I’m rereading Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories, a collection of semi-autobiographical, first-person narratives recalling his years in Nazi Germany before the war. The most famous of these pieces, “Sally Bowles,” later became the source for the musical Cabaret, dramatizing a reckless Englishwoman’s decadent sojourn in the German capital.

As Hitler gears up his war machine (at least he had the decency not to grovel for a Nobel Peace Prize during the buildup), Berliners hit the clubs in a final spasm of decadent hedonism—one last binge before the Jews disappear and the bombs begin to fall.

Many have drawn parallels between Hitler’s Germany and Trump’s America, and the similarities are unsettling: paramilitaries (Brownshirts/ICE), megalomania, bigotry, contempt for established law—not to mention basic human decency. The difference, however, is that we-the-people have access to real-time video documentation of atrocities.

Take the killing of Renee Nicole Good, whom the Trump administration claimed attempted to run down her killer. Video evidence clearly shows otherwise: she was trying to drive away. Her last words were, “Look, dude, I’m not mad at you.”

“The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears.
It was their final, most essential command.”
—George Orwell, 1984

I keep hoping that such footage might turn the tide against Trump’s authoritarian overreach.

“And so yesterday, without any fanfare whatsoever, ICE distributed a ‘legal refresher’ to their thugs, reminding them that constitutionally protected freedom of speech is still a thing—and that, as much as they’d like to, they can’t execute anyone for calling them a ‘pussy-ass bitch.’”
—Jeff Tiedrich, “ICE Is Big Sad Because Everyone Hates Their Guts”

* * *

At any rate, last night I found myself at Folly Beach’s cozy Bounty Bar for an indoor version of 

Foxy G’s Soapbox. Sitting there, it occurred to me that the darkened room and tiny stage of the Center Street tavern bore a faint resemblance to the Kit Kat Club of Cabaret—especially when John David Kulpa took the stage to perform three songs from three of what he calls his “hard rock operas.”

So what’s a poor septuagenarian to do
But sit in the dark while the singers sing through?
In a red state fast asleep, way down in Dixieland,
There’s no just place for a street-fighting man—