A note from the curator
I’m not feeling much joy as America’s semiquincentennial approaches, and that’s written all over this post (after this little apologetic). If you’re sick of politics or already feeling deeply depressed, skip it.
I’m on a social medium (I refuse to abuse the plural “media”) with an astonishing number of people, many of them decades younger than me, who manage, without coming across as idiots (au contraire: I’m struck by how many there make me feel unobservant and thick-skulled about what I do observe), to focus on positive, and personal, and local things. Kudos to its designer, who consciously designed it that way (I’m not sure how, except that one never knows how many people follow him or her, and there are no buttons to simply “like” a post).
I am blessed to be tolerated by that community because I seem to share a temperamental makeup with my most beloved uncle, who was denied ordination by the Presbyterian Church in America because he was “contentious.”
I really don’t think politics is the most important thing in the world, though I may be in this post revealing a preference to the contrary. I suspect that what’s bugging me, especially for the next few months, is the state of the American nation especially at 250. I came of age in the 60s, opposed the Vietnam War, and have never since been a jingoist.
But I apparently thought we were better than this. It’s rough learning how wrong I can be (along with unobservant and thick-skulled). I guess the aphorism “we get the leadership we deserve” was, all along, far truer than I gave it credit for.
Tomorrow’s post will be, as has become my Sunday custom, as politics-free as possible.
MAGA
White Trash Nation
But, in that moment, in the weird little interstice between the front yards of Eisenhower-era brick ranch houses built close enough together that you’d get a weird echo if you raised your voice while standing between them, something seems to have occurred to her. And she stopped, and turned, and fought, and, to her own surprise, even more than anybody else’s, beat the crap out of her second husband, there in the front yard as the neighbors popped their heads up out of their holes, prairie dog–style, to see what it was that family was up to now. Roy was on the ground by the end. I was pleased by the outcome, though I cannot say I was exactly proud of the scene.
Of course we had fights in the front yard—some of them incidents of domestic violence, some of them merely recreational. In almost exactly the same spot, our neighbor’s older son, who was younger than me and who had finally had enough of being bullied by my older brother, Darrell, gave him a richly deserved beating, taking a fence picket full of rusty nails to his ribs, which necessitated a tetanus shot and earned me a stern lecture for having advised the little boy on how best to deal with a remorseless bully. (It was excellent advice: Darrell never bothered him again. But I have spent a fair bit of my career getting in trouble for offering good advice.) In sixth grade, I fought another kid in the front yard of a different house on the same street (we had moved two doors down) for no other reason than that we were the two biggest kids in the class and somebody (I don’t know who) thought it was a good idea, maybe even necessary, that we should have a fight.
…
When the Trump administration announced that it was staging a UFC fight on the South Lawn of the White House, I knew what I was seeing. It is as familiar to me as the taste of canned Ranch Style Beans on cornbread or the smell of cigarette smoke soaking into Dacron-upholstered office furniture and slick tallowy well-yellowed linoleum in the grim waiting rooms outside those weepy Al-Anon meetings my mother dragged me to for a while because she couldn’t afford a babysitter. I know my people. My people know what they like. And they will have what they like even if it harelips the pope—especially if it harelips the pope.
It took 250 years, but you got here. All the way down here. From Greatest Generation to White Trash Nation in the space of one lifetime.
Welcome to my world, America.
Kevin D. Williamson, Of Course We’re Fighting on the Lawn.
Sailing the ship of Theseus to Jonestown
Some might find John Cornyn’s affirmation of partisan devotion amid intense humiliation by his party affecting. I find it pitiful.
He’s a voyager on a ship of Theseus. The modern Republican Party bears the same name as the vessel Cornyn boarded decades ago, but nearly all of its components—including the senator himself as of last night—have been replaced. Morally and ideologically, the ship must be unrecognizable to a crewman like him who enlisted to join the small-government “character counts” Reaganite armada.
Now that he’s been fired, why doesn’t he disembark already, for cripes’ sake?
…
Regular readers know my theory about why Republican voters are suddenly hellbent on purging incumbents in primaries: They’re in their Jonestown phase. Disappointed in Trump’s economic failures yet psychologically unable to hold him (or themselves) accountable, they’re coping by turning more radically cultish and flogging heretics like Cornyn, Thomas Massie, and Bill Cassidy instead.
Surely things in America will improve if the president faces even less resistance inside the GOP.
I quote Catoggio a lot, because he writes colorfully and almost always is directionally correct.
This “ship of Theseus” metaphor is intriguing, but probably doesn’t go far enough: might we all, Democrats, Republicans, independents, and third-party cranks, be sailing on the ship of Theseus? The United States of America is a whole lot different, with a lot of replacement parts, than the America of my birth year.
Atheist Christmas
[Context: Trump’s Great American State Fair Is Running Out of Acts]
The engine of civic apathy is believing that America is still America and always will be, no matter how Americans or their government behave.
That just ain’t so, unless you also believe that Milli Vanilli is still Milli Vanilli as long as whoever’s on stage insists on calling themselves that.
This year of all years, it feels like a cosmic joke that Americans will mark a major anniversary of declaring their independence from monarchy. Many of us quite like having a monarch, we’ve discovered, provided that he’s on our side. But vestigial respect for the Founders will oblige us to trudge out to parades and whatnot on the Fourth of July and pretend that we’re celebrating what America is, not what it was.
We’re on a ship of Theseus whose most essential components we chose, needlessly, to replace. The most dignified thing we could do at this point is acknowledge that instead of retreating into patriotic delusions. And in fairness, many of us have: It’s not a coincidence that pride in being American hit a record low during year one of postliberalism’s return to power.
…
Trump-sanctioned “Freedom 250” events are the civic version of an atheist Christmas.
Nick Catoggio, in a separate column.
The Opposition
It’s not just MAGA that contributes to my Jeremiad.
Dr. Biden’s Book
Two things revealed this week how still hopelessly out-of-touch many Dems still are. Dr Jill Biden — you know she’s a doctor, right? — Dr Jill Biden decided that it was time to bring out a memoir. That fathomless Biden vanity strikes again. In a sane world, both Joe and Dr Jill Biden would never show themselves in public again. They did more to re-elect Donald Trump than anyone else — by their utter selfishness, power-lust, and Trump-level gaslighting about Joe’s health.
No one will buy that book, or should. We know it’s a pack of self-serving lies even before we open it up. Dr Jill actually thought she could get away with saying that on that fateful debate night, she thought her husband was “having a stroke.” Seriously. And yet everything we saw with our own eyes that night instantly disproves it. FFS.
She was, of course, also lying in a different way that evening as well. Of course she knew her husband was incapable of being president for another four years. Of course she knew he had had a predictable shambles of a performance. But she wanted to stay in power, with all its privileges, and so lied her ass off, excoriated honest people, and dug in, verging on senior abuse, ensuring the Dems had no time or space to find a successor who didn’t suck as bad as Harris. Hence Trump. And now Jill’s the victim?
Tit-for-Tat
[L]ess than six months out from the 2026 midterm elections, I think you’d need to be blind not to have noticed that Democratic voters (far more so than Democratic officeholders) have been undergoing their own shifts. They’re frustrated, angry, and appalled—about pretty much everything the second Trump administration is doing, and about how little the Democratic establishment can do to stop it. And that frustration, anger, and disgust is translating into a willingness, and even an eagerness, to go toe-to-toe with the Trumpified GOP on political tactics.
…
I don’t care if it “works,” in the sense of getting the angry Democratic base revved up so its members go vote en masse and thereby kick the Republicans from power. That would be good, in the short term. But allow me to make a rather blunt prediction: A political system in which disputes are adjudicated at the level of “the Democratic Senate candidate (who is clearly not trans) is trans” and “shut up you ugly fuck” will not remain a free and democratic system for long.
…
It may feel good to scream vulgar insults in the face of your opponent. But it will not feel good to live in a country in which people regularly scream insults into the faces of their opponents. It will feel like what it will be—and already to a considerable extent it is—which is living in a country slouching toward some unstable blend of dysfunction and dictatorship.
Damon Linker, The Bottomless Pit Beneath Our Feet
Miscellany
I am not (entirely) immune
I was furious at the Texas GOP Thursday night for starting in on James Talarico as a “gay vegan pagan.” Then Friday morning I started smirkily devouring this.
(I give myself partial credit for pulling myself up short when I saw the parallel.)
Shorts
- [Utterly corrupt Texas Senate primary winner Ken] Paxton’s unfortunate ascent in state politics is a good reminder of why parties tend to become dangerous to themselves when they go for years without facing meaningful political opposition from the other party. (Bret Stephens)
- [Name omitted (because it’s a distraction from my point) is] one of these internet-era candidates surfing big swells of rancor. Big swells of rancor are not serving America well. You could even say they’re capsizing it. (Frank Bruni)
- You’re free to belong to a ruthlessly tribal movement that aims to dominate and punish rival tribes, but in that case don’t demand that everyone “come together” for a party hosted by the tribal chieftain so that he isn’t embarrassed by poor turnout. That invitation will be treated with precisely the amount of respect it deserves. (Nick Catoggio)
Elsewhere in Tipsyworld
- $250,000,000 hijacked by vanity
- Crossover voting
- Finally! Clarity on AI
- The most urgent priority in American governance
Your enemies are not demonic, and they are not all-powerful and the right hasn’t always lost and the left hasn’t always won. But if you convince yourself of that, you give yourselves all sorts of permission to do a lot of stupid and terrible things under the rubric of “Do you know what time it is?”
I don’t do any of the major social media, but I have two sub-domains of the domain you’re currently reading: (a) You can read most of my reflexive stuff, especially political here. (b) I also post some things on my favorite no-algorithm social medium.






