Yesterday’s episode of Donald Trump’s Playhouse, featuring his tiny dancer desk, made life worth living. And his “I’M THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!” explosion was better than a bucket of whipped cream on fresh pie. His little show, played out thumb scroll after thumb scroll on this morning’s Twitter, was truly luscious.
My husband has been watching me like he’s sending case notes to the insurance company. He says I always get depressed the day after Thanksgiving and around Christmas because, you know how Gentiles are about Christmas with all those childhood memories and such. He, of course, is spared Christmas angst, being Jewish, but he is kind enough not to lord it over me.
For no reason, I am remembering Soupy Sales, White Fang, and Black Tooth. Soupy Sales had a crazy kid show in Detroit in the fifties where he’d have over the top, wacko conversations with giant puppets White Fang and Black Tooth and always ended his show with a pie in the face. Once, he told all the kiddies watching to mail him a dollar bill, which they did and he got in a ton of trouble. He wore bow ties and cardigan sweaters just like Mr. Rogers but with kind of a strip show opening act twist. The generational divide is real.
Five years ago today, I went to a Packers game a week after cochlear implant surgery. There was constant rain and a heavy wind and my poncho ripped so I had to clutch it in both hands and keep my head down like a Druid trying to escape detection from whomever were the enemies of the Druids, I don’t remember. I went in the ladies room during the second half and sat down under the hand dryer to get warm. Women dried their hands over my head but I couldn’t hear them because my implant hadn’t been activated yet. So I was just another deaf, freezing person under the hand dryer to them. It was a humbling experience.
Thiet’s, the jewelry store where I’ve bought fancy gifts for decades and where all of my really good jewelry comes from, closed over the weekend after having a 70% off sale and I didn’t go. It was like – who buys jewelry during a pandemic? – a question the answer to which probably explains their decision to close. I remember the wall of pearls and rows of gold hoops and diamond studs under glass, the estate jewelry, each piece with an imagined story. The entire tiny store was artistry, the service whispered and patient, gift boxes always wrapped with gold foil and a perfect bow, everything purchased to last a lifetime. Oh well.