I think John Scalzi says it best:
Tried to write a post about the latest about Trump and what came out was GWAAAAAAARRRRRRGBLEWAAARGBLE, so maybe I'll come back to it later.
— John Scalzi (@scalzi) October 8, 2016
Like many of you, I watched Sunday night’s debacle with my jaw in my lap. I’m honestly out of words, other than various versions of “what the–?” This is the culmination — or the closest version on a culmination, surely to be topped later — of something that has never been hidden. While the rest of you were passing around yet another Charles Pierce essay, I was struck by the headline for an adjacent blog. I won’t even look it up, but it read something like, “This all happened because Trump wanted to be on ‘Days of Our Lives.'”
And that’s it, isn’t it? A man for whom millions will cast their vote for president in about a month once appeared, purely out of vanity or “brand-building” or whatever bullshit reason he had, on a soap opera. No, this is not like Bill Clinton playing sax for Arsenio Hall or Barack Obama appearing on “Between Two Ferns.” This is not only a soap opera, but one of the absolute worst ones ever. (My neighbor/sitter used to watch it, begrudgingly. Her mother-in-law loved it, and it was one safe thing they could talk about. She said it was so awful you could generally get away with watching two days a week and be entirely up to speed.)
There was also his appearance in the professional wrestling ring, can’t forget that. Something about shaving Vince McMahon’s head, or something. Of the 14 seasons of “The Apprentice” I don’t have much to say, other than this: I tried to watch it once, and lasted maybe 12 minutes.
It’s mind-boggling, jaw-dropping, when you think of it. Politics and the public face of campaigns have changed a great deal in my lifetime, but this is a step beyond. This is a clown threatening tinpot-dictator justice on his running mate, on national television.
This is the alt-right. Good job, guys.
I’m not usually this gloomy, and I’m not, really. It’s just that every so often it hits me.
My neighbor and her mother called “Days of Our Lives” DOOL, for short. Dool. Like drool.
Just a little bloggage today. On the upside, a charming piece, by Hank, on the TV angle to the last three days:
(Billy) Bush, who is the nephew and cousin of the 41st and 43rd U.S. presidents, ascended from movie-junket gnat to a more lofty role reserved for the kings of infotainment — the Ryan Seacrests and Carson Dalys, whose superhuman work schedules and ability to yammer on camera never abate. They host music competition shows, New Year’s Eve countdowns, red-carpet shows, morning talk shows, Olympic Games, radio shows. They exist in a ubiquitous, onanistic state of lifestyle and entertainment worship, and they do it for so long that they eventually become the bolder name among the gaggles of barely boldface names that they “interview.” But what is their job, really? Part of me wants to call these rarefied creatures yanchors. Part of me wants to call them brosts.
They’re successful because we so rarely, truly think about them. We reward them with the same mindlessness they serve to us, a daily exchange of pablum. To think that the outcome of this election could have somehow, all this time, hinged on Billy Bush, who exists mostly because America leaves the TV on all day so the dog won’t feel lonely.
Finally, a rather startling collection of 30-second spots on workplace safety, and the necessity of vigilance, etc. Surprisingly graphic, and Canadian. Who knew?
Onward the week lurches.