WASHINGTON, D.C.--It doesn't matter that we've been waiting for the moment Sean Spicer would finally hang up his dismissive adjectives and reconciliatory adverbs. It doesn't matter that we’ve seen the movie before: Shermichael Singleton, Craig Deare, James Comey, Michael Flynn. It feels like The Wizard of Oz’s ending even after having watched again and again Dorothy’s braid-shaking, the circled characters, as much sappy gushing as one is sure the tiny Kansas home can contain: part awe, part disappointment.
Flynn is the Tin Man, lacking heart. Comey is the lion, lacking courage. And the last of the gang? The sorry and once-honest Sean Spicer? Ray Bolger as the straw-footed and face-painted scarecrow, remorseful and kicking.
I could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers Consultin' with the rain.
The opening sentence of Sean Spicer’s Wikipedia Page is a frontispiece of a fallen man: “During his tenure as White House press secretary, Spicer made a number of public statements that were controversial or false.”
Looking elsewhere on the Internet, leads to similar results. Typing “sean spicer” into the Google Searchbar prompts the search suggestions “sean spicer twitter,” “sean spicer height,” and “sean spicer shoes.”
And my head I'd be scratchin' while my thoughts were busy hatchin' If I only had a brain.
Google Image results produce a Warhol patterning of a confused man in Irish featuring and coloring, often with a mouth ajar in protest, with either a pointing or defeated hand raised as if it were a protective barrier.
All these images contain the royal blue background of the White House briefing room; all these images, assembled upon a canvas, treated with a layer of Mod-Podge and hung beside prints of Elizabeths and Jackies and Cambell’s soup cans and Ho Chi Minhs might be titled “Sean Series: Blue.”
I'd unravel every riddle for any individ'le, In trouble or in pain.
Spicer’s is one of those cases one observes—through a car window, passing a less-than-model neighborhood on public transportation, on a Facebook feed from whose features faces you have become somewhat alienated, on YouTube, on the news—and meets with incredulity. He sold his soul to the devil, my mother explains. Yes, but how does one come to such a place where he is holding his organ in one hand and fingering a candy bar he cannot afford in another?
With the thoughts I'd be thinkin' I could be another Lincoln If I only had a brain.
Before he sold his soul, before he became a scarecrow, even before he became a man, Sean Spicer was a child of Irish descent born in Manhasset, New York. He lived in Rhode Island. His mother worked at Brown. He, as a Catholic child, was warned against the devil. When he was in high school, he volunteered in local campaigns. When he attended Connecticut College, he was a student senator featured in, rather than at war with, the news.
Oh, I could tell you why The ocean's near the shore. I could think of things I never thunk before. And then I'd sit, and think some more.
He was in the Navy Reserve. He was on the House Government Reform Committee. He worked on the House Budget Committee, the House of Representatives, and worked on a trade task force during the later Bush administration. He was communications director at the RNC, and co-founder of a global public relations firm. In 2015, he chided Donald Trump for disparaging comments made about Mexican Americans.
I would not be just a nuffin' my head all full of stuffin' My heart all full of pain.
But in 2016, in an infernous place, Spicer agreed to work under the man he once said, “There is no place in our party or our country for.” In other words, he met the devil on the highway on a groggy night and, asked if he was going to go right or left, chose left.
I would dance and be merry, life would be a ding-a-derry, If I only had a brain.
We could hate him for his gratuitous dishonesty in the briefing room. We could hate him for what most of us understand as his immoral trade. But, you can't help but feel sorry for him. He doesn't lie with conviction. He doesn't have the chin or the gall to be a half-decent actor. Oftentimes he even looked a little scared.