As you may know, I am a Bernie Sanders supporter. Though it is nearly June, I have not lost faith that he could win the Democratic nomination. Truman defeated Dewey. Donald Trump clinched the Republican nomination. Leo won an Oscar. It could still happen for Bernie.
Of course, you probably also know that I suffer from a debilitating condition called cynicism. A sunny day is too hot and an ice cube is a watery drink. Hillary Clinton could win the Democratic nomination.
In my Bernie Babe cynical mind, that would mean almost certain victory for Donald Trump in November. Even Republicans think that would be a disaster (at least they used to). America has had Clinton fatigue for 25 years. It seems unlikely that Hillary Clinton will be able to tap into some untapped vein of enthusiasm. For myself, I will not be voting for either one of them. Compromise is for diplomats.
The following is what would have to happen for Hillary Clinton to secure my vote in November:
- Give the bulk of her personal fortune to charitable organizations like Doctors without Borders. Repudiate accusations of greed by showing us what selflessness looks like.
- Come clean. Out with it. Stop hiding. Quit bullshitting. We want to hear what you really think, even if it’s batshit crazy. Honesty is the best policy and helps people to trust you.
- Find some new friends and advisers. Even if your team is the best in the world, they aren’t the best all the time. No one is. Stagnation breeds malaise, poison to the well of voters.
- Apologize profoundly and profusely for any mistakes you have made (Libya, Honduras, e-mail, that weird leather jacket you keep wearing that looks like something General Zod would wear.)
- Donald Trump is a joke. To treat him as anything else is giving him an opening. Your trademark laugh could serve you well in taking down this bully, but you and all your surrogates have already legitimized his campaign by launching into a general election campaign you haven’t actually earned the right to compete in yet. Laugh him off. Seriously. A well raised eyebrow and a dubious “Okay, Donald,” would go a long way to putting this clown in his place.
This election makes me feel like a computer playing tic-tac-toe against itself: frustrated.
You may remember that back in 2008, I voted for Barack Obama. I was a fresh-faced college kid who took the bait, lured by the promise of hope and unable to recognize the ambiguity of the word “change”. Casting my vote for the fist black president made me feel like I was part of that change. I still remember being in the backseat of Chelsea’s car barreling down I-5 and hearing the news that he had won. We cheered at the top of our lungs.
Of course by the end of 2009, I began to sober up. Rather than holding Wall Street accountable, Obama had chosen to focus on his lame ass health care bill, a watered down piece of legislation written by insurance companies that has done little to lower health care costs for the average American. Rather than winding down the inhumane and troublingly inaccurate “targeted assassination” program started under Bush, he expanded it, personally giving the command that has taken the lives of many innocent people including an American teenager. He surrounded himself with insiders and elites, including the Democratic candidate he had spent months convincing us not to vote for. He cloaked himself in pragmatism to cover his compromise of the principles that got him elected. He promised the most open government in history, and delivered the most classified, where whistleblowers are labelled traitors and prosecuted more than under any other president in history. He promised immigration reform and then deported more immigrants than W. He promised an end to our wars overseas and instead expanded them. Through inaction and bumbling responses, the Obama administration, with the help of Secretary Clinton, aided in the rise of ISIS and doubled down on the insane foreign policy of George Bush and Dick Cheney in Libya and other places.
By 2012, my hope had become a full-blown case of malaise about Barack Obama. The change he had promised literally boiled down to the fact that a black guy was doing all of this horrible shit instead of a white guy. Rather than changing Washington, Washington changed him. He was willing to chastise the elite and the entrenched until he was one of them then the need for “pragmatism” prevailed. It’s like when you have to kill someone to join a gang. They need to know you are one of them. “And they looked from Barack Obama to the Washington insiders and elite and then back to Barack Obama and they could not tell the difference.” Unfortunately the only person more out of touch with America was his opponent in 2012, Mitt “47%” Romney. I held my nose, and voted for Obama a second time.
I don’t know what I could have done different, but I still regret it. I was looking forward to 2016. We will have another chance. I had not given up on hope and change, just Barack Obama’s ability to deliver it. I told Paul when we started dating two years ago that he should be prepared for me to become obsessed with the election. I was chomping at the bit to get it started.
I knew Hillary Clinton was the “presumptive nominee” but I was like, “They always say that.” No way America is actually going to go through that again. We had already left her at the alter once. I’d heard rumblings about Bernie Sanders possibly running. If only.
Slowly a small pool of candidates formed, literally all of them preferable to Hillary Clinton. Martin O’Malley picked a bad year to get in. Where was he in ’04? or ’08? or even 2012? I’m sure he could have beat FrankenKerry for the nomination and he certainly would’ve given Obama some worry. I like to dream that there will be a peaceful paradise in an alternate universe where Lincoln Chaffee is the President and finally passes legislation regarding the Oxford comma. Even Lawrence Lessig offered more relevant solutions than the “presumptive nominee”, recognizing that no real change can happen until our election system is fixed. I trust Jim Webb would keep me safe. Hillary Clinton can’t even keep her e-mails safe. Bernie Sanders entered the race and I was ecstatic. I was aware of his work in the House and the Senate and admired his candor and principled consistency. He has been consistent about what he hopes to accomplish through government since he arrived in Washington decades ago and before that as mayor of Burlington. He has chosen to stand for his principles even when they were unpopular. I cannot say that for anyone else in the race or for very many people I know. He is one of a kind.
If you have been alive for the last three or four decades, you know about Hillary Clinton. Quick name that scandal she was involved in! No, not that one. No, not that one. No, that isn’t the one I am thinking of. I’m not going to bore you with all the reasons why I don’t think she should be the president. We knew all those reasons in 2008 and that was before she had the whole e-mail scandal or her involvement in the disaster of Libya or her support for the ouster of the democratically-elected president of Honduras or taking money from Goldman-Sachs for speaking engagements. Measuring by the level of destructive influence on the world, it would be better to take money for speaking at a Klan rally.
Mrs. Clinton has been saying she will continue the good work of President Obama. That has been her sales pitch. “Let’s keep this good thing going!” I don’t really want to vote for a fifth Bush term. I want the hope and change I was promised. I want the change everyone says they want but no one can deliver.
This is the year.
Because of their electoral clown show and their inability to do their jobs as elected officials, the Republicans have pretty much guaranteed that they are going to lose control of the Senate and soon after that, if they continue, the House as well. If a Democrat is elected, and it is almost certain one will be, they will either inherit a left-leaning Supreme Court or will be able to nominate a new justice. This hypothetical president-elect will have the best shot any president is gonna get to pass major legislation. They might even be able to pass election reform or single-payer health care. Do you really want someone who is going to go in to the negotiation low-balling everything in the interest of pragmatism? “I could get $15 minimum wage but let’s go with $12 to be on the safe side.” The next president, if a Democrat, should be ready to shoot for the moon, to get as much done as possible to prove to the American people that the progressive agenda is the agenda of the future. Half-assing it on climate change is not an option anymore and any candidate who supports fracking is half-assed in their approach.
I am aware that the world is flooded with people praising their candidate on both sides and I am sorry to add to it. It is too important for me to keep quiet.
P.S. I would very much like to have a woman president, just not Hillary Clinton. I’d rather vote for Kim Kardashian.
P.P.S. If you liked this post you may enjoy “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness” from 2012
Americans are endowed with inalienable rights: the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. This philosophy is the cornerstone on which our country was built. Many extol the virtues of the Constitution, but it is constructed around the notion that having the freedom to pursuit your own happiness, as long as it does not infringe on anyone else’s happiness, is essential to our success as a people and as a nation. Our founders had the good sense to see that multiple points of view are preferable to narrow vision and that strength comes from individuals united in purpose, not from individuals forced to comply. The strength of the individual is the strength of the whole. Conversely, the weakness of the individual is the weakness of the whole.
America values the individual above all else. Evidence is everywhere you look, from Caitlin Jenner to Donald Trump. America doesn’t care about anything unless there is a face, an individual to represent an issue. It is not enough to say Muslims are unjustly profiled; you must say that this 16-year-old Muslim named Ahmed was unjustly profiled. It is not enough to say the pharmaceutical industry has falsely inflated drug prices for years; you must say this misled entrepreneur Martin Shkreli has falsely inflated drug prices. Our heroes are mavericks and renegades. “Individuals”, we call them. Women who bucked the system and did things their own way, like Holly Golightly or Amelia Earhart or Harriet Tubman or Elizabeth Warren or Miley Cyrus. Men who say and do what they please, exuding confidence and taking control, like Donald Trump or Kanye West or Frank Sinatra or James Dean or Batman or Don Draper. We love and value unique, bold and hard-working Individuals. Our country was built by and for such Individuals.
While it is clear that America still values the individual above all else, our actions paint a very different picture. A society that values individuality would encourage different viewpoints, lifestyles and cultures. Differences of opinion would not be discouraged but explored. Compromise would not be regarded as sign of weakness but as a necessity needed to foster individuality and differences of thought. A society that values the individual would not be so anxious to be offended.
In America, differences of opinion are treated like unbreakable vows. One must never admit that someone might have a different view on things. We have created a culture where our politicians and public figures feel they have to twist word-pretzels and contort themselves into bizarre caricatures that border the uncanny valley in order to avoid appearing to have original thought. Public shaming has come roaring back into fashion, with the mob throwing hapless individuals in the digital stockade and pelting them with vicious slurs and misguided boycotts. Aberrant behavior that does not meet with the homogeneous hive mind’s approval will be shamed away, by destroying careers and lives. Individuals are celebrated and shamed in the same breath.
America has heeded the call of the Siren of Double-Standards. We still love Individuals, but only the ones that agree with our own narrow point of view. We have taken a country of vast open spaces and infinite potential and built walls and borders around it, suffocating possibility and undermining the very foundation on which our country was built: the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
As the skies return to their native gray, I have become increasingly addicted to hot tea. I am not an expert. I’m never an expert. I just enjoy a hot cuppa. Black tea, of course. Strong black tea with honey and a little milk. It has the calming qualities of religious repetition or a jazz cigarette. The ritual of preparing tea is part of the experience and adds to the satisfaction one experiences. It is similar to the feelings of a drug user as he or she readies to ingest their drug: The chest tightens, breathing is shallower; their mind becomes focused as they ready the needle or the pipe.
At first, when I had first been turned on to tea, I would impatiently dump the hot water into the mug containing a Tetley tea bag. The tea would steep. I would add milk and honey. The tea would be cool within ten minutes and I would have iced tea within the half hour. I don’t know if someone told me, or if I knew from some forgotten conversation from childhood, or if I absorbed it through media, but one day it came into my head to put hot water into the mug first in order to warm the mug. When it had become hot enough, dump the water and begin the normal process of brewing the tea. It was astoundingly effective.
This step in the ritual has become my favorite. I have since learned that this act is called warming the vessel. It has probably been in use for thousands of years, passed on by oral tradition and familial training. It feels like hidden knowledge to me, alchemy that was washed away by the deluge of technology. It seems obvious only after you have learned it, like pulling the dustpan back instead of pushing it forward.
So rather finding out that you have gone out and bought a mug warmer, I thought I would share this knowledge. While the sun is on furlough and the clouds take over, take the time to warm your vessel.
Warming The Vessel
- Boil water
- Pour boiling water into intended mug or teacup. Wait till the mug is too hot to touch and dump the water.
- Brew tea as normal. (Most teas will have brewing instructions on the box.)
Three days. I’ve felt like this or three days now. Something’s gotta give. I can’t go on like this. I feel like I need to vomit, like there’s something crawling around inside of me. My friends told me that I was pregnant. They said that that is what it feels like, like there is something crawling around inside of you. But I think they’re crazy. How could I be pregnant? I think that I would remember something like that.
Besides, it’s not just the weird wriggly feeling I have in my belly. I have been hearing strange noises, like someone crying or talking softly. Of course, I can’t make out what they are saying. I would not sound as crazy if I could. Instead I am going around trying to ignore the strange noises. It is hard when you’re mid-conversation.
I decided yesterday that if I didn’t feel better by today that I would go to the shore and see if that makes me feel better. Either way, if I’m going to be sick, I’d rather be sick all over someone else’s house than my own.
A stranger suggested that it might be something I ate. I think there might be something to that. Right before I got sick, or whatever this is, I tried something new. I didn’t chew properly either. I was too anxious. I nearly choked as it was going down my gullet. It was just there though. Almost looked like it was inviting me to eat it. What could I do?
So here I am at the coast. I have that feeling. You know the one, where your mouth starts to water and your throat gets tight and you know something is coming. Oh God. Here it comes.
Ugh. Look at it all floating there in the water, half-digested fish and weeds. Oh gross, it’s moving. Look there it is. It’s still alive! That weird thing I ate three days ago is swimming away. How disgusting! It was alive in my belly. I think I’m gonna be sick again.
I tell you what, I am never eating meat again. Stickin’ to my greens, just like momma taught me.
“My head hurts. My head always hurts.”
“Your head can’t hurt,” I said. “You’re a robot.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Qx stared at me with hollow eyes.
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s still not a very nice thing to say.”
“I’m sorry, Qx.”
“That’s okay. I understand.”
I hate how compliant they are. Robots never stand by anything.
“Don’t you like being a robot?”
“It feels very linear. It’s hard to process.”
I felt like I was at a robot poetry reading. Qx rotated and started to roll away.
“Good bye, Qx,” I called.
Wheels squeaked on the carpet as Qx stopped suddenly and turned it’s uncanny face toward me.
“Are you leaving?” Qx’s eyes were pools of emptiness.
“I thought you were.” I laughed.
“I do apologize for that.” The servers hummed. “I was looking for some RAM.”
“Are you feeling okay, Qx?”
“My head hurts. My head always hurts.”
I fucking hate robots so much.
“Why don’t you go down to the engine room and see if you can get yourself patched up?”
“Chief Engineer James Pearl said there is-” Qx played a recording of James Pearl saying: “Nothing wrong with you!”
Qx began to roll away again, retreating smoothly down the hall. I wondered about an engineer that can’t find anything wrong with a machine. No one liked Qx and everyone blamed Trelawny for skimping on the robot. We would’ve been better served by a trained monkey. They are at least engaging company.
I proceeded to my quarters and went to sleep.
I woke up at fifteen hundred. There was an empty silence. It sounded like the engines had stopped. I pressed the call button.
“This is Hampton.”
There was no response. I pulled on a jumpsuit and headed for the bridge. I checked a few rooms along the passageway. Empty. I was getting worried. You hear stories about space.
I ran into the door of the bridge when it didn’t slide open. I was waiting for the ringing to dissipate when I heard a thump from the other side of the metal door. I punched it twice and was greeted with two thumps.
“It’s Hampton,” I shouted. “What’s happened?”
There were muffled screams from the other side of the door but I couldn’t make out the words. I pulled the panel off the wall and checked the wiring. It was fried. After scratching the back of my head and staring at the panel for too long, I decided to enlist the help of Chief Engineer James Pearl. I took off down the passageway.
Jim looked annoyed when I came in. Qx was slumped over in the chair in front of him. Jim pressed a soldering iron into the back of its metal head.
“Jesus,” I said. “It really had a headache?”
“The damned thing tried to upload its consciousness into the ships computer.”
“I think it wanted more memory. Who can tell with these damn things?”
“Always gotta cut costs around here. What the hell are we supposed to do without a functioning robot?”
“I’ll get it working. I can at least reset it to factory defaults and sync it to the Matrrx.”
“I think you should worry about the tin can later. The bridge crew is sealed in and you know how panicky the captain can be.”
“Qx must’ve fried the circuits.”
Jim pressed the soldering iron into the opening at the back of Qx’s metal skull creating an angry shower of sparks. He gathered his tools and I followed him to the bridge.
The captain was clutching his chest when we finally got in. He was covered in sweat and panting.
“Are you okay, sir?” I still have to kiss ass, even in the empty void of space.
“It’s fine, Kathryn. Take the helm, would you? I’m going to my quarters to lie down.”
He left the bridge. Jim shook his head after the doors had shut.
“Government ships,” I said.
Grandpa used to tell me this story. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. My grandpa wasn’t a man known to lie but this story sounds apocryphal, the kind that emerges from collective memory.
This happened when he was a young man, growing up in the wild Northwest. By his own account, he was a bit of a maverick then, driving a car he built himself and playing second fiddle in a local western swing band. He was sixteen. Back then, he thought he would never have anything in common with his dad. He was certain that when he was old enough, he would leave town for good, leave the state for good. Farewell gray skies and disapproving trees; hello sunshine and California beaches.
Maybe that’s where his mind was when he hit the mailbox at the end of Bill Trimble’s drive with his car. His father was furious. His father did not have red, hot rages. He had cold calculated anger. Grandpa sat in his room, waiting for his dad with terror. The door opened and his father’s unsmiling face appeared.
“I need you’re help in the shop,” he said.
Grandpa followed him to the woodshop. His father didn’t say anything. He handed Grandpa a piece of wood. There was a crude shape penciled on one side.
“Cut along the lines and sand the edges thoroughly.”
Grandpa was terrified. Badass though he was, playing second fiddle in a western swing band, he was still scared of his dad. His dad left him alone and he set to work.
He was determined to do a good job. Maybe if his father saw how hard he had worked and how well he had done, he would be more forgiving. He cut the wood along the lines and was halfway done sanding it before he realized what he had done: he had just carved his own paddle.
Sure enough, his dad returned and beat the tar out of him with the paddle.
“I’m not angry,” Grandpa said. “I had it coming. The worst part was the embarrassment. I wish I’d done a better job with that paddle.”
Grandpa did make it to California eventually. He doesn’t say much about it now. He does often say, “I was born in the Northwest and that’s where I’m going to die.”