Marolt: Feeling like Sylvester the cat watching Tweety Bird’s evil cousin |

Marolt: Feeling like Sylvester the cat watching Tweety Bird’s evil cousin

Roger Marolt

This business of being a columnist in the Trump era is exhausting. He tweets something preposterous and you think you’ve got the week’s work nailed. A day later, he says something equally silly and you struggle with the idea of starting over again. Then, usually on the eve of a deadline, he spouts off the dumbest thing you ever heard and you can’t ignore it and it’s back to the blank page.

It’s not like it’s difficult to put the words down. There is no writers’ block when it comes to chronicling the Commander in Tweets’ ridiculousness. The ideas layer upon each other like a blizzard building a cornice on the ridge of Highland Bowl. Pretty soon the weight of them causes a fracture line and you find yourself tumbling in a contorted mess of words and thoughts, out of control down a steep slope and you end up at the bottom completely encased in a tomb of debris unable to move or even breath.

The thought of taking this challenge of believing that as part of the media you can make a difference in keeping him in line by critically analyzing his pathological, egotistical, poisonous thinking in print is grueling. I would rather write about the skiing conditions.

And, so I do. Can you believe the effortless conditions the latest wave of storms has brought to our mountains? I can barely imagine what I will do if we hit a dry spell and I might have to go up and try to master real moguls again. Yep, this winter looks like it will be one for the record books, if the jet stream doesn’t swerve northerly any time soon. I have to admit the quality of skiing right now makes me wonder if climate change is all bad. Aren’t I awful?

My fear is that journalists all over the world, including the big ones from the likes of The New York Times, Washington Post and L.A. Times, are feeling the fatigue, too, and it is not just a problem for the half-scoops like me putmating together pieces for the place where the Sun don’t shine. I mean, we are only human, right?

The other thing is that Trump and his cabinet full of cracked pots and dull implements spend all their time, not trying to explain or clarify the president’s words so that we might see some rationale behind them, but making it sound like there are no smart, dedicated, or any human beings spending their professional lives trying their best to get accurate news out. It’s not like, “I get where the press is coming from, but let me explain …” It’s all, “The press is out to pick on me because they all, every last one of them, are exactly the same.”

As I sit here typing away, I know there are a dozen things Trump said or did this week that deserve all the public ridicule I can incite, and yet, I don’t even try to recall them for fear that I might feel the duty to remind you of them and then have to struggle with the impossible task of exposing them appropriately within the confinement of the 750 or so words that I am allotted. I would rather take an online course offered by MIT about black holes and then try to explain that.

If it was just one of the many crazy, loathsome and frightening things Trump has said in the past half of a year, he probably wouldn’t even be our Electoral College person of choice. He could have been, should have been, ground to bits under the perpetual swinging of pussy-gate back and forth over the sorry ideology that makes him as dangerous as he is pathetic. But we didn’t get the chance to even let that even sink in. He simply opened his mouth and we were onto something else.

I know what you are thinking. “I’m tired of all of this.” This is my point. If you get tired and frustrated sitting in traffic going nowhere at a highway construction site, think about how the guy holding the stop sign at the front of the line of cars feels. In the five minutes you have to deal with it before moving on, you are momentarily P.O.’d. After an entire day, the guy goes home sore to the bone, dehydrated to the core, sun burned, wind blown, dog tired and feeling years older.

Roger Marolt hopes that when Trump finally snaps he is only pressing the buttons on his smartphone. Email at


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