We are living during the most divisive period in modern American history.
You want Muslims banned. I don’t.
You want a wall. I don’t.
You want to tell the evil empire of Australia to fuck off. I don’t.
You think Trump is a genius. I think you’re smoking crack again, Albert.
Through all the awfulness, the anger, the ridicule, the scorn, I do believe there is one thing all Americans can agree upon: That the above photograph, taken by my dear mother, is the worst picture that has ever existed.
Can I get an Amen? Can I get a Jee-sus?
In case you’re wondering, Mom and Dad spent the evening at a lecture featuring (Please choose) …
A. My Uncle Marty.
B. Some sort of suit-wearing Sasquatch.
C. Larry David.
D. Henry Winkler.
E. The propped-up remains of Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy’s.
F. Barry, June 1983 employee of the month at the Trenton, N.J. Men’s Warehouse.
The answer, you probably didn’t guess from the dazzling imagery, was D—Winkler. Also know as the Fonz. Also known as a guy who’s credited on Wikipedia as being a native of my hometown (Mahopac, N.Y.), even though he only summered there on very rare occasion. His talk, the rents said, was fantastic, and worth the price of admission—though I think it might have been free. Or not.
The point is, one must work to take a photograph that’s this … special. The blurred right arm. The gurgling facial expression. The special App used to make him look bald. All that space atop his dome.
I love it, love it, love it.
Or, as a long-ago character might say, “Heeeeeeeeeeey!”
