Trump Tower Mumbai

Trump Tower Mumbai

Trump’s buildings are gaudy.

An Architectural tour of Donald Trump’s gaudy ass skyscrapers.

Before Donald Trump signed up for the presidential race, he signed his name to buildings. Lots of buildings. Sure, presidential candidates have owned real estate before. But no other candidate has been such an ostentatious developer of a real estate empire, with so many gilded phallic structures built in his likeness…”

What is gaudy? Overdone according to the esthetic diktats of the age. The name came from a Spanish super genius named Gaudi, who didn’t care what people thought. Only what he envisioned. Nothing phallic about his work. His was a finger, a hand, a soul, reaching toward God.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=RcDmloG3tXU

So Gaudi was obviously wrong to be bigger, more ornate, monumental. Who would use buildings to enshrine their own egos in the history of time?

If Gaudi were alive, he'd agree to tea with Donald Trump. Who else in our time has imagination and aspiration?

If Gaudi were alive, he’d agree to tea with Donald Trump. Who else in our time has imagination and aspiration?

Trump’s buildings are vulgar.

ARCHITECTURE VIEW; Proof That All That Glitters Is Not Vulgar

“It is hard not to see in this design the influence of the great glass-and-iron structure of the Cleveland Arcade, but here Graham Gund, who is a native of Cleveland, and Adrian Smith have reinterpreted this model in a kind of post-Modern Viennese Secessionist mode. The key thing here is not structure but surface articulation; the room is lushly finished, yet never to excess. The walls are done mostly in a series of beige and reddish-brown marbles, wonderfully patterned in a way that suggests that the architects have looked carefully at sources as disparate as Classicism and 20th-century abstract painting. If the rich, warm palette of marbles calls to mind the peach marble inside Trump Tower, the splendid patterns and textures, and the setting off of the marble with mahogany instead of the brass used at the Trump building, set the arcade of 75 State Street apart and remind us that this is a building that uses decoration not as glitz but as part of a larger goal toward a civilized urbanity.”

So common and oblivious of city context, unless you count mirrors as echoes of the long tradition.

So common and oblivious of city context, unless you count mirrors as echoes of the long tradition.

So. I can read what the NYT dilettantes say, or I can remember what I learned in Art History at college and my sister’s experience in architecture school at a time of incipient upheaval. Her courses were designed to imbue her with the gospel of Le Corbusier, “form follows function.” These days it’s called the Brutalist school. Two examples.

Keystone of Boston's "Government Center."

Keystone of Boston’s “Government Center.” I was required to write an admiring paper about it. I got a B-. Maybe a lack of enthusiasm.

The IRS HQ in DC. The columns are a vestigial ruse.

The IRS HQ in DC. The columns are a vestigial ruse.

I graduated and spent some time hanging out at the same university where my sis was studying architecture. They were getting the Corb gospel in spades, but they were also beginning to rebel a bit. True, they didn’t foresee this.

Venturi strip center times a hundred. The boardwalk.

Venturi strip center times a hundred. The boardwalk.

But they did feel that deep seated impulse to rebel against totalitarian architecture, and I spent some all-nighters with them in their model building sessions (often 16 hours at a sprint, kind of like Face-Off), express a yen toward the cheap strip architecture, inspired by Vegas, of the pioneer post-modern architect Robert Venturi. I scoffed. But they were right. Architecture is supposed to show people who they are and challenge them to respond unblindly but seeingly. A step toward actual consciousness.

We are all living in a Venturi strip center now. Except those of us who can still remember the pre-postmodern era. I can. Can you? Until you can, Venturi, just like Gaudi, is a lesson. Sometimes vulgarity is the necessary slap in the face of a soldier who let down the side.

A quick Venturi gallery.

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Brutalism never worked. It was ugly and dehumanizing. Venturism probably doesn’t work either, too coarse and loud. But Trump has sponsored a wide range. He is a wide range of man. I grew up in the country with all kinds of people. Most people I met later lived on a block with the same kind of people their parents were, same incomes, same cars, same limited aspirations. Why the conformists of all stripes and classes hate Trump so much. He defies classifications. He’s a patron of architecture, whether you admit it or not. That puts your mind in a different space. Not everything can or should look like Eliot House at Harvard. Not everything can or should look like the Guggenheim. Or the Empire State Building. Or the Vatican. Your eyes and mind get bigger when you imagine the possibilities.

All I’m suggesting is that if you want a progressive art critic, go with Prince Charles, who wants everything to look like the Houses of Parliament unless it can be buried by the rising seas of Global Warming. As a Patrone of architecture, Trump has let the whole gamut of styles loose. Don’t forget, he commissions, he critiques designs, and he has to get them built to make money in their particular business environments. True he could have put his inheritance in the bank and watched his trust fund grow until, like a sad sibling, he expired of unexplored potential. What the Bernie people would expect and a surprising number of Yalies would prefer. Because it is better to be born with money and die young than do something creative with the money and aspire to greatness. Got it. Something Jonah Goldberg and Charles Krauthammer and Kevin Williamson and David Zincavage have forgotten. When they come in to take this apart, they should be very very careful they don’t sound like Prince Charles taking a first in the Twit of the Year Contest.

Truth is, it’s always the smallest people who can’t abide anyone larger than life.

Stay tuned for the literary side of the argument. Even worse for the Scrooges of the eight.

 

 

Galadriel gave everybody a pretty stern talking to, and then she handed out some rations from her personal supply of Brave Biscuits, which everyone enjoyed immensely if a bit sheepishly.

Yum yum. Pippin had two. Because Sam didn't want his.

Yum yum. Pippin had two. Because Sam didn’t want his. Frodo upchucked his.

It was a good thing about the biscuits, though, because almost as soon as they had sallied out, once again, toward Mordor, they ran into a place called Moria.

We're talking very bad place here. Underground, secret passages, and a magical doorway only Gimli could unlock, because... Dwarves.

We’re talking very bad place here. Underground, secret passages, and a magical doorway only Gimli could unlock, because… Dwarves.

Thanks to Gimli the Ring Pack managed to enter the right password — ARF — then they entered a place where thousands of dwarves had been massacred seven or fourteen dog years before.

The early part was very not so good.

The early part was very not so good.

Gandalf was leading the way, munching on Brave Biscuits as if they were Oreos, and he encouraged everyone else not to run screaming back to the entrance.

Gee whiz. Moria's a bitch.

Gee whiz. Moria’s a bitch.

But then things went from bad to worse. There were orcs in there.

Not good. Way not good.

Not good. Way not good.

There was only one way through. It involved a bridge.

 

A not very safe bridge.

A not very safe bridge.

And the orcs were closing in.

Orcs are not nice.

Orcs are not nice.

Even worse, the end of the bridge was blocked by a balrog. Nobody knows what they are exactly, but balrogs make Orcs look like chihuahuas.

Gandalf was not afraid. Much.

Gandalf was not afraid. Much.

So Gandalf attacked.

A wizard unleashed.

A wizard unleashed.

He and the balrog fell into the pit below the bridge. And then nobody knew what to do.

Stay tuned for Part 6.

Let’s face it. The Ring Pack did not get off to the best possible start. After all the parting gifts and everything, they began the trek toward Mordor only to be interrupted by one of the nine Nazgul, who took a hefty chunk out of Frodo.

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“Let’s get the hell out of here,” they agreed.

Um. They all ran away.

Um. They all ran away, except for Sam, who fell into a hole.

But in her mystical way, Galadriel was keeping an eye on things in the elvish birdbath.

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And she flew to the rescue of the injured Frodo.

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So they went back to the Elf Place and got ready to start all over again.

Stay tuned for Part 5.

So when everybody woke up and scratched and went out and ate some of that heavenly Elven kibble, they had a big council with the King of the Elves.

Elrond

Elrond

The idea is that someone (Frodo Frodo Frodo) has to take the Ring to the Cracks of Doom and destroy it.

Where? What? Why Frodo?!

Where? What? Why Frodo?!

And everybody but Frodo agreed that this was the smartest plan.

Well, here’s why Frodo. After the initial planning meeting, Queen Galadriel visited Frodo while he was taking a quiet drink of green water from the Loth Lorien birdbath.

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She was, like, I want the Ring!

Give me the damn Ring. I'm a queen dammit. Give'it'a'me. You little cur.

Give me the damn Ring. I’m a queen dammit. Give’it’a’me. You little cur.

And the little guy was like WTF?!

Frodo

Frodo

And then she was all sorry and explained to Frodo why he had to take the Ring to the Cracks of Doom because everyone worthwhile wanted the Ring for theirself. See?

I didn't mean to be that nasty evil bitch you just saw. Only Elrond knows about her.

I didn’t mean to be that nasty evil bitch you just saw. Only Elrond knows about her.

And thereupon and whereupon and thence and so forth, the Ring Pack was chartered and sent forth and so on.

There was The Ring Bearer Frodo.

Could I go back home now, please?

Could I go back home now, please?

And the ever faithful Samwise.

Let me at'em. I'll kill'em

Let me at’em. I’ll kill’em

And the other two hobbits too, just to keep the odds against success incredibly long.

Merry in camouflage body paint and flamethrower gear.

Merry in camouflage body paint and flamethrower gear.

Pippin. Always ready to go.

Pippin. Always ready to go.

And then, for the sake of diversity, we have to have a dwarf…

Gimli

Gimli

An elf…

Legolas

Legolas

And three big guys. Gandalf, Strider, and a shifty, mysterious stranger from Gondor.

Boromir

Boromir

What could go wrong? Stay tuned for Part 4.

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So you come out of your garage thinking you’re all hot stuff and everything. But you’re really not. Just another mutt with a car no longer fashionable. It’s okay. You don’t have to be fashionable. Only I and all the really good, smart, superior people have to be fashionable. The rest of you should vote for Bernie. Or Hillary.

The Matador

The Matador


With maybe one of these on guard, just to prove your class.

Which you don’t actually have any of.

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What with being a creep and all.

And, uh, yeah, you are. You really are. A creep. Go Bernie. Go Hillary.

Mary Martin. Hot chick. Especially when you're ten.

Mary Martin. Hot chick. Especially when you’re ten.

I had this album of .45 RPM records, all green. Mary Martin’s Peter Pan. Played them till they wore out. Thing is, I was never confused. She was a woman playing a boy and I loved her more than anything because she made it okay for me to think of a woman who knew what it was to be a boy. My first huge crush. Yes. I knew she had breasts under that costume. How cool is that?

It’s not that hard to know you’re a boy. You just have to the hear the woman in this voice. (This seems to be the whole album. Stay in there and wait for Neverland.)

I love you, I hate you. I'm only a cat.

I love you, I hate you. I’m only a cat.

So we regard one another across the doorway. She doesn’t know whether to run for the door or for the cat food in the bathroom. And then she sings.

Not a conservative. Doesn't matter that he bankrolled Reagan in 1980.

Not a conservative. Doesn’t matter that he bankrolled Reagan in 1980.

A story of my morning. I had an errand to run in neighboring Delaware. Me going to Delaware in my gunmetal Jeep. Stopped listening to rock radio stations many years ago. Heard it all, you know. Chances of hearing something you actually like go down and down and down with the years. So I’m listening to this Philly Talk Radio Guy named Dom Giordano who thinks he is smart, and I’m usually content to count his malapropisms and overlook his metronome-like repetitiveness on his talking points. Usually.

I put up with it for three quarters of the trip. I commend myself for my patience. He was constant in his mischaracterization of Trump’s Israel policy. He kept repeating (and repeating and repeating) that Trump said he would be neutral in Israel Palestinian negotiations. He was jazzed up by the story that 40 rabbis were planning to walk out on Trump’s AIPAC speech. At no time did Giordano mention that Trump prefaced his comments about Israel and Palestinians with doubt that an agreement was even possible. A preface repeated several times because Trump also repeats and repeats. Then Giordano blew by a caller, a Jewish caller, who said everyone knows Trump is pro-Israel, what with his lifetime behavior with the Jewish community and his Jewish family members, and everyone knows that protests announced ahead of time are organized liberal political theatrics. So Giordano thanked him and went back to repeating that Trump declared himself neutral and that’s not the position of the United States.

At which point, alone in the Jeep, I said “F**k you, Dom,” and stabbed the radio’s FM button, which my wife had preset to a classic rock station.

Where the serendipity comes in. No sooner had I changed the station than I heard the beat that reawakens even an old cold heart like mine. AC/DC.

And while I was hammering the steering wheel in time to the song, I was also thinking this should be THE Trump campaign song. Dirt cheap? How about the most successful, most watched political ad of the campaign, posted on YouTube for zero advertising dollars.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=QMZqS7q7voY

Dirty deeds? Everyone in Mediamerica accuses Trump without cease. Brooks doesn’t like the crease in his pants. Krauthammer doesn’t like the cut of his jib. Williamson thinks he should have been aborted, the sole exception to his pro-life stance. So I say “Embrace the Dirty.” And to all the haters, say “F**k you and the horse you rode in on.” An old time curse. Back when people knew the difference between roughshod male vulgarity and criminal, treasonous corruption (Hillary!!! We luuuuuuuv you!)

So that was a lightning strike. A switch from Dom to a Campaign Dream. And then lightning struck a second time. Only a female DJ would do this. Dirty Dreams was immediately followed by a song so dated and dumb, and treacly and transparently troglodytic, that it’s an automatic pick for Bernie Sanders’s campaign song.

And that's my home where dreams are born, And time is never planned. Just think of lovely things. And your heart will fly on wings, Forever in Never Never Land.

And that’s my home where dreams are born,
And time is never planned.
Just think of lovely things.
And your heart will fly on wings, Forever in Never Never Land.

And here’s the song. By Styx. Perfect. The river of the dead, beyond which you are forever lost. A permanent kind of Neverland.

Just an average morning in my oh so surprising life.

The Ring of Power

The Ring of Power

Enter the hobbits.

Bilbo

Bilbo

This little guy stole a ring from this little guy.

Gollum

Gollum

Which is when all the Wizards had to get involved.

Gandalf the Grey

Gandalf the Grey

Radagast the Brown

Radagast the Brown

Saruman

Saruman the White

So, for a long time, being Wizards, they don’t do much. Bilbo’s ring falls into the possession of his nephew.

Frodo

Frodo

Which is when Gandalf finally gets off the couch and informs Frodo that he has to travel thousands of miles and throw the Ring into the Cracks of Doom.

What?!

What?!

“Why can’t you do it?” Frodo asks.

“You will have help,” Gandalf replies. “Three trusty friends who have also never been out their hobbit crates.”

Samwise

Samwise

Merry

Merry

Pippin

Pippin

“Cool,” they all said at once. “Let’s go. But can we eat first?”

So they set out for God knows where and immediately get lost in a forest because Gandalf had to get back to his couch. That’s when they meet up with the heroic and mysterious stranger who has been there and done that more times than you or I could count on the fingers of one paw.

Strider

Strider

After some funny adventures, Strider gets his four unruly charges to where the elves live.

The Elf Place.

The Elf Place.

They’ve got like the best beds there and all the chew toys a hobbit could want. And not only that, they have the Queen of the Elves. Cool.

Galadriel

Galadriel

Which is when everybody had to lie down for a nap after all the excitement.

Stay tuned for Part 3.

A thought experiment to follow.

A thought experiment to follow.

Now think. You’ve seen all the catastrophe movies. They’ve destroyed the Golden Gate Bridge a dozen times over, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building, Times Square, L.A.’s Capitol Records Building, most of Chicago, and, well, almost every significant architectural and engineering landmark.

But never the Chrysler Building. We all know that’s off limits somehow. Why?

Art Deco. It was always the coolest of the cool. We never got close again. Art Deco was both huge and miniature. We all can have a piece of it. We do here in our little household.

What was it? Design. And attitude.

The best of times and the best of times.

The best of times and the best of times.

There was sculpture. Scandalous sculpture.

There was sculpture. Scandalous sculpture.

And scandalous paintings. Because women weren’t empowered back then. Much.

Never any Lesbians in the old days. Oh. yes there were. They just had class.

Never any Lesbians in the old days. Oh. yes there were. They just had class.

Her name was Lempicka. Just imagine a Madonna with talent.

Her name was Lempicka. Just imagine a Madonna with talent.

There was no Art Deco Music. Unless you count this ode to the Chrysler Building.

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Come to think of it, there was Art Deco music. I think they called it jazz. Back when nobody ever thought black people had any talent.

There was Art Deco writing.

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And Art Deco cars.

Income inequality. Esthetic inequality.

Income inequality. Esthetic inequality.

And more Art Deco cars.

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And Art Deco women.

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And Art Deco bric a brac.

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Which we can still have today, just to help us remember a time when America wasn’t wearing its jeans at or below crotch level.

Life is always urgently straight up and about stacking.

Life is always urgently straight up and more about stacking than shagging.

Oh well. See ya.

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The creative process. Mostly an accident. Some stray idea is sparked in your head and then it’s off to the races. It’s all the tail wagging the dog, so to speak. The picture above was the spark. So now I’m just having fun.

Three rings for the elven kings under the sky…

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Seven for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone…

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Nine for Dobermans doomed to die…

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One for the dark lord, on his dark throne…

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In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie…

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One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them.
One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.

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Speaker of the House. Looks like a serial killer. Gives Obama his idiotic budget. Willing to be drafted as presidential nominee..

Speaker of the House. Looks like a serial killer. Gives Obama his idiotic budget. Willing to be drafted as presidential nominee..

Let me ask. Let’s say, just for the purpose of argumentation, that you’re a Republican and would like to win a legislative battle with the Democrats, once anyway.

GOPe.

Uh, why would we want to do that? Do you have any idea how much money we can make as lobbyists even if the people somehow manage to throw us out of office? When the congressional majority dutifully acts like an impotent rubber-stamp minority, the federal funds jet through DC like a fire hose. Nobody in his right mind would ever want to stop that. Why we’re inexorably committed to NeverTrump and AlwaysHillary.

All the lonely people, where do they all belong? In McTammany Hall the answer is clear.

Here endeth the lesson.

Iris and Raven do lots of ripping and tearing in the morning. Chasing each other down the stairs, thundering back up the stairs, and occasionally knocking stuff over. But then comes the midday timeout, when all that’s necessary is being close.

Are you looking at us? Are you looking at us?

Yes, we are looking at you.

Well, okay then.

Well, okay then.

Can't live with hounds for a generation without turning into one. Problem is, I'm not a nice one. I bite.

Can’t live with hounds for a generation without turning into one. Problem is, I’m not a nice one. I bite.

I’m not a nice guy. I have many Irish friends. Yet I wrote this. A satire of Jimmy Breslin and Pete Hamill, the brawny hairy chested alcoholics in remission who beat up average Joes and win acclaim for their authenticity from The New Yorker and the Times. Great life if you can get it, right? But every year, every single year, there’s a day when even the brawniest hairy fingered lout who thinks he can write has to walk by an Irish pub and not go inside. Voila! (And if you don’t pronounce the V as a V, the Jersey Latin squad will be coming for you.)

***************

March 17, 2000

The Tough Guy

It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
I was going to say something there. Hold on a sec.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!

You know, the thing about these support groups is what a bunch of stuffed-shirt, killjoy, bigoted, anti-Irish, English-ass-kissing, boring sumbitches they are. Did you know that? Did you?

You hold their hand, and listen to all their dull, dull stories about their dull, dull problems, and you all sit there not drinking, and forcing down all that bad coffee, which is even decaf for God’s sake, and do they appreciate it? Do they come around on St. Patrick’s Day to say, “Thanks old man. Erin go bragh. Top o’ the mornin’ to you. And by the way, this is one day when you really should take a break from all this dull no-drinking bullcrap crap you usually do.” Do they do that?

No. They don’t. Here’s what they do. They call up that little fairy intern who works in the office next to you, and they tell him to go hunting
through all your desk drawers for the bottle of fine old Irish blarney you’ve filed away for this one extremely special, wonderful day of the year, and they order him to steal that bottle like some little damn fairy thief AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.

DAMN.

But I wasn’t born yesterday. My old man didn’t raise no fool. He was Irish. He was a cop. He was in the big one. He knew all the tricks. And I know’em too. I wouldn’t leave no bottle of genuine fine old Irish blarney in my damn desk drawer where some little fairy intern could get at it AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.

I wouldn’t do that. What I would do, if you’re asking me, is this. I would replace the genuine old Irish blarney in that bottle with some cheap, lousy, made-last-week- in-New-Joisey crap, and I would make sure that I had the real blarney in my briefcase, right where I could get at it if some little fairy thief decided to listen to a bunch of stuffed-shirt support-group Republians and take my blarney AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.

That’s what I would do. If you’re asking.

By the way…

It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day! How the hell are you today?
I’m fine. I really am.

There was something in particular I was going to write about in the column today. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ll have it in just a moment. Hold on. Gun control? Maybe that was it. Hold on a sec.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day!

Hold on.

I think it was about this Charleston Heston Republian stuffed-shirt bigoted anti-Irish support-group killjoy… Hold on.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day!

Hold on.

I’ve got it. Hold on.

It’s St. Patr

The Tough Guy is a regular Star feature contributed by columnist Jimmy Bricker.
__________________________

*************++

Being Scottish gives you lots of cover. But even I have to admit that this is a 15 year old microaggression that deserves a safe space. Good thing I know where that safe space is.

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Mussolini 1 and 2.

Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary.

A mantra with two different meanings. On the Democrat side a mantra of fear, Type 1. On the Republican side a mantra of fear, Type 2.

Type 1 is genuine fear, akin to panic. The Dems know Hillary is an incredibly weak candidate. She’s awful on the stump. When she isn’t faking black or southern accents, or simpering little woman fake humility, she turns into a banshee, a braying, shrieking, bitter harridan whose voice is worse than chalk on blackboards. She’s got the sword of Damocles hanging over her head, investigations in the FBI and the DOJ proper that could or at least should land her in prison.

Type 2 is the fear that lies will be found out. The Republican leadership, its congressional majorities, and its politician enriching donors don’t care if Hillary is elected president. In fact, if they can’t have Jeb, they’d prefer Hillary. Their sweet deal will continue. Boundless funds for their reelection campaigns and boundless riches for the lobbying careers they will enjoy after they end their legislative careers. Absolute corruption on a scale not seen since Tammany Hall. Or Ancient Rome. Everyone for sale. Every issue and bill for sale, no matter what lies have to be told barefacedly to their party faithful. Run on border control, immediately propose amnesty. Run on fiscal responsibility, immediately ratify the Dems’ bloated budget whole hog (pun intended). Pretend you’re against ObamaCare, then do nothing to repeal, fix, or replace it.

Type 1 and Type 2 have one thing in common. At this point they both want to do whatever it takes to prevent Trump from becoming the Republican nominee. Why? Well, the George Wills and Chris Matthews and Charles Krauthammers and Anderson Coopers and David Brooks of the world don’t know much about boxing metaphors, but they can sense the excitement, danger, and unpredictability of a heavyweight prizefight. And the very thought of it terrifies them to death. Why they tell us we’re stupid. You know. If you’re David Brooks or George Will, might as well have rape enabler Hillary instead of a guy who probably pinches bottoms in Italy. Something, no doubt about canapés in the Hamptons and NR cruises with Kevin Williamson.

What a Trump-Clinton electoral campaign would be. It would be slugger against slugger, which is relatively rare even in the prizefight world. Nobody’s tried to handicap the contest as it would really unfold. There is reason to do so. Both fighters have records, both have been penalized points and rounds for unsportsmanlike conduct, but in this case they are in the ring together. Who has the edge?

Let’s pick a couple of avatars. First, Hillary as Mike Tyson. (Incredible cheap shot at 6:47 in.)

Second, The Don as Rocky Marciano.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=c6Qv4_oKx6U
Tyson had a soundtrack. Marciano should too.

Because that was the day and the life of Rocky Marciano. For all you hedge fund managers who don’t know what it’s like to fight to the death for anything.

RELATIVE STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES

Both aggressive punchers and counterpunchers. Tyson the more controlled on the attack, well prepared, planned, expert at ducking and weaving, comes in willing to take a punch or two to get in some savage body body blows and head shots. Tremendous and balanced power in the overall attack, and always waiting for the inside uppercut to bring it to an end. Only sign of wildness is a practiced left hook, designed to pulverize the opponent. Weakness? Violent felony convict, sexual predator, and dirty fighter.

Chew my way to victory if necessary.

Chew my way to victory if necessary.

Marciano. The only ever undefeated heavyweight champion of boxing. He was a wild swinger without much of a jab. The Brockton Bomber, they called him. He fought more champions in his division than anyone but Muhammed Ali. Fabled names. Joe Louis. Jersey Joe Walcott. Ezzard Charles. What was he famous for? Taking a lot of punishment to land one telling blow. He frequently finished fights with his face a bloody mask. But he won by knockout 87.5 percent of the time. Simple arithmetic. Hit him and be prepared to be hit back harder by a factor of ten. Sledgehammer, canvas time. He won in early rounds and late rounds. Unlike Tyson or Foreman. He won when he was behind on points, as Ali was late in his career. The champion rises as his energy seems to fall. A law of physics MIT hasn’t yet explained. Weaknesses? A bleeder. Easy to cut him. Today’s referees might have stopped fights he won. Should they have? That would be a PC matter, wouldn’t it?

CAMPAIGN IMPLICATIONS

Hillary knows how to hit hard. She has teams of morlocks working day and night to compile her ammunition. But there are two factors her dimwit Yale advisers should take into account.

1. Trump has already survived the greatest prolonged assault of negative advertising in the history of televised and otherwise mass media-driven presidential campaigns. He has been called every name in the book, every nasty adjective in the book, every obscenity, every repulsive historical epithet, had his character assassinated by both snipers and organized commando teams, and there he still is, leading the pack for the Republican nomination. What’s left to throw at him? Some personal foible you’ve been hiding under your skirt, Hillary? Which brings us to Point Two.

2. Hillary’s first and only impulse, in the absence of real experience, accomplishment or policy prescriptions that aren’t mere jargon, is to go for the jugular with her famed Clinton factory for oppo research. But the sad, pitiable fact is that no matter what Hillary accuses Trump of, he can respond instantly, in her own words, on video, that she is guilty of worse. Hit him for a loose and sybaritic lifestyle, will you? Think again. He can hit you for committing felonious acts against Bill’s girlfriends. Hit him for shaving corners on construction projects, and he can demand that you lay out the whole financial history of the Clinton Foundation. Trump says stupid things. Quote them in ads. Then wait for Rocky Marciano to bludgeon you with your email server, Benghazi, and Lewinski lies. He doesn’t have to do research. You’ve revealed the reality a hundred times in a hundred on-camera lies.

In what round will she fall? Every time the Clinton machine strikes like a cobra, the Trump mongoose can take her head off with barely a hundred dollars of research. That’s how exposed and vulnerable they are. A once formidable counterpuncher actually needs to learn a defensive crouch.

Before he even gets to the question of why you keep walking around bumping into things, coughing through tiny campaign events, and braying like a donkey at everyone who asks you a question.

Trump can do all this without saying anything anti-woman to you in person. You’ve provided all the ammunition. On film, digitally available, immediately viral on command.

Champions fall. Especially would-be champions who never were.

HOW THEY FELL.

Tyson.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rt8LZ8FjGN8
Guy comes out of nowhere and knocks you on your ass.

Marciano.

He didn’t. Died in a plane crash. Don’t think about it, Hillary. You heard it here first.

AND THERE’s that little something extra. Who has it? You know.


I’m the Greatest. Best at Everything. Ever heard that before? He kind of was.

Sonny Liston was the Mike Tyson of his day. Cassius Clay, considered a lightweight amateur, beat him up to win the title. Liston got his second chance though. People thought he’d win, what with all his experience and power and whatnot. He went down in the first round. They called it a phantom punch because the camera angles couldn’t catch the blow that did it. All you had to see, though, was the ripple in Muhammed Ali’s chest muscles to understand the impact that occurred in fact. The amateur took down the invincible monster, in a single round.

THE ULTIMATE IMMUNITY FACTOR

The ability to take it and fight back to win.

THE LAST DEBATE BETWEEN THE DAMNED

She wants to be destroyed. Let him overwhelm her.

Okay. We admit it. What with all the horrific political news of late, we’ve been watching Netflix reruns of CSI Miami. This Caruso guy. Actually a pretty decent actor. A little creepy sometimes but good in his role.

On the creepy side, I put on my old super expensive sunglasses and tilted my head at my wife, who threatened to run me through with a steak knife. If anyone subsequenly runs me through with a steak knife, please ask the Salem police to ask my wife about steaks, knives, and dead husbands and so forth.

I like to think my impression was pretty good or she wouldn’t have been so creeped out by it.

Anyhow. The show itself is better than we remembered. Delco is a useless male slut. Emily Procter is a walking advertisement for not having plastic surgery while you’re still alive. Jonathan Togo is a study in not acting for fun and profit. The fat old white guy cop is your standard fat old white guy cop. I think his name is Bill or Frank or something. Like it matters. But the ME played by Khandi Alexander is as terrific as Caruso. She calls her corpses baby, and talks them through the trauma of autopsy. Everybody else is just a pain in the ass.

Ewe love her.

We love her.

Clarkson, May, and Hammond, the bleeding edge of Brit TV.

Clarkson, May, and Hammond, the bleeding edge of Brit TV.

Yes, they’re going to do it. Come all the way to the colonies for Spring Break and all the B&B (boobs and bums) the colonies have to offer.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=iS3hoWKLPi8

Not to mention the motor vehicles.

And the beach bunny. If there’s still one left. Oh. Yes. One last slag.

She wants Jeremy. And May. And Hammond. She's kind of a slut.

She wants Jeremy. And May. And Hammond. She’s everybody’s girl.

Collars R Us.

Collars R Us.


Was there ever, has there ever been, anyone cooler than Clint Eastwood?

image

You know the scene. Saw it three times today.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=eyjrUAimzZg

Nothing like a good piece of hickory.

There's always been an Establishment.

There’s always been an Establishment.

And all too rarely, somebody with bullet holes in his back who knows who they are and how to take them down.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=WQuKXGOoqUc

Long walk. Many are now taking that walk.

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