Every journey comes to an end. Some endings come as a sharp, sudden shock. Others are more gradual. You can see what’s coming and have time to brace yourself for the terminus. This ending feels like a little bit of both.
Come August, Sean Spicer will recede into the bushes for the last time and won’t be furitively whispering to reporters ever again. He is not deceased – physically – however, taking into account the morass that is the Trump administration, it is safe to assume he underwent some sort of spiritual death.
One hundred and eighty-three days ago, Spicer battering-rammed his way into our hearts. Here was a man sensitive to the unsettled national mood that pervaded Inaugeration Day. His ingenious remedy was an astringent attack on those who would question the president’s own truth.
He was a Press Secretary with pluck and verve. A man who, through a tilt of his head, a furrow of his brow, or an exasperated sigh, plainly communicated the toll of cognitive dissonance upon his person. When he finally broke, he broke hard, refusing to endorse Donald Trump’s selection of the execrable Anthony Scaramucci as his replacement.
It was almost a moral victory. That’s the best anyone in the Trump administration can hope for. Sean Spicer may be leaving, but he will never be forgotten.
(Year Zero/Day One Hundred and Eighty-Three)