What does the human face of miserable failure look like?
Ask Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, fresh off lecturing on her white privilege and blowing through $4.2 million, to be at around zero in the polls.
But at least Gillibrand’s spending policies embody proper socialist economics, having raised $2.3 million and then spent $4.2 million, she’s eminently qualified to implement the Green New Deal, Modern Monetary Theory or selling the country for a handful of beans.
What she can’t actually do is even place in a campaign that she never should have entered.
Nothing has changed since the time I wrote up her kickoff rally.
It was a balmy spring day in the Big Apple with sunshine and a high of 60. The NYPD, out in force, had roped off blocks to accommodate the crowds of the brave expected to turn out on Trump’s doorstep.
The actual audience barely filled half a block according to photojournalist Pamela Hall. The Washington Times estimated that the turnout amounted to 1,000 people. The New York Times offered no estimates, but conceded that the crowd was “small”. It was so small that most of the media coverage consisted of close-up photos to avoid exposing just how few people had bravely showed up to the 2020 kickoff rally.
Pamela Hall’s photos showed block after block of empty gray pens waiting in splendid loneliness.
This wasn’t a small town in Iowa or New Hampshire where failing presidential candidates can find themselves speaking to two dozen people. It was Manhattan on Sunday afternoon. A few hundred feet away, joggers were running up and down, tourists were gawking at the sights, including Trump’s hotel, families were strolling through Central Park on one of the first warm days of spring after a cold winter.
None of them wanted to come and hear the senator from New York speak in her own state.
“When we tell Trump enough is enough, I want him to hear your voice along with mine,” Gillibrand had pleaded.
Not only wasn’t Trump there. No one else was there either.
When will Gillibrand stop humiliating herself? Who knows.