2016 Election, Baseball, Italy, Politics, Shakespeare, Trump, World Cup

He’s Melting, He’s Melting…

“I like people that weren’t captured, OK?”

An old political friend once remarked, not altogether in jest, that the most “enjoyable” part of politics is watching a rival candidate meltdown. I confess to enjoying the secret and obviously perverse pleasure of seeing a candidate, typically one who has little if any business in the business of politics, crashing and burning.

Politics ain’t for amateurs. Pros survive, amateurs’ meltdown.trump

The wounds that typically begin the meltdown are almost always of the worst type, self-inflicted, and often born of that frequently fatal political disease – hubris. The meltdowns almost always happen to candidates who are momentarily riding high and the next minute are struggling, like a drowning swimmer, to keep their head above political water.

My favorite line in politics is the one that holds “you can go from hero to zero just like that.” On the biggest stage – running for president – politics is a high wire act without a net. If the fall doesn’t get you the bounce certainly will. Zero is the score you get when you meltdown.

We can enjoy the guilty pleasure of watching and enjoying the inevitable meltdown even when we know it is coming. The anticipation makes it all the more special. The big ego and big mouth getting gassed by the candidate’s own hot air. The fatal line is often a throw away, initially unrecognized by the person beginning to melt. But as you watch the early stage of the meltdown you instinctively know this is it. We’ve seen this all before – the words that a candidate would wish to haul back, but of course can’t.

Next comes the confrontation with the press and the almost certain denial that our meltdown candidate meant what they really said. But the videotape doesn’t lie. Next comes the chorus of denunciation and the demands for apology, often accompanied by the first suggestions that the meltdown is going to be so damaging as to end the candidacy and therefore why not just call it quits. The meltdown enters the slow, steady burn phase.

Phase three of the meltdown begins when what the candidate said to ignite the meltdown in the first place starts to become compared to the candidate’s own record. Criticize a U.S. Navy veteran held captive and tortured for five and a half years who is then awarded the Silver Star versus, say, a candidate with a bunch of draft deferments. The pile of excelsior is now in full flame.

At this point there are two possible strategies: back off and say sorry or double down. Since hubris dare not apologize, double down is the default position.

Donald Trump, our current meltee, is a fully formed disgusting person. He’s made a lucrative career out of saying outrageous and almost always ridiculous things. The vast majority of Americans know that already. Those Republican primary voters who have momentarily vaulted Trump to the top of the polls on the strength of his “truth-telling” now have a look at what recent Italian politics have been like under the sway of Trump’s Latin alter ego.

Berlusconi  -Italy's Trump
Berlusconi -Italy’s Trump

“Those Italians whose art we bow down before and whose food we fetishize have a Trump of their very own, a saucy, salty dish of Donald alla parmigiana,” wrote – rather brilliantly, I think – the New York Times Frank Bruni. “They repeatedly elected him, so that he could actually do what Trump is still merely auditioning to do: use his country as a gaudy throne and an adoring mirror as he ran it into the ground.

Trump is Berlusconi in waiting, with less cosmetic surgery. Berlusconi is Trump in senescence, with even higher alimony payments.”

Trump’s attacks on John McCain’s military record – “he’s not a hero” – may not be the fatal blow that finally melts down his silly, unserious and ultimately hateful and harmful campaign, but if not this, something else – and soon. Americans enjoy a sideshow, but, so far at least, we’ve not elected a Berlusconi president. The “Real Trump of CNN” won’t play in the White House Situation Room.

Guys like Trump burn hot from the oxygen of publicity, including the kind of attention that holds that you can say anything as long as the name is spelled correctly. But soon enough, one can hope, a fire that consumes all the available oxygen burns itself out. The biggest current clown in American politics will melt into a puddle of his own making. The wicked witch in Oz comes to mind. Just like in the movie it will be a great scene to watch.

 

Trump, Typewriters

My Royal

photoMore than 30 years ago, as occasionally happens, I was in the right place at the right time. I invested $20 in a piece of writing history – a 1935 vintage Royal portable typewriter. In the intervening three decades I have schlepped my Royal from one address to the next, long ago having put aside any pretense of actually using the machine that I had once envisioned employing, Dashiell Hammett-like, to write a sparse novel about a hard boiled, but loveable detective.  My Royal quietly collected dust, became a joke for those who noticed it sitting on my desk – “pretty old school, Johnson” – and an object of genuine curiosity for any person under 30.

Tom Hanks – the actor Tom Hanks – prompted me to fall in love again with my Royal. Turns out Mr. Hanks collects typewriters and obviously loves the technology as he wrote recently in the New York Times. “I use a manual typewriter — and the United States Postal Service — almost every day,” Hanks wrote in an August essay. “My snail-mail letters and thank-you notes, office memos and to-do lists, and rough — and I mean very rough — drafts of story pages are messy things, but the creating of them satisfies me like few other daily tasks.”

I have rediscovered the same pleasure.

Although you can’t really say I had abused my mostly unused Royal over the decades I’ve owned it, it was in serious need of cleaning and a tune-up. A new ribbon was in order and a couple of keys stuck over and over. What to do? Like everything else these days one takes to Google to find a service, if it still exists, that once you could look up in the Yellow Pages. My online look-up of typewriter repair lead me to the perfectly named “Ace Typewriter & Equipment Company” on Lombard Street in Portland, Oregon.

The Yelp review says Ace is “the only typewriter repair shop” on the west coast, which may be a little like saying you run the only vacuum tube business in North America, but one step in the door and I was a goner. The dimly lit front rooms were cluttered with old machines. The air was thick with smells of oil and ink. The extremely pleasant and superbly knowledgeable repair guy was certainly old school. He wrote my repair order on a ticket pad, said it would cost $55 for the tune-up, including a new ribbon, and I should check back in a month. “Do you need a deposit?” I asked. “Nope,” was his reply. If any place could make my once very serviceable Royal sing again this was that place.

A month later I was back to collect my lovely refurbished clacker. The unique Royal “touch control” worked perfectly and the years of accumulated dust and grime had been polished away. The new ribbon transferred the ink perfectly. Well, not perfectly, since using a 75 year old typewriter requires a certain discipline that years of tapping on a PC keyboard allows you to forget. You must strike the keys with some passion and, of course, you need to strike the right keys and that, I soon discovered, will require a little practice. I never mastered, even with a high school typing class – remember those – the “touch method.” In the days when a typewriter was the only instrument of choice in the newsroom I pecked away, as I imagined William L. Shirer or Edward R. Murrow once did, with two fingers and both thumbs. It feels good to do it again.

Spend a little time on the web and amazingly you’ll discover a world of typewriter lovers out there. A wonderful paper, card and printing store in Portland – Oblation – celebrated International Typewriter Day this summer by setting up machines on the sidewalk and supplying the paper for passersby. Oblation’s owner Jennifer Rich told the Oregonian, “A type-written love note to somebody or a poem is something you can’t get just anywhere.” Yup.

The guy at Ace said my trusty Royal has been dubbed the Kit Kittredge model because the 10-year-old heroine of The American Girl stories used one in the movie, which I confess I missed, and he said he gets calls every week from some parent looking for such a typewriter for a youngster. That may be one of the more gratifying things I’ve heard in a long, long time.

“Short of chiseled words in stone, few handmade items last longer than a typed letter,” Tom Hanks wrote, “for the ink is physically stamped into the very fibers of the paper, not layered onto the surface as with a laser-printed document or the status-setting IBM Selectric — the machine that made the manual typewriter obsolete. Hit the letter Y on an East German Erika typewriter — careful now, it’s where the Z key is on an English language keyboard because German uses the Z more often — and a hammer strikes an ink-stained ribbon, pressing the dye into the paper where it will be visible for perpetuity unless you paint it over or burn the page.”

I’m expecting to hear that my embrace of my Royal – it’s right here at my right elbow – has taken me from “old school” to “eccentric.” I’m OK with that. Some things old can be new again and besides I have a few letters I need to write.