Making the Wrong Side of the Bed

Châteauguay  

There’s an idiom in contemporary politics that goes, approximately, like this: Republicans wake up angry; Democrats wake up sad.

It would seem an inescapable truism, particularly given the rancor that freights this presidential campaign. While it will go largely unnoticed, Mike Pence did something extraordinary Sunday: He promised the nation that his party would peacefully accept the results of the election.

Think about that. Simply as principle, Democracy relies on an assumption that those involved understand the rules of engagement. Rules that weren’t in question say, during the presidential primaries, which were similarly rife with vitriol.

But in watching Pence, I realized that some Republicans must be waking up sad, too.  They also see where this path inevitably leads: To self-cannibalization.

Michael "Mike" Pence, governor of Indiana, pauses during an interview in New York, U.S., on Thursday, May 16, 2013. The largest-ever U.S. municipal junk bond sale remains in limbo after Indiana learned that a Pakistani company backing a fertilizer plant financed by the biggest borrowing in state history is linked to explosives causing the most U.S. casualties in Afghanistan. Photographer: Andrew Harrer/Bloomberg via Getty Images

Consider: In 2009, the Tea Party was borne of Republican worry that a newly-elected Barack Obama would usher a Caligula-like era Washington, reeking of liberalism and federal handouts. The party concocted a 10-point Contract from America (not “with,” interestingly). It called for, among other things, that Obamacare be repealed and that all new laws “identify the specific provision of the Constitution that gives Congress” authority to pass new laws.

Alas, the Supreme Court nixed the first provision and voters the second. In response to the non-response, the GOP drifted further right and began to consider Karl Rove’s parting advice to colleagues: expand the base by including more outliers — voters who would normally drift toward fringe candidates.

Thus the birth of Sarah Palin, the least-qualified professional since Marlon Brando whimsically hired a NYC cab driver as his agent (true story).

palin

And now Trump, who makes Palin look MENSA cerebral. Trump has already put the GOP on notice that they will pay just as dearly as Democrats for angering him. Paul Ryan — a founding father of the Tea Party — has been particularly pilloried for non-neo-support. His political career (let alone his hold as House Speaker) is as clear as puddle water.

The pit bull has turned on its dog-fighting owner. Unshackled, if you will.

But Pence’s jaw-dropper followed another: Michelle Obama’s speech days earlier concerning the state of politics, specifically the NC-17 turn it’s taken. While she has traditionally eschewed stumping (she was opposed to her husband’s decision to run for president in 2008), she may have struck an apolitical nerve. One that prompts political action.

There’s a reason the crowd erupted at “enough is enough.”

That’s the tricky thing about energizing bases. You never know their mood when they finally wake up.

 

Trump: Make America Grope Again

 

My head is going to pop off like a dandelion’s if I hear one more fresh-faced newscaster wax philosophic on how Donald Trump represents a true break from the political rules of old. True, Donald sealed his fate with last week’s hot mic, but the scandal, however salacious, is hardly new.

I know Twitter limits you to 140 character per missive, but come on; just a little institutional memory, pretty please.

God knows I’m no historian. But I can at least (vaguely) remember events in my life. Your own life span should be grounds for a hint of historical context. And there is much to contextualize here, just as there was a half century ago.

In the year of my conception, 1964, another Donald Trump threatened to wreck not only the GOP, but the republic itself: Barry Goldwater. goldwater

Consider Barry Morris Goldwater Trump beta: also a Republican, a businessman, rich and nasty as hell. Like Trump, he despised what America had become. Namely, less white. He would earn his fame by filibustering and voting against the Voting Rights Act — and taking a shellacking in the presidential race by a guy who wasn’t even sure he wanted the job. lyndon

As Trump will in a month.

This will likely come naturally, as the Donald and his ilk choke on his own vitriolic bile. But just in case, all historians and the Clinton campaign need do is look at the Democratic advertising strategy of Lyndon Johnson. Like Clinton, he was ahead in the polls.

But there is an important stratagem here in Johnson for Clinton: Don’t take your foot off an opponent’s neck.  Johnson, for instance, was worried of an 11th hour rally and, not wanting to risk a GOP resurrection, sprang an attack campaign that created the modern template of American politics.

Johnson approved “Daisy Girl,” one of the most terrifying and effective political ads in political history. Sure, it was alarmist, sensational, and had no real basis in fact.

But at least it kept a nut from learning the nuclear ATM passcode.

Clinton would be well-served to follow Johnson’s lead. While her lead in polls (if they can be trusted; who under 40 even uses a home phone?), now is the time to break into the Secretariat Stretch, finishing off the Republican Party as it lurches in Tea Party/Trumpian death throes spasms.

Maybe she could even find this guy, if he’s not dead from cancer. The parallels are frightening. He even kind of looks like Trump, if a world away in logic. But it would be a kick to Trump’s slats, which is apparently the only place Donald can feel.

No one enjoys negative ads.

But it’s a lot better than negative nuts.

Something Whatzit This Way Comes

 

I’ve always been a sucker for gadgets, gizmos and whatzits.

Perhaps it was the gimmicks in the cheap magic tricks I bought as a kid. At least that’s what I rationalize when I continue to feed my addiction to odd purchases. Like the spy pen camera I bought I last week.

I had no need for one, as I’ve really cut down on my pen writing and spying. I can’t even really tell you why I was looking at them. But I knew when I wanted one: When one reviewer who raved about the device admitted that he bought it it “because when I was a kid I always dreamed of having one.”

spy-pen

That’s enough for me (along with a price tag of $35; funny, the cost of dreams). Alas, the toy was broken upon arrival, and I had to reluctantly return it.

The psychosis spreads to my vehicles, many of which will become historical footnotes of bad engineering. There were the two Fieros. The Yugo. And one of my favorites, a purple X-90 that’s the closest the auto industry has come to a bubble car. x90 I’m currently driving a smart car because the Fiat 500 seemed too big, having a backseat and all.

I drive another ridiculous contraption now, a Can-Am Spyder that is, in essence, a reverse trike — two wheels in front, one in back. Think a dyslexic Big Wheel. The bike flummoxes insurance companies and state DMVs, which aren’t sure how to categorize it. You don’t even need a motorcycle license to drive one, which is about as insane as not needing a license to work an AR-15.

But the gizmo has turned into an intellectual whatzit. The purchase was borne of the stubborn realization that driving on only two wheels is insane in Los Angeles. But I can’t bring myself to give up the roller-coaster high that is any motorcycle ride.

So now I drive the equivalent of either a Batbike or a bike for circus clowns, and love it. I take 6-mile rides along Lake Balboa to pick up a donut three blocks away. The thing has such a cavernous trunk I take it grocery shopping, as it can hold a 24-pack and two grocery bags. It’s the first motorcycle to earn a thumbs-up from my mother, which is either a very good or very troubling sign.

It has come at the cost of some hubris. Once I rode a Harley, and I’m still too embarrassed by the training wheels to pull into a Harley shop, lest I be discovered for the fraud I am.

biker-wannabe

But there’s something to that third wheel, more assuring than I expected. A good friend recently confided he rides his Harley now to simply keep it running. “But it’s a 700 pound bike,” he told me. “If that drops, I won’t be able to pick it up.”

I hear you, brother. And I’m only a half step behind you in my burgeoning caution.

But on the ride to buy cake donuts this weekend, I came upon a group of boys, all brandishing skateboards and spasming cell phones. They geared up, headed out of the shop, and surrounded the bike. “What the hell is that?” one asked loudly to no one.

And I realized: He’d found the through line to much of my life. From magic tricks to handheld gadgets to the motorcycles and cars that ferry me, I’m undeniably drawn to any whatthehellisthat?

Fortuna may insist that my body age. But she is powerless against my towering immaturity.

Nyah Nyah Nyah.

Now what’s that spy pen website?