Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who has seen a few elections, says this one is in the bag.
My first election was Nixon-McGovern, so I am no stranger to the thorough electoral beating.
Man, talk about taking a header right out of the gate. Forty-nine states; 520 electoral votes to 17; 60.7 percent of the popular vote.
For Nixon. Jesus H. Christ.
I had tried to register as a member of the Youth International Party (YIP), but the county clerk wasn’t having any of that bullshit.
Just as well. After the election Jerry Rubin swapped Yippie for yuppie and became a bidnessman. Abbie Hoffman got arrested for nose whiskey and took it on the Jesse Owens. So it goes.
After that thrashing I figured the GOP had all the votes it was ever gonna need. And so even when the Democrats pissed me off, which was and is often, I never voted for a Republican. Ever.
In 1976 I voted Socialist Workers Party (Peter Camejo and Willie Mae Reid). Four years later I gave my nod to independent John Anderson.
The more things change, etc.
But in 1984 and ’88 I held my beak and voted for Fritz Mondale and Michael Dukakis. By then I had friends in the Colorado political apparatus and had gotten personally involved in a few campaigns, in a small way. Pulling the lever in ’88 took some doing. The Dukakis people I met at a Denver event were some of the biggest douchebags I ever met in my life. They could’ve made a brother vote for David Duke, who was also on the ballot that year.
Gore. Kerry. Fuck me running. I’ve backed a long string of losers. “All horse players die broke,” as Damon Runyon has taught us. Especially if you bet on horses’ asses.
Still, I keep coming back to the track. Why? Because it’s the only game in town. Unless you want to start shooting people, which strikes me as a hamhanded way to win an argument.
I had doubts about that program even when I was a half-assed Maoist. Political power may indeed grow out of the barrel of a gun, but occasionally a fella finds himself on the wrong end of the ol’ smokepole.
And for what? Knock over all the ducks you want, Bubba. The carnival goes on.
In “Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72,” Hunter S. Thompson recounted a chat he had with Edward Bennett Williams, a trial attorney and president of the Washington Redskins, who was backing Ed Muskie.
Said Williams:
“If Nixon wins again we’re in real trouble. That’s the real issue this time. Beating Nixon. It’s hard to even guess how much damage those bastards will do if they get in for another four years.”
Thompson found the argument familiar and depressing.
“How many of these goddamn elections are we going to have to write off as lame but “regrettably necessary” holding actions? And how many more of these stinking, double-downer sideshows will we have to go through before we can get ourselves straight enough to put together some kind of national election that will give me and the at least 20 million people I tend to agree with a chance to vote for something, instead of always being faced with that old familiar choice between the lesser of two evils?”
Quite a while, it seems. Because here we are, and without Herr Doktor Thompson to advise us. Imagine what he might have written about our latest stinking, double-downer sideshow if he could’ve gotten himself straight. This time around the greater of two evils makes Nixon look like Pat Paulsen.
That said, don’t expect any wisdom from me. Thomas McGuane’s Chet Pomeroy thought he could “handicap the track on this whole shit-heel civilization and truck paychecks till doomsday,” but I ain’t him. Me, I’ve picked exactly two winners since 1972 and they were the same guy.
This election is lucky No. 13. Oh, Christ. I’m crawling into a Sprouts sack with the cat. Let me know how it all turns out. If nothing else we’re gonna need a bigger sack.
Where the wisdom at? That’s what we’re out here for, right? Say, anybody hungry besides me? This fasting business sure gives a fella an appetite.
And yea, they did wander in the desert for 40 days and nights, or until lunchtime, whichever came first.
The weather was nice enough for cycling yesterday, but we decided to take a hike instead, and that was pretty a’ight too. Lots of maskless eejits about, which was not so nice, and goes a long way toward explaining why New Mexico hospitals are not lacking for customers.
Back at El Rancho Pendejo, we found our westward next-door neighbor had devised a COVID-compliant candy-delivery system in case any trick-or-treaters decided to roll the viral dice come nightfall. It was basically a long section of PVC, wrapped in colored lights and angled downward toward a bucket; he dropped the goodies in the upper end, the kiddos bagged them from the bucket. Pure genius. I should’ve taken a photo.
We kept our lights out and restricted candy distribution to his grandkids and the two squirts belonging to the eastern next-door neighbors. Our clientele included two cats, one cow, a fairy, a princess, and Wonder Woman. Everyone got the same treats, sealed in individual Ziploc bags with some cartoon decorations by Your Humble Narrator. Small-s socialism at its finest in the ol’ cul-de-sac.
Later we enjoyed a fine blue moon with red Mars for company. The moon was more impressive, which I considered a good omen, until the local pendejos started in with the gunshots and fireworks. Mars won’t give up without a fight.
Keep your hiking boots where you can find them in the dark. We won’t always have a full moon to light our path through the wilderness.
The Thing on the Doorstep. On the way out, we may hope.
This is the scariest Halloween I can remember.
Thank Cthulhu so many people voted early. Only the Great Old Ones know what the sluggards are likely to do come Tuesday, as they crash hard from Saturday’s sugar frenzy followed by Sunday’s end to daylight saving time. Probably cast write-in votes for Mars-Wrigley, the Dread Lord of Type-2 Diabetes, or worse, Darth Cheney.
One thing seems pretty certain, though. If we don’t punt the Not-So-Great Pumpkin off the national porch next week, Halloween 2021 will be even scarier. Boogity-boogity-boogity.
He’s not just a Good Old One. He’s a Great Old One.
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine; I would shiver the whole night through.
Seven inches of snow at 7 a.m. with seven days until the election.
I call that an omen. Of what sort, I’m not certain. But it has to be better than 6, 6, and 6, don’t you think?
Sweet dreams, old pal.
As the snow piled up last night I dreamed of Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment).
He was all sprawled out, occupying a considerable portion of territory, as was his practice, and seemed very much at peace. So I woke with a smile. It was good to see my old comrade again.
I did not dream of Covid the Barbarian, because it was not yet Halloween, which this year comes with a rare full moon, the first to brighten All Hallow’s Eve in (wait for it) many moons. There won’t be another until 2039.
And it’s a blue moon. Another omen?
Here’s hoping it lights our way toward kicking the Not-So-Great Pumpkin off the White House porch a few days later.
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