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The statute of limitations is five years, and if he gets elected in November, well . In person, his autocratic streak is presentationally complicated by a Ralph Kramdenesque vulnerability. The speeches themselves are nearly all empty assertion. He lies, bullies, menaces, dishes it out but can’t seem to take it, exhibits such a muddy understanding of certain American principles (the press is free, torture illegal, criticism and libel two different things) that he might be a seventeenth-century Austrian prince time-transported here to mess with us. It’s now the loud, noisy majority, and we’re going to be heard. Another man steps in front of her to deliver an impromptu manners lesson; apparently, she bumped him on her way up. This conflict rapidly devolves into a bitter veteran-off: two old guys, who’ve presumably seen some things in their time, barking hatefully at each other. ” a girl shouts at the Trump-supporting Mexican-American former corpsman. If you are, as I am, a sentimental middle-aged person who cherishes certain Coplandian notions about the essential goodness of the nation, seeing this kind of thing in person—adults shouting wrathfully at one another with no intention of persuasion, invested only in escalating spite—will inject a palpable sadness into your thinning, under-exercised legs, and you may find yourself collapsing, post-rally, against a tree in a public park, feeling hopeless.
He’s a man who has just dropped a can opener into his wife’s freshly baked pie. Once, Jack Benny, whose character was known for frugality and selfishness, got a huge laugh by glancing down at the baseball he was supposed to be first-pitching, pocketing it, and walking off the field. Sometimes it seems that he truly does not give a shit, and you imagine his minders cringing backstage. “.” An ungentleness gets into the air when Trump speaks, prompting the abandonment of certain social norms (e.g., an old man should show forbearance and physical respect for a young woman, even—especially—an angry young woman, and might even think to wonder what is making her so angry), norms that, to fired-up Trump supporters, must feel antiquated in this brave new moment of ideological foment. Craving something positive (no more fighting, no more invective, please, please), forcing yourself to your feet, you may cross a busy avenue and find, in a mini-mall themed like Old Mexico, a wedding about to begin.
Op Zaterdag 12 september 2015 organiseerde de Stichting Evenementen Middelburg dit jaar alweer voor 17e keer de traditionele Oldtimerdag Middelburg.
Dit alles wederom op de prachtige locatie van de Markt van Middelburg.
“We’re on the cover of every newspaper, every magazine,” he says in San Jose in early June. (In fact, he brings to the podium a few pages of handwritten bullet points, to which he periodically refers as he, mostly, wings it.) He wings it because winging it serves his purpose. One of them, Sandra Borchers, tells me that out there all was calm (she was “actually having dialogues” with Trump supporters, “back-and-forth conversations, at about this talking level”) until Trump started speaking. Green Shirt shouts at the Tall Trumpies (who, fortunately for him, are now safely out of earshot), “And I’ll stomp the fucking can get your fat fucking Chinese face out of here.” The kid seems more quizzical than hurt. ” a Trump supporter rages desperately into the line of protesters, after one of them forces his phone camera down. In the old days, a liberal and a conservative (a “dove” and a “hawk,” say) got their data from one of three nightly news programs, a local paper, and a handful of national magazines, and were thus starting with the same basic facts (even if those facts were questionable, limited, or erroneous).
He is not trying to persuade, detail, or prove: he is trying to thrill, agitate, be liked, be loved, here and now. (At one point in his San Jose speech, he endearingly fumbles with a sheaf of “statistics,” reads a few, fondly but slightingly mentions the loyal, hapless statistician who compiled them, then seems unable to go on, afraid he might be boring us.) And make energy he does. You have some sheriff—there’s no games with your sheriff, that’s for sure. Then things got “violent and aggressive.” Someone threw a rock at her head. I ask Green Shirt for clarification: did he just tell that guy to get his Chinese face out of here? The Trump campaign gets those shirts from China.” I’m relieved. “I did call him fat, though,” he admits, then dashes back over to the kid, hisses, “Why don’t you make your great again? Now each of us constructs a custom informational universe, wittingly (we choose to go to the sources that uphold our existing beliefs and thus flatter us) or unwittingly (our app algorithms do the driving for us).
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