Trump Plays With His Toys 🧸

 Politico:

That ambivalence has been a hallmark of the past three months of negotiations, as world leaders rushed to make deals to avoid levies between 20 and 50 percent, in many cases, an effective trading blockade. And it highlights an important tension of Trump’s second administration: The president’s long-standing affinity for imposing tariffs is clashing with his reputation as a canny dealmaker.

Or: the President is an idiot with no understanding of international commerce who has ridden the reputation of a book title by a ghostwriter who long ago repudiated it, as far as he can. Which is remarkable given the string of business failures the President has had since that book came out. Remarkable for how gullible the public and the political press are, that is. So maybe he can ride that unearned reputation a little further.

But it’s Politico, so they bury the lede:

But the announced deals are unlikely to be full-fledged bilateral trade agreements that need approval by Congress. Instead, the process seems to be following the example set by the first trade framework the administration rolled out in May, with the United Kingdom. Rather than hammer out the details, the two sides agreed to specific terms in relation to goods purchases and tariff rate quotas and agreed to keep talking about some of the more difficult issues — like the U.K.’s digital service taxes and agriculture barriers — down the road.

“Even though the deal may be done, the negotiations continue. They’re framework agreements. They’re not final,” said Everett Eissenstat, a White House trade adviser in Trump’s first term.

It’s all bullshit at the end of the day. Trump is just playing with his toys, as ever.

None of this is new, sadly.

We are discreet sheep; we wait to see how the drove is going, and then go with the drove. We have two opinions: one private, which we are afraid to express; and another one—the one we use—which we force ourselves to wear to please Mrs. Grundy, until habit makes us comfortable in it, and the custom of defending it presently makes us love it, adore it, and forget how pitifully we came by it. Look at it in politics. Look at the candidates whom we loathe one year and are afraid to vote against the next; whom we cover with unimaginable filth one year and fall down on the public platform and worship the next—and keep on doing it until the habitual shutting of our eyes to last year’s evidence brings us presently to a sincere and stupid belief in this year’s. Look at the tyranny of party—at what is called party allegiance, party loyalty—a snare invented by designing men for selfish purposes—and which turns voters into chattels, slaves, rabbits, and all the while their masters and they themselves are shouting rubbish about liberty, independence, freedom of opinion, freedom of speech, honestly unconscious of the fantastic contradiction; and forgetting or ignoring that their fathers and the churches shouted the same blasphemies a generation earlier when they were closing their doors against the hunted slave, beating his handful of humane defenders with Bible texts and billies, and pocketing the insults and licking the shoes of his Southern master.

If we would learn what the human race really is at bottom, we need only observe it in election times. A Hartford clergyman met me in the street and spoke of a new nominee—­denounced the nomination, in strong, earnest words—words that were refreshing for their independence, their manliness. He said, “I ought to be proud, perhaps, for this nominee is a relative of mine. On the contrary, I am humiliated and disgusted, for I know him intimately—familiarly—and I know that he is an unscrupulous scoundrel, and always has been.” You should have seen this clergyman preside at a political meeting forty days later, and urge, and plead, and gush—and you should have heard him paint the character of this same nominee. You would have supposed he was describing the Cid, and Greatheart, and Sir Galahad, and Bayard the Spotless all rolled into one. Was he sincere? Yes—by that time; and therein lies the pathos of it all, the hopelessness of it all. It shows at what trivial cost of effort a man can teach himself to lie, and learn to believe it, when he perceives, by the general drift, that that is the popular thing to do. Does he believe his lie yet? Oh, probably not; he has no further use for it. It was but a passing incident; he spared to it the moment that was its due, then hastened back to the serious business of his life.

--Mark Twain