Rally With Me: Poetry of the Markets Volume III
He wants to make America his trophy wife? Nobody owns me, he keeps telling us, not the lobbyists, not the Republican high-ups, not the Washington insiders. His wives, you might have noticed, grow lovelier and lovelier. It is a practiced seduction; it has worked before. We ignore it at our peril. The reporters around me entered a hive rhythm, interacting with the scene entirely through their laptop screens. I wondered what they were writing, what it was possible to write.
Trump presents a surface with no handle, a wall without a door. He is the opposite of nuclear physics but has the same effect: When you set out to think about his implications, your mind runs up against the problem of scope. A flurry of movement in the pit: A woman in the crowd had called Ted Cruz a pussy. Trump pounced. He made an oh-my-goodness face. What kind of people do I have here? My heart went into free fall.
The laugh that went up even in the media pen was the reason he was there, the reason he was going to win New Hampshire without breaking a sweat—no one else in the race would have said that, and there is some apparent hunger among us to be represented by a man who has the seeming freedom to say anything, who moves with impunity in a world he as good as owns.
When it was over, Omar fanned his face and made a whooshing sound. But they are not Islam.
Traffic from the rally choked the streets. Omar occasionally leaned over to speak intimately, authoritatively with Babiker in Arabic. I asked him to teach me some Arabic cusses and he fell sideways laughing. No, no. A poetic, high-minded language, he reprimanded me. At the bar, we were seated at a round table in the corner, where we watched the snow intersect through two dark windows. Babiker ordered a Bud Light and Omar ordered a Coke, because he was practicing.
Are we just seeing how far we can push it? Earlier, in the car, I had struggled to explain how America has always been willing to dare, and double-dog dare, and triple-dog dare itself.
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America has always offered to drink anything for five dollars, no matter how disgusting. There has to be a better way. Halfway through his Coke, Omar asked if he could read my palm, a request that surprised me. He wiped his rounded features to clear them of expression, composed himself, and looked down with a movement like diving into a pool.
You are. He returned to my palm. Good news for Hillary Clinton. The god, invented by our mind. The devil, invented by our mind.
In our minds, brains. What is human is very strong, and serious. Tuesday, 22 degrees. The primary goers were still casting their votes, and hundreds of us were waiting in a ragged, obedient line outside the Executive Court Banquet Facility, where Trump was expected to make an appearance at his official watch party. People inched together for warmth.
A straw-haired woman in knockoff Louboutins and a minidress stood with her knees knocking next to the muffler of one of the news vans. The doors were supposed to open 15 minutes, half an hour, an hour ago, but we were told the Secret Service was sweeping the place for bombs. At the far edge of the parking lot, the tall, top-heavy pines were hatched sideways with snow. Color fell from everything like fruit, until the black of the landscape was so black and the white so white that everything around me seemed proofed and printed. Small-time operations moved at the margins; a father and son offered us limited-edition Trump buttons.
He had the wide, relaxed stance of someone who has long navigated physical systems with his body, with perhaps the hitch of old injury here or there. Laughing, Rich passed me one, too, with a gesture so familiar I thought Navy—a nuke, maybe—and it turned out to be true: He was on submarines, just as my father was. The things submariners say and do can surprise in either direction: They are not above a gestural fuck you; old-school masculinity coexists with a tendency to cry and drink Rumple Minze. And then the jig was up: I was there to write about it.
Rich weighed the question, then told me he was tired of the way things were; he wanted something different. Bush and Bill Clinton had—and which Trump has, in abundance; he is neither beautiful nor a beautiful speaker, but he always looks and sounds exactly like himself.
His reality show was successful because it confirmed a condition we always suspected: We see and hear him perpetually on television. A great-grandmother barely five feet tall, with dyed dark ringlets and a half moon of melted mascara under each eye, sidled up alongside us as if she belonged there. She was wearing a denim Blossom hat she occasionally adjusted with great care. If you woke from a hundred-year sleep and chatted with Diana for five minutes, you would come away with an excellent gloss of current conservative preoccupations and catchphrases.
Hitlery, I call her Hitlery. Diana swooped from one conspiracy theory to the next on the patriotic wings of an eagle. They got a picture of him in a gay lake , you know, full of gay guys. It was the principle of the thing, we agreed. We were doing it to say we did it. The hawkers continued like stars in their courses; their uniform affect was that of hot dog vendors with meth psychosis. Then again, African women are big. Two and a half hours, and ahead of us we felt a flicker of movement. The line became liquid, solid, liquid. Rich wondered out loud if he was going to get frisked by security, like he always did at the airport.
When I grow the beard, I get it. As soon as they let us in, everyone flooded toward the bar, not so much because they were in the mood to party, but because it seemed like the most efficient way to get warm.
Jeremy Corbyn slams authorities for ‘indulging in orgy of xenophobia and racism’ | The Independent
I spotted Mark, a Man in Aerospace who was a few spots ahead of me in the line outside, and he ordered me a Grey Goose. He had met his wife in Kiev, at a Christmas party when she was a teenager, and brought her back home with him. We had just commenced to thaw when the primary results began to blare red-white-and-blue from the flatscreen TVs ranged around the room: Trump had won in a landslide.
No surprise. We all expected it, but still the people tilted their heads up to the ceiling and released bright streamers and balloons of sound. Mark had a trim, minnowish narrowness that suggested he moved swiftly, easily, and silvery through the channels of business. We scanned the crowd, speculating on who might be a plant, reporter, or infiltrator. No wonder they believe millennials have fatally diverged from their path. The room was split between people already sitting atop their gold dragon hoards and those treating the very promise as riches, held in the hand, waiting only for the fingers to close over it.
The atmosphere was bizarrely, insistently sexual. Inside, small dominations and submissions ran through the crowd, and one could easily imagine an after-hours version of that party where half of us were carrying whips, the other half were wearing collars, and the Bubba Gump Shrimp guy was on all fours dressed as a pony. When I found Rich again in the middle of the crowd, he hugged me. What would he have to do to upset or disappoint you? I nodded neutrally. Blood was coming out of my eyes, blood was coming out of my—wherever. I pressed my drink against my lower lip to prevent myself from releasing any more descriptions of the heinous pig-boot Ted.
I decided to propose a toast. He raised his glass and waited for our silence. And so it happened that on the same night Bernie Sanders was delivering his victory speech in a jam-packed room in Concord, we raised our plastic glasses in a toast made famous by Karl Marx. A curious fact you may have heard elsewhere: The most die-hard Trump fanatics I encountered did not hate Sanders in the slightest. They trickle into the arena, buying slices of pizza, taking selfies with Trump-era celebrities and dancing along to the same playlist at every rally: songs by Rihanna, Tina Turner and Journey — So.
Seats fill up quickly. Anticipation builds as the big moment draws nearer. TRUMP takes his time approaching the lectern and delivers his standard greeting. As his extemporaneous speech continues, Mr. Trump peppers the crowd with incomplete or inaccurate soliloquies about the cost of the American Embassy in Israel, an update on the border wall and repeated references to his election win.
TRUMP brings up a favorite story about tapping his business world contacts to save money on the new embassy in Israel. An hour into the event, the president ends with a goodbye tailored to the crowd. Please upgrade your browser. Site Navigation Site Mobile Navigation. Setting A prototypical rally location. Act I Scene I.
As he types, a graphic appears on a screen upstage. Supporters Line Up at JQH Arena Like the political version of the Deadheads who follow the Grateful Dead, a small cluster of fans travels from rally to rally, arriving late the night before to stake out a place in line. Jim Millenbruch in the parking lot before the rally. Glenn and Dawn Wilcoxson traveled from Florida to sell Trump merchandise.
Supporters waited in line to enter the arena. People taking their seats in the arena before the rally. Local news reporters preparing for the rally. Michael Horine, a television camera operator.
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