Hard to believe. Just four years ago. I already knew that Donald Trump was a slime ball, medicine show con man, school yard bully, and unctuous egomaniac. But even I was shocked when his off camera Access Hollywood audio tape of him bragging to Billy Bush that he moved on a married woman—Entertainment Tonight host Nancy O’Dell—because when you are famous, you can do anything, “Grab ‘em by the pussy.” The same tape was rife with bragging about ogling naked Miss Teen Universe contestants in their dressing room. You may remember. It was a big deal at the time. It seems almost quaint now.
Back then I had every confidence that the reptilian reality show host would easily be drubbed by Hillary Clinton in the upcoming election and that he would fade away amid scorn and ridicule. How wrong I was. Four years later as President of the United States he tops himself daily with new outrages which now threaten what is left of our democracy. The litany of those is far too long to record here. But you know what they are.
Lesson learned—don’t be too smug about what you might think is the Cheeto’s inevitable defeat this November. It’s time to double down on efforts to turn out the vote everywhere and to target his enabling Republican toadies at every level as well. ‘Nuff said.
Back in 2016 just days after the audio tape made its big media splash I pounded out this verse which also exposes my own flawed masculinity.
No getting around the crap.
My Two Cents
October 14, 2016
Ok, so I’m a stranger to locker rooms.
I was the furthest thing from a jock,
a pasty flabby kid with glasses
and a paperback perpetually
stuffed in his back pocket.
In rancid and sweaty after-gym class
dodging the snapped towels
and hoots at my terror-shriveled wanger,
I recall no chatting about grabbing pussy
or sticking tongues down startled throats.
But hell, it was a long time ago,
perhaps the memory is hazy
or perhaps I lacked the passport
to the elite spaces of strutting stars
where such things maybe were lingua franca.
But I was an accredited correspondent
to the sexual revolution
even if a failed participant
and remember free love and hippy chicks.
I did doctorial research in scurvy dives
with the 7 am eye-opener drunks
and the reek of stale beer, vomit, and Pall Malls
and snickered along with some dirty jokes
and ogled the unattainable babes on the
beer calendars and TV shows
flickering in the high corner above the cooler.
I have spent my hours with men
on oily shop floors where machines
whirred, roared, and clanked
and you counted your fingers
to make sure they were attached
and we ate lunch off the roach coach
brushing crumbs from our aprons
and spun foolish yarns and lies.
I have languished in the Joint
where a commissary Hustler
was worth a carton of squares
and drifted to sleep on lumpy cots
to the moans of cons pulling their puds,
my hand in unison with the rest.
I have been in the company of men
where civilizing women were
nowhere around to shame or constrain us.
I have heard and said fucked up things—
but I never heard that sneering, swaggering
unashamed boast of being a—
let’s not pull punches—a predator
or the bland assumption that any other man
would be impressed and approving.
I have never laid a hand or tongue on a woman
who was not willing to accept
my fumbling advances—
hell, most of the time I was too shy
or too terrified to act when they practically
sent up flares of invitation.
I may be a pig and a loser, Mr. Trump,
but I have never disgraced all swine