Donald Trump is measuring the White House windows for curtains, when he’s not busy measuring his penis. 

There’s long been an argument that exorbitant wealth inequality doesn’t matter if the poorest among us (a widening group) see their standard of living improve somewhat while a few have theirs increase exponentially. Everyone is getting better, so who cares?

First, that balance seems a rare thing, and even if it can be achieved, a small number will be able to tilt power in their favor at will. Second, when things go bust, and they always do eventually, those at the lower end are hurt inordinately. Things then can get ugly, when reality gets ragged, and not only are scapegoats sought but so are those who can point them out. 

A nativist seems appealing in that unhappy situation. A fascist, even. Where have you gone, Benito Mussolini? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

From Edward McClelland at Salon:

Donald Trump stepped into the gymnasium at New Hampshire’s Plymouth State University to the opening riff of The Beatles’ “Revolution.” Never mind that it’s a song mocking the pretensions of self-styled revolutionaries. Donald Trump does not do nuance. Donald Trump does bold, garish strokes. The song is loud and it’s got the word “revolution” in it. That’s what Donald Trump wants.
 
It was the day after the last debate before the New Hampshire primary, but Trump didn’t want to brag about his performance. He wanted to talk about how “rich donors and special interests” had hogged all the tickets, leaving college students outside in the snow. The crowd, waving signs that read “The Silent Majority Stands With Trump,” booed loudly.

“I look at these people who have tremendous money,” Trump said. “They’re wasting their money. They should give it to the vets. It’s the special interests: people who represent insurance companies, oil companies, drug companies. I’m their worst nightmare, because I’m not taking their money. I’m richer than they are. I don’t need your money. I need your vote.”

Live and in person, Trump is reminiscent of Regis Philbin: an overexcited New Yorker riffing off the top of his head and emphasizing his points with broad hand gestures: the OK sign, the “whaddya-whaddya” open-palmed shrug. Like a lot of people in the crowd, I was there for the Trumpertainment, hoping the most uninhibited performer in American politics would threaten to shoot someone, or make a pussy joke about one of his enemies in the media or the Republican primary. Seeing Trump is like seeing Marilyn Manson, circa 1995: you’re not there for the music.•