Diaper Don

Next Thursday, it will be a month since the US election. I’ve avoided anything but a passing mention of it until now, waiting patiently for the process to meander and weave its way to conclusion.

The sequence of events has been bizarrely predictable—I correctly forecast the ousting of the orange man, and won myself a bottle of tinto in doing so, but I didn’t predict the enthusiastic support for the incumbent displayed by almost seventy four million Americans.

In my forecast, I paid no attention to polls, but to clear evidence of incompetence, inhumanity, and influence trafficking. And since America really is a democracy, as it has convincingly demonstrated this past month, I can only confess to an emptiness inside—the vote was not the repressive adulation of Saddam Hussein or Mao Zedong, predicated on fear of arrest or worse at the hands of the military or the secret service.

In a nation with thirteen million plus coronavirus infections and two hundred sixty-five thousand deaths—so many of them avoidable—the support for the man who set the tone of defiance, taking a leaf from the actions of the King of Wuyue, was astonishing.

Yes, I know about the evangelicals, the tea party and libertarian lobbies, and those who think America’s cities will turn into battlefields of race.

But even so…

The America I know, or thought I knew, includes dozens, if not hundreds, of Trump voters who I’ve spoken with since 2015, and in those conversations I didn’t flag an undercurrent of sectarianism or xenophobia. I’m talking about North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Maine, Nevada, and yes, California and DC, those heartlands of Marxism-Leninism.

No citizen on this planet can remain indifferent to the election results—regardless of the reasons why Trump lost—now that everyone except the man himself accepts the outcome of the 2020 election, the general feeling in Europe and elsewhere is a sigh of relief.

Four more years of hallucinatory behavior would have been intolerable, and the positions of Trump, Bannon, and others about the European Union were instrumental in promoting Brexit and causing convulsions in several EU countries. From the far right in Germany to the Italian nationalists, not forgetting the mini-strong-men in Hungary and Poland, the US promotion of unilateralism was grist to their (un)collective mill.

European history over millennia is a tale of fragmentation and chaos. Territorial dispute followed by war followed by peace followed by war. To the European great powers (Germany, France, and the U.K.), this divided Europe made sense—pit countries against each other and their weakness makes you strong—until the Second World War.

In 1941, Carl Bosch, the co-inventor of the Haber-Bosch process for fixing atmospheric nitrogen, was on his deathbed. Although he wasn’t Jewish (Fritz Haber was), he had a strong dislike, contempt even, for the Nazis in general and for Hitler in particular.

Before he died, he called in his son and told him:

To begin with, it will go well. France and perhaps even England will be occupied. But then he will bring the greatest calamity by attacking Russia. Even that will go well for a while. But then I see something horrific. Everything will be totally black. The sky is full of airplanes. They will destroy the whole of Germany, its cities, its factories, and also the IG.

IG was of course IG Farben, the chemical giant Bosch helped to build—it is infamously responsible for the manufacture of Zyklon B, the gas used in the Jewish holocaust.

Zyklon B manufactured at the IG Farben Auschwitz plant.

As the warring parties moved rapidly toward nuclear war in 1944 and 1945, there was every reason to fear the worst—after the war, it was clear to both generals and politicians that the scale and lethality of weapons far exceeded the restraint of humans in employing them.

And Bosch‘s predictions were right on the money—England only escaped invasion because America joined the war after Pearl Harbor.

For many reasons, not least peace and stability in Europe, we rejoice in bidding adieu to Trump. I am writing the last pages of The Hourglass, a novel in which a US president is forcibly evicted from the White House—although by all accounts this will not happen, since Trump himself revealed on Thanksgiving that he will leave if the electoral college returns Biden as the winner.

The actions of the White House, i.e. the orang-u-tan, because houses don’t have actions, have been pretty dreadful. And the consequences, such as the threats to the Georgia secretary of state and his family, are unacceptable.

This is the result of dialed-up ranting from Diaper Don.

The Thanksgiving press conference was the culmination of a set of initiatives that descended from perplexing to downright weird—it’s a really serious matter, but the props and actors have been hilarious.

From the accusations hurled from a garden center next to a porn shop to the hair dye streaming down Giuliani’s face, from court cases claiming fraud and then denying fraud in court to the Dominion machine fracas, it’s been comedy central.

The final act (so far, as Homer Simpson would say), was the insane presidential press conference on Thanksgiving.

Tiny desk, Tiny mind, Tiny caption.

I woke up to it on Friday morning—stream of consciousness stuff, including the trademark shouting at journalists and the usual folio of fallacies.

Everyone knows… anyone who believes that is… if you… you’re either…

A constellation of non sequitur arguments, repetition and emphasis as a rhetorical device—all the fun of the fair.

This circus has taken on an aura of slapstick, particularly since everyone knows how the movie ends. The memes flowed thick and fast. My favorites? Here are the Wibaux Awards.

Bronze medal

I like to think that during Trump’s presidency, some hero in the White House has slowly swapped Trump’s desk for a slightly smaller one, day by day, so he wouldn’t notice, till four years later we get to this majestic picture

 Silver medal

I want to salute the dark, subtle genius, quietly at work in the White House staff, who managed to move Rudy Giuliani’s press conference to a run down garden centre, and to seat Donald Trump himself at that tiny, tiny desk. Be safe. The world needs your art.

Gold medal

Mini desk. Tiny hands. Small soul.

I don’t tweet (so far), but here’s my two cents, as I stand on the shoulders of giants.

John Gotti was the Dapper Don, this dude’s the Diaper Don.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

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