Pogoland

Five years from now, America will be okay.  You’ll probably be okay.  And if you are not okay, it will in all likelihood have nothing to do with who was elected president in 2024.

Those of you who think I’m trying to reassure anti-Trump people…despondent over the prospect of another Trump presidency, you’re right.  But I’m also talking even more to pro-Trump folks, convinced that America can’t survive four more years of Joe Biden.

All of you need to get off the ledge.¹

I came across this bit of advice a few days ago, from a writer I do not regularly read or pay any particular attention to.  I thought there was some truth in it, so I shared it with a couple of my friends.  The sentiment fell flat with them.

I get it.  What does he mean by being okay?  Will America be okay?  Are we okay now?  Were we okay four years ago?  Fifty years ago?  Those of you who know me know I am inclined to answer in the negative on all of the above.  For me, if this country ever had a golden age, it was somewhere on the other side of William McKinley.  

I will leave aside that point for now.  What the writer was trying to say, I think, is that five years from now, we will be muddling-through much as we are now: buying and selling, laughing and crying, consuming and exploiting, loving and hating, building-up and tearing-down, and on and on.  In short, as much as it depends on us, the American way of living will sputter on, more or less.  As my compatriot at Tipsy Teetotaler observes, it won’t be the end of the world, but perhaps just the end of a world. This writer is suggesting that the winning by one side is not an apocalyptic event for the other.   Frankly, I foresee no winners on the morning of November 9th–certainly not the American public.  

What to say about these characters of 2024?  Representing the “Outs” is a grifting bullsh*t artist who will spend the next four years monetizing his entire administration. Meanwhile, representing the “Ins” is a mumbling, bumbling old Cold Warmonger, slave to a soulless and increasingly discredited ideology who will continue to project our power abroad like it is 1991, arrogantly clueless to how both the world and his own country have shifted under his feet since he first entered the Senate during the Nixon administration.

Who would vote for either of these hucksters?  I will tell you.  It is your brother-in-law; your favorite cousin; your neighbor; your best friend from college; your co-worker; the nice lady you talk to at the dog park; the server at your favorite restaurant; and that cute young couple with the adorable new baby.  In our unique political culture, the sublime and the lovely and beautiful merge seamlessly with the hideously absurd.  I have been reminded of this in two recent back-to-back experiences.

In late 2023, while visiting a favorite cousin, I was served my coffee in a handmade mug.  It was nicely done, and she explained to me that it was a gift from her best friend, originating from a pottery shop in my part of the state.²  I had to record a deed in that county last Friday, necessitating a drive “down country,” as we say.  My business taken care of, I decided to seek out the pottery establishment about eight miles west of the county seat.  The place is picture postcard perfect–an old frame house at the end of a dirt road, way back in the woods  (although a large modernist house stuck in the forest beyond suggested that the enterprise was underwritten by something more substantial than turning pots.)   

I parked in the gravel lot and approached the side entrance to the house.  Even outside I could hear the racket coming from inside–dating myself by thinking they had their radio turned up too loud.  But a talk show podcast, emanating from a phone or laptop, had the same effect on me.  I walked into the house, and admired the beautiful wares–mugs and pots and pitchers, even chalices– displayed on rough wooden shelves around the walls. 

I found it hard to concentrate on them, however, with all the background noise.   I had the room to myself as the owner never came out to acknowledge my presence, or say “Make yourself at home,” or anything of that sort.  I peeked into the workroom beyond and saw him working on something at a table, attuned to what he was doing, as well as the monologue emitting from his device.  Inspecting the pottery was difficult, as the podcast I was being subjected to became increasingly distracting. 

The man had a loud, gravelly voice.  His talk was replete with conspiratorial tropes which I did my best to ignore.  A couple of time he referred to himself as a “Christian Nationalist,” an odd term to me, as the second word tends to negate the first.  Finally, his name was spoken:  it was Alex Jones of “Infowars” infamy.  Of course I had heard of him, but I had never actually heard him.  I learned later that it was a December interview with Tucker Carlson, who has, of course, moved on to bigger fish. I lost all interest in the pottery-I just wanted to get away from all the ugly, angry noise-making. I let the screen door slam on my way out.  That image—Alex Jones hollering from a little frame house at the end of a dirt road in the middle of a pine forest–is one that will stay with me for a while.

The next morning found me far from the Piney Woods of East Texas, in a lah-tee-da country club in old East Dallas.  Twice a year, I attend a luncheon there for a historical society with which I have a strong attachment.  The membership is about 80% women and 20% men, which is not unusual for this sort of thing.  Most of the attendees are, shall we say, financially comfortable.  I sat next to an older woman whom I had met at previous meetings, as well as reconnecting last May at our national convention.  She has been the soul of kindness and generosity to me.  I discovered that she orchestrated my nomination for registrar of the group. Our relationship have been friendly and cordial to a fault, and I am kindly disposed towards her.

But that day, she wanted to talk to me about her favorite politician, the recently-retired U.S. Congressman from my district.  I do not know why he chose to retire, but I appreciate his decision to do so.  The man was a national embarrassment, though I am not sure his reputation for buffoonery would attract much notice at all in the current House.  In fact, that is my theory of why he retired: the accelerated pace of clownishness became just too strenuous to maintain. Another friend assures me that he is smart like a fox, and perhaps that was so when it came to keeping his constituents happy. In my district, he could have been re-elected for life, and then some.  But I feel comfortable staying with my characterization of him as a buffoon.  I am in good company; Texas Monthly noted for it’s annual Bum Steer Award, dubbed its accompanying trophy in his honor. They picture a gold statuette in his likeness—whether it actually exists, I know not.   

And so I listened to her gush about the man.  My responses were weak and non-committal. But she pressed on. I had to say something.  I assured her that he had not fallen upon hard times, that he was doing well in retirement.  I leaned heavily on my friend who knows him, and I somehow managed to get through the conversation without responding that I considered the man’s career to be loathsome.³ I say, “his career” rather than the man personally, for no doubt his family and dog love him, and with Great Lent approching, perhaps I need to temper my critical nature a bit.  

My dilemma was salvaged by another friendly woman of my acquaintance there. She inquired if I knew about a particular gated community—nearer my city, but on the interstate that connects to Dallas. I assured her it was a “nice place.”  She elaborated that she was considering moving there. When I expressed surprise, she responded with, “Well, you know…Dallas,” accompanied by a knowing eye-roll and arched eyebrows. “Yes, this is certainly a hellscape,” I thought.  I have always found that foreboding allusions to coming apocalyptical distress lacks some credibility when voiced standing before a clubhouse picture window overlooking a golf course. Perhaps she did not pick up on my sarcasm when I replied that said gated community would indeed be a good place to ride out the revolution.

  So there you have it.  These are perfectly nice people who make beautiful things, those that we like to be around, who do good things for us, and appreciate us. These very same folks are also capable of saying the most batsh*t crazy nonsense, believe the most outlandish conspiracy theories and ascribe the worse possible motives and intentions to those on the other side–all with a smile on their lips.  

I could also supply anecdotes about the godawful things said by some on the other side of the aisle; but this being Texas, these on the right come around more frequently.  I have never really bought into the whole moral equivalency argument, for I have been able to discern that some ideas are indeed worse than those on the other side.  But I very much agree with the “Plague on both their Houses” position. 

But back to my point, if there is one. It is not that our political parties have failed us, this the 60th time we have gone through this process. Donald Trump is as American as apple pie.  So are his supporters.  And when it comes to old school defense of Liberal Democracy, Joe Biden is absolutely from Central Casting.  His supporters are patriotic Americans as well, even if they don’t wrap themselves in the flag.  The sad truth is:  Donald Trump and Joe Biden are not the problem.  They ARE America.  This is who we are. WE are the problem. Pogo’s observation was never more apt than it is today.⁴

If the Orange Man wins, it will be because millions of your fellow Americans have put him there (along with, perhaps, a few compliant state legislatures intent on the same outcome).  If you are Trumpophobic, this will be your worst nightmare come true, as you hunker down and prepare for the dismantling of the Republic. 

If Old Joe wins, it will be because enough more millions voted for him to overcome the Electoral College built-in disadvantage(and in spite of the aforementioned state legislatures.)   If you are a MAGAhead, you will first swear that the election was stolen, and then you will start stocking up in order to protect your family from Kamala Harris who will be coming to transgender your grandchildren.  You try to disguise, a little, your relish for the anticipated Civil War.

To all of you, whichever way it goes, I also say “Step away from the ledge.”

Political partisanship is not worth it.  It is just not, unless you enjoy rancor and division and frayed relationships.  There are no political solutions to what really ails us.  If you expect that political solutions will solve much of anything, then I am afraid you are condemning yourself to a lifetime of perpetual disappointment.

Instead, I suggest directing your energies elsewhere. Some better uses of your time that come to mind are such things as going outside and planting something, or praying, or reading a book, or taking a walk, or contemplating your mortality, and/or stirring-up a cocktail. I’m not saying everything will be okay.  It will probably be worse than you think.  But like the writer said, that is “okay.”

1.  Jonah Goldberg, “Apocalypse Not,” The Dispatch, 6 March 2024. 

2. It is my hope that this background information will not, in any way, diminish my cousin’s satisfaction with her lovely coffee mug.

3. My late, great friend, Milton Burton, lamented the fact that this wonderfully descriptive adjective had fallen out of general use. He did his part to inject it back into public discourse, and I follow in his footsteps.

4. We have met the enemy and he is us.