Your front-row seat to my nervous breakdown
Haven’t posted anything new since my piece on the January 6th insurrection. Needed a break. In the meantime, I’m pinning this entry at the top of my homepage because it is the post of which I remain the most proud, and I’d rather it be the first thing people see/hear than my (justifiably) angry rant about the insurrection. -JZ
Dear Mr. President,
Let me begin by saying the two words you deserve to hear cross the lips of every American citizen, whether they know it or not:
Listen, I was willing to put it all behind me … the entire four-year-long grift and deadly disaster that has been the Trump presidency. I just wanted Donald Trump gone.
While some debated whether or not Biden’s DOJ should pursue criminal charges against Trump, against his administration, and against his family, I realized that I no longer much cared one way or the other. After four long years of feeling nothing but hatred, disgust and rage for Trump, for his wretched offspring, for his sycophantic enablers, and for his ignorant, brainwashed, racist followers, I was exhausted. I had allowed them all to sap more than their fair share of my energy, and I was willing to give them not one more ounce of it. I just wanted to put this awful chapter in American history behind me, welcome the new beginning that the Biden/Harris Administration represents, and embrace a return to a world in which the president of the United States is not 100% batshit crazy, racist, cruel, incompetent, and a clear-and-present danger to everyone on the planet.
As far as I was concerned, Trump and his entire cult could go spend the rest of their sad lives crying “No fair!” at the clouds while he bilked them out of more money with whatever new scam he could devise. Good riddance.
All of that changed on Wednesday.
Written November 8, 2020
On election night in 2016, I sent my then-11-year-old daughter to bed with the assurance that, despite her concerns about how things appeared to be unfolding, there was no chance Donald Trump would win, and that she would wake in the morning to learn that America had finally elected a woman to its highest office.
When I rose the next morning, chief among the many gut punches that Donald Trump’s victory delivered was the realization that I now had to tell her that I was wrong … that a vile pig of man whose blatant racism and misogyny are among his most defining characteristics had been elevated to the Oval Office, and that his infinitely more qualified female opponent had been passed over thanks in part to a slavery-era relic that, twice during my lifetime, has awarded the presidency to an unqualified Republican for whom the majority of Americans did not vote.
Almost one year to the day before Edward Van Halen died, I texted a friend whom I was pretty sure would know the answer to a question that had been troubling me for some time.
On February 7th of this year, President Donald Trump, having been fully briefed on the danger posed by COVID-19, stepped to the podium in the White House briefing room and warned the American public that the virus was both airborne and lethal.
For a while there, before things got as unimaginably bad as they’ve gotten, I somewhat enjoyed writing about the unprecedented incompetence, corruption, scandal, and cartoon-like madness of Donald Trump’s chaos presidency. There was mystery and intrigue and reasons galore for me to vent my righteous outrage about the petty, self-obsessed, lizard-brained conman who had ridden a wave of racism, misogyny, ignorance and greed into the most powerful office on earth … and, most compellingly, there was what, on multiple occasions, appeared to be the very real possibility that damning and richly deserved consequences were about to befall him.
It is adorable that Old Me had the capacity for that sort of optimism. I miss him.
Years ago, in my former, pre-dystopian life, I had a blog where I mostly wrote about the sometimes humorous, always chaotic, generally rewarding experience of parenting two children who were, at the time, very young. I was, in the colloquial term of that fancy-free, pre-Trump day and age, a “Daddy Blogger.”
Half a century. Yikes.
Listen, I’m optimistic about how much time I have left, but even if all of this working out and healthy eating pays off, an objective reading of the actuarial chart still suggests that I’d have to squint pretty hard to see the halfway point in my rearview mirror right now. Add to that the fact that each year now passes more quickly than the one that came before it and it’s easy to imagine that whatever time I do have left is going to feel exponentially more brief than the previous five decades.
You would think that, having spent five decades on this planet, and all of that time as an American citizen, and most of my adult life as a Democrat, I would have, by now, purposely drowned in a bathtub any remaining vestiges of my political optimism and idealism, but here we are.