News Item: Trump Uses Five-Syllable Word!

"Inappropriate," the first word of more than three syllables that POTUS has ever enunciated in public, is the one that ought to be branded across his forehead. Why's he using it to  undermine the smartest women on the supreme court? He's counting on his base knowing that word, liking that word, feeling empowered by that word. It goes a long way, that desert island word.  If I could choose only one word to describe the gangster in the oval office, "inappropriate" would do. His imperial ambitions. The latest plague has an uncannily appropriate name for the crown he wants on his head. Oedipus. We're living a myth: when the king is sick, the land is sick. The Fisher King. Shakespeare's Richard II. All far better men than he who shall not be named. Watch this--and wouldn't it be great if we could wave our wands, shout "Riddikulus" whenever the POTUS below emerged from his lair and turn him into a stuffed animal?

At the German Post Office: the Lone Trump-Worshipper

When I ducked into the post office at Hauptbahnhof (the main train station) I was relieved to be getting out of the chilly, windy weather, the gray clouds, into this warm, yellow-walled, tidily German center of efficiency.
But the postal clerk raised his eyebrows at a letter addressed to my American bank, observing, "Oh! Trump! America!" He was smiling. Not frowning.
I said I hadn't voted for Trump. He shook his head, apparently wondering why. "Aber er hat so viel gemacht!" (But he's done so much!")
My eyes widened. Surely the clerk didn't mean this. But then he added, with obvious admiration, "Er hat alles aufgeräumt!" ("He's cleaned up everything.")
I said I didn't like Trump. 
"Und er ist so lustig!" ("And he's so funny!") babbled the clerk. 
In English, I blurted, "He's a gangster." But the only obvious effect (judging by the way the clerk giggled in glee), was that he found me even more amusing than Trump.
"I hate his guts," I added, also in English. The clerk clapped his hands in delight, almost choking with laughter.
It's back to telling folks I'm Canadian.

The Cowboy or The Gangster?

Americans have elected a number of cowboy presidents: Andrew Jackson, who fought duels defending his wife's honor and retained bullets in his chest, Teddy Roosevelt, who charged up San Juan Hill with his rough riders and had "a bully fight,"  Dwight D. Eisenhower, with his ten gallon hat, his Zane Grey mysteries, and his five-star general status, Lyndon Baines Johnson, Texan Supreme, whom Jacqueline Kennedy allegedly referred to as "Colonel Corn Pone," and the George Bushes.
We've never had a gangster president before, and I'm hoping Trump is an aberration, not the beginning of a trend. If Roger Stone gets off scot free, then nothing's new. The kind of person who would do business with Roger Stone is the kind of person I'd prefer never to meet in a dark alley. Gangsters never disclose their income tax returns and never pay taxes. Gangsters get away with saying they can shoot someone on Fifth avenue and no one will care. Gangsters grab women wherever they want, and say things like, "if she weren't my daughter I'd date her," the way Trump does. Gangsters bully foreign leaders into doing their dirty work. Gangsters rig elections. If the cowboy was a trend, is the gangster the new one? Will it spread like the corona virus? Or end like this?

A Maurice Sendak Impeachment

"Because he can," is the reality of Donald Trump, David Leonhardt remarks in an OP-ED piece for The New York Times. The losing side cares a great deal, and I'm still hoping that the motif of the American underdog who, against all odds, wins the day--I'm hoping that motif will weave itself into a story that ends with the would-be emperor being deposed. Even Mike Pence would be better than this thing we call a POTUS. When I listen to the Republicans and to the president's lawyers, I can't help but remember Maurice Sendak's grumpy child, Pierre, who answers his mother's every question with "I don't care": 

The Republican Party these days, is Pierre, but we'll all get swallowed by the lion. Since we're not living in a children's story, the lion's not going to burp us up and give us a chance to say "I care," before politely bringing us home and staying on as a weekend guest. We can care about politics, we can care about issues instead of identities, we can create yet another lone heroic underdog, a Mr. or Ms. Smith who comes to Washington to care, a person who will persuade the wavering Republicans to waver no more, but to care more about the country's survival than they do about their political careers.