But when I look at President Trump, I see a guy who is trying so hard to get the girl — the voter — that he wears her down till she gives in just to shut him up, like Hawaiian-shirted noodge Robert De Niro agonizingly wooing Liza Minnelli in that nightclub at the start of New York, New York. De Niro in that scene goes from weird to alarming to annoying to funny. Just like Trump.
Trump: Now he’s in Florida, now he’s in Pennsylvania. This week he’s been in Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota. He’s out hustling for a single contested electoral vote in Nebraska. He’s hitting Nevada, New Mexico, Madagascar, Peru, and the Moon. Remember when the guy was supposedly at death’s door and we all wondered what would happen if he died? Fat chance. I’ve seen golden retriever puppies with less energy. If his movement gets buried on November 3, the gravestone will read: 2020 Campaign of Donald J. Trump — You can’t say I didn’t try.
As for Joe Biden, well. Remember the old Friday-night SCTV show, maybe the funniest sketch-comedy show there ever was? Eugene Levy used to do a spoof of Perry Como’s act. Como was a ’50s lounge singer: Mr. Relaxation. Mellow. Smooth. He wore cardigans and oozed sincerity. He was so relaxed that Levy spoofed him as sprawled on his belly, flat out on a divan, warbling decaffeinated versions of pop hits of the early ’80s: “Cel. Uh. Brate. Good times. Come on.” Levy’s Como does one song draped over a chair. In another number, Andrea Martin plays a backup singer who has to hold him up by the scruff of his cardigan so he won’t collapse. Biden is campaigning like Perry Como. His idea of a rally is six calm people sitting around him in socially distanced chairs while he mumbles about solar-panel subsidies. His campaign has all the excitement of my small-town local library’s late-life discussion group. Which is waggishly called “Death Café.”