It dawned on me that I too belong to a gym with its own locker room. During the times I go there, it’s filled mostly with guys about my age and older, some older than Littlefinger. Not once have I heard any discussion about sex with women. Most of the time, the conversation revolves around aches and pains, stock portfolios, and how everyone’s kids are doing in college.
I’m not saying that I don’t have occasional fantasies about sex with super models or Sheena Parveen from time to time, but not only would I be ostracized in that locker room for describing aggressive sexual acts against them, I’m almost certain my mother would visit me from beyond the grave and scare the bejeezus out of me.
That all said, I think David Brooks pretty much nails the pathetic life of Littlefinger in this piece. I suppose living in such opulence would hardly qualify as pathetic, but if you consider the source of true happiness as connection to people who truly care about you, then Littlefinger’s life does indeed look as pathetic as hell.
Trump’s emotional makeup means he can hit only a few notes: fury and aggression. In some ways, his debate performances look like primate dominance displays — filled with chest beating and looming growls. But at least primates have bands to connect with, whereas Trump is so alone, if a tree fell in his emotional forest, it would not make a sound.