Wine, Women, And Song, The Poetry Of Donald Trump - And Why Democratic Socialists Hate The Idea

Rebecca Fielding was unhappy about the concentration of wealth in America.  Too many haves and far too many have nots.  As a good socialist she wanted to dismantle the American capitalist system and replace it with more fair and just redistribution of wealth - take from the rich and give it to the poor, a transfer which would create equal wealth for all. 

 

All well and good, but just like Democratic Socialist Senator Bernie Sanders, a loud and outspoken champion of economic 'recalibration', Rebecca had three houses - her rambler in Bethesda, a beach cottage on the Eastern Shore and a cabin in West Virginia.  

These last two cannot be considered homes in the socialist sense of the word, that is the large, imposing mansions that Bezos, Zuckerberg, Gates, Trump, and Huang have; so she had nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to hide.  The cottage and the cabin were little more than lean-tos, modest little refuges from the hectic urban life of Washington. 

Of course she was being disingenuous - the housepainters, leaf blowers, handymen, and tree-trimmers servicing her neighborhood could barely afford the mortgage on their Gaithersburg split-levels - but no one expected her to live like a pauper just because of vital political convictions. 

Rebecca was no different from her fellow progressives, wealthy enough to enjoy a modestly good life while publicly tearful over those who don't have it.  Money is an obsession for progressives who whine about the poor, envy the rich, feather their own nests while taking other people's money for their redistributive ambitions.  

Elizabeth Warren, a far-left liberal colleague of Bernie Sanders when asked about her multi-million dollar portfolio and homes in the Caribbean and the south of France, she said, 'Irrelevant...a nonstarter...a diversion...a conservative ploy...I have worked tirelessly for the American people, and if my success is worth anything, it is as an example of the dedication and service in the name of the public good I have given throughout my political career'

In other words, 'Do as I say, not as I do' quacked Warren and Sanders as they feathered their nests for retirement, and enjoyed the perks of office while still serving. 

They have no time for pleasure, no wine, women, and song for them - that is for the rutting, dishonorable, libertines of France for whom governance plays second fiddle to hedonistic pleasures. 

Democrats - solidly progressive, boundlessly committed to social reform and the best aspirations of us all, and deeply honorable men and women - cannot smile let alone enjoy themselves when the climate is changing for the worse, the black man is still living in poverty, and gays, lesbians, and transgenders are still suffering hatred and exclusion.

So it is no wonder that progressives are such a dour, unpleasant lot.  The problems of the country are so severe that they cannot afford a laugh. 

Of course the transgender vaudeville act is hilarious - men in drag have been caricatures of women for centuries.  Falsies, rouge, and eyeliner are the stock in trade of clowns, mountebanks, fading movie stars, and gay men and a parade of them all down Fifth Avenue, let alone the Castro or Miami Beach, is a spectacle worthy of the best of Barnum & Bailey. 

Who doesn't find these swishy, prancing, do-dadded, tricked out men hilarious?  Or the gold-grilled, dreadlocked, pimp-walking ghetto bro' worthy of a carnival side show? Or the uppity, high-shelved ghetto ho' turned politician running for office, a caricature straight out of a Reconstruction era Georgia legislature cartoon. 

Are there any Bernie Sanders in Renoir's The Boating Party or Fellini's La Dolce Vita? Where are their harems, their darkly beautiful women from The Arabian Nights?  Sanders does not want to be Sultan Ahmed living in sybaritic bliss, fed sweetmeats by Turkish courtesans, the Shahs of Persia living in unimaginable luxury, or the Ptolemies of Imperial Egypt. 

He wants to be Cotton Mather - or better yet the Potter and Putnam clerics who presided over the Salem witch trials.  Pleasure is for the weak, the uninspired - men of desultory morals with the will of sheep. 

If there could possibly be any more reason to hate Donald Trump, it is this.  He is a man of outsized appetites, a man of glitz, glamour, yachts, and arm candy.  A squire of beautiful women, a man of virility, confidence, and unalloyed sybaritic desires  

Not only has he razed the federal bureaucracy, depriving Americans of their caretakers; not only has he closed the borders to worth, destitute political refugees; and not only has he rolled back the most significant social advances in modern history; and not only is he a lowbrow, bourgeois pig...he is serious about nothing, nothing at all. 

Life is a jamboree, says the President, not Hobbes's short, brutal, and ugly affair.  It is an act to be enjoyed.  'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die' is his meme, his ethos, his personal zeitgeist; and who except the likes of Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren are there to object?

Conservative measures to free the private market, to energize the economy, to shed restrictions on enterprise and individual achievement are the means to Jefferson's pursuit of happiness.  And the path to such happiness for those who have not yet enjoyed it need not be somber, dire, mournful, and grieving.  Enterprise, ambition, and desire are themselves happy expressions of human vitality, says the President. 

Progressives laugh at Mar-a-Lago, the President's resort-mansion, Florida White House.  'Garish, in absurd bad taste, a temple of Florentine sconces, Carrera marble, chintz and grotesque gold embroidery, a fun house of horrors'.  There are no Jewish philosophers, classical musicians, prodigies, thinkers, or reformers there.  Instead of the likes of Gompers, Lafollette, and Brandeis there are only blonde bimbos, tarts, and Las Vegas prima donnas. 

Rebecca winced at the images of the Trump White House ballroom, the triumphal Trump arch, the makeover of the Kennedy Center and the Field of Heroes.  She could not believe that so many Americans voted for this boor, this Candyland fool, a caricature of all that was holy and sacred; but there he was for a second term, unbridled, vengeful, and seemingly unstoppable in his rush to quash every sensible progressive notion which preceded him. 

Donald Trump is the first real American president - a man of glitz, arm candy, and bourgeois glamour; a man of Hollywood, Las Vegas, and the streets of New York.  A brawler, a snake oil salesman, a vaudevillian.  In other words, one of us. 

He is the first president to understand and embody our deliberately illogical preferences, our passionate anti-intellectual populism, and our anti-establishment rectitude. Issues never mattered for either him or his supporters.  No logic, issues, or moderation.  The way forward was visceral and absolute.  There was no on the one hand, on the other dispassionate consideration. 

Progressives hate Trump's America for all its lowbrow instincts. They hate every sequin, every strand of tinsel, every waft of cheap perfume, every high-bosomed line dancer, ever bit of glitter.  They do not hate Trump because of his alleged and presumed crimes and misdemeanors, but because of who he is.  

He has had all they ever wanted - wealth, women, yachts, and la dolce vita.  They, squirreled away in their carrels, on marches, in conferences, and in confessionals, have had none of it and can only dream of such abandon.  A life of good causes is dire, gloomy, and dark. 

Not only has Trump reset the compass and returned the country to its originalist conservative bearings; and not only has he acted on his reformist principles, but he has brought back the American spirit of optimism, delight, and universal ambition that was lost during the dark, morose days of the former President.