Hammering at the Drawbridge

“It is not inevitable that what passes for progress in our age involves the concentration of power into a small number of hands and the issuance of stories about the powerful being fighters for the little guy.” Anand Giridharadas

The canny strategists and tacticians of the Democratic Party establishment, along with media yakkers like Chris Matthews, are losing their shit over Bernie Sanders. If you listen to James Carville, the ragin’ Cajun who last ran a successful presidential campaign in 1992 -- and traded that one experience to become, for some strange reason, a go-to political sage -- the rise of Sanders to clear front runner is akin to the end of Western Civilization.

Not would-be-tyrant Donald J. Trump, mind you, Bernie Sanders, the avuncular Jew from Vermont. That’s the threat. Bernie Sanders, and what he represents to the rulers, the owners, the propertied and privileged. Potential loss of wealth, which means, by definition, status and privilege -- and power. Higher taxes on the obscenely wealthy and corporations, a turn away from grotesque income inequality, which could make the rich less rich, and the powerful less powerful. Some societal sharing of the spoils, some action on behalf of the earth itself, some regard for human life. Scary stuff. Better elect Joe Biden. Or Mike Bloomberg. Or AnybodyButBernie. 

Change. Always fought tooth and nail. You want something from the haves, you best be prepared for a battle; with the exception of a very few enlightened ones, they will fight you with equal fury to hold what they have. That’s the deal at its most elemental. It’s primal, emotional. It’s why Trump appeals to millions of Americans. What did playing by the established rules do for them? They feel overrun by change, by women and minorities and foreigners, by Barack Obama, the first black president. By liberal elites who think they’re stupid losers. 

Writing on the Counterpunch website John Eskow said: “Lets’ spare ourselves months of these subtle, rapier-like rhetorical thrusts and cut, as they say, to the chase: the Democratic Party, with James Carville serving as just one of their low-rent Paul Reveres, is screaming out a warning: it doesn’t matter if Bernie Sanders sweeps all, or most, of the remaining primaries, as he seems certain to do. It doesn’t matter what the plurality of Democrats actually wants: their hopes, their passions, their dreams mean nothing.

They’re simply not going to let him win.”

The image in my head is of a sailor holding the rigging of a clipper ship as the vessel takes on water, a hurricane force wind howls and shreds the sails, and jagged rock formations appear dead ahead. A collision is unavoidable, but the sailor is determined to hang on, no matter what. He tightens his grip as the fierce wind hurls water into his eyes and mouth and nose, gagging him. If he jumps overboard he might stand a chance, but his fear of the open sea is greater than his fear of the ship slamming into the rocks. 

If the all-out media assault against Sanders doesn’t work, how are the Big Cheeses of the Democratic Party going to prevent Sanders from claiming the nomination? What procedural machinations do they have in store to thwart Bernie? Will it resemble the 1944 convention when Henry Wallace was shunted aside by the men in the smoke-filled room and replaced by the more palatable Harry Truman? Will Sanders be labelled as the reincarnation of George McGovern? Democrats are haunted to this day by the ghosts and ghouls of 1972. Ever since McGovern, the Democrats have tacked right, and in doing so have become indistinguishable from what were once known as “moderate” Republicans. With the help of Bill Clinton, Robert Rubin, Larry Summers, Chuck Schumer, Joe Biden, many, many others, the list is very long, Democrats bought the whole neoliberal catalog: tax cuts for the wealthy and corporations, privatization of essential public services, outsourcing of manufacturing jobs to low wage nations, wars of choice that never end, assaults on labor unions, lax antitrust enforcement, monetary policy that prioritized investors over wage earners, and lip-service to the climate emergency.  

Who does Putin want, Sanders or Trump? The corporate media can’t seem to make up its mind. 

At least once a week a mailer a week from the Bloomberg campaign appears in my mailbox. If Bloomberg’s data geniuses are sending mailers to people like me they obviously have money to waste. According to his propaganda, Mike will fix all our problems with his billionaire brilliance. Climate change? Mike will solve it. Health care? Mike’s on it. Gun violence? Mike will bring the NRA to heel. Foot fungus? Trust Mike to cure it. Ditto acid reflux and occasional constipation and flatulence and dry mouth and dandruff. 

Politics is about taking credit for stuff you didn’t do, and blaming others for stuff you did do. All politicians, local, state and federal, play this game to some extent, though some are more shameless than others. Joe Biden comes to mind. A fool so full of hubris that he cannot see that his time is long past. The average voter wants fantasy, like the notion that a billionaire like Bloomberg has the answers, or a total fraud like Donald J. Trump cares about working people. Got news for you -- money cannot buy integrity, honesty, or passion for justice. The quadrennial election circus is built to obscure, downplay, and paper over the serious problems hammering at the drawbridge of the American Empire. 

If America is to stand a chance of survival, the pendulum has to begin swinging back, away from corporate dominance and the commodification of our lives. By himself, Bernie Sanders cannot move the pendulum. But if Sanders can grow a progressive movement that gains traction in the House and Senate, in state and local government -- a big If I realize -- we might have a shot. I’m not holding my breath, but I voted for Bernie Sanders. 

Things I’m Watching:

Richard Grenell, Trump’s “acting” Director of National Intelligence. Grenell’s a total political hack, unqualified in every respect except for his loyalty to Trump. His sole job will be to deep six any intelligence that ties foreign interference in the 2020 election to Trump.

How the Trump Gang responds to the coronavirus when it takes hold on our fruited plain. When it comes to a pandemic, incompetence is a bad thing. Late update: I just learned that our genuis president put Vice President Mike Pence in charge of the response. I’d say we’re screwed. 

Whether or not Chief Justice John Roberts defends the integrity of the Supreme Court against Trump’s ignorant (but very calculated) attacks. It will not be a reassuring sign if Roberts hides behind his robes, meek and silent.  

What happens when the Supreme Court takes up the case of Trump’s tax returns. It’s obvious that Trump is desperate to keep his returns from public scrutiny. Those returns are a map. 

Dangerous Certainty

“The decline and fall of these civilizations...was not caused by external invasions but internal decay.” Martin Luther King, Jr. 

This morning we had some thunder and a light rain, and now there’s a cool breeze and some steelwool clouds. Feels like we might get more rain. I spend most of the day watching football matches, Chelsea versus Tottenham and Leicester against Manchester City. The Chelsea match starts at 4:30 a.m. I’m awake by then, more or less, waiting for the alarm on my phone to go off, but I lay a while longer, thinking about the novel Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward. Sad stuff, and Hurricane Katrina hasn’t hit yet. 

I go to my landlord’s house to ask if they’ll let us have a dog. For the past two days my daughter has been texting her mother and I photos of adorable puppies available for immediate adoption. Asking, and then pleading with us to let her bring one home. No, I respond, please don’t do that, not yet. Repeat this two or three times. Patience my child. We must be eight or nine years removed from the day Sparky, our Jack Russell terrier, died. We got him as a puppy and for 14 years he was family. In many ways Sparky was our first child. A spunky boy with a black patch over one eye, long legs, smooth coat and proud chest. Quick, alert, agile, mischieveous, and loving. Since losing Sparky, and after Chula, my mother-in-law’s shipoo died a couple of years ago, we have felt starved of canine energy. Once you experience it, get used to it being around, it’s hard, at least in our experience, not to have it on a daily basis. Especially when I see people walking their dogs all over town, past our house, on the grass at the high school, when I go to Handlebar for coffee on weekdays. We’ll see what they say. All I can do is ask. Seems simple enough, asking, but it took a long time for me to come to it. (I’ve never been very comfortable asking people for things). We’ve been in this apartment nearly 23 years, and I have rarely asked our landlord for anything. He’s replaced the stove and the refrigerator and the toilet once since we’ve lived here. Had some plumbing issues over the years, but nothing catastrophic. He’s replaced some window hardware. I pay the rent on time, in fact, every month I take the check to his house and hand it to him, or wedge it in the door if he’s not around. I treat his property as a caretaker would. We won’t live here forever, it doesn’t work that way, but I’d like to stay as long as we can. 

Even though it looks like it might rain, I take our blue 2009 Honda CRV to the car bath on Anacapa for a long overdue wash. The body’s banged up, dented and scratched, from Miranda learning to drive, and I figure, what’s the point? But my wife likes it when the Honda is clean. I’ve got a pocketful of quarters and I buy plenty of time to power rinse, scrub, and rinse again, do the tires. Across the street from the car bath Dune Coffee is bustling. The weekly Farmers Market is going on in the city parking lot where Lincoln School once stood. Pedestrians on the sidewalks, some with bags of vegetables, jars of honey, apples and oranges and marmalade. Lots of people in shorts and sandals. Santa Barbara Saturday. This is the good stuff, sunshine and the Farmer’s Market. Drinking that Dune coffee drink nice and slow, no hurry, nowhere to be at any specific time. Feels good. The CRV drips dry while I drive home. I gather some rags, a couple of towels, a Latex glove, Amorall, Windex, RainX, a can of tire cleaning spray and a spray bottle of headlight lubricant. I set-up the old vacuum we use for the cars. The paper filter was last changed in 2012. The thing must weigh 25 pounds. I think we bought it at Sears. I wipe the car down. Traffic passes on Milpas Street. I spray Armorall on the faded plastic trim, let it sit for a few minutes before wiping it off, then spray the tires with the tire spray. Clouds pass over the building, hiding the sun. I clean the interior with Armorall and Windex. I’m thinking about the interview I listened to earlier, when I was training. Krista Tippett interviewed two Jesuit priests who are also acclaimed astronomers. The conversation centered on faith and science, doubt and certainty, and that marvelous moment when we realize how much we have yet to discover. That’s how it goes, like laying paving stones in the ancient world, building the road as you go; then another person comes along, armed with more knowledge than you had, or better tools, and adds to what you’ve done, extends the reach of the road. Tippett’s guests believe in God and Science, with no contradiction, mental tug-of-war, or cognitive dissonance. God and Science are neighbors, existing peacefully next to one another. Both men were both wary of certainty. I thought of Donald Trump, our Mob Boss President, who proves how utterly ignorant he is every time he claims to be certain of something. All Trump has is certainty, starting with the certainty that he is the greatest man who has ever lived. Dangerous certainty.

I force myself to think of something besides Trump and the death of the American Republic and the craven Democrats and the economy and the federal deficit and the burning Amazon and the fires in Australia and what an ass Mike Bloomberg is and how glad I was to see Elizabeth Warren slap him down. Put that aside. Focus on washing a window, inside and out, leave no streaks. I’ve never minded doing simple chores. It’s relaxing, and when you finish you feel satisfied. A lot of the stuff we do as adults, in our professional lives, doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying. The reward is not as immediate. 

Chelsea beat Spurs by a 2-1 score, and in a tightly contested match in the rain at the King Power Stadium, City edged Leicester 1-0. Chelsea stays in 4th place in the table, 4 points ahead of Tottenham. If the Blues qualify for the Champions League next year it must be considered a minor miracle. 

The Second Coming of Karl Marx

“The great measure of human maturation is the increasing understanding that we move through life in the blink of an eye…” David Whyte

I’m reading Jesmyn Ward’s memoir, Men We Reaped. Ward describes a period in her life when she lost five men who were close to her, including her brother. Violence, drugs, lack of opportunity, the systemic racism of Mississippi. Ward’s family is large and sprawling, full of aunts, uncles, cousins, deeply rooted in the Gulf Coast, and poor. Ward’s family moved around a lot when she was young. Her father was restless, unable to remain faithful to his wife. Ward left for college, but always felt the pull of home, the smells, the rain, the woods and open spaces. It’s a sad memoir, but rings true. 

I also started reading 2666 by Roberto Bolano, the Chilean’s last work, a massive novel. I’ve only started it and can’t draw any conclusions yet. It’s Bolano, so I expect it to be strange, sometimes startling, and full of intelligence. 

Tyranny gains a foothold when good people see what’s happening and remain silent. This is where we stand in the United States, teetering on the edge. Democracy has always been fragile in this country, subject to subversion by wealthy interests when the will of the governed threatens their power and privilege. The Democratic Party mandarins cast Bernie Sanders as the second coming of Karl Marx, malign him in the corporate media, employ scare tactics and hyperbole to turn voters against him. The fact is that Sanders’ policy positions are standard New Deal stuff, but seem radical and foreign because of how far the US has moved to the right -- Democrats included -- since Uncle Ronnie Reagan lived in the White House. Given the backing of the Democratic Party machinery, Sanders would likely trounce Trump in November, which you’d think would be a desirable outcome. But you’d be wrong. The corporate masters of the Democratic Party would much rather run Mayor Pipsqueak from South Bend against Trump, or failing that, billionaire Michael Bloomberg, than support Sanders. Bloomberg has so much money he just might be able to purchase the nomination. 

Who’s the least worst in a Trump-Bloomberg match-up? 

It comes down to money, not ideals; the wealthy don’t donate to candidates -- they invest in candidates in the same way they invest in other instruments that increase their wealth or protect their privilege. Bloomberg himself and his corporate allies will paint Mayor Stop-and-Frisk as a sincere friend of working people. The con from Bloomberg may not be as blatantly transparent as Trump’s, but it will be a con nonetheless. Loaded dice, a marked deck of cards, three-card monty. Rich fucks like Bloomberg and Trump don’t care one whit about the needs and daily struggles of ordinary people. This should be obvious, but unfortunately too many Americans fall for the same trick again and again. We ought to be tired of coming out on the losing end, tired of being lied to, fooled, tricked, conned, and yet, the louder the carnival barker, the more entranced we become. Like typical suckers, we think it will be different this time. 

It won’t be. Out my window the California sun is bright, but in my vision the immediate future looks gray and dim, all color washed out. The American fairy tale still mesmerizes too many of us. We believe we’re in the game, playing on a level field, with rules that apply equally. Up in the luxury boxes the oligarchs laugh at our gullibility. They can’t believe how easy it is to manipulate us.  

Violated, Broken, and Maimed: The Acquittal of Donald J. Trump

“It is after all so easy to shatter a story. To break a chain of thought. To ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain.” Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

The Senate’s acquittal of Trump was no surprise. The sham trial was no surprise, either. The idiotic defense offered up by Ken Starr and Alan Dershowitz was as predictable as snow in Minot, North Dakota in January. Madison and Hamilton are rolling over in their tombs. “Don’t feel bad, men, your Constitution worked pretty well for over two centuries.” But not even in your darkest and most fearful imaginings could you have conjured Donald J. Trump, and an entire political party (save Mitt Romney) of cowards, hypocrites, and incompetents, who without batting an eye traded the rule of law, checks and balances, for the law of the jungle. 

Trump’s followers are betting that the good times (meaning the tax cuts, regulatory rollbacks, defense spending, low interest rates, oil and gas drilling) will keep going -- although it’s against the laws of nature that they do -- and their power grows and solidifies, and that Trump will not at some point become paranoid and turn on them, as Joseph Stalin was wont to do. Politicians of Stalin’s era feared a midnight knock at the door and a firing squad; members of today’s GOP wet themselves just thinking about being maligned by Trump on Twitter and Fox News.   

Afraid to stand up to the bully for fear of losing position and privilege. But not afraid to trash their oath of office and stomp on Madison and Hamilton’s best work.  

The imbecile bully who, after today, may as well be king. Mad king Donald. 

The American government is not a parliament of whores as P.J. O’Rourke once called it, it’s just a cheap whorehouse on the edge of a dying city, with leaky toilets and creaky beds, soiled sheets, and suspicious stains on the floor. 

Hey, Donald, we’re becoming a shithole country. Are you going to bomb us? 

Once again a minority triumphs over the majority.

In 2016 I didn’t think Trump had a chance of becoming president. I overestimated my countrymen’s ability to think logically; I underestimated their pain and fear. In 2020 I don’t see how Trump can lose. Incumbency is powerful in and of itself. Trump’s also sitting on a tower of cash that he can splash around the media landscape. But the real problem, for me, is lack of a Democratic candidate who can unite most of the party, build a large enough coalition, and energize the masses to vote. In the current field, only Bernie Sanders has the mojo to excite people, particularly the young, but the national Democratic Party despises Sanders. Why? For the same reason Republicans won’t cross Trump. Fear of losing power and privilege. Sanders might overturn the gravy train, he might build a movement, he might try to raise taxes on the wealthy and slow the growth of Pentagon spending. He might actually put some official weight behind a Green New Deal and Medicare for All. 

Establishment Democrats and their big money donors aren’t having it. That’s why they let Bloomberg buy his way into the game. That’s why MSNBC and CNN twist themselves into knots to avoid acknowledging that Sanders is a viable candidate. That’s why an unknown pipsqueak named Pete Buttegieg is still hanging around, as if he might stand a chance. It’s why Joe Biden is always described as the front runner. These are the safe guys, tried and true neoliberals and war enthusiasts, the kind of stand up people who would give Juan Guaido a standing ovation. 

I knew this day was coming, but it still leaves me low. What it portends for the future scares me. Intellectually I know that despair is not an option, and that all good and decent people have to keep their hope of a more just world alive; it’s just that today something feels violated, broken, maimed for all time.