
The Release: Self-Inflicted Aerial Nostalgia (LP—Halo, 1989)
1.14.25
I hate Donald Trump.
Yes, hate. It’s not too strong of a word. If anything, I need to expand my vocabulary in order to find the words that truly capture the contempt that I feel for him. I hate the legitimate threat that he and his followers pose to those closest to me. I hate the groveling knaves that he surrounds himself with. I hate the fact that he has hoodwinked millions of people—including a few that I actually care about—into believing that he serves anything other than himself.
Yes, I hate Donald Trump; but it goes so much deeper than politics. I hate his narcissism. I hate his air of success—despite a very public life of failing upwards. I hate his aesthetic. I hate the fact that he orders his steak well done and douses it in ketchup.
Donald Trump is utterly joyless, and plainly, lacks the things that make humans…well, human.
Seriously, can you imagine Donald Trump coming home from an honest day of work—I could stop right there—and being really excited to see his dog? Even if you can, it wouldn’t actually happen, because he hates dogs—which really, should tell you everything you need to know about his character (or total lack thereof).
Yes, at his resentment-fueled, cholesterol-caked core, Donald Trump is almost shockingly unrelatable. Hell, even that wannabe Bond villain who ‘donated’ over a quarter-billion dollars to Trump’s re-election campaign got high on a podcast once; and yeah, it was pitifully uncool, but I don’t know, vaguely human?
But none of that kind of stuff for Trump. His entire world—and thus, his entire existence—is merely transactional. As several of the innumerable lawsuits that he has stood as a defendant in have demonstrated, Donald Trump understands the concept of lust. But I remain unconvinced that he understands the concept of love. Lust—especially in Trump’s world—is a product of transaction. Love is a product of humanity: one that Trump probably associates with weakness.
I mention all of this, because this week I have been keenly aware of the fact that this will be the last entry in “The GBV Project” that I complete before the return of an administration that never even should have had a first chance. And, as that has been on my mind, I’ve become fully convinced that Donald Trump couldn’t possibly understand Guided by Voices. His very construction procludes it.
How could Donald Trump understand something born of such proud working-class roots? How could he understand something founded on a deep and sincere affinity for the homemade and the sentimental?
And how, I genuinely ask, could Donald Trump possibly contemplate something that is so clearly and obviously a labor of love?
Rating: 8.0
Bob-ism of the Week: “Thank you, my brother, and good luck. We are with you in your anger.” (Bob, in a 2018 Twitter message to Senate candidate Beto O’Rourke)
Next Week: Dark times in the Pollard-verse lead to the darkest album in the GBV catalog.