Building Resentment

 You'll forgive me if I feel like the removal of the convicted felon's name from the Kennedy Center from the Performing Arts is a pyrrhic victory. 

In the simplest terms, the outrage that accompanied this nominal usurpation of a national treasure left me tired and hopeless. I believed that this would be the new normal, with the former game show host marking his territory in the only way that he and stray dogs do. 

It would be nice to feel some of that zeal that we all felt when those Confederate statues started coming down a decade ago, but it's more complicated than that. Like when that statue of Saddam Hussein was lassoed and yanked to the ground back in 2003. It would have been such a relief to connect that moment to the notion of "Mission Accomplished." 

But we knew this was not the case. It would be another eight years of suffering and confusion before Americans were able to extricate ourselves from this misguided excursion into the Middle East. 

Scraping the letters off the Kennedy Center that were placed there in a fit of pique by the Orange Worst will not remove the stain that it will leave behind. If the Second Trumpreich were to end tomorrow, there will still be years of recovery and plastering over the holes he has driven into our country. 

He tore down one third of the White House, leaving a hole and caution tape with nothing more than a curious set of circumstances that allowed him to legitimize his party palace when crazy people somehow got close enough to take a shot at him. Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe those crazy people wouldn't be shooting at him if he wasn't tearing holed in our country? 

So here we go: A UFC cage match will be held on the lawn of what used to be The People's House, along with the gaudy arena and lighting rigs that appear so inappropriate on what used to be a symbol of dignity and decorum. If we're lucky, maybe another judge will be able to step into the fray and be able to keep the Arc de Trump from being foisted upon us, dwarfing the monuments to real presidents whose reflecting pools have become sitcom versions of arguing with contractors. 

At the same time, he's having his attack dogs at the "Department of Justice" go after the woman he raped. 

And who is paying for all of this mess? 

I'll give you a hint: It's not King Pyrrhus. 

It's you and me. Hand me the paint remover.