The Curse of Ed Asner’s Housekeeper

Everything about this picture is a lie. The frame, the context, the substance. The girl was not separated from her mother. Her mother separated herself from her three other children in an attempt to regain illegal entry after being deported in 2013. Yelena was taken from her father without his permission to be used as a ticket  to cross the border.

These children are not refugees, not in custody, and not confined to a dog kennel.  This tableau is political theater, staged for a pro-immigration rally.

This photo was taken during the Obama administration.

Suddenly the Media Class are virgins.  Until last week apparently no one knew how babies were made.

We now pretend we never had a Border Patrol.  We wail as though the tangled web of immigration enforcement hasn’t been operating like this for decades.  As though the particular wrinkle of separating minors from parents (the Flores agreement) wasn’t the consequence of ACLU litigation going back to Reagan.

In Brentwood no one wants to bend over and pick up their socks, but we are obsessed with detention centers.  We are in ecstasies of sanctimony about them.

Cable TV is now nothing but people exhausting synonyms for atrocity, clicking their soundbites of outrage like castanets.   Because the world began five minutes ago. Because Trump. Behold the horror™.

This is not a war over memory. This is a war over who gets to call whom an asshole.    For there are now two American populations: The Anointed, who have a very big megaphone, and their basket of Deplorables, i.e., the Rest of US, who get to vote every couple years.

Here, in my beloved Van Nuys, peasants are locked into storage containers without plumbing until their families settle with the coyotes.   Landlords exact tribute from women for the keys to a first apartment. Shift supervisors exact tribute from women as the gateway to a first paycheck.   Brokers troll the Home Depot parking lot soliciting cash kickbacks from day laborers in exchange for a place on the truck, in scenes straight out of On The Waterfront.  I have witnessed this.

Just behind the veneer of $600,000 single-family homes are second families living on the down low in converted garages without heat or ventilation.  Tool sheds are pressed into use as casitas where laborers sleep in shifts.  People sell their wares on the sidewalk.   This is our new normal.  Into these feral arrangements the Anointed propose to deposit a fresh stream of undocumented people of unlimited number.

In Marxist terms, who benefits? The people living in campers parked on Bessemer St.?

How about people living out of dumpsters?

Or utilizing baby strollers as pushcarts for can collecting?

Or the Off-Ramp Dispossessed?

On the other hand, how about the guy who owns the bungalow with a four unit add-on?

Or the local gentry?

Trump if nothing else has proven to be the Great Clarifier. In their zeal to denounce, people have revealed themselves.   To quote the activist mob who hounded the DHS secretary out of a restaurant: “No borders! No walls! No one is legal!” Okay, then.  Now we know.

We have on our hands a reverse election. The Anointed, having deemed les deplorables insensible to reason, has determined to dissolve the public and replace it with a fresh population. One which owes them.

All the Van Nuys pictures are true. They are taken within a mile of my house.

Except this one, from Boyle Heights, ground zero of the anti-gentrification movement.  Los Angeles contains ironies within ironies. It is an animal like no other.

Wither gravity?

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Is this really happening?

He’s boorish and says distasteful things about women and says them reflexively. He writes checks with his mouth America will not be able to cash, like announcing the Iranians will turn over all hostages before he assume the Oval Office.  Or the Mexican government will pay to build a wall between us. He, who never served, mocked John McCain for being a POW. He dismissed Ben Carson, pediatric neurosurgeon of renown as “an okay doctor, who hired maybe one nurse, but not great”. He dismissed Hugh Hewitt, with 25,000 interviews to his credit, as a “third-rate talk show host”, when Hugh innocently revealed through questions Trump could not distinguish between Quds and Kurds.

And yet! There he is, making the weather, defying all political laws. A Sun King, in waiting.  To quote pollster Stu Rothenberg:

 “I have been arguing that once Iowa Republicans start to see the caucuses as an opportunity to select the next president, rather than an opportunity to express their frustration and anger, they will turn away from Trump and toward politically experienced, mainstream contenders. After combing through the most recent surveys from the Iowa caucuses and talking with veteran Republican strategists, I can no longer say that with any certainty…”

My father, a George McGovern/Bernie Sanders liberal to the bone, loves Trump.

Over beers at Macleod last night, three of us confessed were the election held today, in a matchup between Hillary and Trump we would all vote for Mr. Bombastic, despite his baggage.  None of us wanted to. But given the choice….

Secretly we wished he would say or do something so terrible it would derail his candidacy once and for all, so we wouldn’t have to choose.  But hasn’t he done that five times already?

If nothing else, Trump is right about one thing: illegal immigration and how deeply it is resented in this country. What is resented even more is the institutionalized deceit with which it is protected by the political media.  I say this as someone who resides happily in a neighborhood of first generation Latino and Asian immigrants, strivers all. My beloved working-class brigadoon of Van Nuys.

Sometimes all it takes is one fundamental truth to ride to power. When the distance between what one is publicly permitted to say and what is privately felt becomes unsustainable, there’s a fissure, and the geyser erupts. After that, all bets are off.

What then, though? Suppose he wins? Having taken the prize, we are left with the man, and all his frailties.