"...Donald And Mark...And Snakes...Oh My..."

     More than once, over the past year or so, I've offered up, on both the weekly nighttime talk radio show and the various daytime slots where I've guest hosted, that the blame for all the current chaos and catastrophe America is experiencing is, almost always, these days, being badly misplaced.
    The first and most obvious lightening rod is, of course, Trump. And there's plenty of case to be made that a yuuuge chunk of any blame that gets hurled in his direction is some kinda justified and then some. This little nugget that has surfaced from this past week's "new and improved" health care act vote, no vote, vote, no vote fracas is illustrative.

     Republican sources close to the White House, aides inside the Trump administration, and GOP congressional staff involved in the health care process appear to agree on one thing: President Donald Trump has received a stinging lesson on deal-making in Washington. 
 

"He didn't care or particularly know about health care," a key GOP congressional aide said about Trump following the stunning defeat of the Republican health care plan Friday. 

     Yeah, you know, that's the thing about trying to get things done in this impish republic we call 'Murica. You kinda gotta know what you're doing. Or, at least, care enough about that thing you're trying to get done to figure out some way to learn what you don't know, so as to cover the bases.
      Random stream of consciousness moment:
      Charming scene in the movie "A Hard Day's Night" where George Harrison cheekily offers up in what was, in the day, that cheekily charming Liverpudlian accent, "yes...I'd be quite prepared for that eventuality...".
      I grew up watching and listening to George Harrison. I almost feel like I knew George Harrison. Donald Trump, you're no George Harrison.

"If you are going to be a great negotiator", the aide went on to say,  "... you have to know about the subject matter," , adding that overhauling health care is far different from building a golf course. 

     Trump has no interest in knowing about subject matter. He's never shown any indication that he has any interest in even becoming interested in knowing about subject matter.
     One of the more infuriating things about the people who continue to support and/or endorse this guy that continues to infuriate those of us who never did, never could and never would or will support or endorse this guy is what we are forced to assume is some kind of freakish, new strain of blindness afflicting the supporters. At least the supporters who know that "veterinarians"  aren't specialists in veterans affairs and that S.A.T. scores don't measure how long you were able to stay planted in a chair without discomfort.
     Reasonable and reasonably intelligent people who supported and endorsed him, from the git go,  and continue to support and endorse him have seen and heard the same things the rest of us have seen and heard from the git go.
     Trump's interest in this life... is Trump.
     Figuring that out ain't rocket surgery.
     My personal theory has been, also pretty much from the git go, that those who supported him, endorsed him and, eventually, voted for him had no problem figuring that out. They were, after all, not stupid. (Again, discounting the contribution of the veterinarians with the solid SAT scores).
    That, actually, will, when the historic dust settles decades from now, be one of the more poignant, if not perplexing, idiosyncracies of an election year that irrefutably raised the bar on idiosyncrasy in election years so high that it will, likely, more to the point, dear God, hopefully, never be bested again.
     That so many, millions, in fact, of the reasonable and reasonably intelligent among us very clearly saw and heard and understood that this sad, small, frightened poor little rich kid in a 70 year old body and a what the fuck is that exactly hair style was nothing more, or less, than an accomplished and skilled peddler of oil of snake.
     But they bought it...and swallowed it anyway.
     Pretty much from the git go.
     Placing the sole blame, though, on, or taking a lunge at laying, at his feet, the responsibility for any missteps Trump might have already taken, is about to take and/or will take in the here, now, near or far future is not only a waste of time and effort (#neverevertoblameatfaultwrongaboutorresponsibleforanythingever), it's also arguably factually unfair.
     Because while there's a whole lotta finger shakin' goin on in the spirit of shame, shame, shame on you, sad, small, frightened poor little rich kid in a 70 year old body and a what the fuck is that exactly hair style, there's, at least, one other major player in our little production whose culpability in the crisis, while most likely inadvertent, is as real and true as all the news that Donald spends hours per day slapping Fake News stickers on.
     That boy genius I've pointed one of my free fingers at, for over a year now, on the various radio shows as the instigator of all this insanity.
      The kid who has managed to give the word "friend" a bad name.
      Mark Zuckerberg.
      The boy wonder who gifted, or inflicted upon, the world that murky pond of personal interaction, Facebook.

      And here's the easy to climb aboard, two car version of my much longer, long considered train of thought on the matter.
      There have always been fools in our midst. Losers. Morons. Dummies. The not so bright.
      And lack of intellect obviously isn't the only malady meandering through the march of mankind.
      There's yer rude and crude, yer loud and obnoxious, the good, the bad, the ugly. It's all part of the yin and yang of our humanness. Truth be told, (real truth, thank you, I do a 100% alternative fact free show here), we're all all of those things. To one degree or another.
     Ideally, the worst case scenario is that we manage a balance between the shine and the shit. Our shortcomings hopefully countered by our kindnesses, our selfishness paid back with our compassion. Our primal instinct to think only of our selves and our own survival kept in check, at least, so that we can contribute something, anything, to the greater good and not just slash and burn and plunder and profit.
      But ideally is not a word in common usage. And spin it any way you want it for as long as you want it, the unavoidable, inevitable, undeniable fact is that there are simply those living in our time on this Earth who live for the self. Who not only couldn't care less about you or yours or anything related to, or associated with, you or yours, but who actually don't care at all. Ever.
      If there is a silver lining in that cloud of gloom and doom, it's that the kind of sociopathic narcissism I'm describing here is usually found only in your more egregious serial killers.
      And, turns out, every 45th president, give or take.
     In the pre-social media days, though, the dirty little secret, such as it was, was of the limited edition variety. The lack of technology allowing for the widespread spreading of information and incident and occurrence didn't necessarily prevent damaged psyches from existing in each and every neighborhood in each and every town but it did prevent our neighborhood from ever hearing about those in your neighborhood.
     And more importantly, and more critically, as it's played out, preventing them from hearing about one another. Thus, keeping one of life's more dangerous two edged swords safely in its sheath.
     Strength in numbers.
     All of that changed and that sword was drawn with a vengeance when Zuckerberg clicked the mouse connecting house to house, neighborhood to neighborhood, town to town, manic melody to looney tune.
     And what had been peculiar, and unique, grains of sand scattered all over the massive beach that stretched from sea to shining sea, very quickly, and toxically, mutated into a single, savage and dangerous entity.
     A demographic.
     Now, emboldened by the knowledge that they weren't, in fact, the only loose screw in the mechanism and energized by the discovery of those whose own deficiencies were now a commonality, they not only felt freed to come out of the shadows to express their individual cracks, flaws and furies, they metastasized from a mole into a mass, a virus in the American mainstream that made Ebola look like a gentle ragweed sniffle on an autumn day.
    Hmm, they pondered, if only subconsciously,  what I'm thinkin' here is really some kind of fuck all stupid, but, it must be right, because they's so many others who be thinkin' exactly what I'm thinkin.
     Then, the mass found a champion.
     Somebody who understood them. Commiserated with them. Validated them.
     And never mind that this champion of theirs had no real interest in them, beyond what their use to him they might be as he continued taking care of number one.
     This champion who promised them terrific, complete incomparable health care insurance for a fraction of what they were paying now, a fraction of what they had ever paid.
      This champion who doesn't care or particularly know about health care.
      Yeah, you know, that's the thing about trying to get things done in this impish republic we call 'Murica. You kinda gotta know what you're doing.Or, at least, care enough about that thing you're trying to get done to figure out some way to learn what you don't know, so as to cover the bases.
     And that's the thing about snake oil.
     Causes blindness.