The Rally

Read at TENSE's 'Is That All There Is?' - 11/15

I don’t go out much, at least not as much as I used to. Even when I was less agoraphobic, I never wrote much about my excursions. Everybody knows that I am insanely popular. Everybody knows that my presence is requested at the function. Despite what Mike Crumplar may implore you to believe, there is no story in simply attending an event, because most events are boring. Without some violent catalyst, a happening disturbing or erotic or intoxicating enough to mar my perception, I leave each gathering with nothing but thoughts half-forgotten at the bottom of a can of White Claw. It is for this reason that I found Beckett’s request so intimidating - to report on my big night out.

To clarify, I was not ungrateful for the invitation, nor unexcited despite my apathy toward such outings. Honestly, I was incredibly excited. So excited, that on the morning of October Twenty-Seventh, I woke up early to make myself look extra beautiful. I would be the most beautiful girl at Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally.

I love making myself beautiful to go out. My body is, as I have been told, ‘sexually confusing to look at.’ This doesn’t displease me - quite the opposite. Being ironically sexy is a virtue nowadays - an extension of one’s bit to a physical degree without encroaching on the territory of intentional ugliness; ugliness being one of our time’s most destructive psyops. Taking note of this, I began to plan my outfit. Keeping with the twinky Lolita thing I typically use to court conservatives, I paired my oversized “NEVER SURRENDER!” meme tee shirt with boxy blue short-shorts. This is somewhat enticing, a delicate nod to the man of the hour while retaining my irresistible sexiness, without the impetuousness of a bright red MAGA hat.

Wearing a MAGA hat at a Trump rally is ridiculous, by the way. The symbol has become too direct, staring bluntly back at you like a blinking red stop sign. Instead, you need something with a bit more nuance - a little leadup. That’s why you hook with the shirt, it’s visually interesting and establishes yourself as hilarious. Then, the shorts take a tonal shift towards the sensual as your audience gazes down your bare, shaven legs. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, your secret little weapon. Long, tight socks, adorned with giant embroidered caricatures of Donald Trump. You see, a waif’s pride is held in their ankles - the thin, sensitive collection of bone and ligament signals to masculine counterparts that you are delicate and submissive. Silly or mismatched socks have never made sense as a masculine convention for exactly this reason - masculine men and their muscular cankles have nothing to prove.

These details feel much more interesting than the rally itself. I am more concerned with the burger I ate in the Newsmax press suite than I am with the production of the rally. Newsmax has an annual revenue of over ninety-three million dollars, though they fed me a wholly plain burger. As in, just meat and bread, and probably no seasoning on the meat either. My rage regarding my Newsmax burger is incredibly intense and vivid. My annoyance at my boyfriend for not paying enough attention to me is incredibly intense and vivid. These are the strongest emotions I felt at the rally, which feels now like I’m letting you down. Sadly, I cannot simulate outrage. Despite the current climate, I cannot act as though I am offended or terrified. I cannot act as though I care enough to distinguish between satire that’s untrue and satire that’s just in poor taste.

If you want to call Trump a clown, that’s fine, but then the rally is a circus. Peggy Lee said in Is That All There Is that she never enjoyed the circus, but that point is moot to me since Peggy didn’t even write that song. Peggy probably loved every damn minute of the circus. People love a spectacle, to see a show. The culture has shifted from word to image, from information to entertainment. Nobody wants to speak, they want to entertain. When people go to our readings they’re going to a circus, and at the Trump rally, I am simply at a circus. I am laughing in amazement as TV doctors and brain-damaged wrestlers flood the stage. They are my lion tamers and cannonball catchers and slackwire walkers.

With this being said, please understand that the rally was apolitical - unconcerned with identity, or policy, or even the presidency. Words flow from each guest speaker, falling onto ears too deafened by atmospheric excitement. You see, during the headlining performance at the circus, you may hear the lion roar. Every single howl from each of the dozen chimps, however? Nobody is listening to that. If not cheering or recording or whispering amongst themselves, the crowd hardly remained stagnant, maneuvering the edges of the world’s most famous big top tent in search of bottles of pop and oversized pretzels. A few men throughout the hallways ask to take photos of my socks and sexually confusing legs, and I oblige. Leaning against the walls of the tent as they collect their images, I wonder, ‘How the hell am I going to write about this?’

There was no catalyst. Nothing was particularly disturbing, and I had the eroticism covered myself. Nobody called me a freak homosexual or assaulted me, which are the two things I am told to chronically fear from Republicans. You can’t commit a hate crime when you’re at the circus, though, because you’re too excited. Abandoning reason, you choose enthusiasm and give yourself completely to the ringleader, acknowledging the red velvet curtain while never peeking past.

I have no desire at all to attempt to ethically or morally justify a circus. I just want to tell you that I went to the circus, because Beckett told me to write about it. I want to tell you that my boyfriend looked at too many Instagram reels during the rally, because he is annoying. I want to tell you that Newsmax has really bad hamburgers, because I deserve better.