DANGEROUS TIMES
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Phoebe

2/4/2022

4 Comments

 

PHOEBE
2010-2022

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By Brian C. Jones

PHOEBE, A “SWEET DOG,” DIED THURSDAY.
Not from natural causes, but gently, the way many of us might want to choose if cancer invaded our multiple organs as it had done to hers.
   She was credited as being the principal author and creative force of this blog, variously named “On Trump’s Trail,” and “Tracking Trump,” and more recently,” Dangerous Times." 
   I suppose this is a good time to acknowledge that it’s improbable that a dog, much less a cat and an opossum, could be responsible for a blog. I mean, it's absurd, right? 
   But in fact Phoebe was the project’s inspiration. She guided every posting. She was the antithesis of Donald J. Trump: she was kind, thoughtful, honest, loving, decent, gentle, fun to be with and no threat to democracy.
   Mainly, Phoebe was a “sweet dog.” Everyone said so.
  This was first documented in the notes of the veterinarian who gave her the once-over in 2010, a week after she had been brought to Rhode Island from Missouri, where she had been picked up as a 6-month-old stray.
   The vet found her infested with fleas, with bad teeth and a “hacking” cough. But he or she also took care to scribble this comment: “Sweet dog."
   My wife, Judy (referred to in the blog as the “Nice One”) and I (the “Grouchy One”) adopted her two years later from Middletown’s Potter League shelter. We know nothing of her previous caretaker, only that she had not been abused, physically or psychologically. We, too, immediately realized that she was “sweet.”
   I’ve long tried to figure out why this was this was so.
  Her face, with long eyelashes, deep brown eyes that were encircled by buttons of black and set against the delicate white fur on the rest of her face, plus hints of a smile -- maybe these combined to telegraph a subliminal message that all was well. It sounds sexist to say, but her face was exquisitely feminine.
   One of the first times I saw the connection she had with everyone was during a visit to Wellfleet on Cape Cod. Phoebe and I sat on a stoop while others in our party ducked in and out of the village's shops. It seemed every man and woman and even some teenagers stopped to talk.
   They started by saying that she was so beautiful, followed by the standard questions: what kind of a dog, how old, what was her name and could they pat her? Often they mentioned their own dogs, some dead, others left behind during this vacation, and often they said something about their lives. This happened regularly throughout her years. Sometimes we'd be walking, and a driver would stop their car, roll down the window, just to say hi. To her, not me.
   There are answers to the questions. She was part yellow Labrador retriever, her dominant background. We also suspected there was Husky in the mix, the clues being the curl of her tail and a ring of thick fur around her neck and throat. Maybe  she had a bit of Southern hound, because she was an obsessive sniffer, far beyond what was reasonable for a normal dog.
   I also worried, in color-poisoned America, whether her nearly pure white coat was the reason. I hoped not, but like everything else about race, nothing is certain. I never saw bias on Phoebe’s part due to gender, age, occupation, skin, size, IQ or party affiliation.
   The exception was the mail lady, who was blond.
   Sweet Phoebe was a committed watchdog, and from her perch on the enclosed sun porch, she perpetually embarrassed us by barking rudely at all people who walked by, despite our repeated lectures that the  sidewalk was a public right-of-way, and what’s more, a baby stroller or an elderly man's cane were no threat to national security.
   The mail lady, whose official duties required going onto the actual front porch, adjacent to the sun porch, was subject to a full air-raid blast during every delivery. To her credit, the mail lady was always cheerful and maybe realized – as would a seasoned burglar — that Phoebe’s furiously wagging tail signaled that anyone who actually made it through the front door would be warmly welcomed.


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DESPITE HER MANY CHARMS, Phoebe was insecure when she wasn’t the center of attention.
   In Pre-Covid Times, when we had actual, not virtual visitors, we humans would get to talking. After 10 minutes of this nonsense, Phoebe would barge into the middle of the group, halting all conversation until the topic returned to a proper subject, “what a sweet dog.”
   You’d have thought, given her retriever ancestry, that she would obsessively return a thrown tennis ball. Instead, she scooped up the ball, and tossed it into the air, caught  it, tossed it into the air, caught it….
   Phoebe had a bedtime routine. She would to jump onto our bed, the only dog the Nice One ever allowed to do so, and insert herself between us so she could be petted and fussed over. After a few minutes, she climbed down and headed for one of her three official sleeping accommodations: a standard dog bed next to our bed; a futon in an adjoining room; and a three-cushion couch downstairs on the sun porch.
   There was a soft green blanket, on the dog bed, a gift from the Nice One. With her nose and front paws, Phoebe would spend several minutes arranging the blanket, and when she finally had it just so, she would collapse onto the bed, her long nose buried under the blanket.
   Many people have noted the clockwork that's embedded in the canine brain. Phoebe knew precisely when it was time to eat or to take her several walks, including the longer mid-afternoon one.
   Should I forget what was on tap next, or pretend to, Phoebe would silently appear and just sit, staring, her face in its I’m-As-Cute-As-A-Baby-Seal mode. Staring. Never moving. Staring. Staring. Staring. It always worked.
  Phoebe was reliably reliable, in contrast to her predecessor, Lucie, a powerful part-Lab, part-greyhound, whom we euphemistically described as “assertive.” When coming upon another dog, Lucie made sure the other dog understood the hierarchy, which is why we preemptively crossed the street. When there were visitors at home, or large family gatherings on Thanksgiving and Christmas, Lucie was always on a leash, meals included.
   Phoebe, on the other hand, was consistently calm and welcoming. That was the case even in emergencies, when small children spotted her at the park and came on the run, yelling “Doggie, Doggie,” as their terrified mothers screamed “What have I told you about strange dogs?” while  frantically dialing 911 on their cell phones.  Phoebe was patient as the children grabbed her velvet ears and pushed and tugged her mid-sides and stuck their faces into hers. It would be nice to think that Judy and I had something to do with this, but Phoebe was predisposed to be civil, something reinforced with each positive encounter.

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ALL DOGS PLAY THE SAME CRUEL TRICK. They live unreasonably short lives. I understood this when we adopted Phoebe 10 years ago, and at the outset, I vowed to begin and end every day by remembering we were living with the dog of a lifetime, and by doing this, I could preserv every moment and make time itself stop.
    It didn’t work.
   Phoebe grew older. Our wizard veterinarian, Dr. Kristin Braga of Portsmouth, extended Phoebe's tenure, for instance diagnosing Cushing’s Disease, which was successfully treated with pills and periodic monitoring.
   As Joe Biden’s election passed its first anniversary, Phoebe became increasingly fussy about her meals, and by January, Braga ordered x-rays, then an ultrasound, both scans showing “masses” (read "cancer") in Phoebe’s liver, spleen, kidneys and pancreas. Treatment was discussed only briefly.
   Phoebe rebounded. She began eating ravenously, chased and wrestled with Ben, our new and often fierce kitten. One time, Phoebe found one of Ben’s stuffed mouse toys, picked it up in her mouth, and dropped it front of the kitten.
   It didn’t last.

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PLAYING GOD with a dog’s life is no walk in the park. Judy and I came up with this guideline, based on what we’d want when we were in Phoebe’s place: Delay as long as possible; preserve dignity.
   Day by day, we watched her decline. Maybe she followed our discussions. I know this is anthropomorphic, but I’m certain she figured something was up, and that she didn’t have a say about critical factors, such as the  what, the where and the when. But she knew the who.
   She stopped eating altogether. Needed to go out every hour or two. I slept on a downstairs couch, so we could visit the backyard on demand. Her breathing became  labored and her back legs lost more strength every day.
   Her skeleton was visible under her fur coat, which remained luxurious and soft, but you could still feel the sharpness of the bones. She slept, went out; slept, went out, even braved the deep snow left by the Blizzard of ‘22, determined to avoid making a mess of things indoors.
   Our daughter later came up with the right word: “joyful.” Phoebe's life wasn't joyful any more, and dignity was slipping away.
   But is there really a “right” time? Today, next week,  next season? Consulting our guidelines, physical condition and dignity, the answer turned out to be Feb. 3, at 11:15 a.m.

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DR. BRAGA AND HER STAFF set a quilted blanket on the clinic floor, and we placed Phoebe’s green blanket over that.
   The first shot was a sedative, and, as promised, Phoebe seemed to sleep. Suddenly, I felt relief, as if terrible weight was lifted from her, the fight she had undertaken to keep  living, and not just for her own sake. A second shot stopped her heart.
   We could pick up her ashes in a week. That meant a new set of questions: where to take them? She had guided us to so many perfect places in Newport. Access points to the Cliff Walk, especially the seaweed clogged beach at the end of Marine Avenue, where I had delivered my parents’ ashes. The towering gate to the Breakers mansion. The generous shores of Fort Adams State Park. That secret stone bench someone had installed off Ocean Drive, overlooking storybook inlets.
    We knew, but couldn’t yet feel, the emptiness of Sweet Phoebe’s leaving.
   We knew, but couldn't really measure the wonder she had shared with us. There never would be another Sweet Phoebe, surely not during our diminishing seasons, days, hours.
   Should we have waited another day?

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4 Comments

Christmas guns

12/11/2021

5 Comments

 

‘Tis the Season, As Republicans
Gather Around the Yule Tree
Fully Armed, Kids Included

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WHEN WE FIRST SAW THE PHOTO, Mr. O, the opossum, and I agreed that one of our favorite humor columnists, the Washington Post’s Alexandra Petri, had strayed into unfunny territory.
   Our distress was caused by the terrifying photo that appeared at the top Ms. Petri’s Dec. 9 column.
   Being devoted fans, we immediately began making excuses.
   “This happens to humorists,” I intoned gravely. “From time to time, they cross the line separating funny from foul.”
   “Mistakes are part of the creative process,” Mr. O agreed. He even speculated that the offending picture was not Ms. Petri’s invention, but borrowed from the likes of “Saturday Night Live” or the “The Onion.”
   None of our guesses were correct.
   First of all, the photo was not satirical, at least in the usual sense, in which a humorist concocts an absurd tableau in order to poke fun at the subjects of her scorn.
   Instead, it was meant the other way around, as a political jab to rile people just like Ms. Petri, idealists generally rooted in basic human principles.
   The photo actually was the handiwork of a member of Congress, Rep. Thomas Massie, a Kentucky Republican, who adopted a holiday theme, gathering his family gathered in front of their Christmas tree.
   Pop, Ma and their five little ‘uns all are holding combat-style weapons. The guns are ugly, massive and frightening. Scarier still are the family’s smirking, smiling faces, especially Pop’s, whose nasty grin is reminiscent of Jack Nicholson’s maniacal mug in the movie “The Shining.”
   Massie sent the photo over Twitter on Oct. 4, just four days after a student at a school in Oxford, Mich. slaughtered four classmates and wounded seven with a gun his father had bought days earlier as a Christmas present.
   Whether Massie deliberately timed his Christmas message to taunt the shooting victims and their mourners isn’t clear. Either way, it is a sacrilege.
   Not that Massie cared. He said he was delighted by the huge circulation the photo got on social media. And he cleverly turned the tables on his critics, portraying them as grandstanding opportunists.
   “They focus on one thing that was the biggest thing in the media that they could use to try and take me down,” Massie told an interviewer. “But it’s not work(ing). I’m going to double down. I’m never going to delete that picture.”

MASSIE NEEDN'T HAVE WORRIED about his card disappearing.
   Three days later, fellow Republican Rep. Lauren Boebert of Colorado, Tweeted her own photo, with her kids in front of their tree, each holding a weapon from the family arsenal.
   Boebert assured Massie that he had her support: “The Boeberts have your six, @RepThomasMassie!” Hilariously, Boebert picked up on Massie’s lighthearted comment, imploring Santa to “please bring ammo.” Wisecracked Boebert: “No spare ammo for you, though.”


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   You may be familiar with Boebert’s humor. She’s the Congresswoman who’s jokingly suggested that Rep. Ilhan Omar, Democrat of Minnesota, is aligned with terrorists. And maybe you’ve heard about her restaurant in the town of Rifle, Colorado. It’s called “Shooters Grill,” and the wait staff is encouraged to “open carry” more than just the food.
   Massie is a Massachusetts Institute of Technology graduate who says he founded a high-tech business based on research he did as a student. His philosophy is Libertarian, meaning he’s offended both Democrats and fellow Republicans, while staying firmly in the Republican camp.

BUT WE DIGRESS. Petri’s column was inspired by Massie’s gun-themed Christmas card, but despite her obvious hard work at making fun of the photo, she flopped.
   Petri imagined a similar holiday card featuring her own family, saying that just like its Republican counterpart, her card was designed to “to enrage snowflakes. (It is nearly winter, after all.”)
   Petri’s pretend family included not only her kids, but their guns, each with its own name and personality:
   “Bradley (our M-60 machine gun) is a weapon of war that has been used from Vietnam to Afghanistan! Ours is modified for civilian use, so it can’t fire as many rounds per minute as its fully automatic cousins; we’re jealous!”
   "Indeed, humor has been one of the casualties of the Republican attack on decency and democracy,” Mr. O noted.
   “It’s been hard to find much to laugh about in the deeds and words of Donald Trump and his merry band,” he added. “They’re so outlandish that the usual tools of the humorist’s trade – exaggeration and caricature  – just aren’t up to the job.”
 
"IT'S ACTUALLY ABOUT SHAME," I said.
   “I don’t follow you,” said Mr. O.
   “Well,” I said, “it used to be that when a politician was caught with his hand in the cookie jar or up someone’s panties, that he needed to exit public life immediately, so he could ‘spend more times with my family.’”
   “But since Trump, that’s no longer the case,” Mr. O continued. “One of Trump’s genuine innovations has been to abolish shame, so it’s no longer a factor in a politician’s success or failure.”
   Mr. O had it exactly right.
   Trump and his Republicans are not shamed by Trump’s embrace of dictators like Putin. They’re not bothered by his boasts about his sexual attacks on women. Not ashamed when he incited a mob attack on the Capitol to derail the election. Not ashamed of name-calling, personal insults, racism, their Leader's Big Lie or his thousands of little lies.
   “The beneficiaries are ghouls like Reps. Massie and Boebert,” I said. “Now they can say anything, do anything. Nothing is sacred. Surely not Christmas. Surely not the slaughter of children by other children armed with grownup guns.”
   “It’s easy to be discouraged,” Mr. O grumbled. “You would have thought that the election would have ended the Trump debacle. Instead, Republicans are energized, moving on many fronts to undermine the next election.”
   “It’s not impossible to imagine Donald Trump back in the White House,” I agreed.
 
"WHAT'S THE ANSWER?“ Mr. O asked.
   “Well, how should we know?” I said. “We’re just a sweet dog and a cute opossum. Maybe our best bet is to take Republicans seriously as crazed, dangerous extremists, remembering that most folks are decent, honest and sane.”
   “You mean, we have to trust that, put to a vote, most people wouldn’t welcome a Christmas card featuring kids holding guns that can kill other kids who happened to go to school,” he said.
   “Especially at this time of year,” I said.
   “It being a merry moment of hope and good will and all that sort of thing,” the opossum said.
    ‘Tis the season. So, from both of us, good tidings to one and all.


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5 Comments

Post Office

11/23/2021

1 Comment

 

Letter from a Post Office
ASK NOT WHAT JOE BIDEN CAN DO FOR US;
BUT WHAT wE SHOULD DO FOR JOE BIDEN?

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A FRIEND OF OURS  called today about what just had happened at the Post Office.
  He had been standing in line to mail something to the United Kingdom, an expensive errand that already had him in a foul mood.
   Then he spotted the baseball cap that another person in line was wearing, with the slogan “Let’s Go Brandon.”
    Our friend’s mental state quickly went to a full boil.
   “What should I do?” he wondered, and not in a nice way.

YOU MAY BE asking why something so innocuous as “Let’s Go Brandon” should trigger such a reaction. In which case, that makes you a clueless liberal, a witless progressive and even worse, a registered Democrat.
    Simply translated, “Let’s go Brandon,” is Right Wing snark for “Fuck Joe Biden.”
    It’s spread across social media with the speed of a California wildfire or a Louisiana flood, so that in less than two months, it’s become common Republican-speak, in print and video, on hats, banners and T-shirts.
   It’s origin has everything and nothing to do with fast cars.
    According to an Associated Press story I looked up online,  the slogan got the checkered flag at an  Oct. 2 NASCAR event at Alabama's Talladega Superspeedway. A winning driver, Brandon Brown, was being interviewed by an NBC sportscaster.
   In the background, TV viewers could hear the crowd chanting, but not clearly. The sports guy speculated that fans were cheering Mr. Brown: “Let’s go Brandon.” What a doofus: they were shouting “Fuck Joe Biden.”
   Readers of this blog know that I’m just a simple stray from Missouri, who’s frankly starting to show her age. But I’m blown away by this one: people shell out money for a ticket to NASCAR and instead of celebrating a winning driver, they go full potty-mouth on the President of the United States.
   “What the gosh-darn heck is going on?” I asked Mr. O, the politically astute opossum and my blogging partner.
   “It’s just Republicans being Republicans,” the marsupial answered.
   “Same question, same answer as why most Republicans wouldn’t censure Rep. Paul Gosar, R-AZ after he posted a cartoon in which he “kills” Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez , D-NY?” Mr. O said. “Or why they trivialize, even endorse, the Jan. 6 insurrection at the Capitol in which some of them might have been murdered? Or why they are pushing their End of Days restoration dream of Donald Trump being back in the White House that they think he really never left? Why are they so determined to kill each other and the rest of us with their Covid nonsense?”

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BACK AT THE POST OFFICE: The hat emblazoned with “Let’s go Brandon” was having its intended effect on our friend, who unlike most liberals, is savvy to Right Wing codespeak.
    He knew he had to do something. But what?
   Should he confront the man, who was 6-foot-plus, something our friend never has been and never expects to be.
    Propose an even swap of reasoned ideas? I'll show you mine, if you won't show me yours.
    A scholarly quiz: Do you know how the Constitution defines treason, Idiot?
    A direct challenge: What kind of an asshole supports somebody who wants to overthrow the government?
   Finally, our friend acted.
   He took a deep breath and shouted: “GOD BLESS JOE BIDEN!”

THE REACTION? The hat-wearer refused to make eye contact.
   The line moved forward. Our friend emptied his wallet and sent his missive on its slow trip across the Atlantic. He drove home.
   En route, being a liberal, he replayed the incident, second-guessing himself, even phoning friends, including us, pondering what he should have done. Or not.
   Had he chickened out? Why didn’t he speak to the man? Challenged him for his coded crudity right there on federal property? What could he have said? And on and on and on.
   “What do you think he should have done?” I asked Mr. O.
   “Just what he did,” the opossum said. “It was perfect. Inspired.”
   “Inspired that he called on God to take sides politically right there in the Post Office?” I replied.
   “Absolutely,” Mr. O said."It’s time Democrats started standing up for Joe Biden. Even a long-tailed marsupial knows that Joe Biden saved democracy, in case anyone’s forgotten. But now the Crazy Right is trying to put all that in reverse, and fast.”
   “Patriots need to step up, go on offense and stop their whining, their squabbling and stop blaming their President, their party and themselves for everything that the Republicans are up to.”
   “Time to stop fretting over polls,” he said. “It’s time to stop twisting ourselves into moderate-shaped pretzels. Republicans are out to wreck the country, and you think fanatics will be won over with middle-of-the-road platitudes? There can be no peace with cruel, sadistic, death-wish terrorists bent on  turning the Oval Office into a Throne Room.”

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"SHOUT IT OUT,”  Mr. O thundered. “Stand up. Print it in capital letters. Write it big. Make sure they can hear you in the Republican sewers, in the middle of the road where moderates are about to be whacked from both directions; make it echo across the liberals' lofty Green Mountains and on both their elite coasts.”
   “We need to hear it in the churches, at the supermarkets, the muffler shops, on the street corners, on the radio, AM and FM, across the Internet, in the doughnut shops, at the national parks, during book clubs, steamed into  kitchens and bedrooms, heard at the opera, on the factory floor, delivered by Amazon vans and UPS trucks, played over and over on the putting green, the tennis court, the race track, of course, in the bowling alley, if any are left. And  if you happen to be at the Post Office, you have call it out there, too.”
   By now, Mr. O was hoarse and nearly out of breath.
   “Just make sure everyone can hear you,” he croaked.
   “Shout it. Loud. And shout it big:"
                            GOD BLESS JOE BIDEN!


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1 Comment

11.5.21

11/5/2021

0 Comments

 

WHAT’S WORSE THAN A BAD ELECTION NIGHT?
HEARING FROM THE PUNDITS THE DAY AFTER

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“I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S A BUMMER,” I was saying to the opossum.
   “The outcome of Tuesday’s election!” Mr. O said enthusiastically, as if he knew the correct answer before his classmates and was waving his paw to get the teacher’s attention.
   And not waiting, he blurted: “The Democrats lost the Virginia governor’s race, and came close to losing the one in New Jersey, and this proves that the party’s doomed in next year’s election.”
   At least, Mr. O had not used the word “gubernatorial.”
   “Yes. And no,” I said. “Of course I wish that Virginia would continue to be run by a Democrat. Republicans are frightening. No state should have a Republican in charge; the party must disband or be be ostracized  as an anti-democratic organization embracing authoritarianism and violence.”
   “What is bothering you, Phoebe?” he said.
   “The pundits, and what they had to say the day after the election, that’s what’s got my dander up,” I said.
   “Don’t you mean: ‘That’s what’s got my hackles up?’ Dogs have hackles, which are hairs they raise when they’re considering going on the attack,” Mr. O said authoritatively. “Although I’ve never been sure what ‘hackles’ are. Or ‘dander,’ for that matter.”
   “While you’re Googling the answers,” I said, “I’ll explain why I’m so exercised.”
   “Exercise is good for all of us,” Mr. O said helpfully.
   How can somebody be so cute – that face on the opossum will get you every time –  but be so obtuse? I launched into my diatribe anyway.

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“THE PUNDOCRACY’S reaction to the election was as predictable as the outcome of the voting in the “most closely watched states,” I began. “First of all,  their day-after ‘shock’ was bogus. The polls had been showing Glenn Youngkin, the Republican, gaining in Virginia, then coming even with Terry McAuliffe, a former governor and national Democratic bigwig. The blowhards had been wringing their hands for weeks. So, no surprise.”
   “Okay,” Mr. O said, “what else?”
   “What they said about the New Jersey race, how everyone was shocked – shocked, I say – by the closeness of the race: Memo to pundits and Democratic crybabies everywhere: Philip D. Murphy, the Democratic governor, won New Jersey. As in got-more-votes. What’s more, Murphy’s the first Democratic governor to be re-elected in that bizzaro, state in more than 40 years.”
   “Yes, but...,” Mr. O tried to interrupt.
   “No buts,” I continued. “The Democrats lost one state and won one. WE WON. Proclaim the positive. VICTORY IN NJ! But you’d never know there was an upside. Here’s a sample of news and opinion headlines:

CNN:
ANALYSIS: DEMOCRATS GOT SHELLACKED. NOW WHAT?

BOSTON GLOBE:
AFTER VIRGINIA, DEMOCRATS SHOULD ABSOLUTELY BE FREAKING OUT ABOUT NOW

POLITICO:
HOUSE DEMS SUBURBAN FOUNDATION AT RISK OF CRUMBLING AFTER TUESDAY’S RESULTS

NEW YORK TIMES:
ROCKED BY SURPRISE LOSSES, DEMOCRATS SOUND THE ALARM FOR 2022

WASHINGTON POST::
AN OFF-YEAR ELECTORAL WIPEOUT HIGHLIGHTED THE FRAGILE STATE OF THE PARTY’S ELECTORAL MAJORITIES IN THE HOUSE AND SENATE.

THE GUARDIAN::
BODY BLOW FOR BIDEN AS VOTERS IN VIRGINIA AND NEW JERSEY DESERT DEMOCRATS
“I’D SAY THOSE HEADLINES pretty much tell the story,” Mr. O said.
   I just starred at him in disbelief, then shouted: “What do marsupials know about anything?!”
   “I wouldn’t go there,” Mr. O warned calmly. “Shouldn’t question whether animals make good political analysts in the same blog that’s written by a stray puppy and an opossum who wandered into her backyard.”
   “Whatever,” I growled. “Here’s the thing: Virginia’s gubernatorial – I mean governor’s – race was an election in one state, not 50. Biden wasn’t on the ticket. The House and Senate seats were not on the ballot. The only ‘lesson’ is that Republicans are always a threat. And a menace. We live in scary times. Period.”
   “But…,” Mr. O said, trying again.
   “What really galls me,” I interrupted, “was how the Pundocracy was so eager to blame Democratic progressives. Exhibit A: James Carville. You remember the ‘Ragin’ Cajun’ – he was the down-to-earth guy who was part of Bill ‘The Sex Fiend’ Clinton’s brain trust. Wednesday evening, he was among the commentator’s on the usually sensible PBS NewsHour program.

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JAMES CARVILLE appearing on the PBS NewsHour Nov. 3
   Well, what went wrong is this stupid wokeness.
   All right? Don't just look at Virginia and New Jersey.     Look at Long Island, look at Buffalo, look at Minneapolis. Even look at Seattle, Washington. I mean, this defund the police lunacy, this take Abraham Lincoln's name off of schools, that — people see that.
   And it's just — really have a suppressive effect all across the country to Democrats. Some of these people need to go to a woke detox center or something. They're expressing language that people just don't use. And there's a backlash and a frustration at that.
                                         * * *
   And we have got to change this and not be about changing dictionaries and change laws. And these faculty lounge people that sit around mulling about I don't know what are — they're not working.
   Later in the segment,  Carville starts off on a ‘positive’ note, then goes back on the attack. Here’s more from the NewsHour transcript:
   We could have a roaring economy. This Build Back Better is going to give people a lot of confidence. And as long as we talk about things that are relevant to people and understand what they're going through in their lives and get rid of this left-wing nonsense, this claptrap I hear, I think we can be fine.
                                            * * *
   And there's a real lesson here. And it can be corrected. But they have got — these people have to understand, no one — you're not popular. People don't want to ride in the car with you. They don't want to ride next to you in the subway.   You're annoying people.

“WOW!” Mr. O said. “It’s hard to get a handle on all of that venom.”
   “Let’s start with Jim’s ‘good friend,’ Terry McAuliffe, who, Carville said, was sunk by Progressives'  language," I said. “But it was Terry’s campaign, and obviously, Terry failed to appeal to lots of Democrats. Hey, Jim: It wasn't Terry's party who let him down. It was Terry who pulled his party down."
   “Or, what about that new GOP political wizard, Glenn Youngkin?  He just played the familiar old Republican cards: (A) Race, disguised this time as school issues, promising to ban teaching of ‘Critical Race Theory,’ (not part of the Virginia education curriculum) ; and (B) Pandering to Trump voters, by making sure he was not seen seen on the campaign  trail with Trump; but not criticizing him, either, as he sucked up to Trump voters."
   “But what’s really disturbing about Carville’s comments," I said, "was his savage attack on the people who make up the soul of the Democratic Party, Progressives and Blacks."
    "Carville was seething with contempt for Democrats who’ve been sensitized to racial issues, belittling their ‘stupid wokeness,’ demonizing 'these faculty lounge people,’ and thus reverting to old fashioned conservative tropes that attack eggheads and academics. Not acknowledging where the real enthusiasm, the energy and most of thoughtful ideas come from in the Democratic Party – from the party’s Progressives.

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ADMITTEDLY, BY NOW, I was nearing the edge of the cliff, practically screaming at the opossum.
   “It’s worse,” I said. “Listen to Carville’s contempt for champions of racial justice: People don't want to ride in the car with you. They don't want to ride next to you in the subway. You're annoying people. ”
   “So much for George Floyd and Black Lives Matter and the Civil Rights Movement. Just listen to the advice Carville’s dishing out. I’m paraphrasing: If you want to win an election, put your knee on the neck of the Democratic Party’s most important constituency. And, while you’re about it, screw the entire Civil Rights Movement. Be careful of who sits next to you on the subway. One of them might be Rosa Parks. The Gospel according to Saint. James: If you want to beat Trump and his maniac Republicans, act like them, think like them, talk like them; and hate like them."
   I was practically in tears, maybe from anger, and certainly out of fear. The after-election analysis seemed to me to be sort of like the Trump presidency itself: You thought it was going to be bad, but the reality was even worse.
    I was shaking.
   Mr. O looked at me with alarm, the way you might regard a friend who’s pleasant dinner-table talk has suddenly turned completely active volcano.
   He sat quietly for a while.
   “So, Phoebe,” he said finally, “If I’m hearing you right, you didn’t find the after-election analysis all that helpful?”

0 Comments

dread

10/26/2021

1 Comment

 

DREAD ON A FINE
FALL AFTERNOON

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“IT’S UNBELIEVABLE,” Mr. O gushed, as we met in our backyard for one of our afternoon chats.
   “You mean ‘unbelievable’ as in how the Republicans are undermining democracy?” I said.
   “No, Phoebe,” the opossum replied. “ ‘Unbelievable’ as in Really Nice Weather. You know, the environment, the outdoors, this very backyard. Here it is October -  LATE October – and it’s like spring, or maybe late August, early September. The lawns still are emerald green, the temperatures are balmy. The crickets are cricketing, birds chirping. It’s wonderful.”
   “I don’t see how you can be sappy about something like the weather,” I growled. “For one thing, it’s simply a function of global warming. It should be cold, First Frost chilly; rainy days growing shorter, darker, winter on its way. Global warming only makes it seem ‘nice,’”
   “And you don’t care we’re getting a couple of extra weeks of mild temperatures, when it’s a joy, not a struggle, to be outdoors?” Mr. O shot back.
   “This is no time to be wallowing in wonderfulness," I said. "The Republicans aren’t rejoicing in an extra-innings Autumn. They’re busy undermining fair elections, literally killing people – including their own  – by discouraging Covid vaccinations and declaring war on face masks.”

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“I’M TRYING TO BE POSITIVE,” said the  marsupial with the Teddy-bear face and  the rat-like tail, his tone growing every-so-slightly stern. “We have to take pleasure where we can find it, Phoebe, and right now, our backyard is the perfect place to, well, smell the roses.”
   “The roses are long gone,” I noted.
   “A figure of speech, my too-literal friend,” Mr. O said. “Smelling-the-roses means that we should take time to appreciate the wonders of our lives.  And we have great lives here in Rhode Island. People come from thousands of miles to walk through Newport’s Robber Baron mansions, to hike the Cliff Walk (for free), consume carbohydrates on Providence’s Federal Hill, sign on for schooner cruises on Narragansett Bay."
   “What about the Republicans?” I said. “And Trump? The murderous governors of Florida and Texas? The ‘citizens’ menacing school board meetings? Steve Bannon sneering at Congressional investigators trying to get to the core of Jan. 6 insurrection? Red State legislatures twisting election laws?
   Clearly annoyed by now, Mr O shot back: “What does any of that have to do with being able to enjoy a nice day in New England? Just because we live in a blue state doesn’t mean that we have to always be in a bad – should I say blue – mood.”

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   “And, as I recall, the Humans took you with them on their recent trip to Block Island, a dog-friendly spec of paradise-preserved 12 miles off the Rhode Island mainline,” Mr. O said. “You seemed to perfectly happy to visit the lighthouses, the beaches, the outdoor restaurants. I’ve seen the photos.”
   “ ‘Seemed’ is the operative word,” I said. “The snapshots don’t show what I was feeling, what I was thinking, whether I was sleeping at night.”
   “If I had a chance to go to an opossum-friendly place,” Mr. O said, “I wouldn’t grouse about it.”

“MY POINT IS that there’s too much to be scared about,” I said. “Biden may have beaten Trump. And it’s a relief to have him in the White House. But we can’t be complacent about what Republicans are up to: undermining everything that went right in the last election. We can’t spare a minute, a second to ignore what they’re up to.”
   “At least up to a point, Phoebe,” Mr. O said, “everything you are saying is on the mark. But we can’t let all of that rob us of enjoying good weather and the other things that are so precious to our lives. That’s just giving way, way too much of ourselves to the Dark Forces.”
   “Maybe you’re right," I said. "But I just can’t help it. I live in a constant, unyielding, never-ending cloud of dread. Dread of what’s already happened; dread of the present; dread mostly of what’s to come.”
   Mr. O hopped down from his favorite perch atop a fence post, and he strolled around the backyard, taking in the soft summer-like air, the warmth of the late afternoon sunlight. The thermometer read 66.
   What was he looking for?
   Roses, maybe.

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1 Comment

Republicans

9/28/2021

1 Comment

 

There Are Words For ‘Republicans.’
Why Won’t News Outlets Use Them?

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DEBATING with Mr. O about what to call Republicans, Phoebe visits the Big Chair and Newport's historic Redwood Library for inspiration. You decide if she found any.
“A LOT OF TIMES you see Republicans mentioned in the news, and there’s no swear word anywhere in the story,” Mr. O was saying the other day when the weather was still more summer than fall.
   “That makes sense,” I said as we lolled in the warm, still-green grass. “In general, when not quoting Trump directly, news organizations don’t allow profanity.”
   “Duh,” the opossum said, “I wasn’t born yesterday, although I don’t remember much about my childhood; there’s something vague about growing up in a pouch. It’s very fuzzy.”
   “The pouch or your memory?” I said.
   “Both, probably,” the marsupial said.
   “Well, back to vulgarities on the 6 o’clock news and the front page of the Post,” I said. “News people try to have some standards about language, and also, they try hard not to sound biased. In fact, that’s same code we try honor in our own blog; we mostly avoid the *^#$?!ing sewer.”
   “You know what I mean,” Mr. O said. “But considering the danger Republicans pose to American democracy, they can’t be treated as ... I’m looking for a word….”
   “Respectable?” I suggested.
   “That's the one,” Mr. O said. “Far too often, the media treats Republicans like they are a normal political party, part of our history, an important balancing force within our system of self-governance.”
   “Sounds a little pompous, even for a college-educated opossum,” I said. “But your point, overall, has a point.”
   “Thank you,” Mr. O said. “And I didn’t mean we should use the language of the gutter.”

I RAN INTO THE HOUSE and grabbed a copy of the New York Times, right from under the nose of The Grouchy One, who had it on the kitchen table, hours after breakfast should have ended.
   On the front page(it was actually yesterday’s paper, that’s how indolent Grouchy is) was a story about the national debt limit, so I briefly fell asleep dragging the paper into the backyard. The story was headlined:
Political Game
Increases Odds
of U.S. Default
----
Neither Party Budges
on Debt-Limit vote

   “That’s exactly what’s wrong!” Mr. O bellowed. “The Times makes it seem like there are two major political parties in the United States, and they are having a polite debate over an important, if stupefying, aspect of public policy.”
   How would Mr. O have the Greatest Newspaper refer to Republicans, I wanted to know. And I singled out one paragraph from the Times story, since it included a not-so-subtle suggestion that the Republicans are hypocrites:  

Republicans in Congress have refused to help raise the nation’s debt limit, even though the need to borrow stems from the bipartisan practice of running large budget deficits.”
 
“Try this, instead,” Mr. O said:
     
Republicans in Congress, who refused to investigate the Jan. 6 attack on the Capitol that threatened their own lives, to say nothing of the 2020 election and democracy itself, now are weaponizing the debt limit procedure in their treasonous campaign to undermine the functioning of both the national government and the economy, as they continue their overall goal to create an authoritarian state.

   “Sounds a teensy-weensy loaded, maybe even ‘slanted,’” I said.
   “But it’s true,” Mr. O said.


“AREN’T YOU STEREOTYPING a group of people, objectifying them, labeling, and ultimately treating them as less than human?” I asked.
   “That’s not my intent,” Mr. O said. “In fact, Republicans are acting all too human, the part of being human that’s truly rotten.”
   “Here’s an example,” he continued. “Remember how badly President Joe Biden – a Democrat if memory serves – treated thousands of Haitians on the Texas border? Cruelly, he sent thousands to Haiti, the last place that could handle them. To say nothing of the photos of border agents on horseback, who looked like they were herding refugees, even whipping them with their reins.”

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CREDIT: Reuters
   “But Biden condemned the riders as ‘outrageous’ and promised an investigation,” I said. “And the President said that if their actions were as grotesque as the pictures depicted, ‘those people will pay.’”
   “Right,” Mr. O said. “Now, consider the Republican response, in the person of Texas Gov. Greg Abbott. He said if Biden fires the riders, he’ll hire them as Texas state officials.”

“WHAT HAS TO HAPPEN?” I asked Mr. O.
   “For starters, you treat Republicans not like they used to be before but like the Trump cultists they’ve become, the same way you refer to any universally accepted horrible thing – for example, like a hurricane.”
   “Republicans are a weather system?” I said.
   “A hurricane is not an ordinary meteorological event,” Mr. O said.  “It’s a threat to every creature and every habitat; it’s a terrible, terrifying disaster; it’s deadly, it’s destructive; there’s no such thing as a ‘nice,’ ‘normal,’ ‘okay,’ or ‘routine’ hurricane.”
   “In other words,” I said, “there are some things that are simply bad, no questions asked. Like a disease, a serial killer; like a wildfire;  a flood; like the Depression, the Mafia; like the Klan, the Khmer Rouge.”
   “Like Republicans,” Mr. O said.

1 Comment

Sept. 17, 2021

9/17/2021

9 Comments

 

WE'RE BACK.
AND WISH WE WEREN'T

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"I'VE BEEN THINKING about you," I said. “Where have you been?”
   “Here and there and nowhere,” growled the opossum, who was my one-time writing partner.
   Mr. O, as I call him, was balanced on the top edge of our backyard wooden fence, a precarious perch that was not necessarily his first choice of a resting spot.
   In fact, he had just been pursued across the backyard and up the fence by none other than me. I’d been on my final backyard visit for the evening and, sensing an unknown creature, given chase.
   So here he was, caught in the glare of LED flashlight held by The Grouchy One, frozen in silhouette, either out of habit or lack of alternatives, staring straight ahead.

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IT WAS OUR first “meeting” since Joe Biden won the presidency last November, a miracle that made unnecessary further publication of the “Tracking Trump” blog, on which we had collaborated during some of the country’s darkest years.
   We hadn’t deliberately stopped writing; continuing just seemed beside the point, now that Biden was safely on his way to the White House, not that our blog had anything to do with that.
   Strangely, Mr. O and I never even said goodbye. The opossum seemed just to fade into outdoors as mysteriously as he had appeared one day in our backyard; and later, we’d discovered a shared interest in politics.
    And until now, we had made no attempt to stay in touch. No cards – actually, I was the only one with a known street address at the home in Newport, R.I., I share with my Humans,  The Nice One and The Grouchy One – but neither of us had lifted a claw to send an email or text.
   I’d often wondered why we ignored each other after such an intense collaboration in which we, like so many Americans and even those in other countries, had tried to fathom how a fiend like Donald Trump had ascended to the most powerful office in the world, then promptly set about tearing apart his country’s sacred institutions and customs.
   Perhaps our professional relationship, forged not in friendship, but out of desperation and fear, had been so consuming that when it seemed like the danger had passed, the mere sight of each other brought back the terror of those awful times.

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BUT THE NIGHTMARE, as you know as well as we do, never ended; in fact, it’s even darker and more terrifying.
   More than 74 million people voted for Trump, just 7 million less than the 81 million for Biden, despite four awful years in which Trump had conclusively proven that he was unfit to lead, and, indeed, was more destructive to our democracy than any foreign enemy.
   Nearly half of our fellow citizens embraced Trump; his influence in 2021 seems deeper and more destructive than when he took office in 2017, having transformed the GOP into something that resembles a terrorist organization more than a normal political party.
   Republicans apologized, ignored, lied about and sometimes supported the Jan. 6 attack on the Capitol that nearly cost Trump’s own vice president, as well as GOP and other lawmakers, their lives. Republican-dominated state houses since the election have passed laws to weaken voting rights and vote-counting procedures, which had allowed the country to overcome Trump’s Big Lie that he’d won.

SO, REPUBLICANS HAVE emerged as a homicidal force that extended the Covid 19 pandemic not just within their own states, but placed the entire nation at risk by fighting vaccination and mask-wearing steps that can the spread of virus variants.
   Just two states, Texas and Florida, now account for one-third of all daily Covid deaths in the country, as their governors, Greg Abbott, in Texas, and Ron DeSantis in Florida, war against their own school districts and communities that have tried to establish safety protocols.
   The nation is averaging 1,969 Covid deaths a day, with Texas accounting for 297 of these, and Florida, 363;according to today's New York Times compilations. And yet there are no Wanted for Murder posters on telephone poles and Post Office bulletin boards for Abbott and DeSantis.
    President Biden (how good this still sounds) today continued to call out both murderous leaders, according to the Washington Post:
  “The governors of Florida and Texas are doing everything they can to undermine the lifesaving requirements that I proposed,” Biden said at the White House.
   The Post noted also that attorneys general in 24 Republican states said they would do everything they could to block Biden's recent moves to promote mask wearing and vaccinations. Essentially, pledging to promote illness and death.

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I WONDERED whether Mr. O’s reappearance in our backyard recently was a coincidence or an acknowledgment that, sadly, our work is not over.
   As we discussed getting the blog going again, Mr. O wouldn’t say why he returned or even if he’d really gone away. But wearily, he agreed that we couldn’t just ignore the peril that threatens the country.
   Whether an aging, but “sweet” dog or an opossum, with a cute face and an ugly tail, should be taken seriously in discussing these matters is a fair question.
   But doing nothing is not an answer.

9 Comments

DAY 1387

11/7/2020

3 Comments

 

TRUMP VANQUISHED
THOUGHTS ON A DAY OF MIRACLES

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“ONE THING IS CLEAR,” I said to Mr. O.
   “What’s that?” the profoundly politically advanced opossum giggled.
   “No matter what we say today, it cannot adequately capture the joy and importance of the moment,” I said. “Lots of people are going be able to describe it more eloquently, more profoundly, with greater depth.”
   “Ha, ha, ha,” Mr. O said, “Phoebe, you are such a laugh riot.”
   Demonstrating that, even on a day of great miracles, there are always more surprises. Who could have predicted that a marsupial could giggle and laugh?
   Sobering up for a moment, Mr. O said:
   “It’s still hard to believe that Joe Biden has beaten Donald Trump.”
   “And hard not to sit here and bawl my eyes out,” I said.
   “I know, ladies are so emotional,” Mr. O sniffed, turning his head away from me for an obvious reason, while using his long, dreadful tail to flick away what indisputably was a tear coming from one of his teddy bear-like eyes.
   “It’s such a relief,” I said. “It’s everything we hoped for, dreamed of, and really, really wondered whether we’d ever see: nearly identical headlines on both the Washington Post’s and New York Times’ webpages: BIDEN BEATS TRUMP (the Times) and BIDEN DEFEATS TRUMP (the Post). Can  you believe it?”
   “I think we’ve covered the surprise and wonderful part,” Mr. O said. “But no, I can’t believe it, even though we both knew it was always possible.”


WE CONFERRED a while longer in our backyard, where we have our daily political conversations.
   And today it wasn’t a chore, given that it was a remarkably warm summer day here in Newport, R.I., even though it was early November.
   We decided that on the day when the networks, the newspapers and the news services all agreed that enough votes had been counted to declare Biden the winner, that we ought to to say something.
   So, we came up with the following:

                                        Joe Biden was (and is) The One.
   Biden was practically nobody’s first choice of a candidate, but he turned out to be the only Democrat who could have beaten Donald Trump. And “we’ – the editorial “we” who write the Tracking Trump blog – were among the dorks who completely missed that point.
   But as it turns out, Biden was and is the one person who could unite the self-destructive factions of the Democratic Party, along with Donald-Disaffected Republicans and lots of other people who really hated politics but disliked Trump more.
   One day, we went so far as to write a snarky anti-Biden post: GO JOE – GO AWAY. A lot of readers (and we use the phrase “a lot” advisedly) liked that one.
   And everyone hated a later one, in which we took a “2nd look”: MAYBE BIDEN IS THE RIGHT ONE TO TAKE ON TRUMP.

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   Which reinforces the point that none of us has all the answers, especially a sweet dog and an optopossumistic opossum.
   Humility is critical. Let’s hope Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. can hang onto his.

                                                  Many, many heroes
   There have been thousands upon thousands of people who worked hard and worked smart, especially at the grassroots, to build new democratic structures, coalitions and new alliances that brought Trump down.
   They now may help to bring about great reforms to make it less likely that an evil demagogue will again take over the U.S. government in the way Trump has done.
   We’ll never know most of their names. But they started during the inspired Women’s Marches the day after Inauguration in 2017, wearing those great pink pussy hats. And we owe them.           

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                                        The Trump mystery
   We  never will know why so many people fell under Trump’s spell.

                               Today’s victory isn’t enough
   Inspired as today’s outcome is, it’s only a beginning.
   One thing is for sure, no single reform, law or victory lasts – the outcomes of the Civil War, Roe Vs. Wade,  the Voting Rights Act, the Clean Water Act, the First Amendment, Social Security, Obamacare.
    Progress is temporary, vulnerable and always under attack. It’s not fair, but it’s a fact: nothing stays fixed.

                                      Trump’s future?
   Nobody knows what will become of him, especially backyard pundits like us, who can’t even vote (Memo to the Republican National Committee: Mr.O and I never tried to vote, so don’t use that as an idea for one of your phony lawsuits).
    Maybe, he’s really finished, politically and economically.
    Maybe, he’s a permanent demon, perpetually threatening, undermining, corrupting our public life.
    Maybe, he’ll get a second bout of coronavirus.
    Maybe, the third Mrs. T will activate the prenup.
    Maybe, Trump will resign, with Mike Pence becoming president for a few weeks, on the understanding that Pence will issue Trump a universal pardon, while Trump looks for a place that has a golf course, but lacks an extradition treaty with the United States.
   Maybe, Pence, being the worm that he is, will skip the part about the pardon.

                                   Will there be justice for Trump?
                                                  (See related item above).
   There’s great demand for,  if not revenge, at least justice.
   But can anything compensate for his many misdeeds: the divided marriages, Thanksgiving meals ruined, the corruption, the damage to the Constitution, the suffering of immigrants, the injury to the environment, and the people dead and maimed by his unforgivable handling of Covid-19?
    No?
    We do know this: Donald John Trump’s worst nightmare, perhaps his only nightmare, is losing.
    Which just happened.

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3 Comments

DAY 1384

11/5/2020

0 Comments

 

WHILE WE WAIT:
DREAMS ABOUT WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN;
& STILL COULD BE.

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“IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY,” I SAID.
   “And now, it’s a long night,” Mr. O said.
   “So, where are we?” I asked.
   “Still waiting,” Mr. O said.
   “Still hoping,” I said.
   It was way beyond the time when Mr. O, the wunder-opossum of politics and I usually wrap up our state-of-the-nation discussions for the day.
   However, the networks had “special reports” at 10 p.m., perhaps hoping they’d be able to call the election, and promote Joe Biden from former vice president to future president-to-be.
   But there was no certainty, as they began.
   Biden was “leading” in the electoral college count, 253 to 214 for Trump.
   If you went to some websites, Biden had been moved up to 264 votes, with the Masters-of-the-Electoral-Maps throwing in Arizona’s 11 votes, bringing Biden within 6 tantalizing, so, so, soooo electoral votes close to the magical 270 that would make him the winner.
    But the Associated Press, the networks, the Times and the Post, were all holding back Arizona, trying to play strictly by the rules of certainty, while at the same time hinting, hinting, HINTING that sooner or later, Biden would get Arizona, plus Nevada (11 votes) and/or Pennsylvania (20) and maybe even Georgia (16)
   And that would be that.

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BUT NOT YET.
   And we both sensed the cold despair shooting through our exhausted bodies, the awful feeling that it was possible that 17 votes, or just 6 votes, would be as close as Biden would get to calling the White House home.
   That Trump somehow would snatch it all back, confounding the same experts who’d been so sure that Biden would sweep into the White House, and the Democrats would retake the Senate and expand their hold on the House.
   Which didn’t happen on Election Day. Nor the day after; and so far not the night after.
Would our hearts be broken again? Just like 2016, tossing us into to perpetual nervousness, anxiousness and bewilderment every single day – not so much as a weekend off – for the next four years.
   But not yet.
   Hope still was in the air.

WHILE WE WAITED, there was lots and lots of stupid talk, some of it originating from yours truly and the Honorable Mr. 0.
   Like how, even if Biden won, he still would be dogged by Trump and his millions and millions of followers.
   Nasty people, every one them. Bigots. Environmental criminals. Covid-19 super-spreaders. Immigrant-haters. Anti-vaxxers. Grifters. Misogynists. Incompetents. Sycophants.  
   And how disappointing it all was.
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   They were a mean lot.  So disappointing
   Can you imagine? Maine brought back Susan Collins, the phoniest of all “moderate” Republicans, for a fifth term in the Senate, so she could once again consider voting against her party, unless, upon reflection, she decided it’s better to vote with her party.
   So few of us, smart, principled, caring people.
   After four years, you’re still in a room, and half the people hate you. Look to your left; look to your right; you're surrounded by people who mean you actual harm. What’s got into them? Will we ever know? Do they know?

BUT HOLD ON!
   Let’s clear away some of the silly talk. (Why do liberals always act like this? They’re – we’re – such whiners. No wonder nobody likes us).
   First, if we’re going to get into Us-Vs-Them, there are more “Us’s”.
   Biden voters numbered 71.6 million, or 50.5 percent; Trumpsters, 68 million, or 48 percent.
   We know. We KNOW. It’s the weirdo electoral college system that counts. But that’s a flaw. Joe Biden should be president on winning 50.5 percent of the vote, which is what  you’d expect from a democracy. Wouldn’t you be ashamed to be president, knowing your opponent got more votes?
   Secondly, it’s hard to beat an incumbent president. Not impossible, of course. But it’s hard. So, we’ve actually done that. Or we almost have.
   And how about this?
   The country may be split almost down the middle, but what we could call the “Biden Coalition” has been a pretty united crew of people, who have been able to put a lot of personal grievances and preferences aside for the greater good, and that’s a hard thing to do.
   There've been a fair number of Republicans willing to work, even vote, for the Democrat; a fair amount of conservatives voting progressive; a fair amount of liberals sticking with Middle-of-the-Road Joe. Lot of Black voters helping out White voters, knowing their rewards historically have been few, and always a lot less than they deserve, and that's happened in the past, especially when there was a war or an election to be won.
   And finally, let’s not sell President Biden short, if we get to call him that.
   There’s a lot of good that he can do in the next four years.
   It’s one thing that Trump has proved: leadership counts. When you have a terrible leader, you can get a lot of people to do terrible things. If you get a decent leader, a lot of people will do decent things.

SO, LET’S keep our hopes up.
   Maybe we’ll wake up in the morning, with a new president just a couple of months away from taking office.
   Maybe not. In that case, more people voted for the right guy than the wrong one. And they aren’t going anywhere.
   “So, get a good night’s sleep, Phoebe.”
   “Sweet dreams to you, Mr. O.”
   It always starts with a dream.


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0 Comments

DAY 1382

11/3/2020

0 Comments

 
Days Until Election: 0

OUR ELECTION PREDICTION:
JOE BIDEN WINS

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“YOU GO FIRST," Mr. O said.
   “No, you,” I said.
   It was the day before the final voting day, which in normal times, has been called Election Day, and Mr. O, the politically savvy opossum, and I had decided we would make a prediction. It was sunny, but cold and wicked windy in our backyard, so we decided to keep the meeting short.
   “Biden,” I said.
   “Biden,” he said.

WHY?
   “The pollsters,” I said.
   “You’re kidding,” Mr. O said. “Remember what happened in 2016?”
   “Of course,” I said, “which is the reason I’m not crazy about making any predictions.”
   “But why rely on the pollsters this time?” Mr. O asked.
   “Realistically, we have nothing else to go on,” I said. “And the people who got it wrong the last time say they’ve tried to overcome the problems that led them – and the rest of us – down the wrong path. And they all are hedging – saying that Trump has a chance to win again.”
   I pointed out the average, as tallied by RealClearPolitics, which showed Biden ahead, with a projected 50.7 percent of the vote, compared to 44 percent for Trump, a 6.7 point lead. Further, the “battleground states” had Biden with an average 2.6 percentage points lead.

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   Here’s how Nate Cohn analyzed it in the New York Times. (Cohn’s estimate of Biden’s lead is larger than the RCP figure. Please don’t ask me why; I’m just a sweet dog).
The final polls more or less comport with how we already viewed the race. Mr. Biden ends the race up by more than eight points nationwide — the largest lead a candidate has held in the final polls since Bill Clinton in 1996. He’s up by at least five points in states worth more than 270 electoral votes, the number needed to win. Beyond that, he’s got at least a nominal lead in states worth 350 electoral votes, and he’s just a 2012 polling error away from a sweeping landslide of more than 400 electoral votes.
   But Cohn gives Trump a credible chance:
The real reason Mr. Trump still has an outside shot is simple: As in the final tallies of 2016, he still has a relative advantage in the states likeliest to decide the election compared with the nation as a whole. If you go down the list of states from best to worst for Mr. Biden, you’ll find that his 270th electoral vote would come from Pennsylvania, where he leads by just over five points. That’s a serious deficit for Mr. Trump, but it’s a lot better than his eight-plus-point deficit in the national vote. If Pennsylvania was Biden plus-8, like Michigan or the nation, it would be really hard to see a path for the president.
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   Here’s what Nate Silver, of the FiveThirtyEight blog wrote:
Biden’s chances of winning hover between the high 80s and low 90s in our forecast. Don’t get too obsessed with the exact number. What’s important to remember is that Biden is favored, but there is still a path for Trump. Trump might be the underdog, and he needs a big polling error in his favor, but bigger polling errors have happened in the past.
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   Silver put Trump’s probability of winning at about 10 percent, about the same odds of it raining in Los Angeles, where, he said, it does rain 36 days a year.

“AND YOUR REASONS for predicting a Biden win?” I asked Mr. O.
   “It’s simple,” the marsupial said. “Trump is a terrible president and a danger to the world.”
   “Well, bad things happen to nice planets,” I said.
   “All the time,” Mr. O said. “But Trump has had four years of lucky breaks in which he’s escaped accountability, from the Hollywood Access tapes to the Mueller Report to impeachment, to supposedly coming down with Covid-19 and recovering, and it’s time all of that comes to an end. At some point, justice has to kick in.”
   “What troubles me the most,” Mr. O continued, “is that if, indeed, Trump gets the boot, it will be because of the way in which he’s handled the Covid-19 pandemic, or I should say, not handled it.”
   “It’s an ungodly price for everyone else to pay,” I said. “More than 9.3 million people infected, and 231,510 dead.”
   “It IS too high a price,” Mr. O acknowledged. “But probably had not the pandemic occurred, Trump would have easily been elected to a second term on the basis of the economy.”

“ONE FINAL MATTER,” I said. “ What if we’re wrong, the pollsters are wrong and Trump is reelected? We’ve been saying for years that the country, at least as a democracy, is dead. We’ve barely survived the first four years. What would we do for the next four?”
   “First, we would have to admit that we’ve been wrong about that,” Mr. O said. “We would have  to say that we can survive; the country can survive; and that we'll just have to keep on fighting.”
   “But it would be a terrible four years,” I said.
   “Worse than you or I can imagine,” Mr. O said.
   “Which would be no excuse to give up,” I said.”
   “Really,” he agreed. “It’s not like there'd be another choice.”


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    A "sweet dog" and a smart opossum consider a nation at risk.

    The writers

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    PHOEBE, a "sweet dog" who came to Rhode Island in 2010 as a stray puppy from Missouri, was a political agnostic until Trump's catastrophic election. She tracked his presidency in a blog, which she decided to resurrect it this year  when it became obvious that Republicans are committed to Trump's destructive policies
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    MR. O, an opossum, showed up in Phoebe's backyard somewhat mysteriously. He turned out to have genuine insight into political matters, and he agreed to assume co-author duties of the blog after Phoebe's previous writing partner, Cat, a cat, died.
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    CAT

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