Party’s over
A cult using its last breath to scream
The following is an account of a Trump rally I went to the day after Christmas. This was before a MAGA mob stormed the Capitol, before terrorists wearing Trump capes and face paint and animal skins defiled the foundation up which our government was built, before we witnessed a complicit police force let them do it, before Trump went on social media and said “we love you” to these treasonous Road Warrior cosplayers.
It was a sad, frightening day, and I debated whether or not this was even worth publishing in light of the seriousness that occurred in D.C.
But whether it’s a large-scale coup or just a few dozen people in front of Harbor Drive, they share the same connective tissue. To use a cliche, Trumpism is a genie let out of the bottle, and it’s a very stupid bottle with a very shitty genie. And until Trump supporters are too ashamed to show their faces in public, our work is not done.
*****
I’ve always liked the day after Christmas. It has a sobering quality, like that first glass of water after a month of drinking Kool-Aid. The pressure to feel good and be happy dissipates, and a realness settles back in—not the Ben Folds-type of realness, but a notion that we can get back to normalcy (or at least an approximation of normal because, you know... 2020). I like a party, but I also like the quiet when the party’s over.
There’s a peacefulness in downtown San Diego on December 26. The sun shines on couples walking along Harbor Drive. Families and crossfitters alike claim their spots at Waterfront Park. A cool breeze blows in from the Pacific. It’s perfect hoodie weather. Having lived through many frigid Utah Christmases, I’ll never tire of sweatshirt winter.
But the same ocean breeze that’s tussling my unkempt, overgrown hair is also stirring a sea of Trump flags planted in front of the City County Building. People hold signs that say “Stop The Steal” and “I Reject This Election” and other indignant platitudes.
It’s been nearly two months since the country elected Joe Biden, and San Diego Republicans are still holding Trump rallies. And since I’m on their Meetup list, I’m still getting invites to them.
Not gonna lie, I’m curious. Do they even know it’s a post-Trump world? I have a million other questions—do they read the news? Do they know that every legal challenge to Biden’s presidency has been exhausted?—but there’s only one answer: these people have worms in their brains. They are ill.
I’m here at Waterfront Park—the hub for Trump rallies, it seems—not as a journalist, but a spectator. I don’t need to interview anyone. I am not yearning to know the demands of a population that’s destroyed our social fabric as harshly and cravenly as Trumpers. We’ve endured four years of journalists trying to tackle Trump supporters with objective integrity only to see the profession dragged through the mud. There will be no more reaching across the aisle today.
I’m just here to see what the end of the party looks like.
Red, white and blue Trump flags wave aggressively and idiotically, emulating the characteristics of the people who buy them. Some say “Liberty or death” and are adorned with threatening images of skulls, fire and guns—graphic design so garish and amateur that it looks like it was produced by a 15-year-old Call of Duty addict. There are also a few “Blue Lives Matter” and “Don’t Tread on Me” flags sprinkled throughout for good, dog-whistle-y measure.
The flags also make the rally feel bigger than it is. I’ve seen second-rate farmer markets better attended. Part of me wonders if these people are just trying to milk all the value from their “Trump 2020” flags before they become obsolete. It is a party of fiscal conservatives, after all.
As I approach the rally, I hear a nervous voice from a small PA system, soapboxing about how we’ll all become slaves under Biden’s communist regime. A parade of eight or so people walk the length of the block, coming up with the most pathetic and grammatically confounding chants I’ve heard: “WHEN I SAY ‘FOR DONALD TRUMP’ YOU WILL SAY ‘I WILL FIGHT.” Another woman is just yelling “Donald Trump!” repeatedly into her bullhorn, and I briefly imagine a utopia where you need to pass a background check to purchase a bullhorn.
The communist/slavery speech ends and someone kicks up the volume on a patriotic mix and now—thank god—the party is lit. A bubbly song with the repeated chorus, “Keep America great!” murders my soul. I ask Siri who it is, and she can’t tell me because she doesn’t recognize boot-licking propaganda. Only later do I learn that it’s a song cleverly-titled “Keep America Great,” performed by songwriters Camille and Haley.
I hear a woman in a cowboy hat say, “Not my pedophile,”—a bastardization of the left’s “not my president”—to seemingly no one in particular. She then tries out some new seasonal greetings to her fellow rallyers: “MAGA Christmas!” and “MAGA New Years!” They don’t catch on. Vendors hock Trump flags just in case you’ve forgotten all fifty of yours. There’s also a booth selling MAGA-related merch and I’m a little tempted to buy a “Fuck CNN” shirt because all my other shirts are unremarkably sane.
A bullhorn calls everyone over for a group shot. Everyone crowds together. No one wears a mask, and most of them appear older. Massive Trump flags block many faces and they just let it happen.
Cars drive by and honk their support, and it’s too many honks for comfort. It’s indicative of the stranglehold this man has on these people. Trump supporters just love the guy so much, despite the fact that he had no platform except building a wall, which he failed to complete.
His platform is just winning, and he’s made his supporters feel like winners for four years. These rallies are not political, but communal. The state of the country matters little as long as they have power and camaraderie—without those, Trumpers will become untethered, lost. If that doesn’t inspire cultish devotion, I don’t know what does.
I cross the street to the bay side of Harbor Drive and sit on a railroad tie overlooking the water. I can still hear the awful music and the woman chanting “Donald Trump!” (which by now is so impassioned that it’s taken on a caveman quality: “Doh Nu Trump!”) but at least I don’t have to look at the flags. The sun feels good. The wind feels good.
I know this won’t go away when Biden becomes president. The talons are in and the jaw is locked. But this shitty party can’t last forever, and it will probably not end with a whimper (as in the case of San Diego’s rally), but more of a bang. Or a series of bangs. But the party has to end sometime, and we’ll be there to clean it up.
It will be nice to have a little quiet.
HEY STUDENTS!
Here’s some exciting news: One of my readers has offered to buy a subscription to AWKSD for a new person every month this year. It’s a very generous offer, and I’d like to give priority to students. I really love how the U-T lets you buy a subscription for a student, and I want to emulate that. I may look like a grizzled 57-year-old, but I still remember the lean days of being a college student and not being able to buy things. This will be a first come, first serve opportunity, so if you’re a student—college, high school, whatever—just be the first person to email me (ryancraigbradford@gmail.com) after the first newsletter of the month goes out, and I’ll get you hooked up with an AWKSD subscription. Hell yeah, scholarships.
THE WEEKLY GOODS
Buy tix for this
San Diego artist/Casbah bar manager Ben Johnson has been working on his feature film Fanboy for the past four years, and it’s now hot and ready. I don’t know much about it apart from it being a thriller with a psychotic drummer—which is kind of redundant! (I kid, I kid. I’m a drummer and some of my best friends are drummers). And according to the IMDB page, the film also serves as a collage of players from San Diego’s culture scene, which will be a fun Where’s Waldo-esque game for anyone familiar with it. Also very cool: Johnson scored the South Bay Drive-In to premiere Fanboy, so you can see it with your friends, sort of. Most of the screenings are sold out, but a later show on Thursday, Jan 14 still has tickets available. Get on it, SD cinephiles.
Download this
Oh, btw, welcome to the first AWKSD of 2021! So, over the past few years, I’ve become a paper calendar guy. You might not believe it, but this little newsletter takes a lot of preparation, and I can’t tell you how something as simple as a paper calendar tacked to the wall above my computer helps keep me organized. This year, I made my own, featuring my cat Harvey, but all black metal’d up. If you’re interested, you can download one for yourself (it’s formatted for legal paper, i.e. 8.5” x 14”). Purrrrfect for your inner, cat-loving Satanist. Here’s a link to a high-quality download.
Read this
Back at the end of December, I wrote about some of the most awkward moments of 2020 for PACIFIC Magazine. I didn’t realize how much hatred I had for that stupid monolith until I started typing, but unearthing new demons is one of the best things about being a writer. Give it a read.
Got a tip or wanna say hi? Email me at ryancraigbradford@gmail.com, or follow me on Twitter @theryanbradford. And if you like what you’ve just read, please hit that little heart icon at the end of the post.
Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.