Club Ibis

flroida ibis
A Florida Ibis, last week

Fourteen days before my wife and I hit New York running. We are going to stay at the Marrakech Hotel on the UPW for 10 days. Can’t wait to leave the swamps of trailer park ignorance, or wherever igneous minds appear to have permanently calcified, here in lovely FLA.

We used to live in Manhattan, my wife and I.  When we first dated, many MANY years ago, and were not yet living together as an umarried couple, I took her to Club Ibis (notice the typo in the article link, which the Grey Lady was notorious for back then). It was on 50th Street, and I think Park.

We had some elaborate lunch, which in my case included three straight up Stoly martinis, with a twist — my favorite drink at the time, which I consumed with the frequency of a Don Draper.

The asshole known as Trump was just a blustering blip on the Manhattan scene, then, some Daddy’s boy schlub from the boroughs who was redoing the Hyatt with his father’s money and some fancy lying to and bribing of the Housing Commissioners. Yes, it was the same back, then.

My wife and are still together, but fuckface has gone through two or three wives in the interim, and now he’s the illegally elected President.

What is truly pathetic are his supporters; him, not so much.  If you’re from New York, you always knew what a doofus this shithead was, except that the underlying venality and cruelty was carefully concealed back then.

I wonder, sometimes, about the motivation of his supporters (few of whom can be found in New York, except of course for Staten Island) — good Americans all, no doubt — to continue to prop up a notorious, crass, lying schemer who is so obviously unsuited to the Presidency, which he has turned in some sort of Mafia goon squad.

Honestly, it is quite simple.  Beneath all the nice words of freedom and equal opportunity, it may be that enough of his base have some sort of gleefully sadistic venal streak buried deep within — the Other Me, as I saw portrayed in some Netflix movie the other night at 2am when I again couldn’t sleep.

The public face is the so-called Principled (ha!) American Conservative, latter-day version. The one that says Jesus is coming, any day now.  The one that thinks climate change is nothing a “culture war.”

The ones who, deep inside, always felt that President Obama was nothing more than an uppity field nigger who got too big for his britches. The ones who say there was never a Palestine.

The ones who love their guns and hate abortion righs. The ones who think civilization is just a polite name for all-out, winner-takes-all survival of the fittest.

In short, the private face is that of the barely concealed racist, misogynist asshole, consumed and enraged that it’s all slowly slipping away… and, thus, to stop it, anything is possible, anything is allowed, no matter how grotesque.

And, to use terminology The Donald would be familiar with, you can bet your sweet bippy that if Muller nails the orange sewer mouth, they will all turn on him — just as the Libyans did on Guaddafi.

Or they might remain silent in defeat, despite the urge of itchy fingers to retaliate against The Vast Conspiracy they were told would never accept their rule, as he is metaphorically surrounded and entrapped by the  patient, untouchable Forces of Goodness & Reason, and the Presidential Guard refuses to salute him that one last time The Donald lumbers off Air Force One, all alone on a cold and blustery tarmac, with nary a hired goon to protect him any more.

They will ruefully shake their heads and look the other way and think of future glories, when The South will truly ride once again, for Trump is nothing in and of himself — he is useful and matters only as the current embodiment of that dark Private Self that festers within half the electorate, and will not go away even when enough of them have died off, in 20 years or so — but at least then they will cease to matter.

So be it.

We will go, my wife and I, to the Botanical Gardens, and hither and yon, too, catch a few movies, wander around a bit and explore the places where we lived on that magnificent island for 20 years.  I will not mourn the death of the NY Daily News, but I shall mourn other things:  the loss or gutting of other dailies and weeklies, of old bars, and ancient hangouts, and briefly consider the misspent life I once led as a daytime Wall Street computer programmer, and night-time barfly, living in a cheap studio a drunken step or two away from CBGB’s and all the famous writer bars in the West Village.

This building was definitely NOT this garish color when we lived a few avenues away

Things change.

I have changed, physically, but not so much in outlook.

I still think that the dream my parents had of what used to be America is worth defending, but perhaps now it shall unfold elsewhere, in places that have not surrendered to the ratfinks and corrupt moneyed men.

Perhaps Portugal shall be the answer for us.

Gouna turned out to be not for me (after 7 months of seeing if that would work:  it didn’t, for many reasons that really belong in a book, not some casual blog), but I am happy that an old friend’s pastime, in effect a hobby that started as a pimp rag for local businesses, is taking off and attracting serious advertising as a hyperlocalized Red Sea ezine.

But, that life, the life over there, in the pleasure villas of the entitled, in what was once my country, is no longer for me — it could have been, had we not left, but emigrating does have long term consequences.

Lisbon beckons; I am listening intently to her siren call.

Will she, like the Statue of purported Liberty before her, turn out to be a ruthless, unscrupulous whore?

leaving america



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