Jamie Malanowski

OUR MAN IN AMERICA: PRESIDENT OZZY

From the British magazine The Jackal, MARCH 15, 2017

Politics has never been the prime interest of the American people. Oh, we like to gussie up the whole Revolutionary War thing with the `life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,’’ mantra, but that was just something Thomas Jefferson spackled over what was basically a tax squabble. Let’s face it, whenever political matters oust Beyonce or the Kardashians or some equivalent circus from the top of the conversational charts, we start running into trouble. We’re a democracy, see, so whenever a political topic gets too big, everybody needs to chime in. Once that happens, the capacity of sensible people to say “enough is enough’’ gets chucked out the window, and the thing rolls on and on until we’ve seen dead bodies at Gettysburg or the semen stain on Monica Lewinsky’s dress. At that point everybody turns away, abashed at the spectacle.

So we try to avoid politics, and just preside over the world. We’re happy that everyone knows that we have a great country and that we believe in a great God, and that while we are a global superpower, we are also very well-liked. Moreover, we have just the right number of minority groups and just the right amount of gay people, and we don’t need any more, thanks anyway. We don’t know why Muslims hate us; but when you get down to it, we don’t even know why Muslims want to be Muslims. We just want to drive our crossover SUVs, and be satisfied that nobody has it better than us.

Sadly, politics in the form of the President Trump saga has squatted all-but-permanently on the national agenda, and nothing seems to possess the potential to dislodge it. Usually a new president comes in, and no matter how many people loathed him as a candidate, he would benefit from a temporary cordiality that would allow him to get organized. In return, he would spend a lot of time smiling and waving, as though to reassure people that meant no harm. By the time his enemies were ready to resume their vituperative bombardment, he should have been able to reassure the remainder of the country that he was harmless, and they could safely return to their iPhones.

President Obama was even more lulling than usual. For eight years, he led a mellow government. It was like Al Jarreau was president. Obama could talk about anything—financial catastrophe, automotive bankruptcy, cops shooting unnamed black men, Syria dematerializing—and the country would walk out humming “We’re In This Love Together.’’ It wasn’t like we were happy about what was happening, or even unified in our desire to solve the problem, or that we even liked him. It was as like we were in this love together.

Now he has given way to his polar opposite. Donald Trump is the stylistic equivalent of Ozzy Osbourne, screeching “Paranoid’’ and biting the heads off bats. He came into office as he campaigned, telling lies, banning Muslims and firing salvos of condemnation at Mexico, Australia, Germany, America’s own intelligence service, judges, the news media and Meryl Streep (though he did find time to praise Frederick Douglass, the very dead 19th century abolitionist whom Trump cited as “an example of somebody who’s done an amazing job and is being recognized more and more.”)

Well, aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons. In a flash, millions had taken to the streets, phones, and other media of the moment to express their extreme disapproval. A more sensible leader might have been chastened, but Trump is not mere mortal. He is a god, a Trinity, three-in-one: the Provocative Populist, who had enough skill to win; the Bullshit Artist, who bullies and blusters his way through life; and the Cry Baby, who can dish it out but can’t take it.

Who will wear out first? The Resistance, so far, seems relentless, inspired just as much by their setbacks as his. But Trump, it appears, has begun to wilt from the long days and shortage of adulation. Lately he appears pale and puffy, and reportedly spends his evenings alone in his bathrobe, watching TV and tweeting, although in response, his press secretary has vehemently denied that Trump even owns a bathrobe. Something’s got to give.

I predict he’ll own a dressing gown by the end of the month.

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