The missus and I were tooling down the interstate headed towards a family visit in Clemson, South Carolina, recently when the voice on the radio announced that Donald Trump would be holding a rally in—guess where—Clemson, South Carolina! Instructions were given on how to get tickets to the event.

            Folks who know me are aware that The Donald is not my cup of tea, but what the heck, he is this election season’s phenomenon, and I do teach government, so—strictly as an intellectual exercise, of course—it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

            The missus is as close as we get to a technology geek, and she soon had us hooked up via iPhone to the ticketing site. Just as soon as they got our names, addresses, telephone numbers, and shoe sizes (just kidding on the last one), we received the emailed link to our tickets. For the record, no one will ever ask to see any tickets all night. In my time I have been on some strange mailing lists given my political preferences (Republican National Committee, National Rifle Association, Murdock for Senator, just to name a few). If the GOP circus is still in progress when the Indiana primary rolls around, I suspect The Donald’s campaign organization will be added to the list.

            Anyway, with time to spare, we headed out for the rally. One mile from the rally venue we hit the bumper-to-bumper. It will take a solid hour to traverse that last single mile.

            There are cars from all over, but my attention was drawn to a foreign-built SUV in the next lane. The rear window is festooned with a couple of “Don’t Tread on Me” stickers, an American flag decal, an “I (heart) my Boxer” sticker, a United States Marine sticker, and a sticker featuring the silhouette of an assault rifle. I couldn’t read the sentiment on the last one, but I doubt that it had anything to do with banning such weapons. Why is it that some of these uber-patriots who profess a willingness to bleed and die for America, display an unwillingness to own a vehicle built by their fellow Americans? Just saying.

            Eventually, we get to create a parking space in a grassy field and strike out a couple of blocks overland, and in the dark, to the T. Ed Garrison Livestock Arena (recognized as “one of the premier multi-purpose livestock facilities in the Southeast,” according to its website).

            The main entrance is blocked by multiple airport-style metal detectors manned by local law enforcement, TSA security, and the Secret Service (Uniform Division). These folks weren’t messing around. The missus sees a guy turned away because he had a penknife with a two-inch blade.  As for herself, she carries a purse with enough hidey holes to guarantee she can’t find what she wants when she wants it. They went through that purse hidey hole by hidey hole.

            Clearing security, we entered the arena. The sound system is working overtime. Given the occasion, you would think it would be blaring out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA,” or Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA,” even if the lyrics to the latter are more than a little subversive. But no. Rather, we are serenaded by Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.” Tiny Dancer?  Really??

            The seats on the arena floor fill up. The venue claims a capacity of three thousand seats, plus temporary seating on the arena floor, so we – and the local media – guestimate four or five thousand attendees. The Donald claims ten thousand.

            The crowd is almost exclusively white. There were more minorities outside hawking T-shirts and buttons than there were inside the hall. There were a lot of young people, which surprised me. I thought they all had the “Bern.” There was much camo clothing and many baseball caps. The only suits appeared to be on people associated with the campaign.

            Eventually, the lieutenant governor of South Carolina comes out to the podium. “These are dangerous times,” he intones. “We need a leader with true vision. Who is that man?” (The crowd starts chanting “Trump! Trump! Trump!”) “Everybody who believes in the American Dream, here’s your next president …”

            And The Donald strides on to the stage to the strains of the Beatles’ “Revolution.” The rumbling we heard was probably John Lennon turning over in his grave.

            Admittedly, so far I have written with more than a little tongue in cheek. Let me be deadly serious.

            This guy is good on the stump. Very good.

            There was nothing new in what the crowd heard. There were the familiar well-received applause lines, but it wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it. He didn’t talk to the crowd, he wooed it. “This crowd is amazing.” …  “The people of America are so smart. (When I’m in office), you will be so proud of your country, so proud of your president.” … “I’m greedy. I want to be greedy for America.” … “If we win here, we’re going to run the table and make America great again.” … “Get out and vote. I love you. I love you.”

            For 50 minutes, he held that crowd in the palm of his hand.

            Then he came down off the stage to sign autographs to a reprise of “Revolution” and, in what I thought an interesting choice, the Rolling Stones rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” … but sometimes you get what you need.

            All in all, an interesting evening with a man whose draw with the Republican faithful—and even further afield—should not be underestimated.

            But “Tiny Dancer”?  Really??