Today, a whole bunch of people yelled. The sounds were deafening.
A big wad of emotion reached a fever pitch, and people wanted to get arrested. And did.
And why? Why would anyone get up, go to the store, buy poster board and markers, spend time making signs attacking others, get in their car, wait in traffic, pay to park, and spend all day raging at an 11 out of 10?
For numerous people, the answer is:
That’s really the answer. Nothing.
Someone — Christine Blasey Ford — said something. There is no reason to believe what she said is true. Again: what’s the evidence? Nothing. What’s the corroboration? Nothing. No reason to believe her.
There’s no “reason” to believe Brett Kavanaugh, as he cannot prove a negative. Ford hasn’t accused him of wrongdoing on a specific night at a particular time at a distinct place. Her accusation is, “at some point, somewhere.” Therefore, no alibi can be provided. The burden of proof is on Ford, and she has no evidence of any sort.
When someone says something, and someone else says the opposite, we’re at an impasse. And if the event at the center of the argument occurred almost four decades ago — the same length of time it took Elvis to be born in a dirt-floor shack, develop musical prowess, rise to fame, become the highest-paid movie star in the world, and win a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Grammys — then we shrug and go home.
If we want to make sense.
Why would Ford bring up the allegations now? Perhaps due to a political or financial motive? Possibly. Either way, consider the span of 36 years. Thirty. six. That’s how long it took her to say a word. It’s how long it took Elvis to go from being slapped by the doctor in a shotgun house — as one of the least important people in the world — to standing at the Grammys with a Lifetime Achievement. Imagine, if you will, the two paths on the same timeline.
Elvis is born, and his twin — Jesse Garon Presley — doesn’t make it. The same night, Christine goes to someone’s house. Some guy gropes her.
Elvis moves to Memphis, living in boarding houses and abject poverty. He’s 13. Christine is now 28; she’s never mentioned what happened to her when she was 15, to anyone in the known world.
A teenage Elvis records “My Happiness” at Sam Phillips’s Sun Recording, as a gift for his mother. For Christine, mum is the word.
Elvis has a big hit with “That’s Alright, Mama.” Nothing from Christine.
Elvis acts in his first movie, the black and white Love Me Tender. Christine loves not telling anyone a teenage guy ever grabbed at her ungrabbables.
Elvis makes The Ed Sullivan Show. Christine makes no peep.
Elvis plays a delivery man in Loving You. Christine: nothing.
Elvis plays a criminal in the still-black-and-white Jailhouse Rock. Christine: nope.
Elvis makes King Creole. Then his first color movie, G.I. Blues. Christine: zero.
Elvis plays an Indian in Flaming Star. Christine: not a word.
Elvis plays a writer. Elvis plays an ex-soldier. A vagabond, A boxer, a sailor, a crop duster, a boat worker, an army officer. Christine: zilch.
The King dances with Ann-Margret in Viva Las Vegas. Christine: crickets.
He’s a carnival worker, a rodeo rider, a riverboat singer, a helicopter pilot, a frogman, an oil tycoon, a photographer. Christine: nothing.
He plays a man falsely accused of having stolen a cannon. Still nothing from Christine.
A freaking cannon thief! And still nothing from Christine!
He makes 31 films and sells untold millions upon millions of records (eventually reaching a current claim of over 1 billion records sold, worldwide).
Still: nothing from Christine.
Then, all of a sudden, Brett Kavanaugh — enemy of Democrats due to his nomination for the Supreme Court — appears in the national spotlight.
Elvis walks off the stage at the Grammys, having long ago attained Graceland, purchased homes in Hollywood, dated starlets, owned multiple private jets, married Priscilla, had Lisa Marie, conquered the world. And Christine says, “Hey…I was thinking…
…remember when Elvis was born?”
That’s how long it took.
And when she spoke up, adding that she’d figured out it was Brett Kavanaugh who grabbed her, Brett responded: “I never, ever did that.”
Thus, nothing. There can be nothing. It’s his word against hers. About something which may or may not have ever transpired. Thirty-six years ago.
And yet, mobs of screaming people, crying that women don’t matter.
This is our news of the day. A complete lack of reason. Chaos at the Capitol. Inflamed senses as a result of ignorance, partisanship, and the triumph of drama over order.
An unsubstantiated notion — that took so long to go from a woman’s brain to her mouth that a dirt-poor newborn was able to become the biggest star in human history — is now making history. Elvis had to work his butt off. Christine merely had to speak once. And thanks to the ever-increasing emotionally-unhinged state of radical reactionary politics, a bunch of people showed up with poster boards and a will to rage.
The nothing of Nobody Knows What Happened.
But this is the growing fever. On the blue side of the aisle. And it isn’t good.
We’ll soon see how this monstrosity of madness affects the midterms.
The Dems believe they’re on fire.
They may be right — they’re burning down. And with their former ready-to-rally residence in ash and the GOP primed to reap the benefits of their Suspicious Minds and Kavanaugh Craziness, in November, those on the Left may find themselves checking into Heartbreak Hotel.
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