Eight Years Ago at the RNC
The Deja Vu of Squamous Horrors
Eight years ago, I was in Cleveland, for the Republican National Convention, which I was hired to draw for the Daily Beast. It was a clusterfuck to say the least. All the aspiring war journalists had brought their flack jackets, hoping for some bang bang violence, or at least a good Tinder photo. Any time anyone screamed at anyone, they swarmed round, cameras bristling like insect eyes, trying to make nerd boys’ hormonal yawping into the start of a civil war. Clowns from all political tendencies posed. Giuliani scuttled by, greyer, squatter, and more squamous than I could have imagined.
I remember a man in a rubber Hillary Clinton mask with a sign that said Lock her Up. The mask was slackly baggy, like that of Leatherface in the Texas chainsaw massacre. How he endured the heat, I don’t know.
Then the crowds of scowling rubes, the wanna be country singers, the flags upon flags upon flags. The earnest protests by immigrant activists that made me feel profoundly guilty, because why should people as correct and decent as them have to perform for vultures like us
Eventually I got tired of trying to shove my way into the convention center, so me and artist Susie Cagle holed up in a bar and drew the proceedings from the TV. It seemed more real that way. This was all simulacra. Shiny dumb wiz bang plastic fantastic. Why shouldn’t we watch it on TV. As we drew, an undercover cop tried to hit on us. I know he was undercover because he flashed his badge. I suppose he thought it was impressive.
That trip, my friend Arabella Proffer Vendetta showed me another Cleveland, of underground bookstores and speakeasies, that was sick of having to deal with the RNC Circus. She introduced me to activists who had gotten FBI visits in advance of the coronation. I remember her red Rapunzel hair, her sarcastic laugh. She had just beat cancer, and she loved life with such exacting hedonism as would put Cocteau to shame.
That week, they crowned Trump king.
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The cancer caught Arabella in the end. She lived longer than any doctor expected, travelling the world with her punk rock soulmate and painting juicy, sexy divas like herself, but she is gone. It’s eight years later, and we’re in the midst of another coronation. Again, the country lurches inevitably towards a Trump presidency, the path greased by a craven Democratic Party that’s openly contemptuous of its base, and by a narcissistic, unelectable candidate who believes the office is theirs by divine right. It’s all stupider, uglier, and pettier. Such is the nature of reboots. It’s all about to get a lot more nasty, too, as this time, Trump has a competent machine behind him.
The Daily Beast’s new web layout hides most of my drawings from Trump’s first RNC, so I’ll post them here for you to enjoy. Nothing much has changed visually, I think, except for a new band-aid on the star’s right ear.
If you want to see me talk in person, I’ll be doing an event with the brilliant Shellyne Rodriguez at P P O W Gallery, at 392 Broadway, New York, on July 30, 6-8pm.
In the comments, tell me what you think comes next.
Next up: a rude awakening from a brutalized and ignored planet. I just hope to have a good book to read, and to enjoy your profoundly beautiful drawings.
This reaction may drown out the righteous for awhile,but this mask off moment will inspire that kind of revolt that surprises everyone-especially Dough Boy and Surly Granddad.