You would think an old fellow like me would have developed a sane hobby, something like numismatics or philately or heraldry, but no, ever since I was a wee lad, I’ve been keenly into cultural anthropology, consider myself an amateur Franz Boas, if you will.
This hobby has taken me into some fairly dicey places like Jamaican dance halls, USC football games, Louisiana juke joints, and any number of the folk festivals of Folly Beach, SC, the narrow barrier island I call home.
Obviously, given the current situation, I haven’t donned the ol’ pith helmet in a while, but yesterday I had a hankering for some Cuban beans and rice, so my assistant Caroline and I traveled to Chico Feo for some take out, being cautious to wear our protective gear.
While we were there, a very strange thing occurred. A group of Trump cultists clad in regalia honoring their orange icon descended upon the bar, ignoring social distancing, and it occurred to me that perhaps they are seeking a Jones Town and/or Heaven’s Gate-like tribute in honor of the master.
Anyway, here are a couple of photos.
I recently read on Twitter, that infallible source of information, President Trump suffers from arrested development, that he actually possesses the emotional behavioral quotient of a toddler. Of course, this can’t be true, but, damn, after reading the piece, every photo I run across of the president, he looks like a three-year-old.
Just goes to show you how potent the power of suggestion can be.