Meanwhile, back to Thursday. I’m sure at age 14, where Kavanaugh likes to begin things, he was a good boy, a good son, to his dominating judge mother with the frizzled bleach blonde hair and the somewhat submissive father Kavanaugh obviously looked up to. You want to honor this boy who mowed lawns and tried to use his parents as fine role models. There is no doubt he is compulsive and worked against his own type to achieve what he had for goals, and without a doubt he has suffered psychologically with these pressures, which came on in full display during his Thursday combative tour de force. There we saw Scott Fitzgerald’s Crack-Up in full force inelegance. In fact, with both Ms Ford, and Kavanaugh’s primal testimonies we seemed to have a moment of exorcism where we saw the 15 year old girl Chrissie appear in the voice and even appearance (in and out) of Ms Ford, and damn straight we saw the petulant, preppy, jock swagger 17 year old Kavanaugh. It was astonishing to see. This is what human science has forecasted when rock bottom is reached with identity. I don’t know about you, but two minutes into Ms Ford’s testimony, and agony, Susan and I both had tears welling up in our eyes. For her, for us, for everybody. It was a declarative human moment. In Kavanaugh, straightening his name plate, his paper work, anal to a fault when he arrived at the table to begin his testimony, I said to Susan, “Here he comes and the game face is on.” He then proceeded to prove to everyone why he should never be a judge, a coach, or a teacher, anywhere. He should return home to Ashley and his two daughters and rebuild what is probably a ruined abode.
photo
New York Times
