Dotard, You May Recall

My younger daughter and I were trying to turn “dotard” into an adjective. “Your gesture was dotardinal.”  “Doing it that way is dotardistic.”  “Theatre of the dotardesque.”  Dotard, you may recall, is the term which Kim Jung Un used to describe Donald Trump during the Rocket Man spat, before they became chums.  The term describes a person who is old and who’s mental faculties are slipping.  But it certainly isn’t a common term.  When the aspersion was news, I remember lots of incredulous discussion as to just where the Supreme Leader stumbled on that particular slight. 

Months later, cutting in on a Lord of the Rings marathon my daughter was having with a friend, I stopped dead in my tracks, there in the kitchen, as the good wizard gone-bad, Saranam with Grima Wormtongue up in his ears, accosts our man Gandalf, dismissing him as a dotard.   And then it all became clear.  Kim Jung Un, extra-large tub of garlic buttered popcorn in-lap has no doubt had his own Lord of the Rings marathon in the movie theatre they have there in the palace basement and he has presumably used the film to study English.  Younger than any other current leader I can think of this must have seemed a handy slur.  At thirty-six years of age, who would ever think to call the Supreme Leader a dotard, lest the commit a dotardaulogy.

The sun is starting its descent.  There are some long wispy clouds which mercifully block the full glare that should illuminate this western-facing desk.  And they are parting, allowing light through.  I may need to turn.  I the kitchen my wife is making dinner.  I just checked and Asia tomorrow arrives in forty-five minutes for client call.  I’ve come upon Ursula Mamlok today, a German born, refugee of the Nazi’s who had to go first to Guayaquil in Ecuador, before sailing into New York Harbor, later, with a scholarship to a music program in 1940.  Her “2000 Notes III, Quarter Notes Equals Forty-Eight” is slowing me down, making me curious like the ground hog that out there on the lawn. He doesn’t fear the fox, like the squirrels do.  The squirrels are agile and bite and rise to scan.  Then they take a bite and scan again, over and over.  The groundhog just chews and chews and chews and chews and then looks up.  And when he stands up suddenly, he seems to hold a dramatic pause that Ms. Mamlok wrote just for him. 

Someone else just wrote me. Instant message.  Indeed.  “Is the call on for 7:30PM?”  Oh no.  That’s in eleven minutes.  I check the invite and fortunately it doesn’t start until next week.  I reply with my own instant relief.  OK, then.  My wife is calling me for dinner.  The girls are setting the table.  And by now the sun is behind the trees so it doesn’t matter if the clouds move or are merciful or not. 

Tuesday, 07/28/20