One of the unwritten rules of politics — and indeed life itself — is: you don’t pour water on a drowning man. In fact, if your opponent is already drowning on his own you just stand back and watch, a bemused smile on your face being optional.
But let’s face it, there’s always an exception to every rule, and Trump certainly is an exception — just ask him how special he is.
This presidential race is all over but the shouting; the fat lady began singing right after the last presidential debate where Trump needed a home run to stay in the contest, but only managed to hit a couple of pathetic singles. So there’s really no reason to continue to dump on him now, except that it’s so damn much fun.
And also the fact there’s a lingering question regarding the demagogue that’s on many minds: What’s up with that snorting sound he constantly made in both debates, as if he’s inhaling air to keep snot from running out of his nose? During the first debate it was noticeable, but somewhat dismissed as perhaps just a case of the sniffles. But when he began doing it again during the second debate (only louder, and it occurred an estimated 70 times during the hour and a half by some counts), a summer cold was ruled out. Something else is going on here.
And fair is fair: He did raise questions about Hillary’s health.
While I’m no medical professional, I know enough about street life to spot someone with a deviated septum. This medical condition occurs when a person has inhaled so much cocaine that over time, they essentially destroy the cartilage separating the nostrils. Back in the day we derisively used to call these folks “Hoovers,” and all of the money in the world can’t repair the damage.
Do I have any evidence that this is the case with Trump? No. But let’s take a look at what we do know: One, Trump spent (or misspent) his youth in New York City during the height of the counterculture revolution when cocaine was everywhere (trust me, I know, I was living on Central Park West during virtually all of the ’70s and did my share). Two, by his own admission, he certainly wasn’t a choirboy. And three, the “beautiful people” (which Trump certainly considered himself to be one of) were partying till the wee hours all over Manhattan.
And it wasn’t as if people were sneaking into bathroom stalls to have a quick toot of the devil’s dandruff, oh no. In the V.I.P. section of many clubs (and at every table in the ubiquitous afterhours joints from Harlem to Greenwich Village) mirrors, razor blades and rolled-up hundred dollar bills were de rigueur.
People truly were trying to “party like it’s 1999.” But one of the benefits of being raised in a rough-and-tumble inner-city neighborhood was that I had been exposed to the dangers of excessive, destructive behaviors early on in life; I saw it all around me. So while I partied as hard as the next dude, I did so with a cautious eye. I wasn’t about to let the tail wag the dog. Whenever I felt the drinking and drugs were getting out of hand, I’d rent a cabin in the Catskills and go fishing for a few weeks.
But, as a rich, snobbish, relatively inexperienced 30-something — probably with solid connections to the best Peruvian flake money could buy — could The Donald have overindulged for a couple of decades?
Nah. Not a chance.
From Cool Cleveland correspondent Mansfield B. Frazier mansfieldfATgmail.com. Frazier’s From Behind The Wall: Commentary on Crime, Punishment, Race and the Underclass by a Prison Inmate is available again in hardback. Snag your copy and have it signed by the author by visiting http://NeighborhoodSolutionsInc.com