About five years (and fifty pounds) ago, I put together a strange little video to Brian Jonestown Massacre’s “Super Fucked.”
As I was commuting home on the train tonight, the song played on my mp3 player (yes, I still use one) and I was reminded of the poignant and compelling ditty once again, and against the backdrop of today’s election climate, it seemed particularly appropriate.
This is it, folks. The build up has reached a crescendo, and how many of us really thought we would reach this juncture after Donald Trump first announced his Presidential aspirations last year?
I didn’t. In fact, I discounted such talk as boisterous self-flattery. In fact, I was the biggest Donald Trump detractor.
Some things have changed. I’m now a rabid Trump supporter, even though his penchant for boisterous self-flattery has not abated. In fact, it might have accelerated in the past few months, but this is why some of us love the guy.
I placed the video in a post having to do with my t-shirt, of all things. That’s the way I used to roll on this blog. Nonsense. Almost five years later, the world has changed, but it hasn’t. Awareness has; the dichotomy of our American perspective has cemented a schism across the cultural fault lines of this country. The friction unearthed, the Presidential race of 2016 has revealed the fissure and placed it squarely on our plates.
The past year has been nothing if not amusing, tense, foreboding.
I hold great hope for a Trump Presidency. I’m thankful for the reset of the American psyche he’s provided. If he is the victor, the pace will accelerate. If he loses, the pace will slow, but the seed has been planted and the American psyche is touched, befuddled, and things will not be the same. We are riled and we can’t unrile and we are fucking pissed. The elites have been laid bare and we are ready to hang them. We are tired of cake.
Donald Trump, for all his foibles, has taken the blinders from our eyes, and if nothing else, we know one thing.
We are Super Fucked.