Stop giving me updates on the reflecting pool

If you have strong feelings about the pool I feel genuinely sorry for you

A year ago I didn’t know anything in particular about the Lincoln memorial reflecting pool and neither did you. I had seen pictures on television and publications, the occasional cameo in film or television. I knew there was a thing called the National Mall that nearby, and that the Washington monument was too. I had no idea what color it was supposed to be, the composition of its water, how many gallons it contained, its depth, or any other facts about its operation and upkeep. It was just a landmark in a city I didn’t live in and never visited. I had no strong feelings about the pool one way or another. It was fine, I guess. The pool didn’t bother me and I didn’t bother the pool.

But that was before Trump had the audacity to attempt some kind of repair to the landmark in the city of which he is the duly elected executive. I don’t honestly know the precise nature of these repairs, only that I have now seen countless pictures of workers painting the bottom of the pool a blue color, coating it with what I understand is some kind of sealant. Apparently it was leaking quite a bit of water, and maybe algae growth was also a problem? Again, I don’t know the details, and my considered opinion is that I am not and should not be required to know them, let alone have an opinion on repairs of a distant landmark that I never visit. Furthermore, as I understand it, these repairs cost our federal government a truly piddling amount of money and were accomplished in a matter of weeks in a town where civic projects run years late and billions over budget as a matter of course.

But despite my total lack of interest in the reflecting pool, my deliberate absence of an opinion or sense of ownership in its maintenance concerns, I find that I suddenly know quite a lot about the reflecting pool. Or at least, I have recently absorbed many factoids of unknown rigor about the pool, strictly against my will, from profoundly mentally ill individuals shouting them at me around the clock. Here’s a recent sample. I hadn’t checked in on the latest pool updates for several days because I’ve been traveling out of cell phone service range, so I hadn’t been aware that the news cycle had moved on from whether too much algae was growing in the pool and whether it was less than when a Democrat was in charge to allegations of partisan vandalism.

No, I don’t know what’s going on here. I’m not clicking on any of these stories to find out whether lunatics really are vandalizing a newly repaired monument to stick it to Trump, not that I would be surprised to find out they were. Nor do I particularly care to know about the pool’s decades-long battle with algae growth and leaks that the Obama administration tried and failed to fix, according to at least some of the lunatics or their counter-lunatics now choking the public commons on twitter and major news sites. Neither still do I care about the specifics of the water treatments being applied — and yet I now know, strictly against my will, that they include ozone and hydrogen peroxide, and that the filtration is insufficient.

Don’t bother correcting the record on any of these points, at least not for my benefit. I wish to know substantially less than I already do about the pool’s green waters and their troubled history, and have essentially no interest in sorting fact from fiction on this topic — about which, again (and I regret to keep repeating this), I care nothing. Completely contrary to my desires, valuable neurons in my brain have been enlisted into storing dubiously sourced facts and narratives and opinions about this pool, when they could have been put to far better use remembering in finer detail (to take an example off the top of my head) an adolescent over-the-sweater petting session during a screening of You’ve Got Mail starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

But you people won’t stop talking about the god damned pool. None of you knew the first thing about it a few weeks ago, but overnight you have developed expert-level opinions on algae treatments and domestic waterfowl toxins. The water color of the Lincoln memorial reflecting pool is a brainworm whose virulence is rivaled only by its utter triviality and stupidity. Not since “he crossed state lines” have I seen so many otherwise intelligent people incepted so thoroughly into parroting a set of opinions and talking points by a media blitz. It has pervaded the collective unconscious to a disturbing degree, creeping into conversations and contexts in which it has no place — asserting itself, Pavlovian, a neurotic tic of allegiance or defiance.

Last week I saw an incredible photo of lightning striking the Washington monument with a rainbow in the background, captured on fight night in the capitol. I’m not big on signs and portents, but it’s hard not to look at this image and come to the conclusion that America has the mandate of heaven, that we are being heralded by Nature herself as the greatest nation in history, a titanic force whose awesome power will echo in legend through the ages. No matter what you think of the current occupant of the White House, this photo taken on its lawn should bring a patriotic tear to your eye.

If you don’t think this rules you’re not an American by definition and should get out of my country

Immediately after I saw it for the first time, swollen with jingoistic fervor, I thoughtlessly shared it with a group chat of mixed company (some based, some cucked), proclaiming it as proof of our national greatness. The resident butt-hurt liberal¹ immediately made some snide non sequitur about how green the water in the pool is now. I was dumbfounded, but I shouldn’t have been.

I’ve written in the past about the creeping influence of politics into ever more aspects of our lives, a totalizing mania to inject partisan commitments and ideological purity tests into every facet of society, no matter how trivial. This business with the reflecting pool makes me think there’s a bizarre converse of this tendency, specifically as it relates to Trump: the compulsion to imbue every act of the man, no matter how trivial, with ideological weight and calamity; to build partisan narratives and media coverage from the most banal and inconsequential moments of his life and presidency. I had previously understood “Trump Derangement Syndrome” as an overriding hatred of the man himself that makes it impossible for the afflicted to think rationally where he’s concerned, but after weeks of manic, round-the-clock reflecting pool coverage, I think I was missing a vital aspect of the phenomenon.
Yes, Trump attracts fierce criticism due to his (let’s be honest here) frequently impulsive policy proclamations, and for his uniquely insensitive (if hilarious) off-the-cuff remarks. It’s totally fair game to be mad about starting a war in Iran or cutting foreign aid, or to be upset about him insulting an ally or charismatic minority. It’s understandable, if dumb, to watch partisans reflexively oppose even reasonable policies he proposes without thinking through the details. But this is something else. The man can’t even paint the bottom of a pool without people losing their minds.

As for me, I want off the ride. I never want to hear about the Lincoln reflecting pool again as long as I live. Its domination of the news cycle for this long reflects a profound sickness in American culture and especially in our media. The obsessive coverage it has received, and the enthusiastic participation of our ordinary countrymen in spreading these partisan narratives and counter-narratives, can only be characterized as a kind of mental illness, a monomania rivaling Ahab’s. As a nation, we should feel deeply ashamed of the vapidity of this discourse, as well as of the effete, contemptuous elite pushing it onto us.

Shut up about the stupid pool.

1. The butt-hurt liberals are my people and I love them, I won’t apologize for being their friends.