Highly Functioning Emotional Retard

Diane Arbus

But Hogan’s speech might have been one of the most memorable moments of the entire convention — in part because it so perfectly embodied the story Trump has long sold. Hogan briefly broke character to tell the crowd his real name (Terry Bollea) and, much like Trump, described himself as a professional entertainer who couldn’t stay on the political sidelines.

“I’ve known that man for over 35 years, and he’s always been the biggest patriot, and he still is,” he said of Trump. “He’s always told you exactly what he thought, and he still does, brother.” 

Then, back into his Hogan character, he finished with a characteristic flourish.

“All you criminals, all you lowlifes, all you scumbags, all you drug dealers and all you crooked politicians need to answer one question, brother,” he said. “What you gonna do when Donald Trump and all the Trumpamaniacs run wild on you, brother?”

Red Meat Convention.  Trump, Trump, Trump.  

 I know I said I wouldn't, but how can one not?  I just took the tiniest of peaks.  I know I say the world is full of jokers and idiots, but that doesn't mean it hasn't always been.  

This was the sort of thing people used to watch for big entertainment.  

As a kid, I couldn't understand it.  "People," I thought, "must have been idiots."

But, of course, there was Charlie Chaplin, too, where slapstick met emotional and ethical intelligence.  There have always been "the crowd."

So Trump and the RNC bring out Hulk Hogan and Dana White, the president of the UFC.  

Biden better drop out this weekend, but I'm not confident even that will change things.  Too much damage has been done, I think.  As smart as Harris is, I'm not sure that smart will win the day.  Trumpmaniacs are running wild.  

Maybe that is what has been wrong with my back.  I was able to sleep better last night, though, about five hours before the pain set in.  That's at least double what I've had for the previous week.  I'm feeling rather fresher today (I mean, for five o'clock in the morning).  And I've been eating well again, fresh fruits and vegetables and nuts and smatterings of chicken and tofu.  

But. . . I think I am going through some kind of emotional crises.  Not "some kind."  The kind most people go through in their 20s, I believe.  I think I am developmentally retarded in some ways.  We all are, I am pretty sure, but most people never cone to grips with that, especially people who are high functioning and successful.  No. . . not "especially."  Vance's "Hillbilly Elegy" crowd don't either.  But for the past few years, I've had plenty of time for navel gazing and I've come to the conclusion that I am just leaving my emotional teen years.  

"Now what am I going to do with my life?"

In 2003, I went to a little art theater and saw "Lost in Translation."  It wasn't like other movies of the time.  It was a genre unto itself, I thought, a tone poem of a movie, a lyric.  The film, however, did not do well at the box office and was pulled from distribution after a run of a few weeks.  Typical, of course, I thought.  

I was teaching a film course at the time, and I ordered the DVD from Blockbuster knowing the day of its release.  I picked the film up on the way to campus the day of my film class.  I didn't know what they would think, but they loved it.  

That night, I had a date with an old girlfriend who I hadn't seen for awhile.  She was on the cusp of her own life choices just prior to making the decisions that would shape her life to come.  I told my class that I was going to dinner with an old flame, and they, went wide-eyed, then guffawed.

"Are you crazy?  That never works out!" they chanted in unison.  That is how I remember it, at least.  

They were right, of course.  I didn't know it at the time, but it was a sort of long goodbye.  

"Lost in Translation" surprisingly got four Academy Award nominations and was re-released into theaters.  It was crazy.  The DVD had already come out.  And then Sophia Coppola won.  

"I told you. . . I TOLD you!"

The girl, however, never liked the movie.  I could never figure out why.  

Last night, this came up on my YouTube feed.  

Yea. . . I am an emotional late bloomer.  Retarded, if you will.  

So I watched more "Normal People" and was certain of it.  

Hemingway was.  Fitzgerald was.  Woolf was.  

Then more "Babylon Berlin."

Faulkner and Joyce.  And of course, Dostoyevski and Kafka.  

Everyone is fucked up.  It's just a matter of coming to terms with it.  

Or not.  I mean, what are "the terms"?  

I believe my conservative friends still think The Three Stooges are funny and they are about to come to power.  

My friends on the left think have lost their sense of humor.  

Selavy.  

There is hope in art, I think.  Sometimes.  Maybe.  

Somewhere, somehow. . . this post got lost. . . in translation. 

Selah.