Pas de deux. The artistry of canned feces?

to my daughter,

We both have much trouble understanding how/why anyone can still be supporting DT?

I found this article interesting in its insights about the ability of people to be deceived. And more than be deceived, appear to think its the norm.   Sort of like "the Emperor has no clothes".

There are two great life lessons here.   1.  We are deceived because we want to be deceived.  and 2.   We don't know we are deceived (otherwise we wouldn't be).

The article below reminded me of seeing the Oscars several years ago and Bob Dylan was on the stage singing some song that he'd written for a movie that was nominated.   He came on stage in a hat and clothes that looked like he'd 1. dug out of dumpster 2. had slept in for the past week, and 3. were a hodgepodge of style.

Plus . . . he was totally and completely stoned or inebriated or whatever, beyond understanding.   He appeared on stage and began singing/slurring/mumbling words that were almost completely beyond understanding.   He was absolutely pathetic.   If he was an animal you would have wanted to shoot him and put him out of his misery.

Stevie Wonder could have done a better job at being an air traffic controller. 

  

But as he sang, rather than focusing the cameras on his incoherent babbling, I guess the producers/director decided it would be better to break away and shoot photos of the audience's attention to the performance.  I would have expected smirks or frowns or downcast heads of embarrassment at what was happening on stage.   But alas . .  .what I saw in everyone of the Hollywood artist-elite-cognoscenti faces was awe and amazement and apparent adoration.   Go figure? 

And the two that were most in "awe" were Michael Douglas and his wife Catherine Zeta-Jones.   In fact they were in such awe in their front row seats, that the camera went back and forth to them.   Dylan's voice became almost background sound and the director's efforts worked.  The viewer's attention was focused away from the dribble of this poetic-drooling-idiot-"artist" on stage and instead was directed to the famous-people who apparently showed that they could appreciate such avant-garde artistic endeavor and the artist himself. 
"heaven's no Catherine. He's not drooling saliva.   Why dear, can't you see that is sweat from putting such heart and soul into his singing!"

   

And then . . . finally the misery was over, and Dylan finished.   And with the camera focused on Michael Douglas and his wife . . .they were the first to do what I could not imagine.    The two of them were the first to stand, and then the entire auditorium stood, and clapped long and hard for this "genius".    The camera briefly returned to Dylan but then cut away quick, I would assume to keep from showing him stumble off the stage or perhaps be carried.   I was grateful that Dylan must have been so wiped out that he was not able to come back out for an encore. Or . . perhaps he did want to go back out to the adoration of his smiling fans?    (I could imagine in my mind the director running and scrambling back stage . . . . yelling "hell no, double hell no.  don't let that imbecile back out!. Break to commercial" and fearing he would try to go back out, and yelling for someone to try and restrain him with the temptation of another syringe in hand or saying "oh no, no Bob.  Here's a pipe. toke up pal and keep the edge off)

from the National Review online. 
Saturday May 13

The Campaign Is Over

 . . . . . . . . but there’s another form of the campaign mentality that is keeping people from thinking clearly now. Say what you will about Trump’s thyroidal tweeting and aphasic outbursts, it worked for him.

Trump’s approach was so unfathomably strange, so otherworldly in the realm of Earth logic, that his biggest fans had to believe it was all part of some grand strategy. This is a natural human response. When something or someone is so incomprehensibly strange and yet successful, we often assume there’s a genius at work that is just beyond our ability to grasp. Bernie Madoff bilked billions from people who just couldn’t bring themselves to argue with success.

I’ve always thought that some modern artists are also con artists. They create something so strange, so aesthetically alien, that insecure rich people assume it must be a work of a genius, so they’re willing to spend vast sums to convince other people that a) they can afford to indulge in it, and b) they’re members of the cognoscenti, too. The greatest example of this is probably Piero Manzoni’s Merda d’artista. In 1961, Manzoni literally crapped in a can — 90 tins to be exact. He printed out labels for the cans that read:

Artist’s Shit
Contents 30 gr net
Freshly preserved
Produced and tinned
in May 1961

In a touch that no novelist would dare attempt, Manzoni’s father, who actually owned a cannery, told his son: “Your work is sh**.”

It was a pas de deux of taking something both literally and seriously.

Last August, Manzoni’s canned feces sold at auction for 275,000 euros.

The Art of the Can

Much has been written about how Donald Trump became a billionaire by being, if not an outright con artist, then certainly a kind of performance artist. He sold an image, a lifestyle, a brand. “I play to people’s fantasies,” Trump “wrote” in The Art of the Deal. “I call it truthful hyperbole. It’s an innocent form of exaggeration — and a very effective form of promotion.”

And, again, it worked for him. I don’t think Trump is as rich as he claims, but so what? He’s rich enough and he’s famous and, now, he’s president.

But what so many people can’t — or won’t — contemplate is that what worked for Trump in business, self-promotion, and even the presidential election may not transfer to the presidency itself.

This is a staggeringly obvious insight that many people are contorting themselves not to see. Sometimes skills don’t transfer. Piero Manzoni was arguably the most successful canner of feces in human history. I am happy to acknowledge that. But if I were wheeled on a gurney into an operating room, I would not take much solace from that fact if he were my heart surgeon.

Don’t worry Mr. Goldberg, I made a fortune spackling sh** into a can. You’ll be fine. Nurse, hand me that sharp thing.

Michael Jordan was a kind of artistic genius at basketball. Do I really have to belabor the point that those skills don’t necessarily translate into being a successful president?

I am shocked, daily, by the number of people who cannot let go of the idea — the article of faith, really — that Donald Trump has his opponents right where he wants them. The logical upshot of this is that he somehow meant to have historically craptacular poll numbers. I mean if he can execute his will and play ten moves ahead of the rest of us, then this must be part of his plan, right?