Defending Donald Trump: Winding Up, Winding Down

It is by now a national if not international tropism we scarcely acknowledge, though we all do it.

We nightly recharge our cell phones and our various other electronics that have run down during the day.  We rely more and more on these devices – for the time, stock quotes, appointment nexuses, music, and a startling banquet of services, even including our slightly dotty and often infuriating aide de camp: dim, ever wrong, though effervescent with accommodation Siri.

This diurnal duty is becoming inflexibly de rigueur, as without our trusty electronics, we are bereft of so much.  We won't know the time, when the bus will come, what time the restaurant RSVP is, or whether our close kin made it to Brussels.  We shan't be able to take a selfie with a passing Kardashian butt of attention.

It is my conceit that this winding up is another metaphor for our new administration, and our new president, Donald J.

Daily, we leave off at 10 P.M. or midnight, when we hit the My Pillow into hoped for instant snooze and recharge for the morrow.  We trust that the morning will bring a restored sanity among the detritus of attacks gathered in smelly bouquets launched against our beleaguered Mr. Trump.

Each day, he wields the keys to the U.S. kingdom, with the price being the depletion of hours and patience and understanding of the hyena hootenanny baying and chuffing in the press room, the parlors of the soi-disant nabobs, and the boardroom bordellos of the still resistant corporate heads Who Know Better.

The day is just begun, yet the morning cackle of charges is in full-throated denunciation of the chief executive, no matter what his mettle, whatever amazing accomplishment he may have initiated or set in motion.  The fully charged among those on the side of the duly elected Dealmaster begin to lose juice.

Each attack, though deflected with the knowledge that the brayers are perhaps omitting key salient points, openly mocking under false flags of distortion or partial incomprehension, weakens our charge, detracts from the arming we have gotten overnight as we slept, as we recharged our batteries, our armor of faith and fidelity to the man we elected to right the ship of state that has in eight troubling years been turned around, facing the wrong winds, the wrong North Star, the most errant policies.

More miserably, the prior day's trove of accusations and half-understood pieties are still on the burner.  How much did Russia hack?  How much did Flynn tattle?  What of the strip mall language of calling federal judges "so-called" et cetera?

Our devices stayed charged longer under the prior regime.  Whatever abuse of the public – and they were a daily gong, gong, gong – resulted in victim-heavy scandal: men dying in V.A. hospitals before being seen by doctors unscheduled after many months, oil spills still despoiling pristine beaches, smothering tens and narwhals and more fauna.

The once ink-stained wretches giggled and pursued butterflies of poetic efflorescence, lauding nonstop the prince of progressivism.

But the new sheriff in town does not get the iambic pentameter honeymoon that lasted eight long years.  The Donald gets...zero minus thirty honeymoon time.

We fight for the vestige of charge that energized us through a heavy slog campaign and a parlous inauguration.  We are by the afternoon, however, leaking badly.  We are, by evening news, in the sliver of red zone, close to losing it.

Refugees.  Immigration.  Terror.  Snowden.  Supremes.  Sessions.  EPA.  Unaffordable care.  Melania flair.  Babbling ex-presidential hybrid.  Russia.  Mark cuban.  Cuban Cuba.  Partisanship.  Finger-pointing.  Disenfranchisement.  Collusion.  Misunderstood tweets.  Cabinetry.  De-cabinetry.  Never-this.  Always-that.

Sap, sap, sapping, sap.

The president manfully confronts the leprous leapers with little courtesy for the office of the president.  The stations of the cross-exam continue all day, on the radio, on Twitter, on TV, in the vestigial newspapers, on the blogs, in the air.

We have to remind ourselves often that in fact, we are the winners, no matter what the Schumeristic chip-away bags intone in faux horror at any forward motion.

And finally, the metaphor analogy breaks down, as we are just furious, all day, all the time, at the perverse dementia and derangement of the opposition, the snarling dogs of maximal disagreement.  No electronic refill outlet can ameliorate these petty thousand knife cuts from the Pelosis, the campus crazies, the black-lives-don't-matter yahoos, the pretend moderates.  The oppress posses.  The overseas claque Yodas.

It's only 10 P.M., again, and, red-rimmed eyes bleary, we don't know where all our feisty energy has gone.  We fill up all night, sucking in those Gs, ready for the morrow, but is it enough?  Will it be enough?

How long does a metaphor persist?

It is by now a national if not international tropism we scarcely acknowledge, though we all do it.

We nightly recharge our cell phones and our various other electronics that have run down during the day.  We rely more and more on these devices – for the time, stock quotes, appointment nexuses, music, and a startling banquet of services, even including our slightly dotty and often infuriating aide de camp: dim, ever wrong, though effervescent with accommodation Siri.

This diurnal duty is becoming inflexibly de rigueur, as without our trusty electronics, we are bereft of so much.  We won't know the time, when the bus will come, what time the restaurant RSVP is, or whether our close kin made it to Brussels.  We shan't be able to take a selfie with a passing Kardashian butt of attention.

It is my conceit that this winding up is another metaphor for our new administration, and our new president, Donald J.

Daily, we leave off at 10 P.M. or midnight, when we hit the My Pillow into hoped for instant snooze and recharge for the morrow.  We trust that the morning will bring a restored sanity among the detritus of attacks gathered in smelly bouquets launched against our beleaguered Mr. Trump.

Each day, he wields the keys to the U.S. kingdom, with the price being the depletion of hours and patience and understanding of the hyena hootenanny baying and chuffing in the press room, the parlors of the soi-disant nabobs, and the boardroom bordellos of the still resistant corporate heads Who Know Better.

The day is just begun, yet the morning cackle of charges is in full-throated denunciation of the chief executive, no matter what his mettle, whatever amazing accomplishment he may have initiated or set in motion.  The fully charged among those on the side of the duly elected Dealmaster begin to lose juice.

Each attack, though deflected with the knowledge that the brayers are perhaps omitting key salient points, openly mocking under false flags of distortion or partial incomprehension, weakens our charge, detracts from the arming we have gotten overnight as we slept, as we recharged our batteries, our armor of faith and fidelity to the man we elected to right the ship of state that has in eight troubling years been turned around, facing the wrong winds, the wrong North Star, the most errant policies.

More miserably, the prior day's trove of accusations and half-understood pieties are still on the burner.  How much did Russia hack?  How much did Flynn tattle?  What of the strip mall language of calling federal judges "so-called" et cetera?

Our devices stayed charged longer under the prior regime.  Whatever abuse of the public – and they were a daily gong, gong, gong – resulted in victim-heavy scandal: men dying in V.A. hospitals before being seen by doctors unscheduled after many months, oil spills still despoiling pristine beaches, smothering tens and narwhals and more fauna.

The once ink-stained wretches giggled and pursued butterflies of poetic efflorescence, lauding nonstop the prince of progressivism.

But the new sheriff in town does not get the iambic pentameter honeymoon that lasted eight long years.  The Donald gets...zero minus thirty honeymoon time.

We fight for the vestige of charge that energized us through a heavy slog campaign and a parlous inauguration.  We are by the afternoon, however, leaking badly.  We are, by evening news, in the sliver of red zone, close to losing it.

Refugees.  Immigration.  Terror.  Snowden.  Supremes.  Sessions.  EPA.  Unaffordable care.  Melania flair.  Babbling ex-presidential hybrid.  Russia.  Mark cuban.  Cuban Cuba.  Partisanship.  Finger-pointing.  Disenfranchisement.  Collusion.  Misunderstood tweets.  Cabinetry.  De-cabinetry.  Never-this.  Always-that.

Sap, sap, sapping, sap.

The president manfully confronts the leprous leapers with little courtesy for the office of the president.  The stations of the cross-exam continue all day, on the radio, on Twitter, on TV, in the vestigial newspapers, on the blogs, in the air.

We have to remind ourselves often that in fact, we are the winners, no matter what the Schumeristic chip-away bags intone in faux horror at any forward motion.

And finally, the metaphor analogy breaks down, as we are just furious, all day, all the time, at the perverse dementia and derangement of the opposition, the snarling dogs of maximal disagreement.  No electronic refill outlet can ameliorate these petty thousand knife cuts from the Pelosis, the campus crazies, the black-lives-don't-matter yahoos, the pretend moderates.  The oppress posses.  The overseas claque Yodas.

It's only 10 P.M., again, and, red-rimmed eyes bleary, we don't know where all our feisty energy has gone.  We fill up all night, sucking in those Gs, ready for the morrow, but is it enough?  Will it be enough?

How long does a metaphor persist?