Skeet Shooting
Lost in all the social media harrumphing about Original Sin, the duplicitous “tell-all” book by Jake Tapper and Alex Thompson, is that the Democratic Party, six months after Donald Trump’s victory, still haven’t coalesced around a leader who can speak rationally (that eliminates the likes of Maryland Sen. Chris Van Hollen and AOC) for the Democrats ahead of the 2026 midterm Congressional elections. Taking back the House ought to be a cinch, but they’re blowing it—and no one is helming a “shadow government.”
It’s understandable that the Party—and its thousands of consultants, donors and for-hire celebrities—took a break in the immediate aftermath of Trump’s surprisingly robust victory over the hapless Kamala Harris (I’ve no idea whether she’s underneath the bottle, as some say without corroboration, although if she wasn’t loaded at some of her crazy staged media events, that’s even more damning), but I was certain, perhaps not fully integrated into the “new politics,” that soon after the “Bad Orange Man’s” inauguration, such a figure would emerge.
But it’s May and that hasn’t occurred: it’s early for 2028 presidential election, but potential candidates are going through the vetting process for the midterms, and the Democrats won’t stop their internecine squabbling, or alternatively, as in the case of Grumpy Warrior Bernie Sanders and AOC (the political Savanah Bananas) holding rallies to prop up what’s left of their base and rack up meaningless virtue points. Doesn’t bother me, but it’s a self-indulgent, if entertaining, exercise, as is the flap over threatening David Hogg’s slot as DNC vice chair for the crime of being white, male, heterosexual, shrill and obnoxious. Give Hogg credit, even when he’s ignored or lampooned, for recognizing that young men, in particular, are no longer in the Democratic fold. The youth vote is always fickle, but the more important problem, as Hogg incessantly screams, is that when the top echelons of the Party are still represented by sclerotic “public servants” such as Chuck Schumer, Maxine Waters, Tim Walz, Jamie Raskin, Chris Murphy, Bruce Springsteen, Barack Obama, Eddie Vedder, James Comey (his “8647” was a stupid troll) and Jerry Nadler, there’s little room for men and women not yet 30 to even pay their dues, working 70-hour weeks in quest of future campaigns and Capitol Hill positions.
The Tapper-Thompson book, about Joe Biden’s incapacity while president—as if voters didn’t see that for themselves every time that nasty piece of work was allowed to appear in public—is irrelevant, aside from the anger (mostly from centrist Democrats and Republicans) that the authors withheld their “inside” information last year, and are “lining their pockets” with this rush-job “now it can be told” effort. Biden no longer matters—he was relegated last summer to what’s now palmed off as “history,” and even his three or four steadfast enablers can’t gussy up his diminutive “legacy.” As for Tapper, as a CNN anchor and author, he’s already wealthy, and why he’d want to slip further into Brian Stelter territory, is mysterious. Tapper’s not a nitwit, which is one reason why it’s weird he’d sabotage his career and reputation. Maybe he’s still mourning John McCain’s death.
The con job (Tapper and Thompson’s cheap Bob Woodward trick of holding back knowledge until after the election) is so obvious that I expected the New York Times review to express a smidgen of skepticism. But no: patriots must keep up the pretense that Trump is an “existential” threat to “the American experiment” and bludgeoned at every turn. And that’s one more reason the Democratic Party (and its dutiful, tell-us-what-to-do media) is so fucked up right now.
Jennifer Szalai writes, presumably with a straight face, in her schoolgirl mash note to the authors: “A red-faced Donald Trump let loose [at the June 27th debate last year] a barrage of audacious whoppers while Biden, slack-jawed and pale, struggled to string together intelligible rebuttals. Trump’s debate performance was of a piece with his rallies, a jumble of nonsensical digressions and wild claims. But for many Americans, the extent of Biden’s frailty came as a shock.”
That’s not true: Biden’s “frailty” was a topic since he became the nominee (by DNC fiat) in 2020 and then for the next four years.
As I recall, politics wasn’t always so impossible to decipher. I raised an eyebrow when reading the Times, Baltimore Sun and Washington Post, but generally absorbed the information (a time when “on-the-record” sources were named), and collated it in my mind. There were exceptions: no dailies never could figure out the Patty Hearst rolling medicine show (that was left to Rolling Stone), and cultural coverage was still in its short-pants phase, but the basics of political coverage was more or less believable.
I chuckled when Jimmy Carter, in jeans and an Allman Brothers t-shirt, fumbled when asked about his three favorite Bob Dylan songs, and maybe that’s why he barely defeated Jerry Ford, the crummy caretaker president. I didn’t care for either candidate in 1976, but laid down a sawbuck I didn’t have on the Republican and that pissed me off more than Jimmy’s sweaters and Brother Billy Beer. Always dug Miss Lillian, though.
The accompanying photo, snapped by either Jennifer Bishop or Joachim Blunck (JB) at the City Paper offices early in the weekly’s long run, is of one of my lifelong friends on a fall afternoon when a group of us stopped work for our 4:30 reefer break. One of my brothers was horrified at the interruption of production, but the small staff was on the go from seven-to-seven attempting on almost no capital to make an impression in a Baltimore that still believed a red logo signified a Communist paper. JB made 10 very cool “4:30 Club” shrink-wrapped cards, in Neon type and when someone was honored with this souvenir it was the equivalent of a British knighthood. Purely symbolic but fun. In the photo, my pal (now a retired surgeon living on the water in South Carolina) might say he was in the midst of meditation, a legit fib given the era, but really he was holding in the smoke from a hit off Mr. Bong.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Don DeLillo’s Running Dog, Anthony Burgess’ 1985, Judith Krantz’s Scruples and Edward Said’s Orientalism are published; Elton John appears on The Muppet Show; The Buddy Holly Story is released; Alice Cooper boards the sobriety wagon; Nick Lowe’s Jesus of Cool and The Jam’s All Mod Cons are released; Donna Summers follows Richard Harris with a rendition of the very stupid novelty song “MacArthur Park”; Emmylou Harris has a hit with “Two More Bottles of Wine”; James Franco is born and John Cazale dies; and WKRP in Cincinnati debuts on CBS.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023