Trump, Wrapping Himself In the Flag On The Fourth

OF COURSE IT was going to happen, predictable, like the tides, or the daily flow of presidential flow of lies. Donald Trump is wrappng himself in Old Glory, using the two hundred and fiftieth birthday of the "Declaration of Indepence as an opportunity to spruce up his image, bury the Epstein files out back like a dog bone,or pile of country garbage. The extent to which the tactic works depends primarily uppn the power of advertising, and the gullibility of the American people,whose intelligence nobody ever went broke underestimating. MAGA sycophants, naturally, are already on board, with Trump, the flag, and God, in that order, positioned lovingly upon the gold stained alter of their hearts, brainwashed minds, and tortured, twisted souls. Trump's carvinal in the Capitol is already a drop dead bust,with no atendance other than a MAGA ball cap or two riding atop empty skulls. He probably should've added Taylor Swift to the agenda, but she is busy, gettting married on the Garden, and, in any event, she, like most of America, despises Trump. Fifty years ago, when I was twenty one, my father took me to New York City, where we were joined by twenty million other tourists to watch the tall sailing ships cruise into the harbor, and up and down the Hudson River. The crowds were so thick that we couldn't get anywhere near the river, and we had to stand on a street corner in midtown Manahtten and strain across holf of the island to see even that much. The important thing, we knew they were there, we caught a glimpse of them, I took a few pictures on old fashioned Kodak film, and I still remember it all, fondly. As we approach the end of our days, what, other than memory, do we really have left? Friends and family, if we'relucky, but don't count of. Familial estrangements and seperations iare the norm in America, the land of the lonely atomized individual. (See: "Bowling Alone", by Robert Putnam). Otherwise, the 1976 4th weekend was a bust for me.The Kansas City Royals were in town,and hey beat my beloved Yankees three out of four games at the stadium. The final game of the series my father, a Royals fan, didn't even bother to attend. He preferred to remain in our hotel room at forty second and twelfth,a "Holiday Inn", and drink whiskey. I was in the city on another Independence Day, 1983. The friend I was visiting, who had a place in Mt. Kisco, got tickets to the Red Sox Yankees game on the fourth. We had box seats right behind the visitors dugout, and my friend was wrapped entirely in an American flag. We appeared on the big "Jumbotron" movie screen scorebaord in center field several times, and I was proud. I, little I, on the big screen at Yankee Stadium,on the exact day of America's two hundreth birthday, if only for a moment. On a happier note, Don Baylor hit a two run homer, Dave Righetti pitehed a no hitter for the Bronx Bombers, and the Yankees won, four zip. I was in hog heaven. The entire crowd of forty five thousand stayed at their seats, standing and screaming wildly for an hour, after the game was over. I missed my train home, and my family, hungry and late for dinner on my account, was mad. Oh well, It was worth it...Obviously I am pissed, depressed and disappointed that our grand national celebration is being presided over by a sexual offender and general criminal reprobate. For sour comfort, we can recall that the centennial in 1876 was bummed out by the arrival in Washington D.C. on that very day, of the news that George Armstrong Custer and his 7th cavalry has been wiped out by Sitting Bull and a huge alliance of Sioux,et all tribes, at the battle of the "Little Big Horn'. My hope is that the tri centennial in 2076 will escape the corruption of military disaster or a criminal president presiding over it. My comfort is that, lacking great good luck or excessive life extension,I won't be around to find out.