his theme song…

Or would be, if playing in a rock and roll band was still masquerading as something more than a chance to meet the kind of fabulous women Donald J. Trump and Michael Jagger are prone to marrying.

It’s not that Trump is a genius (he sort of is, but it’s not that). It’s that he’s opposed–up and down the line–by idiots.

Idiots who have had their masks ripped off….and their Consensus destroyed.

It took two years.

Or fifty.

So, as ever….Goodbye us.

But really, it was fun while it lasted.

C’mon Mick…Are you sure you don’t want to play the Ballroom in 2021?

[Note: Yes, I know. There were protests. To call them meaningless would be to debase the word. Somebody cue “American Woman” and dedicate it to Angela Merkel.]

THE CHANGE IT HAD TO COME….(Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #71)

..I knew it all along.

But it sure took a while

For most of the last year, I couldn’t afford a television hookup so I spent way more time than usual monitoring talk radio, the wackier the better. Back when Donald Trump first entered the Republican race, though, I had an unwacky day where I happened to be listening to NPR and the host asked two top level political reporters (so called, I don’t remember their names), if Trump had any chance whatsoever to get the nomination.

Both reporters went to great lengths to outdo each other in their absolute assurances that this could never, ever, ever, ever, ever happen in umpty billion years.

And I thought: “If you think he hasn’t got a chance, you’re crazy.”

I didn’t just arrive at that little insight by monitoring right wing radio, which, in fact, has provided plenty of push-back against Trump and Trumpism. (Glenn Beck, Mark Levin and Dana Loesh out-and-out hate him and only the wackiest wackies, Michael Savage and Alex Jones, have offered anything like strong support.)

No, I arrived at my conclusion because I’ve been monitoring the weight of the Republican party’s consistent betrayal of social conservatives and evangelicals (i.e., most of my friends and family) for three decades plus. And I had noticed that in the past five years or so, things had changed.

I was not surprised that the national media missed the story.

I’ve never seen any evidence that evangelicals in particular are in the least bit understood by what Bernie Sanders–who sounds more like an Old Testament prophet than anyone in this race–never fails to call the political, economic and media establishments.

That lack of understanding is surely why those establishments were left clutching their pearls when Trump’s rough language, for instance, failed to turn off churchgoers in South Carolina. Or when the very reasonable arguments put forth by his opponents that, until the day before yesterday, he was reliably liberal on virtually every hill-to-die-on social issue that my fellow Christians, knowing full well they would be punched in the face economically, sold their votes for over three decades.

Such things don’t tend to matter when you finally decide to swing back.

When you decide to swing back, you look for the biggest hammer in the room.

All those sold votes–sold souls in some cases–netted nothing. Republicans quite predictably collected reliable votes from the pews and, from 1980 to now, gave nothing in return. Hence, it was only a matter of time before this bargain unraveled. The only question was which election cycle would provide the tipping point.

It’s here. The bargain is dead.

And Donald Trump is the biggest hammer in the room.

I know lots of evangelicals and take the temperature of many more on the radio and online.

I haven’t found a single one who likes him and very few who aren’t disgusted by him. I think a lot of their sentiment can be summed up here (in the most frightening and salient report I’ve read on the Trump phenomenon).

But while I have trouble imagining myself voting for Trump, and will certainly hold that linked essay in my head as a warning lest I be tempted to cross over to the dark side, I can understand why others have given in. I’ve never been particularly invested in “social issues” as a political matter–the law is always helpless against any personal practice the culture cannot enforce and the culture collapsed long ago. I don’t get worked up about the issues because I tend to think of America in the past tense–as something to be studied and learned from.

We had a shot.

We didn’t listen to our own prophets (see, particularly, my posts on the Rising at right).

We blew it.

I’m resigned.

But mine is a minority opinion.

Anger is a powerful emotion in any breast clinging to hope.

And there is very little in this world more satisfying than the moment you realize you finally have a venue for speaking directly to people who have held you in open contempt for a lifetime. No matter how vigilant you are in your quest to let the red letters in the King James guide your behavior, it’s hard to resist the simplest gut-level response, the one that has reverberated throughout this campaign and can be hurled back at every puzzled pundit face on CNN, MSNBC, FOX, every hour of the day:

“I hate you back.”

Without coming anywhere near putting it so strongly, that’s what Jerry Falwell, Jr. meant this evening on Fox, when he was pressed on why and how so many evangelicals (including himself) have chosen Trump over, for instance, Ted Cruz, one of their own.

It’s not the old days he said.

It’s not about social issues anymore. The politicians have had their day and been found dismally wanting.

“It’s like that old Who song,” Falwell, Jr. finally said.

Then he named the song.

If you don’t think we’re in some sort of New Age, try to imagine Falwell’s late father (a huckster who, along with Pat Robertson, was long ago appointed to speak for evangelicals by the same corrupt payola-style process, and for the same contemptuous reasons, that Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton were designated to speak for Black America–brothers and sisters, I feel your pain, because the question of whether it is better to be badly represented than not represented at all is not any easy one), dropping a Who reference.

And having the reference be nothing more than a statement of the obvious, too long in coming:

The only question now is the obvious one.

If Trump wins, will the new boss really be any different than the old boss?

I fear not. If someone has a thumb in the eye of the man who has a boot in your face, it’s easy to think he must be offering a better way. It becomes easy to look past the boots he’s wearing, to miss that they are heavier and thicker and have hobnails in the soles.

But, if you want to look for a silver lining, perhaps finally asking the question is healthier than continuing to ignore it.

And if not now, when?

Something to hold on to, I guess.

I do wonder what would happen, though, if, in this very same season, Black America were to somehow wake up in time to ditch Hilary for Bernie…and if we could then somehow keep from fighting in the streets with our children at our feet.

What then?

New day? Or past tense forever?

I’ll keep watching.

And dreading.

LIFE ON MARS…THE MORNING AFTER (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #68)

I was severely disappointed last night  when, after Donald Trump danced on the Republican Establishmentarians’ pointy heads in New Hampshire, he failed to kick off his victory speech with a blast of this…

Figured he had chickened out (which fact really would make him worthless even as entertainment).

But then I woke up (more or less) this morning and caught a replay. Turned out I had missed it. There he was walking out again and there it was, blasting away, as I could swear it had not done before, pimping the brand like a Nike commercial.

.Maybe I missed it the night before or maybe the networks did.

Maybe somebody in the CNN production booth layered it in overnight.

Or maybe I dreamed last night and this morning.

Who knows?

Anyway, fresh from dancing on the Democratic Establishmentarians’ flat, furrowed heads, Bernie Sanders would be well-advised to move fast and co-opt the White Album version–I mean if he’s gonna compete, he needs to start coming up with answer records now!

Sorry, but Phish ain’t gonna cut it.

And don’t worry about the words–whether or not “destruction” is “out” or “in” or “out….in.”

It’s the sound that matters.

Punch me!….Soothe me….Punch me!….Soothe me…

Come on boys. Is that all you got!

To this end, I actually wanted to suggest this for Bernie instead…

but it seems John Kasich is already using it on his bus (no fool he, right down to keeping it on the bus…keep an eye on that one).

I have no dog in the hunt, but if we’re gonna go down, we ought to at least do down swinging!

Why not go ahead and acknowledge that time has actually stood still since sixty-nine? It does, after all, feel like years since it’s been clear.

Anyway, the stage is set. And the first man to rally the troops with a round of this…

gets my vote!

Or at least gets me to take my thumb out from under my nose.

LIFE ON MARS….I WISH (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #67)

I’m still on kind of a reverse schedule that has me up for breakfast (I’ve worked some version of a night shift since 1987). Sometimes, when this happens, I find myself drifting into weird states that resemble waking dreams. This morning, with the New Hampshire primary looming, I heard Morning Joe‘s aptly named Mike Barnicle mention in passing that Donald Trump’s campaign rallies had “the best music” or words to that effect.

Wondering if the Donald was still using “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” to close  his shows (which everybody on the set agreed resemble rock concerts more than political rallies…you keep something up for six months and even the national media is likely to divine your secrets), I switched over to C-Span, where the Trump factor is big. If he isn’t on right now, he soon will be.

I didn’t have to wait. They were running a small, quiet event from Londonderry the day before and Trump, between invitations to the main event that night, was in the middle of feeling the pain of a man who had lost his son to either meth or heroin (I wasn’t clear which), as deeply and deftly as any member of the Clinton family ever could.

I kept switching back and forth and within a few minutes, there was Trump, just finishing up. The arena level speakers began playing opera over C-Span’s signature unfiltered crowd noise but, soon enough, it gave way to the London Bach Choir.

Just in case I was under the illusion this was taking place on Planet Earth in the here and now, the speakers either didn’t catch, or didn’t convey, the acoustic guitar that bridges the chorus with Jagger’s vocal, so for however long that part lasts, all I heard was silence and Al Kooper’s French horn.

Coming out of that, the vocal jumped and cut, and the deal between Then and Now was sealed so thoroughly I had to wonder if somebody on Trump’s staff was savvy enough to arrange it as something other than an accident. I mean, it’s a bit tiresome, by now, to note that the Mick Jagger of 1969 and the Donald Trump of 2016 are natural allies, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. Anybody who hasn’t picked upon that either hasn’t been paying attention or just doesn’t grok the Darkness.

But the possibility of self-awareness operating so confidently inside the sulfurous machine was a bit shocking.

Woke me up, for sure.

Physically anyway.

Now, if somebody around Bernie Sanders would only grab the rights to the natural answer record we might finally be on the way to having the election we’ve been so carefully avoiding since 1969: “Woodstock vs. Altamont,” winner take all.

Might as well.

Maybe then we can stop pretending you can ever have one without the other.

Incidentally, Trump worked the small room slowly, pausing here and there, clearly a practiced hand at this game he’s actually new to if you don’t count his dream life. He moved through the crowd easily and naturally, reaching the exit right on cue as the music faded.

He didn’t bother to turn and wave good-bye. Time enough for that later.

If Altamont wins, five will get you ten the Stones play the inaugural, where they’ll be free to reveal the New Order’s true theme song:

What, you think Trump doesn’t have the cash to make that happen?

Dream on.