![]() ![]() Yet when considering covering it, I hesitated. I’ve been trying very hard not to, even though I recently devoured Maggie Haberman’s riveting but lengthy tome of a Trump book, Confidence Man, which left me snickering publicly in parks and subways. I didn’t want to write another Trump article. Hollering up that notorious towering golden escalator, blocked off with a velvet rope, dwarfed by the walls and walls of pink marble. Instead, I was yelling it at the Palace of Trash. He wanders around central London in a hospital gown, alone, walking the streets covered in trash, shouting, “Hello?!”īut I wasn’t shouting into the abyss at the Palace of Westminster. In the film, Jim wakes up from a coma only to find everyone has seemingly vanished. I’ve never related to Jim, Cillian Murphy’s bike courier from Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later, more. Yet, cinematic zombie apocalypses are really the only comparisons I’m finding to describe the experience of wandering around Trump Tower this past Saturday. ![]() But I just never got the appeal of the ravenous undead. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead famously staggered around Evans City Cemetery. I know that’s sacrilege coming from a Pittsburgh native, where George A. ![]()
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