B Gone

I haven’t written about Donald Trump’s inauguration, or about his opening wave of executive orders and pardons, because I doubt I have anything to say that you haven’t already thought of: beautiful event, powerful symbolism, all lights showing green in the control room. We’re out of the Paris Agreement and the WHO, and no losses there. The Biden crime family is shameful and pathetic, and good riddance.

But having argued that our return to health has to be bottom-up rather than top-down, delivered in daily practice from homes and families and communities rather than provided by the White House, my strongest impression so far is that the opening of the Trump/Vance moment is a MASSIVE CULTURAL SIGNAL, a middle-out expression of intent, that slams a gate (or represents the culturally broad slamming of the gate) on the long period of tedious Cluster B narcissistic virtue performance. This fool who spoke to Trump and Vance from the pulpit at the National Cathedral…

…has had her “look at me” moment, and it’s time to move on. It’s already quaint, like a performance from another time. It’s like watching someone dress up for a 1970s-themed party, putting on another era like a costume. The condescension, the dimwitted performance of the unearned heroic self, the pity face, the hilariously unexamined premises about being kind to the wonderful little brown peasants who clean our toilets:

Good-bye. Next.

The media, and the political class, are gibbering all the usual themes, and there’s already an Impeach Trump Again website. An idea so good they’re just going to…not ever…stop.

Who cares?

More as the week develops, but so far I don’t see anything to argue about. Last night, I drank beer with old friends. It seemed like a good response to the moment.