But here are a just a few of the inappropriate observations which should be noted but which were not included in the New York Times's wrap-ups of the dreary takeaways.
I want to know if those were real tears in Obama's eyes, designed to augment the long-perfected catch in the voice for the projection of performative sincerity. Or, whether the shiny moisture was really a drop of glycerin expertly applied just before filming by a Hollywood special effects person. Color me suspicious.The desired message seemed to be that if the legendarily stoic former president - so annoyingly hyped as No Drama Obama throughout his tenure - is feeling this rattled and upset about Trump and the post office, then the rest of us should be having a complete nervous breakdown. If we're not crying and gnashing our teeth, then we are not patriotic. But don't demand guaranteed mental health care for all, though. Get out there and vote, ya lousy bunch of cynics!
How about the symbolism of that bug landing on billionaire Michael Bloomberg's smug mug - not once,but twice - during his own stentorian speech? It first alit below his stone-dry right eye before perching just above his curled sneer-hole. Like most of the dog-whistled reassurances to Wall Street and war profiteers sprinkled throughout the jingoistic Democratic festivities, this has a double meaning. It first proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the poor people-hating - but environmentally conscious - Stop and and Frisk mayor really is a two-faced phony. But here's the really scary part. The fact that the bug finally flew away on its own. without the stoic Bloomberg even having to flick it away with that perennially wagging finger of his, proved beyond all doubt that he is also the Lord of the Flies. This feat of Bloombergian strength was probably enough to bring real envious tears to the eyes of fellow finger-wagger Obama, who needed vast fleets of unmanned predator drones to achieve his own bug-splat.
Everybody who's anybody is weeping real crocodile tears of admiration for 13-year-old Brayden Harrington, who attested that fellow stutterer Joe Biden inspired him enough to talk publicly about his disability. Young Brayden, you might remember, was originally selected by the vice president's staff on the pre-Covid campaign trail to ask a question for an utterly spontaneous campaign photo-op.
The New York Time's Wajit Ali's gushing was typical of the reactions: "Brayden stood up last night, and he gave us the best reason to vote for Biden. Trump has no response to this, because it would require him to have empathy and kindness."
The co-optation of Brayden Harrington serves two purposes. First, the emphasis on Biden's own history of speech impairment deflects from the glaring evidence that his often disjointed remarks are also symptomatic of early-stage dementia. Secondly, it provides another point of contrast to Trump, who is either too stupid or too self-sabotaging to co-opt the trials and tribulations of individuals in order to enhance his own political fortunes.
So, my own main wrapped up takeaway from the four nights (two of which I deliberately missed, because mental health) is that Joe Biden is being sold as a warm, fuzzy security blanket covering an entire planet that is currently writhing in pain on a bed of Trumpian nails. We'll finally feel so safe huddling beneath his platitudes, his gaffes, his gropes, his empathy, his decency, his bereavements, his humanity, that we won't even realize that Blankie Biden is smothering us with all that warmth. If you lost a loved one prematurely or have untreated medical issues yourself because of lack of health insurance, you'll forget all about Uncle Joe's adamant opposition to Medicare For All. Because he'll always give you a pat on the head or get your phone number in an elevator while you suffocate to death under all that folksy, toxic warmth. At least you'll find comfort in the fact that, as you turn blue in the face, you'll have Voted Blue, No Matter Who.
The New York Times approvingly headlines Biden's vow that "I will draw on the best of us" as though it wasn't a threat to continue extracting the toil, sweat and blood of the poor on behalf of the rich.
If that prospect isn't macabre enough for you, then you can always bask in the horror of Donald Trump inappropriately transforming the East Room of the White House into a funeral parlor for his deceased younger brother Robert. I wonder if the eulogy will include fond memories of Donald teasing and torturing his sibling throughout their childhood and anecdotes of his habit of stealing and hiding young Bobby's prized toy cars in the attic, and how Old Man Trump used to punish and berate the younger boy for losing his stuff all the time.
Without Robert to kick around, Trump never would have gotten the head start in bullying and grifting he needed in order to get where he is today.
Maybe he can continue his eulogy into next week's GOP convention, and milk his brother's death at least half as much as Joe Biden grotesquely milks the loss of his son Beau at every opportunity.
