Every marriage, I suspect, faces periodic stress tests. When the alliance remains intact after the couple emerges from these experiences, it validates the union’s foundation. These moments tend not to pass lightly, even when the outcome is positive.
But there are also fleeting moments that are otherwise inconsequential, yet serve that same validating purpose. My wife and I were watching The Undoing, a plodding HBO miniseries about murder, betrayal, secrets, and lies. It’s one of those shows that doesn’t really let up on the misery. In one pivotal scene, Grace Fraser (Nicole Kidman) collapses in the middle of Central Park as the weight of her circumstances becomes too much to bear. Despite the gravity of the moment, my wife and I both reflexively exclaimed “down goes Frazier.”
Once when I was a young lad I somehow found myself in possession of a Playboy magazine. It’s good that I hadn’t yet birthed a blog, cuz….I had thoughts. I recall there was a cartoon somewhere near the back that featured a post-coital couple sitting upright in bed. The man was looking at the woman, whose naughty parts were billowing out fumes like an overheated, side-of-the-road Chevy. The caption read “Do you always smoke after sex?”
There’s been no shortage of commentary over the past few years and I’ve kept my tongue between my teeth. But it’s the Fourth of July, we’re still awaiting Opening Day, and I’m fuckin’ pissed.
There’s a disease poisoning a subset of our population, and it’s been advancing against our communities longer than some will admit. It targets the vulnerable, it’s decimated the Main Street economy, and there’s no countering vaccine. The poison that’s rotting our country is not viral, it’s ideological. I’m not talking about traditional conservatism (though it’s not my flavor, I believe there’s a place for it.) It’s not Trumpism, since Trumpism may be the only ‘ism in history that lacks any ideological underpinnings at all. The noxious epidemic that’s plaguing our society is modern Republicanism. The party abandoned its scruples decades ago in favor of tax cuts and activist judges, and all that remains is a governing philosophy of “I got mine, fuck you.” I know that’s coarse and divisive, but they snuffed out 95% of polling locations in Kentucky last month, and I’m fuckin’ pissed.
At least the Atwater campaigns had the decency to dog-whistle about states’ rights and Willie Horton. Today’s republican incumbent is blasting out white power videos and slinging the Nazi logo at the merch table. The party that used to ridicule the celebrity-worshipping/Hollyweirdo culture of the left has elevated Donald Trump as its figurehead – an image-obsessed ratings junkie who steps away from his mirror only to watch his own press conferences. He’s Vince McMahon, minus the charm. Don Draper minus the looks and the talent. And the emasculated enablers in the chambers tremble at the thought of what Feather Fingers might broadcast via his considerable social media reach if they dare cross him publicly. Meanwhile the base they’ve courted has been so conditioned by the GOP’s septic media apparatus to reject abject truth, reason, and science, that they can’t be convinced to wear a god-damned mask indoors during a global pandemic. Forgive my language, but Fauci’s gettin’ death threats, and I’m fuckin’ pissed.
350 mental health professionals wrote a letter to congress in 2019 warning that Trump’s deteriorating mental health is a threat to our nation. 89 former defense officials and military leaders publicly raised alarm about his aggressive response to national protests. Several GOP operatives whose careers have been defined by helping Republicans get elected have emerged as the Democrats’ most compelling marketing operation for this year’s election. Yet the supporters soldier on in support of this deceitful rube because Hannity and Tucker have convinced them that their enemies are the ESL-immigrant who arrived here with nothing and the black folks taking issue with the statues honoring the country’s traitorous history. Sorry if the race reference makes you uncomfortable, but George Floyd was murdered by a cop over twenty dollars and I’m fuckin’ pissed.
Our government has bungled its response to the Coronavirus so spectacularly that existing linguistics can’t even capture it. Let me reach for an absurd analogy: It would be like if someone were to inherit over $400 million without lifting a finger and then were to subsequently lose over $1 billion within a few years. An unfathomable failure, no? We’re several months into this nightmare, we’ve lost 130,000 Americans and counting to this disease – many of which could have been prevented with more decisive action – and we’ve made approximately zero progress at the federal level. Joe and Julie Patriot sacrificed their weekly stipends to help flatten the curve, in part, to buy time to develop a national testing and tracing strategy. What’s been done on that front? President Collar Stain has repeatedly mused about how much better our numbers would look if we weren’t collecting them. This drooling simpleton sits atop the party’s ticket, and we’re expected to take it seriously? That might be a cheap shot, but my mother hasn’t been able to hug her grandchildren since February and I’m fuckin’ pissed.
I’ve been blessed – I’ve known no one who’s fallen ill or lost their life to this virus. But I also don’t know anyone who’s spent any valuable time at all with their loved ones in the past four months. Everybody I know has followed the guidance of leading scientists in the absence of federal direction. They did so with the expectation of progress…an expectation that our leaders would do everything they could to improve the reality on the ground for all Americans. Progress that has been realized in other countries. Unfortunately the party in charge during this pivotal stretch in history is in a state of disrepair…a party so broken, incurious, and diminished that it’s incapable of meeting the moment. The apparati that were structured to counter-balance imperial malfeasance have been compromised so thoroughly that the whole con operates in plain sight. We’re a joke without a punchline. I don’t mean to be melancholy, but John Prine’s dead, and I’m fuckin’ pissed.
The news of the week laid a few things bare, and if you were
a Trump voter in 2016 you’ve got to reconcile that choice with some uncomfortable
truths.
You might like his tax cuts for the wealthy (and tolerate
the swooning deficit). Okay.
You might support his hard-line stance on immigration. Fine.
You might like his business-friendly approach to regulation, his trade war, and maybe you feel his “Hulk smash” attitude on foreign policy is sound. Sure.
But that’s as generous a take as you’re gonna get after reviewing the results of Mueller’s investigation. Both his testimony Wednesday and his report released weeks ago demonstrated indisputably that a foreign adversary intervened in the 2016 election with the explicit intention of helping Trump win. Whether you were influenced by their efforts or not, your vote for Trump aligned directly with Russia’s wishes. What’s next for you?
As you wrap yourself in the flag at night you might want to ask yourself why this geopolitical foe preferred to seat this candidate versus the other. What does that say about this candidate (your candidate)? And after you’ve considered that, keep digging…does voting in concert with their desired pick permit you to claim “America First?”
The sovereignty-fetishists on the left ask only that you review the evidence on the table as 2020 approaches. As Mueller noted Wednesday, Russia’s efforts have continued without interruption and are ongoing (“they’re doing it as we sit here, and they expect to do it in the next campaign”). If our enemy wants this incurious goon in office for another four years, should you? Wouldn’t you like to get your nationalist on by pulling the lever for someone uncorrupted by foreign influence? If you voted for Trump in 2016 because of the reasons noted above…fine. But in 2020, you’re out of excuses. A vote for Trump is a vote for Russia. Patriot-card status: revoked.
(Note: Moscow Mitch and the Senate blocked legislation yesterday designed to secure our election processes from foreign intervention. Thanks again for supporting the team, GOP.)
The lawfare blog has a podcast that distills the key elements from the Mueller report into digestible segments. The first episode highlights the complex troll farm operation they deployed in order to deceive and confuse the American electorate. Worth a listen.
On another note, this interview with Neal Katyal is a good, quick read. He helped draft the special counsel regulations during the Clinton years, and the interview was done the day after the Mueller testimony. Early on he comments on the investigation’s inability to meet the criminal standard for collusion/conspiracy, and the absurdity of celebrating that near-miss:
“A shade shy of being a federal felon isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”
Ha. A good arrow to keep in the quiver as you debate the Stumps.
My bloodline has a deep connection with the woods and
waterways of Northern Minnesota, stemming from our immigrant ancestors planting
a stake in Duluth. Despite this, I had
never spent much time around Grand Marais, a charming double-bayed hamlet nestled
into the western shore of Lake Superior just north of the Sawtooth mountains. I
spent a few days there this past weekend, and was reminded that fresh air and solitude
might have more potency than all the CBD oil in the world.
I’m no great outdoorsman, but I’ve logged plenty of hours chasing walleye and tracking grouse. At some point north of 40, I determined my body needs a bed and my plumbing needs…well, plumbing. So my wife and I bunked at a humble motel while my in-laws set up shop at the local campgrounds. Their temporary real estate on the water was our home base. The Grand Marais trip has become annual for my in-laws, but this was the first time that we joined them. One of the great joys of marriage is the blending of one family’s traditions with the other. I suspect the setting up and breaking down of a campsite might not be quite as joyous a marital exercise, and thus the motel served us well.
I grew up in the Minneapolis area, but my wife is from Hibbing (she is my Girl From the North Country). Just about everybody in the Twin Cities has some version of “up north” that binds them to their heritage – some own cabins, some make annual visits to resorts, and some simply commit to camping/hunting/fishing excursions as our callous climate allows. Going up north as a young’un meant spending time with grandma and grandpa and aunts and uncles, and learning whatever you could about making do with fewer comforts. My brothers and I grew up in a house where the tool collection consisted of a hammer and a few lonely screwdrivers, the sum total of which could be found in the same kitchen drawer as the dish towels. We were not naturally rugged, and any exposure we got to frontierism was welcome. It’s impossible to trek north as an adult without reliving the trips of our youth. Given my wife’s ancestral ties to the Iron Range and mine to Duluth, this visit was long overdue.
Grand Marais is just 38 miles south of the Canadian border, and much of the land sandwiched between the two is the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BCWAW); a stretch of forest and water that has remained thoroughly unblemished by the developed world through protective federal legislation dating back to Truman. From wherever you are right now, imagine instead being engulfed by over a million acres of pristine unspoiled wilderness.
Hungry Jack Lake inviting you to breathe
This land has remained protected from the commercial extraction industries because our government has historically recognized the value in preserving an area of such staggering beauty (not to mention the habitat it provides for a variety of species including bald eagles, moose, wolves, and fish). Naturally these protections are under threat now, because the election of President Inevitable mandated that we can’t have anything nice. This piece published in the New Yorker last week explains the risk:
The kind of exploration proposed is called hard-rock mining, because the copper is encased in sulfide-bearing ore. When that ore is exposed to air and water, it creates what’s called acid mine drainage, releasing various toxins into the surrounding area, including sulfuric acid.
It goes on to say:
The U.S. Forest Service reported, in its study, “a review of water quality impacts from 14 operating U.S. copper sulfide mines found: 100% of the mines experienced pipeline spills or accidental releases; 13 of 14 mines’ water collection and treatment systems failed to control contaminated mine seepage resulting in significant water quality impacts; tailings spills occurred at 9 operations.” In other words, if the past is any lesson, the future is fraught not with the possibility but the probability of contamination.
The article also illustrates succinctly how the historical protections have been revoked by this administration and who the players are (spoiler alert: the wealthy foreign industrialist who owns the company planning to mine the BWCAW recently purchased a luxury home in DC which he currently leases to Jared and Ivanka. You are now free to appraise the coincidence).
That video was shot from a bluff we hiked overlooking Hungry Jack Lake. As we individually and collectively absorbed the enormity and the solace, my eleven year-old niece asked to no one in particular “how could anybody want to mine this place?” I can’t claim passion around this, but there are many who can – there are approximately 250,000 annual visitors to the area whose very spirituality is bound to the stunning silence and undiluted serenity the BWCAW offers. It’s obvious even to me that a place like this is one of the last natural tethers we have to those who came before us, and it’s our responsibility to be stewards for the next generation. How can an eleven year-old recognize intrinsically that something so naturally nourishing needs to be preserved, while adults in positions of influence and authority choose not to? And how do we explain to her that the answer to her question is “there’s an opportunity here for a Brazilian billionaire to make a lot of money.”
There’s more information here on what’s being done to continue protecting these pristine woodlands, including opportunities to sign a petition and/or donate.
I attended a memorial service this weekend for a woman I didn’t really know. My limited experience with her, if I’m honest, was negative. She was an addict, and from my vantage point a manipulator, but she had a relationship with someone I am close with and that warranted my attendance.
I don’t know much about the science and architecture of addiction, but I understand that it becomes the paint that covers the canvas. I never experienced Katie sober – the sum of my exposure to her was under the cover of her personal darkness. So my expectation going into this service was that those that survived her experienced her as I did. I was wrong.
I am too inclined to navigate my days thinking narrowly of my own burdens. It was convenient for me to discard Katie as selfish, without considering whatever weights she may have carried…whatever led her to make the choices that she made. It was that convenience – that short-sightedness – that colored my impression of her life. And it was my own caustic incuriousness about her circumstances that allowed me to write her off as detritus.
In the end, it wasn’t the drug addiction that killed her. In fact she had gotten herself clean and enjoyed a few short months of clear-headedness before getting diagnosed with the same aggressive cancer that took John McCain’s life. Her remaining months were spent in the care of nurses, and surrounded by the family that I naively assumed had deserted her.
What I learned about her was that she was loved by many, despite the pain she had caused at various points of her life. I was reminded that we are all born innocent, and to some point we remain so. Eventually life intervenes, and it’s the strength of our internal foundations that determine our reaction. Some are blessed with stout constitutions, and others are built with fragile netting. Katie suffered from mental illness, and perhaps didn’t have access to the proper care for her condition…or maybe she rejected the care that was available. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. What I do know is that she struggled to wrest control from the demons that drove her.
I’m not qualified to eulogize this woman, and that’s not my intention. What I can do is reconsider my approach to those with whom I’m in conflict. There’s value in simply acknowledging that we’re unaware of each other’s circumstances, and to sit in judgement without attempting to understand our adversary’s experience is insular and misguided.
This message is alarmingly resonant after a weekend when our government launched tear gas at women and children seeking a better life. If you are a member of the flag-waving proletariat whose reaction was “these irresponsible mothers never should have put their children in harm’s way,” then please take a minute to reflect on what may have led them to this point.
UPDATE: I saw that Tomi Lahren tweeted that the US tear gas attack was “the highlight” of her Thanksgiving weekend. I realize that she’s just a click-generator disguised as a haircut, but she’s got legions of loyal supporters who applaud such commentary. Perhaps this message should be directed to them…
For folks like me who aren’t reproducing, housing a pet is the only real opportunity to try to generate authoritarian resentment. With this in mind, my wife and I adopted a 15 year old cat five years ago, seen here laughing at a joke I told him about a bird. Though I’ll refrain from the typical animal obit pablum (“the truth is – he rescued us”), I will say that his presence brought measurable peace to our home and happiness to our days. We meshed well because our pace was in alignment – he’d allow us our late nights or out-of-town weekends, and he shared our steadfast and literal commitment to Netflix and chill.He relied on us for all the standard owner-responsibilities – food service, proper quarters, and the regimented sifting of the shit-box. But soon enough it went well beyond that. He was not a basement-dweller or an under-the-bed sort of personality. Once we earned his approval, he was as attached to us as the clothes on our backs. I’ll spare you the list, but there really wasn’t anything done in our home for which he wasn’t present.
When you get a 15 year-old pet, they tend to come pre-named. We don’t know much about his life prior to our introduction, other than that he had been owned and abandoned, spent some time on the street, and eventually landed at the shelter via some Samaritan whose doorstep he darkened. Somewhere along that path he took the name Sphinx, and this is how we met his acquaintance. It didn’t last. We meant no disrespect, but we tended to refer to him for two to three week segments by whatever was top of mind (and if it made us laugh, that didn’t hurt). Junior…Black Sack…Mr. Puddles. When we were watching The People vs O.J. Simpson a few years ago, he was Uncle Juice. The last few weeks of his life we referred to him warmly as Old Dollar – the name of John Wayne’s horse in a movie he watched from my lap over the lazy afternoons around Christmas . It suited him, as he negotiated his last days with the urgency of an inchworm.
There have been plenty of studies that demonstrate the positive impact that animals – and cats in particular – can have on your health. They reduce your risk of cardiovascular disease, boost your immune system, and lower blood pressure and cholesterol. I’m hesitant to assign meaning and weight where it’s not warranted, but it’s been a stressful year here at DOD and I’d rather not speculate on how sunless it might have gotten around here had I not been able to experience his daily lap-nap. And that’s the thing that all pet-people understand – you can come to them the weight of the world, but you’re met with bulletproof exuberance. I will miss that, and will struggle to tackle the anxieties of the day without him.
Anyway…rest in peace Old Dollar. I’m hoping you’re bellied up at the great Tuna Tavern in the sky (copyright: my wife).
Long time, no blog. Sorry. More to come, I promise. In the meantime, a 365 throwback:
I flew home to Minneapolis tonight from a work trip. I had spent the afternoon driving my rented Toyota from meeting to meeting, listening to tear-streamed tributes on NPR. I was grieving, itching to get back home for no reason other than to be in the zip code, and to share the moment.
It made me think of the provincial pride we sometimes feel, with no logical merit. Prince elicited this pride in all Minneapolitans, as if we somehow had influence on his genius. We say he’s “ours” or “Minneapolis’ favorite son” when in reality he resided in an orbit entirely his own. Maybe we took pride because he validated our little home halfway between the coasts. He made us matter. He was an argument-ending mic drop if anybody talked shit about Minneapolis. He was our street-cred.
Both the 35W and Lowry bridges were lit purple tonight, but cloud cover prevented a glimpse as my flight descended. I was instead greeted by a funky jam called “Calhoun Square” when I got to my car, and that was good enough for me.
RIP and thank you, Prince. You were a five-foot-two giant, you sound-tracked our city, and you will be missed.
