The Finest Ballroom/Military Complex Anywhere in the World
By Mike Leonard
Like most sane people, I’m amazed by all things Trump, so I need to be specific here.
His adoration of grand and gilded material goods. Not governance, nor character. Nor human decency.
A gilded ballroom, totally out of scale with the White House and the solemn beauty and strength of Washington’s neoclassical architecture. A cage match of macho men on the White House lawn. Macho, macho men.
I can’t compartmentalize that image of the president of the United States dancing, or attempting to dance by making squirrel-like air punches to the rhythm of the gay disco anthem. While at the same time discriminating against the LGBTQ population and describing their acceptance by society as normal, everyday citizens as just too woke for him. Or, more likely, his supporters.
The irony is totally lost on him. Or maybe he’s signaling. Who knows?
But back to the ballroom. The lovely, lovely ballroom.
The gawdy, classless citadel of bad taste, aspirational delusion and wasted taxpayer dollars.
The project that the Supreme Court is allowing him to build, knowing that it’s “probably” illegal.
We know what come’s next. What’s built is built. Gee, we can’t tear it down now.
As reported by The New York Times, White House spokesman Davis Ingle said the velocity of construction during the court’s “We’re trying to decide what’s legal so go ahead and do it” chicken-out was a virtue. “President Trump is moving ahead at lightning speed, because we don’t have time to waste in our mission to make America greater than ever before,” he said, according to the Times.
In other words, they’re trying to stay one step ahead of the law.
But making America greater? It’s the ballroom that made our great country even greater?
Ah, the many meanings of MAGA. A Buc-ees attached to the White House … Makes … America … Great … Again.
I’m reminded of the story of the reporter and the editor, stranded in the desert, crawling to find life-giving water and a reprieve from death.
They see an oasis in the distance and mutter that they must be delirious.
They crawl closer, and both see and describe the same thing. It can’t be.
But it is. It’s water, perhaps from a spring. Cool, refreshing, wonderful water.
The reporter crawls into the glistening pool, submerges and surfaces energized and ebullient, and thrashes joyously until the editor comes into view. The editor has his pants down to his knees and he’s smiling like the reporter has never seen him smile while his boss pisses into water.
“My god, man. What are you doing?” the reporter screams.
“I’m making it better,” the editor says.
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