I was looking for something better from Julia Alekseyeva’s memoir of her 100-year-old great-grandmother who experienced the 1917 Bolshevik revolution and WW2 and Stalin’s rise only to flee to America in the 1990s after Chernobyl. Julia inserts herself into the story in interludes, trying to tie her tale together with her great-grammy’s but it falls flat. Lola’s story was interesting, but it dies a bit on the vine and I didn’t love the graphic style.
Gorgeous memoir by Jeannette Walls that I knew was going to be good when I saw there was still a queue for it at the library, over 10 years since its publication.
She turns a truly wretched childhood into story gold by giving us a no-holds-barred look at the crazy upbringing her parents put her through. Bohemian is too prim a word for it. When she was four years old and sister Lori 7, they were parked outside a bar for hours while their parents drank inside. They started counting the number of places they’d lived, after having to define “lived” as having unpacked your things instead of just staying somewhere for a couple nights. They gave up after counting 11 places. “We couldn’t remember the names of some of the towns or what the houses looked like. Mostly, I remembered the inside of cars.”
Their dad was a drunk who fancied himself an entrepreneur, always one step ahead of the law and frequently rousing the family for a middle-of-the-night escape. He took advantage of the lack of technology in one town to withdraw all his money from a bank teller inside the bank while his wife simultaneously withdrew the same amount from the drive-up teller. The mom fancied herself an artist, splurging on art supplies when there was no money for food. In one particularly terrible scene, the 4 kids are sitting around trying not to think about how hungry they are when they notice their mom keeps ducking under a blanket. Turns out she’s eating a huge chocolate bar.
They wind their way through the desert, survive a fire in an SRO in San Francisco, watch their dad gamble away their money in Vegas, then set up house for a time in an old mining town. Once their dad gets (inevitably) fired, they start to starve. For some reason, the mom never mentions that her mom died, leaving her a house in Arizona and money, which they eventually tap into. There’s some mysterious check that arrives from land in Texas that the mom now owns, later found out to value $1M. And yet they starve, and they head to the dad’s hometown in West Virginia where things just get dilapidated. The sisters start working jobs and saving cash so they can escape to NYC, but the dad steals it and drinks it away. Eventually, they make it out, send for their brother, and then their little sister. A few years later, the parents end up in NYC as well, eventually becoming homeless as they get evicted from various living arrangements. They end up as squatters, the dad has a heart attack, the family breaks apart and then comes back together.
This is actually the third book by Bhante Gunaratana I’ve gobbled up, but perhaps the best was his first. For some reason I rebel against the highly structured format that he tries to hammer into you, with the 4 foundations of mindfulness (body, feelings, mind, dhamma) which include the 5 hindrances (desire, ill will, laziness, restlessness/worry, doubt), the 5 aggregates of clinging (material form, feelings, perceptions, mental formations, consciousness), 6 internal & external senses (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind), 7 factors of enlightenment (mindfulness, investigation of dhamma, energy, joy, tranquility, concentration, equanimity), 4 noble truths (suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path that leads to cessation), and the noble 8-fold path (skillful understanding, thinking, speech, action, livelihood, effort, mindfulness, and concentration). Overwhelmed yet?
Most helpful to me as always are the sections on anger. Buddha abandoned thoughts of anger by thinking of compassion and loving friendliness/kindness. It’s useless to dwell on things in the past that you’ve done wrong, a waste of time and energy. Mindfulness “suffocates anger by taking away the fuel it needs to keep burning. When hate fills our minds, we should think: Hate makes me sick. My thinking is confused. A sick mind defeats the purpose of my meditation.”
How to deal with anger when it arises:
- Practice mindfulness of breathing. Take a few deep breaths, counting up to ten then down to one.
- Practice restraint. Stop talking if the conversation is leading to argument. During the pause, investigate what’s causing your heated words.
- Replace the hatef by thinking kind thoughts.
- Avoid angry people.
- Make a commitment in the morning to be mindful about not getting angry.
He also cautions that every kind of ill will arises from the wish to be physically separated from something that causes discomfort or pain. The ill will & its causes are impermanent.
I came across Marion Milner’s book (originally published 1934) via How To Be Bored, which is surprising. The concepts she covers were much more in line with all of the books about meditation and Buddhism that I’ve been reading lately, so I figured that was where I’d stumbled on Milner.
I felt a little bad for Milner as I read her journey to discover how to side-eye/watch her own thoughts. The mindfulness books I was also reading gave really clear direction on how to take the steps necessary for this internal attention/silence/noticing, but here she was in the 1930s, toughing it out and struggling to figure out the puzzle with no guidance.
To begin with, she tracked what made her happy in a journal. “I want to live amongst things that grow, not amongst machines. To live in a regular rhythm with sun and rain and wind and fresh air and the coming and going of the seasons. I want a few friends that I may learn to know and understand and talk to without embarrassment or doubt.”
She performed “experiments” on herself and realized that she had an automatic response and a more hidden response. “It seemed to me that perhaps my previous ignorance of the ways of this self might be sufficient reason why I had felt my life to be of a dull dead-level mediocrity, with the sense of real and vital things going on round the corner, out in the streets, in other people’s lives.”
As she explores further, “I saw now that my usual attitude to the world was a contracted one, like the sea anemone when disturbed by a rough touch, like an amoeba shut within protective walls of its own making… I had thought I wanted a great many friends but had often refused invitations because I hated to feel the beautiful free space of an empty day, free for me to do what I like in, broken into by social obligations. I had thought I wanted to be a unique individual, but had been filled with shame when anyone disagreed with me, hastening to take back what I had said.”
If I had a time machine, I’d head back to whisper in her ear that the Buddhists have been working on this problem for thousands of years and that might be a good place to start. But then again, we’d miss her own personal exploration if that were the case.
Half of these essays were fantastic, then they tapered off with a thud. On the plus side, she did get me to watch Private Benjamin (excellent!) and I’m left with a stack of other must-see movies to catch up on, including a re-watch of the Stepford Wives. And her writing was solid, filled with delicious vocabulary like fulminate, impune, ineffable, elide, intemerate.
Chocano takes her pop-culture critic pen and dissects movies from Flashdance (“the first time I’ve seen a girl whose artistic genius does not get her frog-marched directly to a course of electroshock treatments and long-term institutionalization”) to Thelma & Louise/Pretty Woman/Ghostbusters (the all-female reboot). Growing up, she initially thought her/our generation was the first post-feminist generation but “didn’t know that this moment was the tail end of a brief period in American cinema, between 1978 and 1985, when heroine’s stories didn’t end in marriage but started with adventure…” Chocano also dives into film history, name-dropping Dorothy Azner along with Alice Guy, who directed the 1912 film (now lost) In the Year 2000, “a film about a time when women rule the world.” Downside: she’s in love with the phrase “the cognitive dissonance was palpable,” using it a handful of times.
We don’t care how this young girl in a depressed steel town got a union job. We don’t care how she managed not to get slighted, diminished, harassed, or bullied at work. We don’t care how she affords her enormous warehouse space, and heats it, while saving money to attend a prestigious dance academy. We don’t care that she is too old to be a ballerina and too young to be a steelworker because by then the steel mills had stopped hiring, and wouldn’t have hired her in the first place. We don’t notice how creepy the love story is, that her boyfriend is twenty years older than she is, that she works for him, that he owns the means of production, for Karl Marx’s sake.
The essays stacked early in the collection were super-charged. Dealing with post-WWII economic boom, the concept of a middle class was new, but “it wasn’t women working that was new. What was (relatively) new was global corporate capitalism as the organizing principle, and what was still unclear was how women would fit in.”
Joan Rivers has a helluva memoir. Hundreds of pages detailing the brutal struggle she went through to finally make it to her Johnny Carson appearance which unlocked the doors to success. I didn’t realize that she was a chum of Treva Silverman, the hilarious writer for most of the Mary Tyler Moore shows that I actually enjoyed. No one believed in Joan’s talent but herself for many gripping, penny-pinching years, but as soon as she made it, everyone agreed that they had seen it in her and had supported her. Also amusing was the back & forth comment war in the margins from previous library patrons, wherein one tried to name drop how he knew various celebrities and another pencil commenter furiously scribbled a diatribe against the original comment. Gold.
I’m a little embarrassed that I’m only now embarking on reading biographies of my favorite 19th century authors (Melville, now Thoreau). Walls’s book is a terrific compendium of Henry’s life, compiled from various letters and journals to trace the footsteps of America’s first ecologist and one of the finest writers of the ages.
We all know he lived simply (a friend said “Give him sunshine, and a handful of nuts, and he has enough”), but I was in the dark about much of his process and life. Contrary to some deeply held belief I had, he traveled widely—to Montreal, Niagara Falls, Minneapolis, as well as extensively through Maine, Massachusetts, Cape Code, New Hampshire, and every inch of Concord. Walden was lived (the biographer claims it as performance art) then mulled over for many seasons, trotted out on the lecture circuit, then published.
His connection to Emerson is well-known, helping to raise Waldo’s family while R.E. is in Europe lecturing, tutoring Waldo’s brother’s family on Staten Island for his first exposure to NYC, and most egregiously being called a watered-down version of Emerson himself. Also well documented are his friendships with Ellery Channing, Bronson Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne. He met Walt Whitman once and decided to like him. Kansas abolitionist John Brown spent hours discussing the day’s events in the Thoreau parlor in Concord and Henry championed him in fiery lectures. He heard Caroline Dall speak in Concord and Lucretia Mott lecture in Boston, and counted Margaret Fuller among his friends. Horace Greeley tirelessly promoted him in publishing circles, Thoreau read Melville’s Typee (sadly, despite their mutual bosom friend of Hawthorne, it appears that the two men never met), and he crossed paths at Harvard with Richard Dana fresh from his years behind the mast.
The biographer makes a strident case that Thoreau witnessed the beginning of the Anthropocene, seeing the collapse of a two-hundred year old system of English farming that had been in place in Concord and watching the railroad cut a swath across the field near Walden Pond.
Stunning book that definitely deserves its Pulitzer Prize. Meticulously researched by Heather Ann Thompson over many years to investigate and wrest the hidden documents from the guilty hands of the State of New York. Exquisitely structured in manageable 10 sections laying out the inhumane conditions leading up to the riot, the political landscape, the brutal event in detail from its inception on Sept 9, 1971 to Sept 13, 1971 when the [white] State Troopers who had been chomping at the bit to come in and terrorize the [mostly brown] prisoners who had deigned to revolt were unleashed with guns and teargas into the yard. Then the book covers the horrific followup, the coverup by the State to not bring any Troopers to trial, the legal actions against a few dozen of the prisoners, and finally to retribution for the tortured prisoners and a settlement for hostages and their families. Thompson wraps everything up with a peek at the state of our extreme incarceration and terrible prison conditions in 2016.
This from the epilogue is particularly poignant in today’s police-state:
… the 1960s and 1970s were all about the politics of the ironic. At the Democratic National Convention protests of 1968, Kent State in 1970, and Wounded Knee in 1973, unfettered police power each time turned protests violent, and yet, after each of these events, the nation was sent the message that the people, not the police, were dangerous. Somehow voters came to believe that democracy was worth curtailing and civil rights and liberties were worth suspending for the sake of “order” and of maintaining the status quo.
As I read this book, I was amazed over and over by things Thompson brought to light. I’ll admit that I had to put it down several times, reading it the day after the most recent Biggest Ever mass shooting in Las Vegas and finding it hard to read the descriptions of what bullets do to a body. Some thoughts:
Why did Rockefeller send in the NYSP instead of letting the National Guard go in? Both groups were on the scene. “Whereas the National Guard had a clear plan already in place for bringing civil disturbances in confined areas under control, known as Operation Plan Skyhawk, the New York State Police had virtually no formal training for this sort of action.”
The troopers removed their identification badges “just before they went in” so that they wouldn’t be able to be tagged to their crimes. A trooper later said “we weren’t stopping traffic where a citizen would have the perfect right to know who they’re being stopped by… it was a different thing.” Basically premeditated murder that they could (and would) get away with scot-free.
The racism was unbelievable and yet, in view of lingering terribleness on this front, completely believable. It goes all the way up the chain to Nixon, caught on tape excusing Rockefeller’s excessive and indefensible use of force because “you see it’s the black business… he had to do it.”
The Attica chant of Al Pacino from Dog Day Afternoon echoed in my head throughout. This is an unmissable book that shines light on the terrible and incredible events from 1971 onward.
Beautiful book by James McBride about the long search to discover his white mother’s Jewish roots and untangle the story of her abusive childhood. He was the eighth child of Ruth and Andrew McBride’s, but his father died before James was born. Widow Ruth’s Jewish family had already written her off as dead for marrying a black man, so she struggled to continue to support her brood and the church she’d founded with McBride. Along came the step-father that James always called Daddy, and they added four more children to the mix.
Wonderfully researched and written, with the italicized chapters coming straight from Ruth’s perspective, growing up as a Jew in the South, working nonstop at her father’s store when not at school, being sexually molested by her father, eventually running away to NYC where her mother’s family had taken root. Top notch memoir, coming highly recommended by Annie Dillard.
I’m not even sure what I just read—it was muddled and didn’t make a clear argument. Renata Salecl writes about late capitalism’s insidious pushing of the choice agenda as a way to make us all feel better, but it’s really just making us anxious. We’re drowning in self-help guides but not getting any better. We put on a happy positive face that ends up just masking the need to “rethink the nature of social inequalities” and find other ways to let capitalism develop. We’re pressured to be “unique” but also to conform; therein lies the power of celebrity. An arbitrary popular figure can give you clues on how to dress/talk/walk/sing/do business and you’re accepted. “This reflects a major change in the way that the individual identifies with social ideas under late capitalism, a shift that has also occurred in the way people today identify with authorities chosen and self-imposed and how they perceive themselves in society as a whole.” We’re essentially told to create an identity by copying one from someone else.
The one unexpected delight I got from the book was finally an explanation as to why people insist on videotaping every moment of their vacation or big event: interpassivity, coined by Robert Phaller, is what occurs between an individual and their proxy who is tasked with experiencing something for the other, like the Serbian women hired to cry at funerals. “… by the same token, people record films they will never watch because the recording equipment is in a way watching the film for them.”
Unfortunately, not a good choice of a book.
Another hit from the hilarious Jen Kirkman, her latest exposition of life as a divorcee who never ever ever wants kids thankyouverymuch. She’s frank, open, crass, but completely honest about life after her marriage dissolves 18 months in, life on the road as a traveling comic, someone who’s fiercely protective of her privacy and resents her new neighbor knocking on her door at all hours. Great comedic relief from the tedium of a workweek.
I saw the brilliant Jen Kirkman when she rolled through town earlier this month but did not realize until today that she had written books. This is a hilarious volume of takedowns aimed at people who aggressively insist on questioning her conviction that she does not want children. I can relate, and am happy to find another member of the club, especially one with such great comebacks. “I’m a nice person because I’m usually in a good mood and I’m usually in a good mood because I’m not responsible for raising a child I don’t want.”
She gets into the autobiographical details of her life, raised Catholic outside Boston, her mother making her say the same creepy prayer that I once did: “If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Best is her retort: “That prayer is comforting—if you’re ninety and on a respirator.”
Railing against the obsession of trashy magazines with tracking “baby bumps,” she wonders if there’ll be an Adoption Papers Bump Watch analyzing celebrities carrying overstuffed briefcases with what seem to be reams of legal docs: “Is She Adopting or Is She Working Part-Time as a Paralegal?”
Best are her impressions of her mother, like the response to her teenaged outfit of thrift-store black dress, ripped tights, combat books, and dyed hair: “Jennifah, why can’t you wear some color? You look like a witch with shoe polish on her head.”
Robert Walser had a nervous breakdown in 1929 and spent his final 3 decades in Swiss mental asylums. From 1936 – 1956, Carl Seelig (friend & literary executor) took him on long walks and recorded their conversations, which makes up this delightful volume. An inveterate hiker, Walser died alone on his last walk on a snowy Christmas day, 1956. Seelig had postponed their usual Christmas walk until New Years to care for his ailing dog. This volume is translated to perfection by Anne Posten.
It’s funny to contrast the two books I just finished: this slim volume of 138 pages has several marked passages I want to remember that are either perfect phrases or books I need to look into, but the 700 page beast of a fictionalized biography of Rimbaud was unmarked throughout (although it has plenty of lyrical writing, just nothing I needed to capture forever).
Seelig and Walser tramp about the countryside, stopping along the way to enjoy a hearty breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner, frequently imbibing beer or wine, cigarettes, but always always talking. Some of my favorite anecdotes and Walser-isms are captured below.
Upon seeing a cloister-like, baroque building, Seelig suggests looking inside. Walser: “Such things are much prettier from the outside. One need not investigate every secret. I have maintained this all my life. Is it not lovely that in our existence so much remains strange and unknown, as if behind ivy-covered walls? It gives life an unspeakable allure, which is increasingly disappearing. It is brutal, the way everything is covered and claimed nowadays.” (1941)
“In the asylum I have the quiet I need. It is time for young people to make the noise. It suits me now to disappear, as inconspicuously as possible.” (1943)
“In life there must also be troubles, so that beauty stands out more vividly from the unpleasantness. Worry is the best teacher.” (1943)
“Polite people usually have something up their sleeves.” (1943)
“Abundance can be so oppressive. True beauty, the beauty of the everyday, reveals itself most delicately in poverty and simplicity.” (1943)
“War has this in its favor—it forces people back to simplicity. Would we be able to chat undisturbed on the road, free from the stink of gasoline and the cursing of motorists, if gasoline wasn’t rationed? There is far too much traveling nowadays in the first place. Hordes of people barge shamelessly into foreign landscapes as if they were the legitimate occupants.” (1944)
“Yes, only the journey to oneself is important.” (in response to some of his lines quoted back to him: “Does nature go abroad? I’m always looking at the trees and telling myself: They aren’t leaving either, so why shouldn’t I be permitted to remain?” (1944)
“Curious how beer and twilight can wash away all burdens.” (1945)
Talking shit about Thomas Mann’s lack of grey hair: “It’s the health of success. How many are driven to an early grave by failure! Since childhood Mann had it all: bourgeois calm, security, a happy family, recognition… the Joseph novels are not nearly as good as his astonishing early works. In the later works one senses the stale indoor air, and that’s the way their maker looks too, like someone who has always sat diligently behind his desk with the account books.” (1947)
Seelig brings up the Korean war, causing Walser to rant about Americans for half an hour: “Have you seen their faces? They’re the faces of gangsters, executioners: foolishly proud, arrogant, and predatory. What business do the Americans have with a civilized society’s fight for freedom? Of course they will destroy everything with their ultramodern war machines, and they’ll win. But afterward how will the capitalist beast be driven back into its cage? That is another, more protracted question. In any case, Washington isn’t exactly full of the best and brightest.” (1950)
After being offered a lift by a passing motorist in the rain: “That has never happened to me before! But walking does one more good than driving. If laziness advances at its current pace, it won’t be long before people don’t need their legs at all.” (1952)
Authors to investigate: Gottfried Keller, whose praises Walser sings over and over, “he never wrote a superfluous line”; Marlitt, “the first German feminist, who fought resolutely against class pride and self-satisfied piety;” Tobias Smollett has a “gift for trenchant storytelling, which often slips into brilliant caricature, [and] makes for very entertaining reading;” Jan Neruda, whose tales he “found as cosy as Dickens’s stories.” Apparently Kafka was a huge Walser fan, recommending The Tanners to his boss; unfortunately, Walser was unfamiliar with Kafka’s work.
I probably should have more appreciation for this collection of teachings from Shunryu Suzuki, founder of the Zen Center down the street that I’m learning meditation from. But I’m not attached to them, preferring to focus on his statement that our understanding of Buddhism “should not be just gathering many pieces of information, seeking to gain knowledge. Instead, you should clear your mind.” I am sweeping away his teaching from my mind as I tidy it. Just sit. Just breathe. That is all there is.
This collection is a bit tedious, and I like Suzuki’s own reaction in 1970 to seeing the book for the first time: “Looks like a good book. But I didn’t write it.” It’s the summary and cleanup work of some of his disciples, putting pen to paper and smoothing out his English. Instead of reading it, I recommend meditating instead.
On Election Day 2016, I got gussied up to walk a block down the street and cast my mail-in ballot a local elementary school. I put on high heels and my sassiest blue and white dress, belted with a red velvet sash. Before I left, I took a retro selfie with a Polaroid, posing with my ballot proudly marked to cast my vote for the first woman President of the United States, Hillary Rodham Clinton. Looking at the picture now reminds me exactly how I felt. I walked down the block and the crossing guard at the school told me how fabulous I looked. I told her, “I’m going to vote!” The long national nightmare was almost over; soon I would no longer have nightmares about the toxic turd posing as the Republican candidate.
Voting wasn’t anything special. I hefted my many paged ballot (California elections are ridiculous) into the open slot, took an “I Voted” sticker, looked around the school auditorium at all the other morning voters. It seemed calm. I stifled a whoop of joy. My friend Jane later told me that she wanted to yell “I voted FOR A WOMAN!” as she left her precinct. When I got back home I watched a livestream from Susan B. Anthony’s grave where people were flocking to place voting stickers or other mementos. I cried a lot of joyful tears. Many texts were sent to friends across the country of the “!!!!” happy excitement variety.
And then the nightmare got worse. Watching that NYTimes % chance calculator drop from 99% certainty of Clinton victory all the way down. I went to bed, unable to listen to the pundits. For months after, I’ve struggled with depression brought on by the trauma. When I heard that HRC was writing a book about the experience, I said HELL YES.
I’ve read the book and weathered the media shitstorm telling her once again to shut up and go away. I don’t want this woman to go away, and it looks like she refuses to. She is a feminist hero, and this book is a goddamn manifesto. I laughed out loud, a lot. I cried. I had to take frequent breaks. It should be required reading for every American.
I don’t read books by politicians. Never have, and never plan to. This is not a book by a politician (although some of her chapters do get a bit into the weeds of policy). This is a first-person account of someone on the receiving end of the body slam that was Russian interference (hello you dumb Americans who believe things you read on FB & Twitter or hear on Fox News), Jim Comey’s last minute grand reveal of her emails into the spotlight again (for naught, because there is nothing in them), blowback from 8 years of “post-racial” America (remember that dream?!), and deep horrifying real misogyny.
I’ve said a lot already and haven’t even gotten into the book itself. She shares self-care tips like alternate nostril breathing techniques, sly digs at Putin, an exhaustive list of words to describe Trump (fraud, con man, “no ideological core apart from his towering self-regard”). She’s also quite funny. And her quotes range from Emerson, JFK, Eleanor Roosevelt, T.S. Eliot, to Nancy Drew. She reveals grand secrets like how her staff warmed up Quest bars by sitting on them before they ate them and how their favorite hot sauce was Marie Sharp’s (I can relate). She shares her thoughts on selfies: not a fan but likes that they absolve her from the wrist pain of “autographs, now obsolete.”
The best parts are where she’s breaking down the role of sexism in the campaign, how women aren’t supposed to speak up. “Think about it: we know of only a handful of speeches by women before the latter half of the 20th century, and those tend to be by women in extreme and desperate situations. Joan of Arc said a lot of interesting things before they burned her at the stake.”
On debate prep, her team realized that it would be a lot different against Trump. “He was rarely linear in his thinking or speaking. He digressed into nonsense and then digressed even more.” P.S. she won all 3 debates handily despite his following her around the stage while she mulled over whether to say “Back up creep” or just suck it up like all us women usually do. Oh, and do you remember how she got criticized for being too prepared? You cannot make this stuff up.
More humor– she attributes a “Lock her up!” quote to Michael Flynn at the RNC in July. “This quote could have been pulled from nearly any Trump rally of the entire campaign, but there’s a certain poetic justice now in remembering how enthusiastic Michael Flynn was about sending me to jail.”
To my never-ending delight, she unmasks Bernie Sanders for the fraud he is. “After the election, Bernie suggested that Democrats should be open to nominating and supporting candidates who are anti-choice. Other topics, such as economic justice, are sacrosanct, but apparently women’s health is not.” And Bernie, who loves to talk about true progressives never bowing to political interests, “has long bowed to the political reality of his rural state of Vermont and supported the NRA’s key priorities.” She says she’s proud to be a Democrat “and I wish Bernie were, too.” And this is just brilliant, a Facebook post included in her book:
She writes about her marriage to Bill in a way that made my heart nearly burst. All their negative moments have been shared with the press, and she shares some of the daily positives. This section is led by a great quote: “I don’t want to be married just to be married. I can’t think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I can’t talk to, or worse, someone I can’t be silent with.” (– Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows) Hillary brings up that people contend she and Bill must have some sort of secret “arrangement” where she stuck with him and he must stick with her until she’s President. We do have an arrangement, she says, “it’s called a marriage.”
She talks about how we’ve lost half a million retail jobs since 2001, something no other politician is discussing, and brings up our skewed reality of “coal miners.” She mentions how automation is also killing jobs, and how frightened she is of the power wielded by the Silicon Valley firms.
She accuses Putin of manspreading! “When I sat with Putin in meetings, he looked more like one of those guys on the subway who imperiously spread their legs wide, encroaching on everyone else’s space.” As for Toxic T, she nails it, “Why did Donald Trump keep blowing kisses to Vladimir Putin?”
It has to be painful for her to watch this buffoon singlehandedly bring down America’s reputation abroad. “America’s lost prestige and new-found isolation were embodied in the sad image of the other leaders of Western democracies strolling together down a lovely Italian street while Trump followed in a golf cart, all by himself.” He also has an “utter lack of interest in or knowledge of most foreign policy issues” and dreams of “Moscow on the Potomac.” His reaction to her during a debate still echoes in her head. “No puppet. No puppet. You’re the puppet.”