- Fleabus two nights ago, above life-sized at other place.
- Theory: Now Trump has an actual foil instead of making foils up, we only think we've seen shitty Trump, and it'll work.
- UPDATE! Today's Trump takeover of Justice, for instance.
- Grim irony: This midterm result was the worst possible one for the Democrats, and thus for the United States. They did just enough to be able to continue to claim that the Clintonista methodology - the 'donor' model - is a successful, winning one, and so they won't have to change it. They won't be able to gum up Trump's agenda completely - enough of them are really covert Republicans and will vote for many of his policies - and they will make fools of themselves with Russiagate and similar guaranteed losing attacks on Trump personally, which will ensure Trump's reelection. Still, as usual the voters did their job as best they could, with the wonderful first-past-the-post voting system allowing their collective wisdom exactly the choice they wanted, the best choice available to them when one of the parties has thrown in the towel, reining in Trump while not emasculating him.
- A short take on last night.
- The elite have decided you cost too much to maintain, yo, your return-on-investment not worth it.
- American Fundamentalists and Trump, a excellent concise primer from an ex-insider.
- Driving home from Catoctin past Sunday, car radio tuned to WTOP for 270 traffic on the eights, I heard top of the hours ABC News, sound clips, Trump bullhorning hate, Joe Biden whispering a sermon on motherfucking civility.
- Elrich beat Floreen, by a lot, three times the votes, so mine wasn't important,
- I can summon one fuck more than no fuck on the above.
- Now for the Clinton v Biden 2020 duel for the soul of the Democratic Party.
WHAT KIND OF TIMES ARE THESE
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.