We’re going to the annual volunteer appreciation dinner at the air museum this week. Yesterday the organizer sent a list of last-minute instructions. One item stood out, and not in a good way: “This is a nice dinner, so please refrain from wearing blue jeans, shorts and such.”
It was a crappy thing to say, and it reminded me of something even crappier:
That’s a Reuters photo, taken in the Oval Office on the 28th of January. Note the guy on the right, Senior Presidential Advisor Steve Bannon, and what he’s wearing.
Now I wouldn’t dream of meeting the president at the White House in anything less than full Men-in-Black attire. I’m not saying I want to meet this particular president, mind you, but love him or hate him, jeans are just fucking inappropriate. Trump in particular, we’re told, is a stickler for appearance and dress: he evaluated cabinet post candidates on their appearance; he made regular cracks about his rivals’ looks during the campaign; he was reportedly dissatisfied with Press Secretary Sean Spicer’s appearance at the first post-inauguration press conference, asking “Doesn’t the guy own a dark suit?”
There’s a message in that photo. The message is that Bannon can wear what he wants and Trump doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Think about Putin for a minute. Trump never criticizes Putin, and nearly everyone by now realizes the meaning of that: Putin has something on Trump. I say ditto Bannon: there’s a reason he wears dirty jeans in the Oval Office, and it has everything to do with power. It’s plain as day: Trump is owned.
God, I can’t wait until it all falls apart and we learn the piggy-dirties! It’s gonna be even juicier than Watergate!
I mentioned at the end of yesterday’s post that I didn’t have to help Polly move after all. She and her current boyfriend were able to cram everything she’d left behind at her ex-boyfriend’s house into a U-Haul, and for the first time in over two years, Polly has her own apartment and all her stuff again.
Honestly, though, I was disappointed not to be needed. I wanted to help, and not just because I was psyched after spending a couple of hours on Friday getting myself, the truck, and the trailer ready for the job; my relationship with Polly has been strained lately, and I hoped working together would go some way toward patching things up. Oh, well … I’m proud of her for taking care of business and getting back on her feet again, and I think she believed me when I told her that.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m waiting to hear from Donna, who should be on the road from Palm Springs to Tucson with her sister Robin. At Robin’s request I’m making dry-rubbed spareribs. Donna’s going to have a heart attack when she sees the Safeway receipt, though: that one rack of pork spareribs cost $33! When did ribs get so expensive, or is it just Safeway? You didn’t ask, but there’ll be corn on the cob and baked beans as well, and a night in front of the TV watching the Oscars.
And I’ll be wearing dirty jeans.
© 2017, Paul Woodford. All rights reserved.