Movies have been entrenched in our nation’s zeitgeist since nickelodeons dotted the landscape at the turn of the 20th century. From the first celluloid rag beatifying the works of Chaplin to the latest TMZ reporter chasing down a drunken starlet, the world of cinema has shaped, molded, and often crafted popular culture. Ever since Griffith’s monumental albeit overtly racist oeuvre Birth of a Nation, Hollywood and Washington have been inextricably linked, its relationship waxing and waning over the years depending on the tides of social mores. The grubby milieu of politics wasn’t exposed until the typically mawkish Capra delivered a cynical gem, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in 1939, a seminal year for film. Like other public figures, politicians have been judged, usually in a negative manner, against their on-screen personas. While many promising Jefferson Smiths have succumbed to the meat grinder of Congressional compromise, less desirable protagonists have had their share of imitators. Clinton was deemed, particularly on far reaches of the AM dial, to be a modern day Elmer Gantry, a slick, silver tongued preacher who eschews the values he proselytizes. Likewise, his successor was likened to the dimwitted Chauncey Gardiner, whose earthy folksiness was mistaken for profundity. As election day looms, the media, which now includes a disturbingly wide assortment of bloggers, is sure to stamp a cinematic simile on the candidates. For your consideration, I’d like to suggest the 1995 thriller Crimson Tide as a exemplary model for the 2008 campaign.

Directed by Tony Scott, Crimson Tide depicts a power struggle between two senior officers aboard a U.S. nuclear submarine that may or may not have been summoned to launch missiles at a suddenly chaotic Russia whose rebel leader, hellbent on terminating his enemies, may or may not have access to the country’s nuclear codes. Ramsey, the crusty, impulsive captain, authorizes a preemptive strike but is denied assent by Hunter, his Harvard educated yet wet behind the ears commanding officer, who happens to be three decades his junior and, oh yes, black. Beyond simple demographics, it’s a classic confrontation between experience and education, force versus diplomacy. In a nutshell, McCain versus Obama.

“Do you think I’m some crazy old coot endangering everyone as I yell yee-haw?”

No one in Washington has been a stronger advocate of aggressive military action in both Iraq and Afghanistan than Senator McCain. Despite his differences with Bush on such issues as tax cuts and campaign finance reform, McCain has become the administration’s mouthpiece for the War on Terror. Not content with maintaining the mission, he upped the ante by calling for additional troops. While the so-called surge undoubtedly has led to a decrease in violence, at least temporarily, his militaristic bent has struck trepidation in voters with a less hawkish stance. For those familiar with the film, you could easily imagine Ramsey, cigar clenched in his teeth, his face crinkled with prolonged laughter, palling around with his fellow officers, crooning “Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran.” The grizzled captain, in an early scene on the sub, boasted that not only he would have ordered the annihilation of Hiroshima, he would have “dropped the fucker. Twice.” In a similar tone of audacity, McCain declared he wouldn’t mind if troops were stationed in Iraq for one hundred years, let alone fifty. As any military historian can tell you, boldness often deteriorates into recklessness.

“You’re out of your league, Hunter. You’re not ready to make tough decisions.”

A lean resume has always been the albatross nipping at Obama’s vulnerable heel ever since he announced his candidacy one frosty day in Springfield. His work as a community organizer and law professor, along with his lone, truncated term in the US Senate, is hardly a suitable backstory for a Presidential aspirant. Similarly, his cinematic counterpart was awarded a tour of duty on the USS Alabama despite the fact he served only a single stint as commanding officer. While Obama deftly deflected the issue during the primary- though Clinton’s red phone ad still has a lingering effect- you can bet the Swiftboaters now employed in the McCain camp will slice open the wound and, for good measure, dump in the salt. As Captain Ramsey gripes to a loyal subordinate about Hunter: “The closest he’s come to combat is a policy seminar.”

“I’m the captain of this ship. Now shut the fuck up.”

McCain’s prickliness was evident in his first congressional race in ’86, when his Republican challenger suggested he was a carpetbagger. Concerns about his fiery temper were partly to blame for the Straight Talk Express derailing in 2000 when conservative kingmakers, notably Limbaugh and Hannity, questioned the Senator’s mental stability, heaping their support onto the untested governor of Texas. Perhaps worse, at least on a personal level, one of his own, Republican Senator Thad Cochran, expressed worries that his colleague was too erratic, too hotheaded to be commander in chief. A declaration which, knowing the Naval pilot’s insistence on absolute loyalty, must have stung, if not scarred.

By contrast, Obama’s equanimity has been his greatest attribute during the campaign. The image of him picking an imaginary strand of lint off his shoulder provides a portrait of his coolness under fire. Sure, Obama may qualify his remarks, as Ramsey accuses Hunter of doing, but there’s no denying his model temperament, particularly when compared to his crabby opponent. Likewise, the even-keeled Hunter seeks additional information- critical information- before he’s ready to light the match that could very well ignite a global conflagration. More time to obtain more data that leads to a more informed decision. A rational approach, to be sure, one that parallels the reasoning behind the inspection of Iraqi weaponry and, later, Obama’s objection to the invasion.

“The Lipizzan stallions are the most highly trained horses in the world. They’re all white.”

There’s no discounting the importance of race in this historic campaign. Obama addressed the complex issue in a courageous, if not necessary, speech, simultaneously broadening minds and, vastly more importantly to his campaign, soothing fears. While virtually all poll respondents deny that race will have an impact on their votes, anyone familiar with the Bradley effect has wisely adopted a cautionary approach. Like Obama, Hunter seems to have transcended race, blending seamlessly into a (subterranean) world that is nearly as white as its uniforms. McCain, for his part, has steered clear of these murky waters. Considering his party busting move to the left on immigration, McCain may be viewed as much a compassionate conservative as he is a maverick. It is a stubborn fact, however- and stubbornness in McCain is more than a passing streak- that he once voted against establishing a holiday for Martin Luther King, Jr. In later years, he regretted the vote, much like Ramsey, at the film’s conclusion, conceding the fact that he was, indeed, wrong. After all, the horses may be white, but, as Hunter declares, they were born black.

If the election follows script, Obama’s cool-headedness will win the day, retiring McCain to the Arizona sunset, and, in the process, tightening the knot between Washington and Hollywood. Much like Hunter, now in charge of the USS Alabama, Obama will have to lead our nation against an avalanche of adversity, both foreign and domestic. We can only hope- and hope is what will have propelled him to the Oval Office- that he isn’t out of his league and that he’s ready to make the tough decisions.

The bus sputtered down Almond Drive, farting out all sorts of grunts and wheezes. She was an old girl, all right, number 66. Even older than Bill himself, our silver-haired driver. He was retired, years removed from another career, another life. But this was no way to spend the golden years. Carting around a bunch of peckerheads, glaring steely-eyed through the rearview mirror, barking at ‘em to ‘keep your hands inside!’ and ‘knock it off!’ Poor bastard. Probably stews on the fact he should have chosen a better line of work the first go round. Probably yearns to ram this yellow bucket into the nearest pond, take us down with him. After all, we didn’t know the horrors of the world. We didn’t know the pain… but hold on- wait… why let the lil’ weasels check out on a high note? Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em grow old, they’ll see. They’ll see for themselves. He snickered, pleased with his latest thought. So pleased he nearly barreled through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill.

My head jerked forward, slamming into the thin, green seat in front of me. I’m sure the old sonofabitch snickered again, despite suffering whiplash himself. I’ll take ’em down with me. But all I heard was the whoosh, the airy sound of the doors, those twin portals of freedom, spreading wide its rubber coated wings. Whoosh. I imagine that’s the sound the heavenly gates make when they welcome in the latest inductee.

I scurried down the aisle, weaving past slower, less motivated students, a tailback hitting the hole. For some reason, they didn’t share my haste. Didn’t they know this was the first Monday of the month? That a teacher’s conference closed down the school an hour early? That it’s now 2:15 instead of 3:15?… They knew. Of course they knew. They just didn’t have anything to do, that’s all. Nothing important, anyway. They were merely grateful for the truncated schedule, a reprieve from that dreaded last hour of class when the clock all but freezes. No, they’d be content to fritter away the early dismissal with cartoons or video games. That’s what ten-year-olds do (well, at least they did in 1983, the time of this story). Most of them, anyway. My friends and I were more prudent. We knew there was only one way to milk the bonus frame.

Channel 27. Just the mention of it sounds dirty. Filthy. Not be uttered in respective company. The local TV guide labeled it ‘gaiety/nudity.’ Thankfully, I never saw any evidence of ‘gaiety,’ but there sure was an abundance of the latter. And I’m not talking teasing glimpses of flesh, a sliver of breast here, a slice of bush there. I’m talking porn, raw and nasty, pumped right into split-level suburbia, behind all those picket fences. As I later discovered, my town in eastern Pennsylvania was only one of two in the entire country whose basic cable package included the hard stuff. There it was, pornography, a third class citizen, sharing the stage with the HBO’s and ESPN’s of the world, mingling freely, without discrimination, without barriers. It was beautiful.

Like any good thing, though, there were limits. Actual content aired just three times a day: one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and nine at night. The rest of the schedule was slated for snow, the salt and peppery kind with the ear piercing hum. For me, the late night viewing was out of the question. There was simply no justification for sneaking downstairs at that hour, especially with the creaky steps alerting my every footfall. I suppose Christmas morning would provide a plausible excuse, but that’s hardly the time to indulge in prepubescent fantasies. So the 1 a.m. show was out. So, too, was the nine o’clock feature. That was prime time, a slot reserved for mainstream fare, be it a sitcom, drama, or, Monday nights in the fall, a football game. Not that I would choose any of those options over porn. I wouldn’t. But there was only one cable box in the house and my mom had veto power. This was her time to unwind, to ‘catch up’ on her shows. None of these, to my knowledge, included the slightest hint of anal penetration. God help me if they did.

That left the matinee. For nine months a year, school precluded this option. The presence of my parents ruled out any weekend viewing. The lone shot we had was early dismissal. Occasionally, a snowstorm did the trick. Problem was, if the conditions were severe enough, my mother would skip work (my dad, never) and stay at home. Besides, if there was ample snow on the ground, other activities like tobogganing or ice hockey or even a good snowball fight took precedence. After all, we were kids. Only on the first Monday of the month did we act otherwise.

By the time Ralph dawdled into the house, we were already hunkered down in our positions. They were as natural and irrevocable to us as the seating arrangement in class. Ruch stood a few feet from the TV, clenching the remote, his trigger quick fingers on the ready. His main duty was to bury evidence if enemy troops should ambush. His more immediate function was to handle volume control, boosting the soft ahhhs and tempering the shrill uggghs. He had a certain talent for it.

Jeff, Raab, and I shared the couch while Chad, my next door neighbor, knelt down in the corner of the living room. This unusual stance served two functions: first, it gave him an advantage should he be forced to flee; second, and far more importantly, it concealed his erection. For the rest of us, a strategically placed throw pillow on the crotch did the trick. Of course, we’d never admit to having a boner, let alone covering one up. You’d think it’d only be humiliating if you didn’t have one, but that rationale never seeped into our collective minds. An erection was our scarlet letter, a damning  sign not of moral turpitude, but of weakness. Plain, utter weakness. And to a fourth grader, there was nothing worse than that.

The blonde cheerleader whipped off her blue and white skirt- so casual, so quick- and tossed it aside. There was nothing underneath. Just a triangle, a splotch of dark brown hair… huh, that’s weird. Yellow on top, brown below. I was perplexed, baffled by the mysteries of adulthood. I knew I wasn’t the only one stung by this enigma, but naturally, no one uttered a word. Ignorance of such matters fell just beneath weakness on the wuss scale.

The guy’s head was right smack in the triangle, obliterating it. His tongue was going to town, left, right, north, south, an alley cat lapping a saucer of fresh milk. What in the world’s down there? Must be good, whatever it is. Look at him go! Bet it tastes like chocolate down there. Vanilla, actually. Leave chocolate for the black girls. Hey, maybe different girls had different flavors. How cool would that be! Sample ‘em all. All- wait, that’s a lot of flavors. Way too many. I mean, geez, just the Chinese alone…

The cheerleader was emitting strange noises, as if she was in pain. Was that creep hurting her? Cancel that, she just smiled. She likes it! Now she’s asking- Christ, begging!- for more. Deeper, harder. Man, oh man, I never carried on like that before, not even when the Phillies won the World Series. Would I ever? You know, now that I look at him, the guy, he’s kind of pudgy. Sorta ugly, too, with that potbelly and that bushy mustache. And old. Older than my dad even. I could get a hotter girl than that, I’m sure. When I get the chance I’m gonna do this every freakin’ day. You watch.

I heard the crunch. The sound of tires rolling over pebbles. I had the only driveway in the neighborhood that wasn’t covered with macadam- just loose stones, millions of ‘em. But I wasn’t complaining, far from it. For once, my dad’s cheapness paid off. The crunch was our alarm system, tried and true.

Chad sprung to his feet with military quickness. Ruch flicked the channel. The moans morphed into mild applause, the cheerleader to a cowboy, the locker room to a rodeo pit (these were the early days of ESPN when third tier sports dominated the programming schedule).

“Jesus Christ! It’s just someone turning around,” Ralph said, his right hand buried deep in a bag of knockoff Doritos. The cessation of the crunch confirmed Ralph was right. But paranoia had not just become an accepted mindset, it was de riguer. Fact of the matter was we couldn’t take any chances. Not anymore, not after the incident. Last summer, on a muggy August afternoon, Jeff and I got busted.

My mom was in the kitchen, chopping carrots for some sort of Hungarian stew. Jeff and I were down in the living room, sprawled out on the carpet, a few feet in front of the TV. We had grown so comfortable, so brazen in partaking of our sinful habit, we deemed ourselves impervious to capture. The culprit was Candie Goes to Hollywood. Sweet, sweet Candie, fresh in town to pursue an acting career. And those scummy producers with the potbellies and bushy mustaches. They didn’t deserve her… her and those tanned legs… those perky tits… that holy triangle. Deeper, harder, indeed.

The stairs creaked. Jeff shot me a look. Quick, quick. I should have clicked the remote. But I stalled. Not out of panic, but pride. Stupid, stupid pride. I waited for one more pelvic thrust, one more oh, god! Only when my mom’s red socks were in plain view did I change the channel. I punched two buttons, the first two my fingers found. There were so many goddamn stations, even in 1983, surely I’d land on one.

A buzz blasted out of the TV. The screen, black and white. “I know what you’re watching,” my mom said. My twitchy fingers punched two more keys. A louder hum. I made the mistake of looking up. Her face was wrangled in an expression of motherly angst that I’d never seen before.

“I’m telling dad.”

“What?” I replied weakly. I was doomed. I knew it. Jeff knew it. My mom sure as hell knew it. But my pride, the guilty party itself, wouldn’t allow such an abject surrender.

I flicked on ABC’s Wide World of Sports, then cranked up the volume. Two seconds later, I switched back to the dead channel- on purpose. My hope was that my mother would hear the hum and think, ah, so that’s it. He’s not a pervert, bless his heart. He’s just bad with the remote. My whole case rested on it.

Jeff and I suffered no recriminations. Not because I duped my mom or because she held her tongue. No such luck, on both counts. The truth was my parents weren’t comfortable discussing the issue. Son, what you were watching was naughty. My dad would never utter those words, not in a thousand years. He just wasn’t the type. Laborers in cement plants usually aren’t. He wasn’t one to dish out fatherly platitudes, never gave me the talk. Once, in high school, he broke the usual silence at the dinner table by saying, “I don’t wanna hear about you using drugs.” He even pointed his fork when he said it. But that was it, that was his big speech. It took less than three seconds.

While I escaped punishment, the remote control wasn’t so fortunate. The first victim was the number 7. It was yanked out like a rotten bicuspid. This cruel act of vengeance proved feckless. All we had to do now was press 26, then the + key. Voila! Porn again, naturally. My dad was no fool, he knew. A week later he sentenced another key to its death, rooting out the 2. We were not deterred. Like any criminal worth his salt, we discovered the loophole: hit 30, then the – button. No one could keep Candie from us, not without a bare knuckled brawl. My father, though, was a determined foe. I imagined him lying in bed, conjuring up ways to keep his son and his band of misfits from viewing the filth. Not tonight, hon, I’m plotting.

A couple of days later, he struck back- with Sicilian gusto- whacking those under appreciated, oh-so-handy buttons, the + and the -. I hated to see them go. But what I really hated was the way the remote looked, like a wounded soldier returning from an unpopular war. A cripple. With four missing limbs. It didn’t deserve such a fate, it never did anything to nobody. An innocent victim caught in the crossfire, in a battle of wits between a cop and a thief, a father and a son. And whenever there’s battlefield casualties, the question must inevitably be raised, to what end? To what purpose? Okay, so the remote was rendered useless. So what? Now we’d just use the buttons on the actual cable box, the way old timers used to, the way Bill probably still does. War, war, what is it good for?

It was difficult to believe my father, a veteran of the United States Navy, failed to foresee this simplistic fix. I mean, what was he going to do next? Tear out the buttons on top of the box? Christ. The question I really wanted to ask- the question I’d pay good money to have answered- was what did the guests think when they glimpsed the remote? What if they actually had to use it? How would my parents explain that? Somehow, I don’t think it would involve the truth.

I’m coming! I’m coming! The pudgy guy was really giving it to the cheerleader, plunging in and out, faster and faster, and, yes, harder and deeper. She was convulsing. And so were we. The worst part of being aroused was the indeterminate length of the boner. I couldn’t just make it go away. And the concept of masturbation was a hazy one at best. All I knew about the subject was that weren’t supposed to do it, that you’d either go blind or go to Hell, possibly both… Do all blind people go to Hell? Does God assume you got that way whacking off? Nah, he would know. He has to, he’s God, for Christ- no, blind people go to heaven, I’m sure of it. They may not see the pearly gates, but they couldn’t miss the sound. Whoosh.

I didn’t hear the crunch. None us of did. Not even Chad, our trusted scout. The moans and the shrieks and the oh, god!’s drowned out everything but our lusty visions. That’ll be me one day. You watch. The pudgy guy stroked his penis up and down, madly, a thousand strokes a second. Then, all of a sudden, a geyser of white stuff, this milky juice, spewed forth. The gunk sprayed everywhere, a busted fire hydrant, raining all over her tits, her face, her hair, that mane of dark hair. She dipped her index finger in a puddle of the juice and licked it. Whoa! What does that taste like?

The garage door chg-chg-chugged open, the sound a roller coaster makes inching up a steep incline. Chad fired to his feet, boner be damned. He tried to appear innocent, but fear pockmarked his face. It was as noticeable as a full blown case of chicken pox. Ruch switched stations. Till next month, cheerleader. I flung aside the pillow- evidence?- while Ralph licked the orange dust off his fingers, not a care in the world.

My mom shuffled through the door. Halfway through, she froze. Her eyes drank in the scene, sifting through the evidence: six kids, lounging around the living room… at this hour, a school hour… watching, of all things, a rodeo.

“Hi, Mrs. Sywensky,” Ruch said, in a singsong voice.

She eyed him impishly. “Mister Ruch.” She glanced at the mutilated remote in his hand, then marched across the carpet, up the stairs, out of sight. Gone. Did she know? There was no hard evidence, I was sure of that. Only circumstantial. I knew the alibi didn’t help. I mean, yeah, we were sports fans, but a rodeo? Besides, all she has to do is suspect we were watching it. ‘Beyond a reasonable doubt’ held no water, not in this house, not when you’re on probation- porn probation, no less. I wondered what my dad’s next move would be…

I’ll bet he gets rid of the whole damn thing. Bust the cursed box into shrapnel. He’d do it, all right. Even though I’m sure he’s no stranger to Channel 27 himself. Probably knows all about Candie and the cheerleader and that pudgy guy with the mustache. Still, he’d chuck it. Just to spite us, just to win the war. Take us down with him. That’s what Bill would do.

I spent the afternoon drinking with two young Republicans, perhaps the only lingering Bushites who didn’t bail town that historic- and brutally cold- day 8 years ago. We were hunkered down at a Holiday Inn bar, a mile or so away from the massive throng of people congregating at the National Mall, watching (or, more likely, listening to) Obama being sworn in. They were in their early 20’s, Evan and Rachel, two out of work staffers, more disconcerted over the fact W. couldn’t run for a third term than McCain- a less than staunch conservative- failing to win the election. Watching the small TV behind the bar, they jeered at our new President as he delivered his speech. I admonished the millennials (I was a decade older, in my 30’s), proclaiming that this was Obama’s day and they should respect the process- and, in turn, democracy. They grumbled into their beers, obliging, perhaps, because I bought had the pints.

I arrived in Washington as dawn broke, a brilliant reddish-orange sunrise providing a worthy backdrop for the momentous event. The Greyhound bus left New York City sometime after midnight. Though I waited in line for over an hour, I deemed myself fortunate to make the cut, considering the slew of disappointed ticket holders left behind in Port Authority. The five hour bus ride was one of unmitigated joy. The sixty or so passengers- mostly black, mostly young- shared food, swapped stories, and belted out songs of hope and victory.  An overwhelming sense of pride swelled inside me- a feeling that hasn’t been duplicated since, and likely never will.

I had no concept of what a million people looked like. Few, I imagine, do. The largest crowd I had ever seen was 100,000 or so at the annual UCLA-USC football game. At least ten times that number flocked to D.C. that bone chilling day. And, unlike the collegiate turf war in Los Angeles, there was no division of partisanship in this gathering. As I strolled towards the Capitol with the rest of the herd, passing a multitude of vendors hawking everything from hot chocolate to bumper stickers, anxiety coursed through my body. Despite the wondrous bonhomie that electrified the air, it was far too much stimuli to handle, particularly for one prone to crippling panic attacks.

The tunnel that led towards the Capitol was already clogged with an impenetrable cluster of happy, smiling faces- all ages, all races- some chanting, some singing. Not wanting to be trapped in the burgeoning crowd, I stood atop a five-feet wall outside the entryway. From every direction, swarms of pedestrians, thousands and thousands of ’em, streamed towards the Capitol, a never ending flow. Perched on an elevated platform, alone, eyes soaking in the majestic scene, more than a few participants thought I was a cop (or FBI agent), searching for troublemakers. When I politely refused their invitations to join them in the celebration, their suspicions were seemingly confirmed. But there was no way I was going to thrust myself into that claustrophobic horde of bodies, no matter how harmonious- in the bitter cold, no less. History took a backseat to pragmatism. I hopped off the wall, burrowed through the crowd- a salmon going against a fierce current- and, like any anxiety-riddled traveler, went searching for the nearest bar.

By the time the speech was over, Evan and Rachel were good and drunk. They dropped their partisan angst and gave into the weightiness of the moment. Engaging in jocular banter, I asked Evan to name three accomplishments of the Bush administration. Hard pressed to find an answer- to be fair, the alcohol had taken effect- he slurred that ‘Bush wasn’t a racist,’ an indirect reference, I suppose, for his aid package to Africa. When the karaoke began, he became loud and boisterous. So much so, the bouncer (yes, the Holiday Inn had a bouncer that day) kicked him out. With Rachel’s prodding, I lobbied on his behalf. Maybe because he considered me a responsible adult- I was mistaken for many erroneous attributes that day- the bouncer grudgingly allowed Evan back inside.

An hour later, thoroughly intoxicated, it was time to say goodbye to my new friends- we said we’d keep in touch, but, naturally, never did- leaving Rachel in charge of Evan’s supervision. I stumbled out of the bar and staggered back towards the bus station. I had to catch the 6 o’clock Greyhound to Philly, where I would fly back to Los Angeles. Tramping through the frigid conditions as dusk settled in, I was comforted by the notion that I had witnessed, firsthand, a glorious piece of American history, even if it was at a third-rate hotel with a couple of Obama haters.

We weren’t there by choice. Naively, I thought no one was. That everyone was forced to be there. I mean, why would anyone choose to spend their time listening to a bunch of strangers pour out their sad lil’ hearts? In the musty basement of a church, no less. No, they had to be like us, ordered by the court.

A cop pulled us over in Newport Beach. We were 19 years old, on spring break, cruising the strip. Jeff and Neil were visiting from Pennsylvania; I was a sophomore at UC Riverside. I forgot exactly why we were stopped, but empty beer cans littered the floor of the rental car. Thankfully Jeff, our driver, wasn’t drunk. He was cited, though, for open container. His punishment was to attend four AA meetings, a fair penalty I must admit. After all, we were poor college students who would be hard pressed to cough up a fine, no matter how nominal.

Three months later, Jeff had still not gone to any meetings. He had one week left or face possible jail time. Jeff was always a shy kid, a passive sort. I knew it was up to me to take action. I was home for the summer, toiling as a laborer in a cement plant to pay for school. I called around for local meetings- this was the early 90’s, before the internet- and, much to my surprise, found plenty to choose from. Neil and I would accompany Jeff to all four gatherings, knowing damn well he wouldn’t go alone. Of course, we made sure we were good and drunk before we went.

The meeting was held at a church in downtown Allentown. I don’t remember what kind- the denomination, that is- but I suppose, much like the reason the cop pulled us over in the first place, it doesn’t really matter. Neil threatened to speak, make up some insane story of how he became an alcoholic. That would be something Neil would do. He was a crazy bastard and I loved him for it. Jeff pleaded with him to stay quiet. He had to get a form signed to show that he actually attended- and didn’t want to risk it. We plopped down in the middle row, in cheap fold-up chairs, trying our best to blend in with the older sad sacks around us. The first thing I noticed was three cute girls seated in the back. They were around our age and the attraction seemed to be mutual.

As people swapped their tales of woe, we engaged in schoolboy antics with the girls, tossing balled-up pieces of paper back and forth. I couldn’t wait till the stupid thing was over, so we could actually talk to them. Halfway through the meeting, though, the alcohol began to take hold. I started to doze off, head bobbing up and down, as a frail black man in his sixties told his story. He had a deep, throaty voice, like that of an emphysema patient. Somewhere during his speech, ten minutes or so in, I stirred awake. For a few frightening seconds, I didn’t know where I was. All I heard was the speaker recanting his journey into the abyss: “… Then I woke up. Looked down. And there was a knife in my throat.”

Christ! I never laughed so hard in my life. Everyone gawked at me. I couldn’t stop cackling. I mean, seriously, he didn’t notice a knife gouged in his throat? He had to look? Neil punched me in the knee, a pained expression on his face, his beady eyes begging me to stop. I had to get the hell out of there… I sprang to my feet and scuttled down the row, past the knees of horrified drunkards, and out the door. I waited outside the church for 20 minutes until the meeting ended. Neil strode outside, shaking his head, secretly delighted by my faux pas. If there was one person in the world who could appreciate humor in any situation, it was Neil.

A minute later, the girls stepped outside. I approached them, oblivious to the fact I had just made a complete ass of myself. Excitedly, I told them about an older friend of mine who lived down the street. “He’s got a full bar, anything you want.” All three girls glared at me, incredulous. One of them snapped, “we don’t drink.” They stomped away. I watched them, startled, thinking that, shit, maybe going to these things actually is a choice. Neil, Jeff, and I went to my buddy’s house and drank all night. We still had three more meetings to go.

Thwap-thwap-thwap. Flesh smacking flesh, the familiar, lusty soundtrack of vigorous sexual romps, often accompanied by feral grunts and ecstatic shrieks. In this case, however, the rhythmic thumping did not stem from any sort of carnal activity, alas, but from a far more base source- the detached sole of my left sneaker. And it flapped with every step I took, alerting my presence for a radius of no less than fifty feet. Attempts to ameliorate the situation- staples and Scotch tape, mainly- proved feckless. Ripping the rubber strip off, one clean shot, would render the shoe useless and the cost of another pair greatly exceeded my means. My monthly budget for expenses, after all, was limited to 15 dollars, a paltry sum for the bleakest days of the Depression, let alone a decade before the 21st century. Sadly, I was doomed to spend sophomore year in college, nearly three thousand miles removed from family and friends, with shoddy footwear that watermarked me for poverty as indelibly as a certain crimson letter connoted adultery.

I should never have been there, in Riverside. I had never visited, knew no one in the area, had zero ties whatsoever. The rudimentary act of picking out the medium-sized, medium-bold name on a California map proved to be an onerous chore, akin to fingering a suspect in a police lineup whom you’ve never laid eyes upon. Naturally, I assumed that a prominent river- several, perhaps, like Pittsburgh- weaved scenically through the city. My entire knowledge of Riverside, in fact, consisted of a single, negligible crumb of trivia: Butch Johnson, a wide receiver of my beloved Dallas Cowboys, attended UCR twenty years prior to my arrival. Imagine my disappointment when I learned that the university had disbanded the football program the summer after Butch graduated.

But there I was, traversing the oven baked, smog infested campus in my threadbare sneakers. Thwap-thwap-thwap. And they weren’t alone in deflating my sense of self-worth. A lurid stench of mendicancy clung to my clothes, much like cigarette smoke embeds itself in the attire of a tobacco fiend. My wardrobe was comprised largely of faded, second hand T-shirts and wrinkled cargo shorts riddled with tears and pen marks that endured long stretches of usage. Laundry was a luxury I could not afford, at least not at regular intervals. Any orphaned coins, found or scrounged, were commandeered to supplement the purchase of potatoes, rice, and ramen, the staples of my survival. A destitute outsider in a strange, balmy land, I abandoned all hope of a social life and focused relentlessly on my studies.

To combat my grinding impecunity, I secured a job at a UPS sorting plant, two and a half miles from campus. There, every weekday morning from 3 to 7, I unloaded a steady stream of boxes- some weighing upwards of 50 pounds- emptying one truck after another, clanging the packages onto a ceaselessly moving conveyor belt. My daily ritual consisted of waking up at 2, taking a quick shower that doubled as a caffeine substitute, showing a raw potato in the microwave (7 minutes for ideal softness), and scarfing it down while I intermittently walked and ran through the bone chilling darkness in my overtaxed sneakers. Thwap-thwap-thwap. It was backbreaking work, four hours of constant bending over and lifting, without a respite. When the sun finally peeked through the crags of the San Bernardino mountains, it signaled the last quarter of the shift. Then it was back to campus for an 8 o’clock class, the return trip at least aided with the warmth of sunshine.

Unfortunately, the pay wasn’t nearly sufficient to cover rent, books, and food (and tuition, well, that was covered with a series of bad checks that I’d make good later that summer). Asking my parents, factory laborers in Allentown, Pennsylvania, for any kind of financial assistance was simply not an option. So I took on additional employment at the UCR physical plant. This was where welding and carpentry and masonry and all those blue collar skills learned in shop class were legitimized in real world applications. Skills that were that undoubtedly mocked a mile away by precocious students vying for degrees with far less utility. The hours were 1 to 5 in the afternoon, completing a daily schedule that now ran non-stop from 2am to 5pm. The work was much less laborious than UPS, tidying up the cavernous warehouse being the principal duty. And it was there, during a routine cleaning, that I inadvertently became a criminal.

They were a scuffed pair of white, New Balance hightops, a gray ‘N’ stitched on either side. Size 11, too. Perfect. I found them inside a wooden tool box while dusting the work bench in the carpentry section. The sneakers were hardly in mint condition, well worn creases spidering through them like wrinkles on the face of an elderly peasant woman, but they were infinitely superior to mine. I lifted the shoes out of the box and set them on the table. For the rest of my shift, an hour or so, I deliberated on whether or not to take them. Every few minutes, while sweeping sawdust into neat piles, I stole affectionate glances at them. Surely the owner wouldn’t miss an old set of sneakers. And, heck, even if he did have a special affinity for them, I was certain he could afford to buy another pair. When five o’clock struck, I learned the industrial-sized broom against the wall, picked up the shoes- careful that no one was watching- and scurried home to my apartment, every morsel of my body consumed with a soul crushing guilt.

My compunction, though, melted away the next morning around 2:15 when I slipped my feet into them. What comfort! What style! The frosty trek to UPS was not only less arduous but downright enjoyable. The true benefit came when I strolled onto campus, tall and proud, no longer subject to the humiliating sight and sound of my forlorn sneakers. After my last class, I scampered home for a quick bite- a bowl of ramen soup, mixed with rice- and changed into my old footwear. Like climbing back into your crummy car after test driving a sleek Mercedes, my confidence tumbled. The moment I arrived at the physical plant, John, a beefy, athletic senior, summoned me over to the work bench. “Were you cleaning here yesterday?” I nodded. He opened the tool box. I gulped, hoping my crimson face didn’t betray me. “Did you see a pair of sneakers in here?” He asked it quizzically, without a trace of accusation. I shook my head, portraying all the small town innocence I could muster. “Uh-uh.” John closed the lid, perplexed. “Huh.”

It’s said, particularly in political circles, that the cover-up is worse than the crime. I can attest to the veracity of that statement. All I had to do was come clean, spew out the truth, clear my conscience. I didn’t know they belonged to anybody, sorry. I’ll bring ’em back tomorrow- no harm, no foul. But I didn’t. I lied. Right to his face, no less. No shame. What would my mom think? That’s not how she raised me. My God, she’s practically a saint, flinging her last buck in the collection basket every Sunday. And now her youngest son was not only a thief but a liar, two monumental blows against her precious faith.

For the next couple weeks, I wore the hightops to UPS and then to my classes, mindful to swap them out before heading off to the physical plant. This rigidity of habit gave me a feeling of security that I believed to be impenetrable. It was during this period of nonchalance that I spotted John on the main campus walkway, striding towards me. Though I should have contemplated the possibility of seeing him, I never thought of John as being an actual student. Face flushed with terror, I tramped into the nearest building, head down, praying that he didn’t catch a glimpse of me. Or worse, his sneakers on my feet. Only when I saw him loping past, from the safe haven of the library lobby, did my jackrabbit heart slow to a normal beat.

Then, one afternoon, a month or so after absconding the shoes, I forgot to make the switch. It was only upon wading through the layer of sawdust that habitually covered the floor did I notice my error. More tragically, John was hauling lumber off a truck parked outside the warehouse, some 30 feet away. I abruptly turned around and hightailed it to the military barracks-style bathroom, locking myself inside one of the grungy stalls. A few minutes later, someone walked inside. I lifted my feet, hiding the sneakers from view.

“David?” A voice called out. John. “You in here?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Words would not escape my mouth. When I heard the retreating footsteps, I heaved a sigh of relief. I sat on the toilet for another ten minutes, pulse racing, pondering my escape. Finally, I sprang the door open and darted down the hallway, out the front door, into the open air. I sprinted the entire way home, never glancing back. At the green, industrial-sized dumpster in front of my apartment complex, I stopped, catching my breath. I yanked off the sneakers and chucked them into the bin. A warm feeling of serenity washed over me, cleansing my tarnished soul. I walked inside my door, shoeless, vowing never to return to a life of crime.

With a tip of the cap to the infamous Chicago Daily Tribune headline declaring John Dewey as our 34th President, this would be the prevailing caption Wednesday morning if the GOP had chosen its nominee with more prudence. While there’s no denying that 2016 has witnessed an unprecedented rise in anti-establishment fervor, the messenger of this (largely white, blue collar, male) discontent is so deeply flawed as to blunt its efficacy- especially when you consider the vulnerability of the Democratic candidate. It’s not easy, after all, to play the moral card when you’ve been caught time and time again dealing from the bottom of the deck. And then there’s the glaring lack of experience. As the New Yorker stated in its endorsement of Clinton: “Trump is manifestly unqualified and unfit for office.” To defeat Hillary, all the Republicans had to do was elect a credible, risk-free alternative. And no one in the GOP ranks fits that description better than Ohio governor John Kasich.

Supporters of Clinton, including President Obama  (heck, even William Weld, her Libertarian opponent), have trumpeted the claim that she is the most qualified person to ever run for the White House. The point is magnified when you contrast her experience against Trump’s. A Kasich candidacy, however, would negate these declarations. The governor was elected to Congress in 1983, a full decade before Hillary became First Lady. Kasich served nine terms in the House, including 18 years on the Armed Services Committee and six years as chairman of the Budget Committee. He was a key figure in the passage of President Clinton’s welfare reform, as well as the Balanced Budget Act of 1997. In 2010, after a near decade in the private sector, Kasich was elected governor. Four years later, he was re-elected in a landslide. An additional benefit of this vast experience is that it dilutes assertions of sexism; unlike against Trump, she would not be the more qualified candidate for the job.

Perhaps the biggest advantage of a Kasich ticket is the unquestioned authority to assume the higher moral ground. Measured and unassuming- his tenure at Lehman Brothers during its collapse in 2008 being his biggest albatross- Kasich would effectively prosecute the case against Clinton. While Trump has been forced to go on the defensive about his treatment of women- along with the litany of indiscretions he’s committed not only on the campaign trail, but throughout his life- Kasich would have free reign to attack Clinton on everything from emails to Syria without retribution. As the Art of War professes, the high ground is an advantageous position to wage a fight. Having the upper hand on experience and integrity is a formidable combination for securing any job, let alone the most powerful one in the world.

The electoral map would look different- and decidedly more crimson- particularly in key battleground states. Having won re-election with 64% of the vote and winning 86 of 88 counties, Kasich would almost surely the carry the Buckeye state- a must win for Republicans, as history suggests. Pennsylvania could also be flipped. Born in McKees Rock, an industrial town near Pittsburgh, Kasich boasts blue collar roots and speaks easily to the working class. And if he chose, say, Marco Rubio to be his veep, Florida would likely be in the red column, as well. Not only would Rubio rally Latinos (his sharp verbal jabs against Clinton would also boost the ticket), his running mate’s less incendiary, more substantive approach would appeal to older voters. While he wouldn’t draw the fiery crowds that Trump attracts, he would undoubtedly rack up more votes, especially with the help of popular ex-governor Jeb Bush.

In one of the primary debates, Rubio proclaimed that if Trump didn’t receive a $14 million loan from his father, he’d be hawking fake watches in Times Square today. Trump’s privileged upbringing and ostentatious style make him unrelatable to the vast majority of voters (though this hasn’t seemed to matter to his most fervid supporters). Kasich and Rubio, on the other hand, have far more humble- and identifiable- beginnings. The son of a postal carrier, Kasich’s parents immigrated from Eastern Europe. Likewise, Rubio’s parents were born in Cuba; his father toiled as a bartender. They both can pontificate about the American dream more convincingly than most politicians.

Most pundits agree that this election will be decided by women and Latinos, two voting groups that Trump has deeply offended. A Kasich candidacy would not have this problem. Sure, he would be attacked for his pro-life stance and support of defunding Planned Parenthood- popular positions in the GOP- but women wouldn’t be on a moral crusade to oust him. They would be no rape allegations, no groping charges, no body shaming. Women with a conservative bent or independent streak would feel no compunction punching their ballot for the Ohio governor. And there certainly wouldn’t be any talk of building a wall. Though Rubio was crucified in the primaries for favoring an amnesty bill, this pragmatic viewpoint would reap rewards in the general. With a welcome absence of racist rhetoric in the campaign- including the more subtle cry of ‘law and order’- African-Americans wouldn’t be mobilized to cast votes against the Republican nominee.

Unlike with Trump at the helm, the party would be united in its effort to defeat Clinton (it’s hard to imagine a “NEVER KASICH” faction). The Koch brothers, silent this election, would surely pitch in for the cause. Along with more capital at their disposal, the politicos behind Kasich would be more seasoned, more professional. They would be no micromanaging, no keeping the candidate on message, no apologizing for gross misstatements. In short, there would be little chance of the governor going rogue. Endorsements would come in abundance, too, from ex-Presidents and major newspapers- even some left-of-center ones dismayed with Hillary and the hefty baggage she carries.

Furthermore, Reagan Democrats and independents would give Kasich strong consideration. Along with running an issue oriented, toxic-free campaign, the governor does not tote the party line on two key issues that appeal to indies: climate change and gun control. Kasich believes that mankind is responsible for the warming of the Earth, heresy to many on the right. Even more heretical for Republicans, Kasich received an F rating from the NRA in 1997 after passing an assault weapons ban. While he may alienate Second Amendment fanatics, they’re not going to cast a vote for Clinton. Picking off enough disaffected Dems and independents, though, particularly in swing states, would be enough to reach the magical 270 number. And in this election year against a historically unlikable candidate, that’s more than a possibility. With a proven leader like Kasich competing against her, it’s all but a certainty.

As the second debate of this (insert pejorative adjective of choice) election season approaches- and perhaps the most important since Kennedy/Nixon, at least for Trump- I pondered which presidential pulpit battles would be the most entertaining. First on the list, JFK versus Trump, set somewhere in the year 1960:

• Classic youth (and vigor) vs. age (‘I feel younger than him, believe me. Ask him about his back’) battle.
• Both have star power, with bronzed complexions and full heads of hair (whether attained naturally or not). Unlike Nixon, Trump knows how to perform on TV.
• New England vs. New York. Hyannis Port vs. Trump Tower. Accent vs. accent.
• Both have rich fathers who paved the way for their success (and older brothers who died young). Trump goes after Joe, Sr. for his alleged bootlegging- and his son’s ties to Sinatra and the mob. A 1960 version of Chris Christie leads a ‘Lock him up!’ chant at the convention to riotous applause. The Giuliani doppelganger, naturally, is insane.
• Both have an affinity for beautiful women. Heck, both married one (and, in Trump’s case, three). Trump makes a play for Jackie, bragging that ‘I could get her.’ Melania is undoubtedly charmed by Kennedy. This mutual libidinousness, much like the arms race between the US and the Soviet Union at the time, makes either leery of striking first with accusatory statements.
• Despite JFK running to the right of Nixon on foreign policy, Trump claims that Kennedy is soft on communism- and that he has a secret plan to wipe it out. In fact, he boasts about building a wall around South Florida to keep out the Cubans. And when the Bay of Pigs is invoked, Trump is confused, thinking it’s the residence of Rosie O’Donnell.
• Egged on by his fervent supporters in the Klan, Trump attacks JFK’s Catholicism. ‘People say he’s close to the Pope- very close. I love Italians- how good is pizza?- but do we want ’em running this country? I mean, how can we trust a guy in a funny hat?’ (as he adjusts his red, Chinese issue ‘Make America Great America’ cap)
• Trump bashes Kennedy’s campaign slogan, New Frontier. ‘When I think of a frontier, I think of Indians. Didn’t we kill all them drunk losers?’
• Trump makes fun of Rosemary Kennedy, John’s sister, for having a lobotomy- mostly with incredibly rude physical gestures.
• Trump takes advantage of the times and lies incessantly (yes, more than now). After all, there wasn’t much fact checking back then. He might just take the advice of Kennedy’s VP and accuse his opponent of fornicating with farm animals.
• The debate concludes with JFK’s closing statement: ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ (turns to Trump) ‘You can start by paying your taxes.’ Mic drop.

Ever since Ralph Nader was vilified (at least by Democrats) for throwing the 2000 election to Bush- and, in turn, for the disastrous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, along with the worst recession since 1929- no third party has garnered more than one percent of a presidential vote. Never mind the fact that if Gore would’ve carried his home state, hanging chads, butterfly ballots and Katherine Harris would have toiled in obscurity. Regardless, the notion of the ‘wasted vote’ became firmly entrenched in our political lexicon. Only eight years earlier, Ross Perot stormed onto the scene, racking up nearly 20 million votes- after leading the polls at one point- marshaling, perhaps, an end to the two-party system. Perot’s calamitous NAFTA debate with Gore and increasing nuttiness, however, doomed him in ’96, thwarting any momentum to crush the 200-year duopoly. If there was ever a time for the pendulum to swing back towards a third party, it’s 2016.

The choice in this election is, regrettably, between the two most unlikable candidates in American history. Truth is, the majority of Clinton and Trump supporters will punch their ballots with gritted teeth and held noses. Only the approval ratings of Congress, hovering around 18%, score lower than the presidential nominees. Sadly, that’s a marked increase from 2013, when they bottomed out at 11%. The root of this unpopularity is a metastasizing polarity, particularly in the GOP-controlled House, a tumorous cancer that destroys moderates, leaving extremism to flourish. After the 2010 midterms, featuring the rise of the Tea Party, Karl Rove and his REDMAP squad carved up congressional districts to assure their gains wouldn’t be temporary. This brazen form of gerrymandering (Google a map of the 10 worst drawn districts) led to the ouster of reliable conservatives such as John Boehner and Eric Cantor, who committed the unpardonable sin of compromising with those across the aisle. In this new era of obstructionist politics, only ideological purists need apply. Democrats, for their part, nearly nominated a tried-and-true socialist for president.

While there’s no doubt that Washington is broken, the solutions to repair it are myriad and largely untested, at least in this country. Perhaps we should look to Germany as a model of political efficacy. The Germans boast a multi-party system that, instead of a Balkanization that has crippled other nations, promotes a far greater accommodation than our own legislative branch. Working with rival factions is not only good politics, it’s a necessity. Currently, five parties share power in the Bundestag- there’s a 5% threshold to keep out the riffraff, i.e. neo-Nazis- forming coalitions to pass laws. ‘Politics make strange bedfellows’ is more than a maxim in Berlin. Based upon the country’s strength, especially economically (zero deficit, low unemployment), multiple, viable parties may just be the answer.

The first step, of course, is to support third parties, whether they be Libertarians or Greens. Which brings us back to the so-called ‘wasted vote.’ For Democrats and Republicans, only the electoral college matters, as Al Gore knows all too well. When Perot collected those 20 million votes, he failed to capture one state. George Wallace was the last third party candidate to actually win a state, carrying five of them in 1968. A vote for Trump or Clinton, especially in non-competitive states, is a truly wasted vote. A margin of victory of 1% (or 537 votes in the case of Florida, 2000) is no different than a 30-point landslide. Every vote for Gary Johnson or Jill Stein, on the other hand, matters. Not only do aggregate vote totals lend legitimacy and build momentum for successive elections, federal funding is predicated on performance. Perot, for instance, qualified for campaign funds after his impressive showing in ’92.

In addition to the virtue of voting one’s conscience- and eschewing the stale, if odious, options shoved down our throats- third parties have proved salubrious to the progressive ideals of our nation. They’ve pushed new ideas into the mainstream, like women’s suffrage, unemployment compensation, and the direct election of senators. Roosevelt’s New Deal, for example, incorporated some of the core issues championed by the Socialist Party in the 1930’s. No matter where your politics lie, there’s general consensus on one thing: the current system is dysfunctional. We’re long past due for a new brand of politics, even if it is, egads,  a European-style one. A vote for Johnson or Stein is a small step toward that change, but (hopefully) a giant leap for our political future. Rest assured, you will not have wasted your vote.

p.s. yes, the title of this piece is a reference to Johnson’s affinity for cannabis

 

 

 

After watching the GOP convention, I found myself reminiscing about original episodes of Seinfeld (Thursday nights at 9) and new CD’s from Nirvana (bought at, egads, Tower Records), all while sipping a Zima in a grungy flannel shirt. Technological advances aside- AT&T released a revolutionary product in ’92, a videophone ($1499)- the last two nights in Cleveland looked eerily similar to the convention 24 years ago. Namely, a heavy and repeated dose of Clinton bashing; sex scandals and draft dodging have been replaced with Benghazi and emails. Attacking Clinton was the raison d’etre of that quadrennial rally in Houston, much as it is for this one. With Trump’s political inexperience and divisiveness- you’re either with him or against him, to paraphrase W.- the best option is to destroy your opponent, a time tested strategy that eviscerated Dukakis and Kerry, among others.

The rancid tone of this convention (gleeful chants of “Lock Her Up!”) mirrors the vitriol expressed in ’92. The high-er, lowlight- of that edition was Pat Buchanan’s “Culture War speech,” a sulfuric rant laced with intolerance and hate. He railed against abortion, homosexuals, women in combat, and basically anyone who failed to sufficiently toe the God line. (As humorist Molly Ivins quipped, “It probably sounded better in the original German.”) Pat Robertson and Marilyn Quayle heaped scorn upon those who had the audacity to support feminism and gay rights. RNC Chairman Rich Bond declared from the pulpit: “We are America, they (Democrats) are not.” You can imagine Reince Priebus, much like Melania was accused of doing, lifting those words for his speech.

The issue of race has also been a common thread in both conventions. 1992, after all, was the year of the LA riots. The beating of Rodney King has morphed into the shootings of Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, and Mike Brown; “No Justice, No Peace” is a forerunner of “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot.” To be sure, the bete noir of the current GOP isn’t black (All Lives Matter, according to them), it’s more of a dark brown- specifically, immigrants from Mexico (build that wall!) and Muslims from, well, anywhere (ban ’em!).  Yes, I know, it’s illegal immigration and radical Muslims the party’s opposed to, but the tonality of such proclamations is undoubtedly one of rancor. Unless Trump softens his stance and pulls a Nixonian shift to the center, this xenophobia will likely doom his chances in the general election. Then again, thrashing Clinton mercilessly, over and over again, may just pick off enough independents and disaffected Dems in swing states to carry the day.

After losing his bid for reelection, Bush senior blamed the acrid atmosphere of the convention as one of the reasons for his defeat. Even if Trump loses in November, this convention will likely be spared any culpability; from its inception, his entire campaign has been replete with, if not based upon, inflammatory remarks. Failure will lie with him and him alone. Surely, they’ll be more fiery, rabble-rousing speeches to come over the next two days, culminating with Trump’s address Thursday. So kick back in your Doc Martens, pop open a Zima (sounds like one of Donald’s ex-wives, Zima Trump), and enjoy another round of hate-filled fireworks.