The beast came to Madison Square Garden, not in a low slouch, but juking and jiving, mischievous as hard luck itself. Don’t let me write too well here: the night was terrible and mean, just that. Hatred rose off 25,000 bodies like sweat stink. The vicious after-retch of it caught in my throat. Never have I felt such daunting and absolute human darkness. Louis Farrakhan is, as advertised, an improbably evil man.
Because Farrakhan doesn’t even hate: it is all be-bop and cynical grandstanding. His ego could break fire laws. “You cannot say the brother isn’t articulate. You can’t say he’s an ugly dude. God makes me pleasant to look at.” Pleasant as D-Con and vodka. Farrakhan is brown-soap colored. With teeth that sprocket out. He reminds you of a gross Charlie McCarthy puppet, preening and high-strutting, more tribal chief than politician. Magnificent black women honor-guard him in their white, servile livery—matched like Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales. He will speak about his “magnetic attraction” and pull a pennanting, A-train roar from the tribe. “Why did you not say, press, he reminds us of Jesus?” There is no outrage, no absurdity beneath him now. We’ve gone and encouraged Farrakhan. We react to his rhetorical stunt-flying and make him important in their sight.
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