He came, he saw, he confabulated  

Confabulation is defined as the spontaneous production of false memories, either memories for events which never occurred, or memories of actual events which are displaced in space or time.  And so it is with señor Trump, the man who boasted of being worth $10 billion, who would fund his own campaign with perhaps $600 or $800 million.  But before the actual campaign has even begun, he has refused to reveal his income, he has given us no accounting of his boasted net worth, and he has reneged on the funding source for his campaign.  Why?  More likely than not because…he’s a four flusher, and he doesn’t have the fare.

Last night when the Donald entered the fabricated playhouse in Cleveland and stepped upon the freshly hammered stage, he was standing in a fog, a deliberately fabricated dense mist of deception, not unlike the entrance made by wrestlers and boxers who try to look more or less like the image that others have prepared for them in advance.  But in Donald’s case it was more reminiscent of his state of mind—of words and images floating in perpetual obscurity seeking just enough of reality to disarm the mentally inept from their need for solace in a world in need of heroes. The music was equally deceptive—We are the Champions—from the rock band Queen.  Champions?  As in those who promote, display, or set an example of worthiness or worthy causes?  Queen made clear their feelings about the use of their anthem.  "An unauthorized use at the Republican Convention against our wishes," the band reported on Twitter today.  

Well, at least his wife, Melania, was authentic.  She was strikingly beautiful with alluring shades of carefully laced tresses of hair cascading gently over her shoulders.  And those eyes.  They glistened and sparkled with anticipation as she read her lines from the teleprompter. She enunciated each word and phrase in her address with Eastern European charm, part of which was plagiarized from the 2008 speech by Michele Obama at her husband’s convention.  But who was scrutinizing words at a time when such pulchritude was on display, except for those boring commentators who could find fault with stirring rhetoric just because it was—too stirring.

So let the music play on. There is more to come from this convention than convention would have us believe.  Who knows?  Maybe Chris Christie will show us how happy he is with not being chosen as Donald’s waddling mate—knowing that running is beyond the abilities of either man to confabulate.  Are you ready Cleveland?  Are you ready world?  Let’s get ready to rumble…