Category: Deep political thought
The levers of power
The big day has finally come.
Here in the Land of Entrapment 40.7 percent of registered voters cast their ballots early, for good or ill. Elsewhere, The Hilldebeast has already claimed victory over Insane Clown Pussy (4-2, in Dixville Notch, N.H.)
Now we wait for the returns to come trickling in from everywhere else.
I got my Bill Hicks on last night as a sort of tuneup, the way you might have a couple pops before the party gets started, and he dropped a name I wish I’d heard earlier in the campaign — “Beelzebozo.”
Bill was referring to himself, having just paused in the midst of an epically filthy tirade to announce that he was “available for children’s parties.” But it seems better suited to the GOP’s standard-bearer, a truly evil clown, and I regret stumbling across it so late in the game.
I voted early, and for The Hilldebeast, and all y’all should be well aware by now that I was not excited about it. This was my 12th election, and in all those outings I have only voted for two candidates — George McGovern and Barack Obama. In all those other elections I was voting against someone, as is the case this time around.
Over the long, long years I have pulled the lever for Democrats, socialists, independents and libertarians, but never for a Republican, and this was not the year for experimentation along those lines. This was another delaying action, what Steve Earle called “getting into gear for four more years/of things not getting worse.” Or so we hope, anyway.
For those of who who have the liberty to follow the election news throughout the next two days, both The New York Times and The Washington Post have pulled down their digital firewalls and you may browse their sites to your hearts’ content. Keep one eye aimed squarely down-ballot. It would be useful to reclaim majorities in the House and Senate; a dozen governors’ gigs are likewise up for grabs, as are a right shitload of seats in state legislatures, on school boards, you name it.
To paraphrase Pat Frank, the battle for America is being lost in counties like Bernalillo. Remember that while the barking carny up front holds your attention, his minions are working the rubes, lifting wallets.
Me, I’ll be spending a fair amount of time bringing the snark on Twitter. But check back here for the occasional pithy observation if you’re so inclined.
• 9:30 a.m. — Kevin Drum at Mother Jones weighs in with his predictions: “So my final guess is: Hillary Clinton wins by 4.7 percent in the popular vote; the Senate ends up 51-49 Democratic; and the House ends up 235-200 Republican.”
• 11:55 a.m. — Agent Orange is already suing people, beginning with the registrar of Clark County, Nevada, over something the registrar is required by law to do (leave voting stations open for all those who were in line when the station was scheduled to close). A Nevada judge gives this the hee, and also the haw.
• 12:05 p.m. — The Atlantic is live-blogging today’s election.
• 4:15 p.m. — Took five to shoot a little video of the Sam Hillborne. OK, so it was more than five. More like 90. It was a beautiful afternoon and I don’t regret a single solitary second of it.
• 4:25 p.m. — Voting is said to be going smoothly in the Duke City and its environs. My favorite quote so far comes from registered nurse Nanette Vela, who told the Albuquerque Journal: “Hillary was not my first choice, but voting for Trump would be like voting for myself, because I don’t completely understand how government works, either.”
• 4:35 p.m. — Insane Clown Pussy has regained control of his Twitter account. We can only hope that this is akin to seizing the wheel of a pirate ship shot full of holes and taking on water fast.
• 4:52 p.m. — Funny you should mention it: Kellyanne Conway is already sniveling that ICP didn’t have the full support of his party, merely because he was stark raving mad. I’m sure her résumé is already making the rounds.
• 5:28 p.m. — Live chat from The New York Times.
• 6:04 p.m. — Clinton takes my birth state, Maryland. That my brother-in-law left the state for a job in Florida may have been pivotal. Now we’ll have to see what that does to the tally in Florida.
• 6:15 p.m. — Marco Polo Rubio wins re-election to the job he dislikes so much. Don’t expect him to keep it long. 2020 is just around the corner.
It can happen here
We’ve finally gotten a little rain after the second warmest October on record, and maybe one of the driest, too; more than a quarter inch of precip’ below normal.
As with most things, this is both good and bad.
The good? When things are wet, they often fail to catch fire. Also, water is nice for drinking, bathing and growing things to look at and/or eat.
The bad? Sitting as it does at the bottom of a cul-de-sac at the western edge of a mountain range, El Rancho Pendejo is already a little on the dark side, as is my outlook most days. And when the sun goes away for a spell, things in these parts can get blacker than a sleeping MacBook’s display.
So with each fresh poll the equivalent of a cherry bomb in a chicken coop I’m getting a mild case of The Fear as the 2016 election staggers to a close.
Anybody who tells you s/he knows that all will be well in the end is full of shit to the sideburns. Americans are already pretty la-di-da about exercising their franchise, our least-difficult path toward effecting change, armed insurrection being slightly more onerous (or so I’m told). And the GOP has been busily scratching that oh-hell-why-bother itch by turning what should be the simple act of casting a ballot into the sort of customer-service experience we already enjoy in the private sector.
Here’s Charles P. Pierce on the voter-suppression battles being waged from coast to coast.
Here’s Ari Berman of The Nation on the reduction in polling places following the gutting of the Voting Rights Act by the U.S. Supreme Court.
Here’s The Guardian reporting on the upshot of Insane Clown Pussy’s call for his shock troops to monitor what he’s said will be a “rigged” election.
And so on. Look around, you’ll find more examples.
The Republic has weathered a lot of storms, and this may be nothing more than an especially nasty stretch of rough weather before the sun pops out again.
But I keep thinking back to the old Red Lewis novel “It Can’t Happen Here,” which I read ages ago, and which the Berkeley Repertory Theatre turned into a play, which wraps tomorrow.
If you haven’t read the book, do so. The language is a little dated, and it can seem wildly over the top at times. But so can this election, and yet there it is, happening right before your eyes.
“It Can’t Happen Here” certainly opened the eyes belonging to writer-director Tony Taccone, who called the parallels between the fictional struggle and Election 2016 “shocking; they’re honestly shocking.”
“What it says, what it really puts out there is, if you become complacent or lazy or you think that the issues that are being discussed in Washington, the politics doesn’t have an effect on your lives, you’re wrong. You’re wrong. The decisions that are being made — by the Congress, by the Supreme Court, by the local legislature, by your city council — affect your life,” Taccone said.
“And it is in your interest to understand as best you can what those issues are, to try to find a voice and agency inside of those issues, to find a community and help them to build a dialogue,” he added. “And my God, if that isn’t the lesson of the last nine months, what is?”
So you think it can’t happen here? Read the book, take a good look around, and get back to me.
November surprise
Hey, I’m surprised it’s November. Aren’t you?
Last night Herself showed me a meme making the rounds on Facebutt, something about 2016 being the kind of year an apocalyptic movie would use to set the scene for how the whole world went to hell.
Sounds about right to me.
But is it really only a preview of coming attractions?
Take this presidential election (please). It matters who wins, of course. But even if The Hilldebeast prevails over Insane Clown Pussy, unless the Senate and House flip to Donk control, the next four years will make the last eight look like the Golden Age of Athenian democracy.
Hell, I anticipate that the immediate aftermath might embarrass any banana republics that aren’t already embarrassed on our behalf. Whether he loses big or little we should not expect ICP to go gentle into that good night. Imagine a large, oversugared toddler being dragged to bed after learning Santa brought him wool undies instead of a red trike. Better take his phone away first.
His supporters will be equally sanguine about an unhappy outcome, I’m certain. The Secret Service is probably already taking bids on Iron Man suits, Batmobiles and Terminators.
Mind you, this assumes an unhappy outcome for ICP and his merry men, which is not at all a sure thing. Plenty of smart folks gave the old hee, and also the haw, to the notion of Alfred E. “Worry” Bush ever getting into the Oval Office, and look how that turned out, if you can bear to.
We’re in what used to be called “the final stretch.” Alas, it’s only the beginning.
Sweet dreams
Our long national nightmare is at an end.
I’m not talking about The Hilldebeast’s emails, which continue to be the gift that keeps on giving, even when they’re apparently not even hers. No, I’m talking about the imminent return to El Rancho Pendejo of Herself, who has been road-tripping for two weeks through Tennessee, Colorado and Utah.
The Boo will be ecstatic, or as close to that state as is Boo-manly possible (an excitable boy he is not).
Herself is the only human he really cares about. I am deemed suitable for short periods as a food delivery/excretion collection specialist (second class), but when she is around The Boo wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.
Oddly, though, his favorite spot for daytime naps — even if she’s home — is my office, just behind my chair. Go figure.
Meanwhile, yesterday in my capacity as commander of the 29er Jones Mechanized Infantry, I seized the Hillsdale Loop in the name of the people. Being a heavily armed elderly white guy I went unmolested by law enforcement. But I eventually gave it back anyway. Hey, somebody has to let The Boo out.
And finally, Khal checks in from scenic metropolitan Bombtown, where he is recovering from some medical experiments and limited to hollering at Siri via iPhone:
I am in an immobilization sling for another month so typing is “hunt and peck” with my left hand. Hence I don’t do too much of it.
It’s getting to the point where I might be able to take off the sling in a couple weeks to carefully work the right arm so might regain my voice, so to speak, and that will be a relief.
Probably no biking till January except on the stationary torture setup.
—K
P.S.: All the best to you and the gang.
Mad Blog Media 