ELECTION DAY: A DAY THAT WILL GO DOWN IN INFANCY

Ever have one of those days that is just one of those days?   That’s the kind of day that I’ve been having for the last month or so.

Sometimes life seems like one huge highly cooperative jigsaw puzzle, where each individual piece seems to have its very own, all-knowing consciousness that cosmically knows how to come together like a well-oiled Thanksgiving day marching band that spells out the words SUCCESS.

And then there are the other 300+ days where evidently the band dropped acid right before the parade and instead of marching down Broadway it takes a hard left down 46th Street and you suddenly find yourself plunged into the Hudson River wishing that you had remembered to take swimming lessons as you slowly sink to the bottom of the abyss.  Eventually you will get that the floor of the river is actually a slow reacting trampoline, but until you figure that out, I would not take off that oxygen mask.

Helplessness is a lifeguard free existence where your cries for help are only heard by you.

Part of this has to do with biology.

We are programmed, right out of the mommy chute, to counterbalance the slap on the ass insult of eviction, with the absolute life or death dependency on whoever has volunteered to be our parents and until we reach the moment where the argument is about who gets to drive the car on Friday night. The fix is in. Those in charge are going to win every single debate and carve every single commandment in stone no matter how loud you wail in red-faced and full diapered defiance. All that kicking in the inside means nothing on the outside.

Despite how our outer shells and limbs grow, deep inside us all thumb-sucks Kubrick’s 2001 baby who is perpetually floating in the womb waiting for Gerbers and Godot.

If you don’t believe me, then feel free to take the time to observe those who participate in the rituals of road rage, marriage and the presidency.

The basic truth: no one puts baby in the corner.

We are all perpetual infants whose secret desire is to be rescued by miracles.  

That’s what most single women request on Match.com.

Whether or not we want help, we want help.   That whole two-year-old, belligerent, I can do it myself attitude while perpetuated by many, is still the behavior of a two year old. 

We are all, to the very end, big babies in big boy pants and big girl dresses.

The problem of living in America is the promises that were set forth by our Founding Fathers.  Declaration of Independence my ass.  

We are all hopelessly addicted to and opioid dependent on the myriad of high speed choices which seem to multiply by the half-second and that is just making things worse.

In the good old, once upon days, when all we had was a handful of networks, radio stations, movie theaters and sports franchises and shorter deli menus that did not resemble an unraveled Torah,  achieving that feeling of being swaddled and content was no-brainer simple.  We ate Wonder Bread and Nabisco cookies.  We drank Bosco or Cocoa Marsh and literally drank the Kool-Aid.  We had toys before games and most of the games that we played were the ones that we made up.

The umbilical cord was singular and free flowing. 

Today, that connection resembles the hydra of spastic of tangled cords that dwell in the electrical underworld  of our desks.

Trump in almost every single way represents the very worst of today’s baby who has, since birth, been  beset by way too many undeserved choices which inevitably leads to a sense of disproportionate entitlement which in turn leads to rage,  feelings of profound dissatisfaction, low-self esteem and a bloodlust kind of revenge.  

Ultimately the baby’s bath water becomes the swamp.

Certain babies in our society, the lucky ones, succeed because they have been given the gift of curiosity which leads to a sense of wonderment that derived from the smaller things.  

Getting the little picture wildly outweighs trying to achieve the big one, because even the gravel beneath your feet has it’s own built-in intricate atomic universe.

When we are in-uterine, the life that we sense outside downtown Bellyville, is full of mystery and we are as soothed by its symphony of muffled sounds as we are the metronomic,the tick-took mommy heartbeat which beckons us like Gatsby’s green light.

If our parents are equipped with the usually inherited (or instinctive) tools that are required to be loving and caring, they will encourage our courage and teach us how to build the millions of tiny bridges that will connect us to the outer reaches of the unknown and back.  Those who come with tool free, semi-attached parents will  wander the scorched earth of terror-firma.

This biological fact is why we despise Trump so much.

His kind of baby has been given (and not earned) the seat at the head of the table and handed an electric knife which, while clenched in his baby fists, thinks that he knows how to carve the turkey with skill when all he is capable of is slicing off his fingers...and ours.

Up until now, Presidents Past have mostly been the ultimate daddies. Older. Wiser.  Unflappable in the face of danger.  Sworn to serve and protect all the millions of baby people of America.

But that is not what is happening now and that is why we are all full of fury and most of all frightened.   

We are helplessly watching a reckless, unsupervised, tantrum-throwing baby,  invite his equally incompetent, destructive baby friends, to attend his self thrown GOP endorsed birthday party bacchanal, who all specialize in breaking balloons, smashing cakes and shattering dreams while they destroy everything in their path, including the air that you breathe, the water that you drink and the healthcare that you deserve.

Everything that has been happening is completely transparent and obvious.

Steve Bannon, who was in search of a willing idiot, who began with Sarah Palin,  who was unmanageable and staggeringly dumb, found, in Trump, the perfect, , selfish infant king/baby boss who made a career out of lying and profiting from huge debt on the backs of day laborers who were stiffed, was told: we will help you become President by you first becoming an “anti-abortion Republica” (despite God knows how many back alley abortions he paid for).  We will fix the election with the Soviets, (beginning with Paul Manafort and Julien Assange)who will be handed data stolen from Facebook by Cambridge Analytica who will in turn, give back to America slogans that it already has approved (Make America Great Again) and once you are are elected, you get to come in late, leave early, play all the golf and watch all the TV you want, eat all the Happy Meals you can stuff your face with, while we work to destroy America from the inside until every single program that was put in place to protect our individual rights and environment are gone so we can make big business insane with profits.

What they did not factor in was what is the new emblem of America: The Bald Ego.

The truth is Trump is a terrible liar and can’t even master a cover up, starting with his skin and head.  The more he was restrained, the angrier and less manageable he has become and as a result he has become King George right after graduation from the University of Madness.  He is Caligula at his peak.

He has banished all the responsible adults from the party and surrounded himself with anyone who will indulge his each and every baby whim.

He can’t even lie about Stormy Daniels, the porn scorn girl.

And by the way idiot, you don’t deny your affair by saying, “I don’t find her attractive.” You say, I have a beautiful wife and I would NEVER cheat on her!

Luckily, while Trump will never grow or evolve (which is why they south probably loves him because neither will they), we will.

17-year-old Parkland teenagers/ mass murder survivors are acting more responsibly than him (while conspiracists, who are all probably Holocaust deniers too, are trying to turn children into villains)

Despite his grotesque treatment and sheer hatred (and envy) of women, women are #metoo responding, creating ripple tides that are about to become Tsunami sized waves.

We have been challenged, all of us, we are FINALLY waking up, no longer willing to be a part of hiber-nation we were in 2016.

The power of the everyday Joe and Jane Doe are on the rise, Capra style, and there is no stopping us.

Hindsight is 2018.