Clayton LuceFounding Editor/ Publisher
Clayton L. Luce is a writer and journalist, editor, artist, event producer and multimedia production professional living in Louisville, Kentucky.
He spent 6 years in international public relations for an international NGO and founded Emagyn Production Company and Emagyn Publishing Company which were later combined into Emagyn Media Company, specializing in video production, graphic design, corporate branding and small form publishing.
Clayton is also an activist in the fields of cult abuse and political reform and is also an active supporter of N.O.R.M.L. for marijuana reform legislation.
In 2014 he co-founded GonzoToday with many other like minded individuals as a New Journalism platform to counter the ever omnipotent news and Mainstream Media industry increasingly constrained by private interests, lack of journalistic integrity and the oppression of freedom of the press and artistic expression. He currently serves as executive publisher and a board member of GonzoToday.com and its social charitable parent organization GonzoToday Group, Inc.
The GonzoToday mission is to advance the promotion and social integrity of the arts and culture as well as to provide a grassroots based affiliate network of artists, galleries, writers, publishing houses, musicians and record companies for the purpose of creating opportunities for artistic expression and ideological freedom and community as an alternative to mainstream outlets/organizations.
In 2015 Clayton was appointed to the GonzoFest Louisville creative production as well as the GrateVille Dead music festival production team. In 2016 he was granted a Kentucky Colonelship by new Kentucky Governor and general Nazi, Matt Bevin, for no apparently good reason at all.
His plans are to flee the country as soon as possible, and never return.
On tonights episode of Gonzoville Tonight we talk GonzoToday.com with executive publisher Kidman J. Williams, covering topics from drama in the newsroom, changes in management, beefs, the future of GT and the scoop on strange weirdness within the GonzoToday universe. Don’t want to miss this one. Plenty of yogurt for everyone, and plenty of vomit also. You don’t want to miss this fuckfest.
A backpackers’ haven
Open all day every day
The distinct smell of human vomit
Filling his lungs without aversion
But rather, nostalgia and a smile
The play continues
As the bouncer of middle-eastern
Try’s to charm two girls from Scotland
with the goal as clear as ever
It’s happy hour all day
Five dollar pints of porter
A plastic Paddies utopia
Where the actors perform
The same roles
And the names are similar
If not the same
And the muso murders
a well known ballad
and the dance continues
And no one seems to notice
It’s a repeat of last week
Last month and last year
He smiles again
As he watches the play
Only this time
With less confusion than before
It’s been a good fight
And it’s not over yet
~ Martin Lynch © 2016
by Teddy Fuentes
The Mexican Dream: Almost Getting Raped, American
Asshole Tourists, and Nostalgia Dressed in Pope Attire.
I was inside a home.
This place was downtrodden but very enticing.
White walls now a cream color. Brown stains like cigarette smoke made art, staining glass never meant to be seen through.
Furniture looked stale, but with the intense feeling of always having been there. Filled with purpose laced with antiquity.
Dust converged and sat on every flat surface. Coating the place with calm and stillness I longed for inside.
It was not my home, but it was Mexico and it felt like home.
The dichotomy of my idea of safety in Mexico means I was aware of all lurid possibility, yet remained jubilant as fuck to have the feeling of belonging.
Outside, through a tiny metal cased window, I saw something very Yin to the home’s sweet Yang.
Something alive, loud, and dark.
The Pope, and a parade for his majesty, was passing by.
All costumes and serious faces with smiles whose corners emit distrust.
It gave me very evil vibes, but surprisingly little sense of foreboding.
As curiosity killed the cat, I gravitated.
Like Esoteric and hidden knowledge obsessed moth to a very endearingly paradoxical flame, I went outside intrigued.
The spectacle had drawn crowds of people who had never been in a dominantly Catholic country.
Americans wearing pastels and sandals.
Also wearing dubious intent glares through Western-lens stares that definitely had roots in mangled psyche’s which repeat to the brainwashed mind “the rest of the world is a twisted work of Art”, “A work of art to be coveted or looked down upon.”
Little did I stare at the Pope and the crowd before I was done and gone.
Intrigue at the parade turned to monotone boredom.
Then that turned into a longing to explore the Mexican streets.
To be honest, the Catholic charade was an all too familiar sight.
Having studied at least some of every facet of ancient “knowledge” and growing up Catholic, I didn’t feel impressed.
I just innately felt that visually, it was just all a ritual to steal others energy.
I very much HI-BYE’ed the scene.
I took my positive energy in my tight black jeans’ pocket and became resolute in crossing.
My Mexican butt was just happy to be in Mexico.
I was filled with nostalgia and I wanted more.
I wanted street vendors and the smell of Churros.
I wanted urban filth and all the lovely shades of brown faces of my people. I wanted Spanish coursing through my brain soothing the harshness of the English language I had been previously subjected to for over a decade.
I wanted the vibrations of a kinder more forgiving and one hundred percent Mexican place to make love to my incessant nostalgia.
I wanted HOME.
This is when I crossed through the parade. My body literally dodging bishops and silly jester-like people carrying heavy metal objects in all religious shapes and sizes.
I felt very avant-garde, breaching a procession like this in a super obvious aloof yet determined manner. It was art.
I was wearing the most typically grungy, all black outfit, too.
I was thinking, “I look a god damned fool cutting through this, oh mother fucking well, let God, let God.” and very much feeling my self.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” and YOLO type feeling.
Anyways, when I did reach the other side, I was birthed into a crowd of tourists.
To be frank, they were all light skinned American, wide eyed, giving me a feeling that this was not the sea of people my way-too-forgiving soul should navigate.
The parade was at it’s tail end and only a sprinkle of actually low key terrified Them remained.
(They probably felt their pack thinning out and were afraid of what the reverse of “stronger in numbers” means in Mexico.)
I looked no one in the eye, big head held high, as if their judgement meant nothing to me.
While having these very thoughts of “I don’t care, but I do” , I found myself past the river of eyes and walking on a beaten sidewalk.
My step grew calm and my eyes travelled to the natives walking towards me.
No, Shel Silverstein fans? This is not where the sidewalk ends.
The sun was setting orange tones and the city backdrop was grey buildings crawling with graffiti and soul .
I did not get too far down the concretely contorted and govern-mentally forgotten sidewalk until two men came into view.
They had strange mannerisms, dipping and swaying to the troughs and valleys of the ground.
I knew this drunk dance all too well. Public and full of disregard.
My immediate feeling was “be careful but sweet.”
The ominous and bittersweet tone of the surroundings swirled into the smell of alcohol they emanated.
Their aura was mysterious. But I could sense some intention beneath their red-glazed eyes attempting to seem cordial.
Using drunkenness as a buffer to fucked up things is also something I am sadly familiar with.
I said “hola, como estan” or something happy go lucky, a smile on my lips and my misandry gun on my hip.
My youthful tone was “don’t fuck with me, supposedly kind sir.”
But, like any story about men fucking up and worth telling, they did.
The drunker, muscular, towering one grabbed me from behind as soon as I was a mere inch past them.
I was in a choke-hold. One arm around my chest slash neck, and the other around my stomach.
I semi-panicked, knowing that this was typical kidnapping procedure in Mexico. Aware that it would more than likely end in violent rape and my body never found would rot six feet in a mass grave dug by elements of the Police who work with drug traffickers.
My female survival instinct kicked in. Before I even had the stench of my rotting corpse hit my mental nose, I looped my stronger left leg around his drunken spaghetti both-legs.
His knees buckled. He fell. Swift justice was candid and heard.
His skull possibly cracked. His head definitely smashed.
ssssss CRUK was the sound of his slipping and colliding with a little dose of reality.
You can’t burger king have it your way, forever, fucker.
A pool of instant-karma-blood oozed as his face lay unconsciously in a crimson lake of Don’t Fuck With Me.
Here’s the plot twist – I did not run . I did not take my unforgiving steel toed black boot and obliterate his face into a million skull fractures and brain dismemberment.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t walk away full of Pride. I didn’t revel at how quickly I disarmed his disgusting and misguided phallic-y. I mean, fallacy. I didn’t put my middle fingers in his face, pressing down on his sweaty, maybe decaying because of me skin, in contempt and as a final Fuck You.
This might disappoint some feminists of revolutionary and war-like thought, but, a Motherly sense grew within in.
The sight of his blood and his eye lids closed posed the idea of me maybe having killed another.
Another human who used to be a baby. Another brother. Another son. Another someone who was raised to become this monster I so gallantly and possibly slayed into the eternal abyss.
I felt panic at that thought. That realizing mistakes and redemption are only ideas that can be manifested with life. That we all have potential coursing through our veins, and that his was spilling endlessly at my very feet.
I turned to his partner, who is now just looking just in disbelief.
He was frozen and my mind went from “I’m getting kidnapped to get raped then murdered” to “Oh my fuck I think I almost killed this human being, I need to get help for him.”
I was showered in no guilt, but a sense of urgency to restore him back to Life.
I walked back the sidewalk the way I came. There were a few tourists still lingering.
The closest people I spotted were a mother in her mid 30’s with her small child of probably seven.
I was pacing fast and when I got about fifteen feet away I started explaining clearly but in a hurry that “someone’s hurt, I need a towel, a napkin, something-” . I was pointing behind me with a super expressive face of someone is in danger, please help, but
the white woman had a very apprehensive look. Maybe as if this was some type of con. Maybe as if she was trying to protect her child?
I am around five feet mother fucking tall…
Maybe my teenage angst black outfit spoke a little.
I didn’t care. In my mind, the tone of urgency spoke for itself.
I was keeping enough of a distance to not make then flee.
She reached for a napkin out of an American invention that looks silly as fuck but is useful and holds small objects.
Here’s where my gratefulness turned into full on external hatred- she leaned over, hand outstretched, face still bitchy, and the mother blessed napkin slipped out of her clean but nasty little bony hand. She did it with PURPOSE. She did it with subconscious malice dressed in supposed caution.
I boiled over in Mexican Pride. I boiled over and her condescending actions was heat enough to warrant an explosion.
My face filled with blood and I literally forgot what the napkin was for. My body tensed up and my throat let out steam.
“DO I NOT LOOK WHITE?” Thunder. Fire.
She was shocked, standing still, as if no one had ever called her out on that deeply ingrained Interpersonal Nastiness Americans use as a self centered tool to deflect.
Her frozen expression of fear told me the deer in the headlights stance and look was, one: not suitable for her facial structure, two: great for stabbing at anciently racist, pathological entities.
I stabbed, “This is my fucking HOME, not a ZOO, go throw your pity napkins some where else, GO GAWK AND TRAMPLE WITH YOUR EXPENSIVE SANDA-”
That’s all I remember.
Where my vocal disdain for the unsuspecting lady cut off, I now wonder if the man laying in the pool of blood survived.
Yes, I completely forgot about the man.
Yes, I am not as benevolent as previously thought.
Yes, my nerves and memory are tied and cut where racist tendencies and me collide
Yes, I felt accomplished even if I delivered a thousand degrees of Mexican defense and it was perhaps a tad unwarranted.
My native and light skin was just happy to be there, kissed by the Mexican sun, soaking in all the intensity.
Posi Negi, deadly, vivacious, touristy, unforgiving, eclectically magic and always intense, Mexico energy.
Now I sit here writing this. Longing for Mexico fills the spaces of my soul where the United States is a blessing but could never fill the cracks.
Even the tourists, the pope, and the surmounting statistical chance to be raped, kidnapped, and murdered, the location still made me feel complete.
Now I am filled with nostalgia and I want more.
I want street vendors and the sweet smell of Churros.
I want urban filth and all shades of brown painted on my Paisa people.
I want español coursing it’s friendly melodies through my brain. I want it to soothe the edgy and confusing harshness of the english language I have been subjected to for over a decade.
I want the vibrations of one hundred percent Mexican place to make love to all my senses.
I want the incessant nostalgia that creeps in daily to fade, but only because when I look out, I can see the piques of a Catholic church and can hear the Mariachi music of a crowd of six serenading a lady next door.
It’s a trip that the intricacies of my ethnic roots could come down to location. It’s crazy that I need to travel to feel closer to my Self.
I long for Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.
I want so motherfucking much, and I want it so motherfucking deeply;
But in truth?
I just want Home.
A PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM THE GONZO TODAY PUBLISHER-
words & art by Clayton Luce
For those of you feeling a punch in your gut that “you are out of touch and living in a bubble,” go with your gut. You were.
By: Teddy Fuentes
The trauma that led to me creating “Steve” was sexual, imposed by a male bodied demon in the night. My youthful entwined with chemical bonds mind could not process that level of grime and self hatred mixed with Fear.
Just recently I have began to heal from this trauma that happened 10 years ago. First I took a mighty shovel and dug through all the traumas stacked heavily on top of Him, almost melting into him like a collaged monster of everything I always feared and hated. Him who stole my most sacred Virgin/Virgo truth.
He was so deep beneath a decade of hurt, I could still feel his thunderous ruminating impending doom thumping, even with ethanol seeped deep in my DNA.
He who ravaged me sat twiddling thumbs with Steve down under. He whispers into Steve his own Self.
Then Steve comes out unabated. Ready to destroy.
Only opiates striking him like dull needles prodding for peace tamed the lingering feeling of wanting to murder the rapist who robbed me of my most formative years .
This is my not so much anymore secret. I harbored a disgusting shame and pain for so long that the Trauma and Disgust came out through me.
This is the Steve forever inked on me like the Mark of the Beast.
On the back of my neck as to not remind me that the despondent broken child is still there.
“You cannot hide from Him but you can try.”
And me in present time? I am plainly and acutely aware of schizophrenic, disassociated, and bipolar tendencies I project to those around me.
The psychiatrist told me “You think strange.” Her words piercing and knocking at the door where Steve used to lie ready to strike. He came out through the voluminous stark tone I used to dissuade her presumptuous belief that I was as orderly as a sentence.
I, or something within me, felt so much hatred towards her that I cannot believe I apologized for my behavior.
That was Teddy, me, being humble, graceful, and weak to the touch of others misgivings.
You see, I have worked all of this out myself and through human connection. Through the sober and hyper sensical experience of Living through Love of the Self.
I have faced trauma that I couldn’t even say the name of without going dead in the eyes.
The numbness of sexual trauma is unforgiving and a downward spiral.
But I want to tell you about Us.
About the personality and self protective facets that I carried around like powerful identity disorder weapons and were ones that only lacking sustenance or Upper Substances led me to invoke them.
I will not speak in the third person because I know that writes me off.
Why do we feel such a deep need to express the intricacies of our Selves?
Because we are galaxies and only upon sight are we real. No longer imagined. Traced to the origin and delved deep for understanding.
I want that. I want to shake the label of rotten; shake off this duality within me.
I am whole. I am one. I truly feel this now.
You’ve got to understand, Steve and Teddy are but names used to describe the Positive and Negative forces within my being.
Neither means any harm, and only harnessing all of Me can I find balance to succeed and lead a healthy fulfilled and royal life of abundance.
You’ve got to understand.
You have to think of the Love you have for the soul and release Your unseemly paranoia that a hidden truth within our carnal person is a murderous lie. That this “evil lie” purposefully and consciously is shoved deep into the bowels where self destruction and outward violence sleep in the first cycle.
You’ve got to understand.
We manifest ourselves when we want to connect. To connect with our pure and innocent selves. The One’s we were when our Mother birthed us from her own flesh.
We want to reattach ourselves to feel rebirth.
Human and intro spatial connection is the tonic of the split and unsure soul.
You’ve got to understand.
The only thing toxic about having a side(s) of your self is burying them deep like rotten cast offs bathing in hellish emotion.
I encourage all of you to dig deeper than the surface of your fears, anxieties, and insecurities of life and death.
I condone Healing, Balance, and letting the corpses of all troubled painful past reincarnate before us and dance.
Dance with us to atone for our perceived mistakes.
Dance with us to create a vibration that is sync with who We truly are.
Dance to cleanse the door of you from the sign that tells your personal Steve to “fuck off and die.”
Invite Steve and all your righteous demons to go on a walk, long and in nature. Cry into each other’s orifices and let it sink in. Cleanse yourself through directing the hurt where it truly lies deep within you. Berate all sides of you. The one who is sad for the pain, the one who hurting lashes out, the one who ignores all of the above and the one who loves you.
Then forgive. Forgive and never forget.
Let this introduction be a friendship of growth and not a goodbye.
Please, don’t let your selves die before letting your Self live truly Free.
Holistic healing is an act of love to thy self, the soul, everyone around us, the world, and the universe.
Healing is a painful ritual that I give six hundred sixty six stars to and Highly Priestessly recommend.
PS I achieved this level of perception about my trauma and Steve through two hours of Mediation. 🌎🌞🌚🌙
By: Marin Lynch
reality is a church
reality is a mosque
reality is a synagogue
reality is a humanist
reality is an atheist
reality is an idea
reality is pliability
reality is fixed
reality is us and them
reality is mindfulness
reality is mindlessness
reality is an idea
reality is a paradox
more guns more safety
more prayer more indoctrination
more division less unity
more terror more peace
reality is an idea
reality is suffering in Orlando
reality is bigotry
reality is prejudice
reality is human ignorance
reality is the unenlightened
reality is an idea,
and for the most part,
a bad one
~ © Martin Lynch 2016
By: Clayton L. Luce
Slideshow and cover photo by: Michael Palmer
Videography by: Steve “Shooter” Russell
They did it again! Those sneaky, dirty hippies converged once more onto the pristine grounds and picturesque vistas of the Louisville Waterfront Park to commence a weekend of drinking, laughing, probably smoking marijuana and playing loud hippy music through giant loudspeakers at 2,000 decibels late into the evening.
The event occurred at the Brown Forman Amphitheater, although it was reported to GonzoToday that several hippies were also spotted wandering through other areas of the park, some of them bathing in the shitty river and yet others taking cool baths in the temperature controlled fountains of the main lawn. Despite these obscure and terrifying occurrences the festival was reasonably contained and carried out in a highly responsible manner by festival co-founders Ashley Angel and Dennie Humphrey, who might themselves be hippies or some other thing not far removed. Ashley wears dreadlocks and Dennie smiled far too much for your average debt-bound, cash-strapped angry white American. Why was he so happy? And what the hell was Grateville Dead anyway? Well I for one was bound to find out and and so – sweating profusely and fresh out of hash – we headed in to get some sort of usable footage and maybe a coherent story from one of these drunk hippies.
Immediately upon entering the venue I was impressed by the production quality and general cleanliness and pleasant aesthetics of the amphitheater. The built in half arena contained music, which through natural amplification of the amphitheater seemed to be pleasantly reflected back out towards the Ohio River behind the stage and the sound quality from any point in the venue was of the highest quality. Continue reading
By: Benjamin Anthony
My visit to the Republican National Convention was rather hastily planned, I had missed the deadline to apply for a special press pass and my local newspapers refused to grant me any sort of credibility, leaving me on the outside of the arena with all the protesters. Even the cartoonists who were protesting wanted nothing to do with me, saying I was an unprofessional hack who needed to work on his anatomy before I’d be able to join their ranks. Rather than give in, I made up my mind to press on and cover the event on my own. I had a reserved ticket for a gathering of Republicans at the Hard Rock Cafe and hoped to catch Roger Stone at a rally outside the convention as well, I figured that there would be so much chaos surrounding the convention that this would be enough to cover. The night before the the convention I watched the news of another attack on police in Baton Rouge that left three officers dead and then watched in puzzlement and horror as President Obama said that “we need to temper our words and open our hearts” in response to these homegrown terrorists. This of course would make a great cartoon caption.
With these attacks happening more and more frequently I had expected Obama to up his game a bit, come out a bit stronger but instead he continually plays right into the hands of Trump and the Republicans claims about him. This continually makes me wonder if he has just gotten tired of the role of Commander In Chief or is he really this inept as to give the other side all this ammunition against him? Donald Trump eats this stuff up and hints that maybe Obama is not what he seems, bringing up his original accusations that he was not even born in America and therefore not qualified to be President. Whether or not you agree or question Obama’s birthplace it is troubling that he seems to make such disastrous statements.
The next day I took off down the interstate towards Cleveland, as I got closer the digital road signs had alerts to call the FBI if you see anything suspicious and I fully expected to be pulled over and subjected to a full vehicle and body cavity search, but instead the traffic was light and there were no searches. I found my exit and a parking spot with ease, at this point I still thought maybe the protests are so massive that all available security is busy trying to stop an open revolt from anarchists, democrats and maybe illegal immigrants who swam across the lake intent on shutting down the Republican Convention. Instead…
If you look closely you can see a handful of protesters amid a long line of mounted police. This was the extent of protest that I saw, they shouted for a couple minutes and then were gone. In fact after the convention was over the grand total of arrests made was…twenty four. Granted there were nearly three thousand police that came in from around the country, but still as far as protests go it was a very quiet and uneventful four days, nothing like the mass chaos and burned out ruins that the media had predicted.
Sadly due to my own inability to leave the house in a timely manner I missed Roger Stone’s speech and only saw him as he was leaving in a crowd of reporters and boom mikes. However I did manage to meet Milo Yiannopoulos, the self proclaimed “most dangerous faggot” who was speaking about the dangers of Islamic terrorism and the oppression he faces because of his sexuality and support for Donald Trump. After getting a selfie with him I was stopped by a young lady who wanted to interview me about why I was there and my thoughts about Milo and Trump and the whole event. We talked for a while and she kept telling me about a party the next night put on by Milo. Sadly it was just before this party the next night that twitter would officially ban Milo from the platform, forever this time they said. He had posted a mean review of the just released Ghostbusters movie and got into an online spat with one of the actors in it. Jack Dorsey, the CEO of twitter and square, made the call to ban him, perhaps mistakenly thinking this would turn around share prices of the failing company stocks.
Really let me take a moment to say how bizarre the prices are for twitter, two years ago a share was worth around fifty U.S. dollars. Today despite inking deals to stream the NFL, MLB and the NHL over the platform it’s stock has sunk to around fifteen dollars a share. Square, the other company Jack is CEO of, is staying around the ten dollar a share mark after it’s initial public offering last November. Many voices have been calling for him to do something productive for the stocks and bizarrely all the live streaming deals have had no positive affect. Which makes me think that perhaps the banning of Milo was financially motivated, stir up some controversy and hope investors ignore the falling revenue growth. Maybe the fall football schedule will turn this around and in turn go a little lighter with the censorship coming out of the house of tweets and give us few hashtags like #FreeMilo
Anyways, I made my way to the protest area in downtown, still a few blocks from the gated off arena where all the delegates and politicians and mainstream newspeople would be performing the official duties of the convention. The number of police was overwhelming, everywhere I looked there were groups of ten and twenty officers milling about, some smiling, some looking concerned, all of them sweating. And despite my initial worries, they all were polite and non-threatening. I had expected to be greeted with clouds of pepper spray and rubber bullets, even brought safety glass and a kerchief to cover my nose and mouth, but the only time I needed the kerchief was when the sweat on my forehead started to blind me. No tear gas, no pepper spray, no complaints on the police brutality front.
The next couple of hours I wandered among the streets, Jesus freaks were holding up signs proclaiming the end is near and had loud speakers that were saying it as well. I found a Civil War monument that I never knew existed, which contained life sized sculptures of Lincoln and even had some artifacts he had signed or possessed at some point. MSNBC had a portable broadcasting stage set up on a side street and was reporting live, I watched as pro-Trump supporters vied to get into the background with a sign reading “Socialism Sucks!” Some guy was trying to sell condoms with funny slogans for the various candidates, but at five dollars apiece and of definitely questionable origin I had to pass on buying any of them.
By now it was getting close to the time when the event at the Hard Rock Cafe was going to begin, and I was needing a drink as the heat was overwhelming. The event was put on by the Christian Coalition of America and was touted as being about clean energy or energy independence or something, free food and drinks were listed on the tickets and I have read my bible numerous times so I figured I could easily blend in if anyone questioned my presence. Once again though, nothing out of the ordinary happened, one of the Congressmen from Ohio relayed the story of Daniel in lion’s den and how that compared to….I could not actually follow what his metaphor was. Nor did I hear any speeches about clean energy, but I did get two free drink tokens and exchanged them for bottles of Corona. The food was nice, a buffet with nachos, pizza, chicken fingers and eggs rolls. Every one of these Republican events I end up at that involves food always seems to include chicken fingers. This makes me wonder if Democrat events would also include chicken fingers, or if they would have some other unifying culinary morsel for their supporters?
I tried to ask some questions of the Congressman who was there, and to his credit he talked with me, though he had to admit not being familiar with Gonzo Today. My phone was almost dead at this point, and it was getting closer to sunset, with no desire to roam the now deserted streets, I found my way back to the car, still intact, no smashed windows or stolen tires, though in tossing my briefcase into the backseat I pulled a muscle in my back and had to do some stretches before I could take off.
As I drove away I couldn’t help but remember the words of Dr. Thompson “What were we doing here? What was the meaning of this trip?” In fact they had repeatedly come up in my mind throughout the day as I wandered through the streets. I wouldn’t be able to come back for the rest of the convention, still I had witnessed the start of it, but how would it end? Some violent protest when Donald Trump finally made his way to the stage? I doubted it, there simply was no strong opposition to him to be found, just the same recycled jokes and taunts that are plastered onto t-shirts and buttons every election cycle.
The three remaining days I watched on television and there at the end when Trump finally made his WWE style entrance, and accepted the nomination, there was no great earthquake, Satan didn’t poke his head up from hell to give him a high five, nor did the heavens part to allow an angelic chorus to serenade The Donald as some of his supporters seem to feel would have been only appropriate. No at the end we are left waiting for November, waiting to see how this all plays out waiting to see who will be the next President of these United States of America and who will be left outside weeping and gnashing their teeth.