It was a long week. Most of Tuesday was a sinking feeling. Wednesday was two lines from The Bridge on the River Kwai.
My God, what have I done?
Most of the time since, I’ve been numb. Playing a few mournful songs on guitar. Washing dishes, or bagging trash, or folding clothes, partly because they needed to be done but mostly because it was menial and required little thought.
If Donald Trump got elected every week, I might not have a dump for a house.
But that’s a rationalization. I’m sure there will be more. Life, right now, is a rationalization.
Conservatives seem to be positive I’m out of touch. I feel they are. In an insane world, the sane are out of touch. As Tom T. Hall once closed a song:
I’ve often sat and wondered who it was converted who.
The last time an election hit me this hard was when Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter. That hit me hard. I still feel it. Fresh out of college, and Reagan was off to ruin America. I still believe he did.
I never disliked Reagan personally. He would have been a swell grandfather. I even read a long biography of him, trying to come to grips with his widespread acclaim. It helped.
Eight years of George W. Bush were worse than eight years of Reagan, but I didn’t dislike Bush personally, either. I think I’d enjoy drinking beer at a barbecue with him.
Trump? I don’t like him personally or professionally.
Sometimes I’m at a public event and start talking with someone who doesn’t know me, and, in passing, I say things I’ve gleaned from all these years writing about sports, mostly NASCAR, and they don’t know that, and, at some point, my mind realizes:
This fellow thinks I’m a real bullshitter.
I think Trump is a bullshitter. He’s a pure con artist. The saddest realization from this whole charade has been hearing one person after another saying of a man who lies sometimes twice in the same sentence, “I like him because he tells it like it is.”
He is pompous, bombastic, insufferable, and humorless, and that doesn’t even address his great hatreds. Or nouns. He is a braggart, a charlatan, a phony, and a snob.
I know more about ISIS than the generals do.
I have the greatest temperament ever.
I’d be a great basketball coach. A great pole vaulter. A great painter. A great poet. A great picker of pickled peppers. Better than Peter Piper. You can ask him. Or Sean Hannity.
I’m not wrong. I’m just overreacting.
I’m not going to point fingers and make excuses. I’ve little enthusiasm for hindsight. Trump won, electorally and square.
A recent blog expressed my view that the system works too well.
I’m not wrong about that, either.
I’ve written five novels and a collection of short stories. I’ve also written a number of books about sports, mostly about NASCAR. You can find most of them here.
The Kindle versions of my books, where available, can be found above. Links below are to print editions.
My new novel is a western, Cowboys Come Home.
I’ve written a crime novel about the corrosive effects of patronage and the rise and fall of a powerful politician and his dysfunctional family, Forgive Us Our Trespasses.
I’ve written about what happens to a football coach when he loses everything, Crazy of Natural Causes.
I’ve written a tale of the Sixties in the South, centered on school integration and a high school football team, The Intangibles.
I’ve written a rollicking yarn about the feds trying to track down and manipulate a national hero who just happens to be a pot-smoking songwriter, The Audacity of Dope.
I’ve written a collection of 11 short stories, all derived from songs I wrote, Longer Songs.
Follow me on Twitter @montedutton, @hmdutton (about writing), and/or @wastedpilgrim (more opinionated and irreverent). I’m on Facebook (Monte.Dutton), Instagram (TUG50), and Google-Plus (MonteDuttonWriter).