A mysteriously pleasurable punch in the mouth
November 8, 2016
Time is not necessarily on my side right now. Actually, "now" is not necessarily on my side right now. I'm currently inhabiting a "Schrödinger's cat" paradox wherein the decaying atom remains in play. In other words, as I type this, I'm unaware as to whether my target demographic will be perusing it in a post-apocalyptic reality, or not.
As this current dispatch from the edge will not see print until election results are pretty much decided ("known" in the biblical sense, as it were), all bets are off. That fact alone allows one to exercise reckless amounts of poetic license. Not only the Irish but, also "perspective," need not apply.
With the election approaching at the speed of worse-case-scenario, pundits, and not only those who have consumed the Kool-Aid, seem to be coalescing around the notion that momentum due to general cranial incoherence could very well be blossoming. In other words, that dull orange on the horizon may not be a sunrise.
So let me see if I've got this right. If Hillary wins, all my honky-tonk pards from the end of the bar at the local saloon plus my old car-pooling and retired Green Beret buddy with two busting-at-the-seams firearm "safes" could well find themselves hunkered down and setting up shop at the Soldier Hollow Maintenance Shed or one of the now-closed-for-the-season chemical latrines up at Cascade Springs.
There’s never been anything like a large dose of Trump added to the planetary body politic, especially during the nuclear age. Possibly there are safeguards in place but I don’t see them.
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Any ship in a storm, as they say. I mean, how could a loosely affiliated militia of red-blooded "Muricans" possibly hold off a "We don't need no stinkin' badges" posse of Federale's unless they've taken over ground considered sufficiently sacred and sufficiently available to both the "crooked" government and the "rigged" media?
It's a jungle out there and I'm shaking in my boots. If Trump wins, they'll be coming for our books, no doubt about it. They'll have a database of who hoards the Ed Abbeys and Doug Peacocks and who the Gandhi-lovers are. They'll want to close the "book-festival loopholes" allowing procurement of existential-humanist philosophers without background checks.
With Trump and Putin being so "close" and all, I wonder if any securing of my Russian bookshelf is even necessary. I'm pretty sure Nabokov would be safe, what with the middle-aged man and 12-year-old girl relationship of "Lolita." Dostoevsky would no doubt be cut similar slack due to Raskolnikov's ("Crime and Punishment") superiority complex. And, unless someone slips Donald some CliffsNotes, "Anna Karinina" should allow Tolstoy a seat at the table.
The section housing Black Elk, Momaday, Erdich, Alexie, Silko, Harjo, Garcia Marquez, Paz, Allende, Urrea, Stegner, Brower, Udall, Snyder, Harrison, Bowden, et al would probably have little chance of passing the ethnic and philosophical litmus test likely inherent to a Trump administration. Maybe I could just change the book jackets.
There will be no end to it once they get rolling. All outdoor clothing not closely associated with the recreational use of fossil-fuel powered all-terrain vehicles, snowmobiles, dirt bikes and the like will no doubt be confiscated and inventoried. You best shift the shape of your Patagonia, North Face and Vasque stash. They'll have a special "Gitmo" for hikers.
But I never thought I'd survive a Nixon administration, either. Or a Reagan or Bush/Cheney, come to think about it. So, what does that mean? Absolutely nothing. There's never been anything like a large dose of Trump added to the planetary body politic, especially during the nuclear age. Possibly there are safeguards in place but I don't see them.
Whoever wins and whatever comes down because of it, little will go unaffected. Even for the winners, following this campaign, they'll wake up dreaming like they are part of a Los Angeles food critic Jonathan Gold review of the effect of Sichuan peppercorn on the house dumplings at a popular Alhambra eatery:
"If you have ingested enough of it, the glass of ice water to which you inevitably turn will taste a bit like prunes. At Chengdu Taste, the floppy delicate numb-taste dumplings come with an electric charge that obliterates everything in its path, like a mysteriously pleasurable punch in the mouth."
If the truth be known, however, I really doubt that I'll be waking up Wednesday morning realizing this brutally bizarre election cycle is over and exclaiming to myself, "Thanks! I needed that!"
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social and political scenes for more than 40 years.
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