Recently, I’ve skipped several chapters of The Making of the President: 2024 in my head, and get the idea, however fleeting, that the election already took place. I’m hardly “exhausted” by politics this year, as some online fraudulent obsessives bellow, but it’s hard to keep up. It’s easily the weirdest election of my lifetime: 1968 was all-drama, all-the-time, and far more violent (by the way, Seth Lipsky at The New York Sun, I guess your prediction that the Democratic Convention in Chicago in August would make the ’68 version look like “tiddlywinks” didn’t pan out, eh?), but Nixon/Humphrey had nothing on Trump/K*mala.
All year, Americans saw an incapacitated Joe Biden on the rare occasion he made an appearance (and, by now, it’s well-documented that his media enablers refused to report on his condition); then the June 27th debate, which, as my son Nicky joked, was “the movie of the year”; and again, the more-in-sorrow-than-anger morons like Tom Friedman called for Sippy Cup to stand down (slipping some Brit parlance in here to note Keir Starmer’s inevitable no-confidence vote); the two assassination attempts on Trump; K*mala’s jitterbug debutante debut in August, when the Beltway establishment “fell in love the with the garish sun” and smothered themselves in glittery joy and danced the night away, fooling none of the Americans who weren’t intoxicated by K*mala Bubbly; the sour debate where Trump stupidly scowled at The Second Gentleman’s wife; the Biden/Harris administration’s Katrina response to Hurricane Helene (what was K*mala, thinking, North Carolina’s a swing state!); Slappy Emhoff taking a turn in the tabs; and finally, in the it-doesn’t-matter category, last week’s square-off between a shockingly polite J.D. Vance and the bug-eyed Tim Walz. Now I know why Trump tapped Vance (a “social values” nightmare), at 39 the Senator has the energy to campaign around the country, spreading the First Golfer’s message.
As it turns out, pinch my wrist, Madge, the election’s still four weeks away, and I’m soaking in it.
I believe there’s panic at The New York Times (or at least faux-panic since a Trump presidency is optimal for digital clicks and revenue), as it’s broken-record time at the daily. Exhibit A of violently smashing old 45s goes to the wealthy Paul Krugman, whose Oct. 3rd column, “Why Trump Is Lying About Disaster Relief” was a sop and pop of Percocet to K*mala reluctant dead-enders. He writes: “Until recently, Trump’s trash-talking of America appeared to be working politically. As I said, however, at this point his fear-mongering over crime and the economy seems to be losing traction.” He provides no evidence for this claim, aside from a Wall Street Journal economic poll and his insistence that when he rides the subway in NYC (ouch, get that nose off my forehead, Pinocchio!) it’s safe as can be.
Over to Pamela Paul—a Times columnist I prematurely called benign since her essays don’t usually scream in ALL CAPITALS—who gives a Greatest Hits list of Trump’s misdeeds, some real, some perceived, since 2015. A rush-job, maybe Pam was late to her book-club discussion of we-need-censorship Hillary’s latest. She sloughed off the fact that people tried to kill Trump twice, another example of his “luck.” She says, “Now here we are, with Trump crediting the outcome of two failed assassination attempts to divine intervention. Maybe it’s the luck of the devil, or maybe it’s dumb luck.” Jeepers, that’s cold. I’ve always doubted Trump’s “religious beliefs,” something every candidate must swear by, I swear that’s accurate!, but perhaps after getting nailed in the ear could bring a person to Jesus’ pitched tent.
In the spirit of not casting the first stone, I have broken-record moments as well. As noted on social media, billionaire populist Bruce Springsteen has endorsed K*mala. That’s probably worth 10 votes, but I know Mr. Brilliant Disguise is still atoning for presciently predicting the first Trump presidency in 1982 with his greatest song, “Atlantic City.” Sample: “Now, I been lookin’ for a job, but it’s hard to find/Down here it’s just winners and losers and don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line/Well, I’m tired of comin’ out on the losin’ end.”
In the photo above Michael Gentile (right) and I are cracking up about something, probably a blue knee-slapper that an out-of-town guest—this was the reception for my wedding to Melissa—deadpanned in the pandemonium of drinking and dancing at Tribeca’s now-gone El Teddy’s. It definitely wasn’t about K*mala or honorary Chinese citizen Tim Walz, but maybe Trump. Maybe just a five-minute rib-tickler, saltier than the unnecessary salt on the margaritas.
Look at the clues to figure out the year: Jane Smiley wins Fiction Pulitzer Prize for A Thousand Acres; Neil Kinnock, UK Labour leader, denies he had a “Kremlin connection” in 1980s; Simply Reds’ Stars is a chart-topper in UK; Barney & Friends debuts on PBS; Johnny Carson mercifully retires from The Tonight Show, although his successor, Jay Leno, is even worse; Kentucky celebrates its bicentennial statehood; John Gotti is sentenced to life in prison; Aaron Judge is born and Sal Maglie dies; Julian Barnes’ The Porcupine and Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch are published; and Pakistan wins the Cricket World Cup.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023