I watched some of the Presidential debate the other night. I wasn't impressed; both candidates were their usual selves, only more so, and as near as I can tell, fans and foes of one or the other found their opinions unchanged afterward.
There have been a shortage of imaginative nicknames for Ms. Clinton; you can find plenty of directly-insulting tags for either candidate, but only Mr. Trump has proven colorful enough to pick up monikers like "Cheeto Jesus." So I was amused to realize, after watching for several minutes, that Ms. Clinton was indeed The Woman In The Iron Hair. That stuff remained as immovable as a casting! Between her Max Headroomesque 'do, Mr. Trump's interesting hair arrangement and Lester Holt's understatedly-sleek looks, a stranger watching without audio might be excused for wondering if this wasn't a pair of hairstyling victims defending their choices before an expert.
Alas, no. This match was for Leader Of The Free World and listening with the sound on was depressing. I am slightly comforted by the thought there'll be a do-over in four years, and by the generally mediocre-to-bad performance of the genuinely bright in the Presidency. Then I remember how much both of them remind me of Andrew Jackson and I start fretting again.
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