Abomination of desolation

If there is a place in Washington that qualifies as sacred ground, it's the Lincoln Memorial.  The structure itself (designed by Henry Bacon) and the statue of Lincoln (by Daniel Chester French) were modeled after the Temple of Zeus.  In 1939, Marian Anderson sang on the steps after the Daughters of the American Revolution refused her the use of Constitution Hall.  Eleanor Roosevelt, may her name be blessed forever, resigned from the DAR in protest.  In 1963 it was the natural terminus for the Poor People's March and the site of a thrilling speech by Martin Luther King, Jr., one of the few addresses which could properly be inscribed on the Memorial alongside Lincoln's Second Inaugural and the Gettysburg dedication speech.  Maybe the weirdest thing the place has seen was a late-night visit by Richard Nixon in 1974, when he could no longer stand to wander the White House in bourbon-fueled despair.  Weird, but oddly touching.  What comfort did he derive from looking up at the sad marble face?

It was probably a matter of time before Donald Trump zeroed in on Lincoln's temple.  Slobbering on flags and abasing himself before dictators wasn't enough.  Misreading every solemn holiday ("Happy Memorial Day!") and trashing war heroes beyond the grave didn't suffice.  Deploying troops as fence painters and concentration camp guards is standard procedure.  Wiping his ass with the Constitution is so far only a metaphor, but a wholly apt one.  Today he marked the seventy-fifth anniversary of D-Day by reading a wooden speech concocted by others, then stood before the graves of thousands of Americans and spewed abuse at political opponents, egged on by the appalling Laura Ingraham.  No one who applauded the Charlottesville Nazis should be allowed to set foot on Omaha Beach.  He won't go near the Statue of Liberty, which he considers a personal affront on every level (French origin, female, welcomer of immigrants), so Lincoln it is.  On the Fourth of July, naturally.

On the Fourth of July, families who gather at the Memorial for the traditional orchestra concert and fireworks will get an extra treat:  a campaign rant by history's cruelest mistake, the usual ragout of boasting, self-pity and audible ass-gravy, peppered with lies, imbecilities and -- for the occasion -- references to "the great Abe Lincoln."  (Trump can't help sounding like the MC of a failing Catskills hotel on Hadassah Night.)  Expect a sea of red caps, for the crowd will be vetted more carefully than any White House employee.  Never must be heard a discouraging word, much less a boo.  The fireworks will be moved several miles away.  Trump is frightened by loud noises.  

Maybe we don't deserve to have nice things.  We haven't fought hard enough for them.