Maybe it didn’t quite happen that way… But this is just the way I remember it.
During a beer break from the storm of Trump’s denials — of any Russian connections, as well as everybody but Trump’s denial of any Obama wiretaps, and the Congressional denial of Trump’s alternate healthcare plan — this tallish, dark, gaunt guy with long, black, stringy hair and black rim glasses clumped into Grumpy’s corner bar…
And he was scowling.
I don’t think Tommy meant anything by it. He’s just one of those intense human raptors who thinks he’s got life figured out. But just can’t figure out – sometimes — how to pay his rent… not to mention his healthcare premiums.
And Joe, the fellow perched on the stool beside me, who’s overly protective of his big-breasted, songbird girlfriend, regularly warbling during this karaoke night, poked me with one of his fleshy elbows. And then he nodded his way towards the sullen Tommy.
And while I may have momentarily mis-thought that Joe was about to lend some nourishing insight into the furrows of the Tommy’s gloomy character — as well as the forlorn of the ‘popular-voters’ of the country — Joe dispelled that misconception quicker than a Trump Twitter tantrum.
After all, this was Grumpy’s, where most of the intellectual stimulation among the steroid muscles and sagging tattooed breasts, consists of counting along with Big Bird. And definitely not exercising its minimum patriotic duty – that is getting their cellulite butts off their barstools… and voting.
Hmm… Then again, neither did 47 percent of the rest of the country’s eligible electorate.
Anyhow, so Joe, whose mental gerbil has been known to sleep-at-the-wheel, said to me:
“That’s the kind of arm-length tattoo I wanna get.”
But of course! North Korea’s launching missiles, and Joe’s launching another tattoo!
Hmm… Talk about denial. By the way, have you ever noticed that drinking makes such fools of people? And people are such fools to begin with that it’s compounding a felony. Then again when I’m not sober I like all g-d’s creatures… I just like some better when they’re stuffed…
Now to me, tattoos are nothing more than bumper stickers for the body. Admittedly they can make a corpse better looking. Which goes along with my conviction that most folks are merely corpses — having died by age 25, but somehow manage to hang around to 75 to get buried.
That is just after one last afternoon of 3 more football games and 8 bags of Doritos.
Nevertheless, just because I don’t have any vainglorious tattoos adorning my pallid, aging torso doesn’t mean I’m not amazed by them now and then. Like with that German woman in Berlin I told you about a few years back. She had a large “W” tattooed on the inside of each of her luscious thighs. You know, up there close to the putting green. And when you went down for a closer survey of the lay of the land it gloriously spelled: “W-O-W!”
Now there was a tattoo that makes a man putt for dough.
Anyway, I asked Tommy, whom I discovered enjoys nattering about how he’s been spending his life overcoming childhood, to show me his tattoos. They were half-covered by his half-rolled up sleeves. And without a second of preponderance, he whittled himself down to his muscle-man t-shirt – without duh muscles.
Hmm… And these are undoubtedly the guys, like Keith Richards, who are most likely to survive a nuclear holocaust.
In the dim light I couldn’t quite make out the potpourri on his left arm. But on his right, from his shoulder to a few inches from his wrist was a large wondrous wolf baying at the moon.
At that Tommy posed: “You do know the story of the two wolves, don’t you?”
Tommy didn’t pause for an answer… except to wonder if I was buying him another pitcher of beer. Any beer. I don’t think he’s ever found a beer he doesn’t like.
And then his story unfolded about how this elderly Apache chief was telling his youthful grandson about these two great wolves. One represented all the evil, ignominy, sinister, pernicious malevolence in the world. And the other symbolized all the goodness, altruism, mercy and grace.
And one night the two lofty wolves engaged in mortal combat. Their battle raged for days and nights… and more days and nights. Up the Dakotas, and down the Rockies. Fur flew. Blood spilled. Bones were crunched.
Finally the wide-eyed Apache grandson implored his grandfather to tell him who ultimately won.
The grandfather smiled shrewdly, and simply replied: ‘The one you feed.’
Hmm… No shit! Tommy’s dark eyes sort of smiled. And so did mine.
Tommy searched my appreciative face as he repeated: “The one you feed… the one you nourish…” Apparently he didn’t bother to search Joe’s puzzled mug. I swear there’s a ‘For Rent’ sign hanging on his forehead.
Anyway, I smiled in wondrous approbation. I mean, at first I had smugly figured: That’s a pretty complex thought for someone who probably has to write ‘L’ and ‘R’ on the bottom of his shoes. But then, of course, it’s well known that sometimes it’s the very people who no one imagines anything of, who do and say the very things no one can imagine.
But of course!
Perhaps I should repeat that – and often. In other words, I know I can be an effete snob. But I have learned that if you hold a person like me underwater long enough, I stop being an asshole.
Which sort of brings me to The Donald… He be duh President even if he didn’t win Mister Popularity. And it’s no secret that in my drain-em, kill-em and definitely don’t let-em propagate mode I definitely voted for The Donald the old-fashion, Philadelphia way – twice.
And this, of course, has made me the butt of some less-than-good-natured ribbing from some of my erstwhile journalist cohorts. They wonder if my brain is still under warranty. And, naturally, I wonder if they, like Dr. Bruce Banner and The Hulk, were exposed to too many gamma rays when their supercilious Hillary experiment imploded.
And a day or two after Tommy and I quickly discovered that the more beer we drank the better we understood one another, some of these very journalists were poking me with: I’d like to know when it was in your life that you came to that fork in the road where reality was to the left… and you took a sharp right…
Hey, I resemble that!
“Soooo… whaddaya think of your emperor, now?” they practically demanded to know.
They sort of sounded like Edward G. Robinson in “The 10 Commandments”, didn’t they?
“I think it’s all going according to plan,” I said. “But like a Shakespearean play I wonder who’s going to be left to tell the story. In other words who’s going to be able to separate the ideology and the facts.”
“We are!” they practically harmonized like a barber shop quartet.
Oh, yeah, I countered. And if I drink enough you’ll start making sense. Sooo, I explained to them that Trump is a work-in-progress. As an outlier and businessman he’ll figure out how to make Washington work for him… and the rest of us.
And if he doesn’t, I continued, the country still wins. Look what’s happening: People are suddenly getting involved; Protests are raging; More women than ever are stepping up, and running for office; And I am certain that most of the 47% who didn’t vote last November will be voting next November.
For him, or against him, Trump has lit a bonfire up our asses. This is how a Republic is supposed to work. And if he does build ‘The Wall’ I hope he builds it out of solar panels. Then we could charge Mexico for the electricity it desperately needs in its hard-scrabbled areas…
“Hey, it’s the 60’s revolution happening 50 years later.” I then also noted: “It’s even working in Russia.”
They didn’t need to remind me that in the Trump-White-House that may have been an unfortunate reference.
“So you’re saying that any good that Trump may be doing is like reverse patriotism,” asserted Erik from USAToday.
Reverse. Upside down. Inside out. What-duh-hell, what-duh heck!
For 50 years the rich have gotten richer; the poor poorer. Our taxes have gone up. Our schools have gone down. More jobs have gone overseas, and less jobs have come home. This isn’t just what the Democrats or Republicans have done to us. This is what we have done to ourselves. We get the government we deserve… by watching too much football — and not voting.
“It’s like the bad wolf and good wolf waging war,” I said to Erik
“Oh, yeah, it all comes down to the one you feed.”
“You know the tale?” I was impressed.
Erik sniffed back: “Do not tell fish stories where the people know you; but particularly, don’t tell them where they know the fish.”
I don’t know what the heck Erik was talking about. It sounded he hadn’t had his after-work four beers, yet. Either that or he was quoting Mark Twain – again!
Sheesh, it just goes to show you, Trump may be on to something. Those ‘other’ journalists may think they know everything but they don’t know nuttin’ about ‘alternate truths.’ And maybe next time their ‘popular majority’ won’t take the once ‘silent (electoral college) majority’ for granted. For we all have needs – no matter what bathroom we use.
And, as an omniscient man who still imbibes like a journalist, I must admit that President Trump’s real troubles aren’t with the media, but with some of the ‘facts.’ And some more that may be soon forthcoming.
But to tell you the truth, that doesn’t really matter much to me. Because, like I said of Tommy: It’s well known that sometimes it’s the very people who no one imagines anything of, who do and say the very things no one can imagine.
Which is why I voted for The Donald in the first place.
Hmm… If I have offended your sense and sensibilities… all I can say is: Get over it! And if I haven’t, I’ll keep on trying.
I know Donald will.
And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…