“I woke up this morning and I decided to go to church, and I'm here with
the person who I am voting for the United States Senate.” Haley Stevens
Does Haley always go to a Black church because if not, this was using a
Black church as a prop to boost a man who will work against the Black
community.
Don't panic, kids, you won't have to hold a bake sale to save The Bulwark from
penury, and they won't lose any of their 1.8 million subscribers.
At this point, they're so deeply wired into legacy media infrastructure that
they're basically a division of MSNOW, so no worries. Although after
shitting the bed this hard, it might be time for another visit to the
Republican Reputation Laundromat for a touch-up.
Then came the decade of Halloween seances, which ended on October 31, 1936.
From about the ages of 10 to 13, I was a huge Houdini nerd. All these
decades later, I still love well-crafted magic, but with Houdini I was a
genuine fanboy.
I liked the 1953 Tony Curtis/Janet Leigh biopic, Houdini (even though,
as I later learned, it took considerable liberties with the facts), but my
bible was The Great Houdini: Magician Extraordinary by Beryl Williams
and Samuel Epstein. I practically read the cover off of that thing,
which was either ordered by me, probably through the Junior Scholastic program
at school, or, since Mom was a teacher and Dad was a principal, it might have
come to me as part of the extra books a classroom or a school could score if
they ordered more than a certain number of books.
Yes, I was not above using my educator nepo-baby status to get what I wanted,
which was more books!
Sure, the school library had hundreds of books, and the local public library
had what seemed like a million books (some of which were kept away from
prepubescent prying eyes in the temptingly off-limits "Adult Section").
But those weren't my books.
My books came a few weeks after I went through the agonizing
process of whittling my Junior Scholastic wish list down to the number my
parents would permit me to order. Why, Lord! Why show me all these
glorious treasures, then force me to pick out only a few! And yet,
somehow, after much cruel bargaining with myself, I would manage to check the
tiny boxes next to my choices on the flimsy, newsprint form, get the
appropriate parental signatures, and turn it in.
Then the waiting began.
For me, time slowed to the point where I felt like I was approaching the speed
of light. And then, one day, after all hope in me had died, the
boxes came. Just like that.
Then, the teacher opened the boxes.
I'd like to say we book nerds descended on them like marabunta on a caribou
carcass, stripping it to the bone, but it was actually a fairly orderly,
jubilant affair. We'd compare our hauls, and there were always a few
books that we'd somehow forgotten that we'd ordered (how is that even
possible!), but there they were. Like finding a five-dollar bill in the
dryer. Sure, it was yours anyway, but still.
All these decades later, I still love books, and own more than I will ever be
able to read in my "to-be-read" pile. Every now and then, when putting
together boxes to donate to the library, I'll pull one from a back shelf that
I'd completely forgotten that I owned. Isn't that wild?
There's something a little ironic about that: these days, such rediscoveries
happen while I'm boxing up my books for others to enjoy, rather than unboxing
them fresh from the Junior Scholastic warehouse, and that such moments bring
on memories rather than anticipation.
I still love books, and there is still something special about
my books. Books I can label as mine, and in which I can
make all the marginal notes I want without risking the wrath of the librarian.
But the truth is, nothing will ever match the sheer bibliophilic ardor of
opening a box and finding a fresh copy of
While Mrs. Coverlet Was Away, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E.
Frankweiler, Danny Dunn and the Homework Machine, the latest Encyclopedia Brown, or
The Great Houdini: Magician Extraordinary.
“Outside of a Dog, a Book Is Man’s Best Friend. Inside of a Dog, It’s Too Dark to Read.” -- Groucho Marx
Never gonna happen, but I would pay real money to watch these two barnstorming
the country, answering every question from every pundit -- every Tom, Dick and
Peter Baker -- with, "We fucking told you so."
Bumper stickers, posters, tee-shirts, buttons, ringtones, jingles, commercials with adorable pets or a kick-line cast of hundreds, all with the same message in the same five simple words.
His timing was, as always, on point. The joke was carefully built, every
word well chosen, and he knew exactly how to amplify it and ride it into
another news cycle:
President Obama: This is what I mean when I say these are not serious
people. They don't have solutions to actual problems, so they'd rather
have the media and you talking about the Cheesecake Factory.
And then came the part that everyone would rather skate past:
President Obama: That's the game they've been playing
for the last two years.
No. No. No.
For reasons that escape me, people with enormous platforms -- and who damn
well know better -- keep pretending this all began five minutes ago. As if
"the media" and "you" are just innocent bystanders, being taken in by the
Bamboozler-in-Chief and his assorted henchmen.
No, Mr. President, this did not start two years ago. It started
decades ago. And nobody gets to plead ignorance anymore.
Around this time of year, I usually run a short birthday fundraiser, which, I realize, would be an even harder ask than usual this year, given all the campaign fundraising texts and ads under which we're being buried, and the fact that Donald Trump's disastrous policies have driven up the price of everything everywhere.
Nonetheless, I am making a fundraising pitch. But this year, it's not on my own behalf. I'm asking you to kick in a few bucks to support our local Springfield Immigrant Action Network (SIAN), because ICE has landed in Springfield.
From their Facebook page:
Dear friends and neighbors,
ICE is in Springfield, and as part of their strategy of harm and disruption, they no longer publicly announce locations/areas where they conduct raids. They want to prevent and avoid community organizing and they are counting on people to be too afraid to talk. We will not be silent.
Yesterday and today, ICE detained and took at least four adults, and today, half a dozen children went home to find that one of their parents was taken. Make no mistake: the people taken had rights and they were approached in public places, they were followed, chased, and taken, mostly, based on racial profiling and not criminal or judicial warrants. Who they are, where they live, the other details are not public information, and those who care about their safety and wellbeing will not treat their stories as social media content, nor do anything that could compromise rather than contribute to their safety. We will instead center the needs of those affected. These children are citizens and they also have rights.
SIAN’s efforts are currently focused on providing support to families and their children, and knowing that food would be scarce, loss of income is pervasive and inevitable, and mental health services for children and adults that speak languages other than English are difficult to access and secure, we are asking for your help...
I've known the leaders of this group since they came together early in Trump's first term. They're terrific people who've been doing the Lord's work on a shoestring, helping some of the most vulnerable residents of our city in the face of this monstrous regime's escalating savagery.
If you were inclined to kick a couple of bucks my way for my birthday, many thanks. This year, I'd appreciate it if you'd instead contribute to the good work SIAN is doing in Springfield, Illinois.
I'll keep this post pinned to the top of my blog for the next week, with any new posts I do appearing beneath.
Welcome to the lucrative world of punditry, where there are never any penalties for having inane opinions, only for having the wrong professional contacts.
