It is the most famous ducktail in America today, the hairdo of wayward youth of a bygone era, and it’s astonishing to imagine it under the spotlight in Cleveland, being cheered by Republican dignitaries. This is the guy who sat behind you in history and poked you with his pencil and smirked when you asked him to stop. That smirk is now on every front page in America. It is not what anybody – left, right or center – looks for in a president. There’s no philosophy here, just an attitude.
He is a little old for a ducktail. By the age of 70, most ducks have moved on, but not Donald Trump. He is apparently still fond of the sidewalls and the greasy sweep in back and he is proud as can be of his great feat, the first punk candidate to get this close to the White House. He says that the country is run by a bunch of clowns and that he is going to make things great again and beat up on the outsiders who are coming into our neighborhood.
His followers don’t necessarily believe that. What they love about him is what kids loved about Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious: that he horrifies the powers that be. When you are pro-duck, you are extending your middle finger toward Congress, the press, clergy, lawyers, teachers, big muckety-mucks, VIPs, all those people who think they’re better than you. You have the power to scare the pants off them, and that’s what this candidate does better than anybody else.
After the worst mass shooting in American history Sunday, 49 persons dead in Orlando, the bodies still being carted from the building, the faces of horror-stricken police officers and EMTs on TV, the gentleman issued a statement on Twitter thanking his followers for their congratulations, that the tragedy showed that he had been “right” in calling for America to get “tough.”
Anyone else would have expressed sorrow. The gentleman expressed what was in his heart, which was personal pride.
We had a dozen or so ducktails in my high school class, and they were all about looks. The hooded eyes, the sculpted swoop of the hair, the curled lip. They emulated Elvis but only the look, not the talent. Their sole ambition was to make an impression, to slouch gracefully and exhale in an artful manner.
In the natural course of things, they struggled after graduation. Some tried law enforcement for the prestige of it. Others became barflies. If they were drafted, the Army got them shaped up in a month or two. Eventually, they all calmed down, got hitched up to a mortgage, worried about their blood pressure, lost the chippiness, let their hair down.
But if your dad was rich, then the ducktail could inherit enough wealth to be practically impervious to public opinion. This has happened in New York City. A man who could never be elected city comptroller is running for president.
The dreamers in the Republican Party imagine that success will steady him and he will accept wise counsel and come into the gravitational field of reality, but it isn’t happening. The Orlando tweets show it: The man does not have a heart. How, in a few weeks, should House Speaker Paul Ryan and Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell teach him basic humanity? The man they see today is the same man New Yorkers have been observing for 40 years. A man obsessed with marble walls and gold-plated doorknobs, who has the sensibility of a giant sea tortoise.
His response to the Orlando tragedy is one more clue that this election is different from any other. If Mitt Romney or John McCain had been elected president, you might be disappointed but you wouldn’t fear for the fate of the republic. This time, the Republican Party is presumably nominating a man who resides in the dark depths. The only greatness he knows about is himself.
So the country is put to a historic test. If the man is not defeated, then we are not the country we imagine we are. All of the trillions spent on education was a waste. The churches should close up shop. The nation that elects this man president is not a civilized society. The gentleman is not airing out his fingernail polish – he is making an obscene gesture. Ignore it at your peril.
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