Americans everywhere are shaking their heads over the current entrants in the race for the presidency. Some strongly support a particular candidate, but many others are lamenting the apparent lack of quality in any of the contestants. As one family member recently remarked, “We are a nation of three hundred million people, and this is the best we can do?”
Until today, March 11, 2016, this presidential race had me in a funk. When you consider that the leading contender for the Republicans
Until today, March 11, 2016, this presidential race had me in a funk. When you consider that the leading contender for the Republicans
is a slick, thrice-married reality television star and a possible criminal and his Democratic counterpart is a slick barefaced liar and a possible criminal, that appraisal does tend to dampen the spirit. You ask, “Quo vadis, America?” and think of the porcelain flusher in your bathroom.
But today my black mood gave way to laughter. After reading accounts of last night’s debates—I don’t watch the “debates” anymore—and after reading various online political commentaries, I was suddenly struck by the fact that this race is the most ridiculous, and hence the most amusing, of my lifetime. It is a circus made up almost entirely of clowns. So instead of growing grim about the mouth over the elections, I have decided to buy a box of crackerjacks and enjoy the show.
Let’s look at a few of the candidates.
On the Democratic side is Bernie Sanders, an avowed Socialist who became a Democrat to run for the presidency. To judge by their bumper stickers, many of my neighbors here in Montford in Asheville are feeling “the Bern.” These are people who live in houses costing half a million dollars or more. Have they listened to this guy’s talking points or looked at his platform? Even liberal Democrats have proclaimed his ideas on spending as untenable, even insane. Bernie’s supporters may be happy with President Obama’s $19 trillion dollar debt, but there is, after all a limit.
On the other hand, I can see why many of them prefer Sanders when the alternative is Hilary Clinton. Let’s leave out her email blunders and Benghazi. Let’s leave out her failures as Secretary of State. Old-timers like me remember Hilary from the 1990s: Whitewater, a failed health plan, a husband to whom she is still married who stands accused of rape by a half-dozen women and who apparently took advantage of many others. (Long ago, in my Waynesville bookstore, a wealthy woman from Arkansas said everyone in that state knew that then-Governor Clinton slept around with women, and she just couldn’t see why it was such a big deal.) Yet there Ms. Clinton stands, a feminist running for the presidency, her sexually abusive husband at her side.
The Republican candidates provide irony and humor of their own.
Let’s start with The Donald. A Democrat running as Republican, a self-proclaimed genius in politics and business who has racked up more failures in his life than I have books in my apartment, a braggart, Trump makes me guffaw more than all the other candidates put together. He utters a remark about immigration or sex that would sound the death knell for any other politician, but which only boosts his popularity. Mitt Romney publicly attacks him, and Trump’s ratings again shoot up.
Equally amusing is the fear and confusion The Donald has brought to Republican Party regulars, especially those who live and work in D.C. and Northern Virginia. After decades of failed promises and political blunders, after raking millions of dollars into their think tanks and lobbies with little bang for the buck, these stalwarts don’t understand why so many Americans are angry with them.
Senators Rubio and Cruz lack Trump’s comedic edge, but because of them we have seen issues like height and the size of one’s manhood tickle the debates. Though Cruz’s wife once said that he reminded her of a 1950s movie star when she first met him, some voters, especially women, claim to be frightened by his looks. (If you tossed a black cloak across his shoulders, Cruz would indeed make an excellent Dracula.)
And poor Rubio. In Spanish he promises Hispanics he will support immigration; in English he tells everyone else he won’t. He flips and he flops. Unlike Pinocchio, Rubio’s nose grows no longer, but he himself seems to have grown much smaller. Even some in the press now taunt him as “Little Marco.”
Perhaps most amusing of all are we voters. Here we are living in a great nation—and yes, I believe in American exceptionalism, along with the millions and millions of immigrants trying to enter the country—yet how grateful are we for our Constitution, our cherished civil rights, our history, our American spirit? Many Americans have never read that Constitution, which is why some of us want to restrict free speech or put clamps on religion. Other Americans know next to nothing about their history. Recently, for example, a video made on Independence Day appeared on YouTube in which celebrants couldn’t tell the interviewer why we honored the Fourth of July or who we fought against to gain our independence.
Is such indifference cause for concern? Of course. Are a people so ignorant of their own past a reason for bleak thoughts? Certainly. Could the constant attacks on our Constitution and on our country by our own citizens end in a “death by a thousand cuts?” Possibly.
Nevertheless, the wind for me has changed. A sense of the absurd has taken the place of despair. I hereby resolve to spend the next nine months under the Big Top laughing instead of groaning, slapping my knee instead of my head.
Bring on the crackerjacks.
But today my black mood gave way to laughter. After reading accounts of last night’s debates—I don’t watch the “debates” anymore—and after reading various online political commentaries, I was suddenly struck by the fact that this race is the most ridiculous, and hence the most amusing, of my lifetime. It is a circus made up almost entirely of clowns. So instead of growing grim about the mouth over the elections, I have decided to buy a box of crackerjacks and enjoy the show.
Let’s look at a few of the candidates.
On the Democratic side is Bernie Sanders, an avowed Socialist who became a Democrat to run for the presidency. To judge by their bumper stickers, many of my neighbors here in Montford in Asheville are feeling “the Bern.” These are people who live in houses costing half a million dollars or more. Have they listened to this guy’s talking points or looked at his platform? Even liberal Democrats have proclaimed his ideas on spending as untenable, even insane. Bernie’s supporters may be happy with President Obama’s $19 trillion dollar debt, but there is, after all a limit.
On the other hand, I can see why many of them prefer Sanders when the alternative is Hilary Clinton. Let’s leave out her email blunders and Benghazi. Let’s leave out her failures as Secretary of State. Old-timers like me remember Hilary from the 1990s: Whitewater, a failed health plan, a husband to whom she is still married who stands accused of rape by a half-dozen women and who apparently took advantage of many others. (Long ago, in my Waynesville bookstore, a wealthy woman from Arkansas said everyone in that state knew that then-Governor Clinton slept around with women, and she just couldn’t see why it was such a big deal.) Yet there Ms. Clinton stands, a feminist running for the presidency, her sexually abusive husband at her side.
The Republican candidates provide irony and humor of their own.
Let’s start with The Donald. A Democrat running as Republican, a self-proclaimed genius in politics and business who has racked up more failures in his life than I have books in my apartment, a braggart, Trump makes me guffaw more than all the other candidates put together. He utters a remark about immigration or sex that would sound the death knell for any other politician, but which only boosts his popularity. Mitt Romney publicly attacks him, and Trump’s ratings again shoot up.
Equally amusing is the fear and confusion The Donald has brought to Republican Party regulars, especially those who live and work in D.C. and Northern Virginia. After decades of failed promises and political blunders, after raking millions of dollars into their think tanks and lobbies with little bang for the buck, these stalwarts don’t understand why so many Americans are angry with them.
Senators Rubio and Cruz lack Trump’s comedic edge, but because of them we have seen issues like height and the size of one’s manhood tickle the debates. Though Cruz’s wife once said that he reminded her of a 1950s movie star when she first met him, some voters, especially women, claim to be frightened by his looks. (If you tossed a black cloak across his shoulders, Cruz would indeed make an excellent Dracula.)
And poor Rubio. In Spanish he promises Hispanics he will support immigration; in English he tells everyone else he won’t. He flips and he flops. Unlike Pinocchio, Rubio’s nose grows no longer, but he himself seems to have grown much smaller. Even some in the press now taunt him as “Little Marco.”
Perhaps most amusing of all are we voters. Here we are living in a great nation—and yes, I believe in American exceptionalism, along with the millions and millions of immigrants trying to enter the country—yet how grateful are we for our Constitution, our cherished civil rights, our history, our American spirit? Many Americans have never read that Constitution, which is why some of us want to restrict free speech or put clamps on religion. Other Americans know next to nothing about their history. Recently, for example, a video made on Independence Day appeared on YouTube in which celebrants couldn’t tell the interviewer why we honored the Fourth of July or who we fought against to gain our independence.
Is such indifference cause for concern? Of course. Are a people so ignorant of their own past a reason for bleak thoughts? Certainly. Could the constant attacks on our Constitution and on our country by our own citizens end in a “death by a thousand cuts?” Possibly.
Nevertheless, the wind for me has changed. A sense of the absurd has taken the place of despair. I hereby resolve to spend the next nine months under the Big Top laughing instead of groaning, slapping my knee instead of my head.
Bring on the crackerjacks.
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