So does this mean Billy Bush is back?
Maybe in the Trump administration as special assistant in charge of procuring “P” for someone destined to be a hands-on President in the most literal sense.
It’s hard to respect the office when it is about to be occupied by someone of such low character.
One glass of wine helped a little, a second glass helped more. But an entire bottle wouldn’t have washed away the crushing tonnage of watching election coverage into the wee hours. And then—affirming this was no nightmare from which we would awaken and spring from bed in joy and relief—watching Hillary Clinton make her concession speech in the morning.
That Americans would elect this ignorant bum president—and that nearly half of voters endorsed him win or lose—has to be a watershed moment in U.S. history. Much less a footnote than a foot on our throats.
My wife, Carol, and I spent Wednesday strolling the gorgeously sprawling Getty Center in Los Angeles, where she is a docent. It was the perfect oasis to soften the excruciating ache of the election outcome.
We both love art museums, their venerable collections and sense of ageless continuity a reminder, especially now, that 2016 and our lives are a tiny blip on the landscape of history. We tend to forget that many cultures have spent time under a warming spotlight while assuming there were no term limits to greatness. But there are, and the spotlight inevitably moves on.
My brother, a very smart, thoughtful guy who voted for Trump, thinks I’m nutty. But I believe that with Trump in command, this nation, at the very minimum, is now in great peril. While in a long line waiting to board a tram to this enthralling museum on a hill overlooking much of the city, I thought of us as doomed characters in a science fiction movie with the corniest of plots: everyone here seemed happy and unconcerned, unaware they were in great danger.
The Getty was calming. But the excruciating ache hasn’t gone away.