I can't believe that the fate of a Free America lies with a porn star and an ex-Playmate. Oh, and a contestant on a reality t.v. show. Mueller can't get him, but they can. Jesus Christ. I am fascinated and appalled. It really is the clown fucking the monkey. C.C. was right.
My concerns, however, are more personal. I forgot to buy milk, and I am out. Little things like this matter. I try to avoid suffering. I will not have cereal this morning. I must use an artificial creamer in my coffee. These are what the media have loved calling an existential crisis. Perhaps. It might be phenomenological. What bugs me, however, is knowing that Trump is not out of anything. Ever.
I had an early meeting yesterday that was cancelled after I had already skipped the gym, so I had to go after work. That pushed the evening back a bit, and with Ili out of town, I really didn't want to cook, so I decided to get a barbecue sandwich. Mmmm, are those things good. It is a sort of hipster fusion barbecue packed with different cuts of meat, coleslaw, other things. Stuffed. Huge. I know what I'm in for when I eat it, but it is such a treat. Old men, however, are not built for barbecue. I don't know that anyone is, really, but digestive systems with a million miles on them are delicate things.
If I had some milk, I'd be back to porridge.
That, I think, is a good reflection of how people perceive the world. Trump, porn stars, forgotten milk, a good meal and the suffering that ensues. It all get blended into a postmodern smoothie. The larger things do not supplant what's personal. Life is personal. It resides in the gut. It is the gut reaction, as they say, to what is happening around you. "Trust your gut" is an old maxim.
Still, for a good time, we will occasionally overlook it.
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