The common wisdom regarding tomorrow night’s ratings blockbuster is that we will witness one candidate deeply versed in policy who reflects the decorum proper to the office she seeks and another whose behavior can be easily confused for hebephrenia with a dash of Tourettes. Viewers have been advised to avoid drinking games.
It’s possible that somehow, through a combination of Xanax and shock collars, Himself’s handlers will somehow shepherd him through 90 minutes of camera time without outrage, though smart gamblers would demand high odds on that bet.
Another possibility is that Himself will do the handling, keeping his tone level and his words plausibly factual. Oh yeah, it really could happen, not because he sees the value in faking adulthood, but out of sheer pouty obstinence. “Stop shouting? Stop insulting? Stand still? Fine. Watch this.”
I can really imagine this happening. He’s been trying to prove he’s better than Dad and that Mom can’t boss him around all his days. I can easily see him sticking out a virtual tongue at his new daddy Bannon and mommy Kellyanne.
Frankly, I’d love it if he did.
Bill Graham thought Jimi Hendrix a musical genius, but hated the guitarist’s performance style. The mugging, the gymnastics, the clowning around. Graham thought it was unworthy of Hendrix’s talent and that even smacked of the minstrel show.
One night, before the first of two shows at the Fillmore, he laid into Hendrix, telling him he should quit jumping around and just show people how incredible a player he was.
Hendrix went onstage for the first show and did exactly what Graham asked, playing the set standing stock still, face deadpan. Though his playing was maybe better than ever without the physical distraction of his usual show, the audience quickly grew bored, some even walking out. At the end of the set, Hendrix walked off stage with a glare for Graham.
During the second show, Hendrix pulled out the stops, bringing every move he’d ever learned from vocalists and sax players on the Chitlin Circuit with the Isley Brothers and Little Richard. He was everywhere, on the floor, up on the stacks, leering over the footlights.
The crowd, predictably, went nuts. Ovations, screams of “Encore!” Again, leaving the stage, Hendrix drilled Graham with his eyes. It’s called show business, motherf’er.
Himself probably won’t show such sobriety tomorrow. He doesn’t have the discipline.
But, if he did, I predict you’d see a great divergence between pundit opinion and viewer opinion Tuesday morning. The yammering class would be praising his newfound seriousness, but most viewers and voters would be disappointed, not least his supporters.
While Himself can boast nothing like the talent at craft Mr. Hendrix had (what the hell is his craft, exactly?), when he plies his trade, he never loses sight of the lesson Hendrix taught Graham that night.
For him, it’s show business, motherf’er.