Last October I watched my first Democratic debate and handicapped the candidates. It wasn’t pretty. After the New Hampshire (NH) primary, it’s time to look at my predictions and look again into my political geek crystal ball. I will leave bit of my former analysis in italics, so you know where we have been.
Coffee? Check. Dogs sleeping behind me? Check. Tool cranked up on Spotify? Check. Here we go.
Tulsi Gabbard –Evidently, she is trying to keep us out of wars that we have been fighting for a decade by giving a wink and a nod to dictators.
Good lord she is still here. There is something strange about this white suited cyborg. She is a FoxNews favorite and is cozying up to the Libertarian Party. I can’t shake the notion that she wants to be a third- party spoiler.
Andrew Yang –His sane claim that “it’s the automation stupid” should have been a billboard on the highway to the debate site.
This guy was fun, and we need more jokes in national politics. The things he is right about will plague us for generations. “Yang Gang” Best supporter name ever.
Tom Steyer– “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a billionaire who bought my way onto this stage.”
I suppose he proves a billionaire can be earnest. He is going to make a little trouble in South Carolina (SC). For the life of me, I still can’t figure out why he is doing this. He may be too rich to wise up and leave.
Julian Castro – “I don’t get it. I check all the boxes. Why don’t you like me?”
If you put a Tweet on a scale it has no weight, pretty much like Castro.
Cory Booker – “We are having the wrong debate!! Be nicer!!”
These are angry times. People don’t want to be talked out of their seemingly righteous anger. Mostly, America said that we don’t want vegan president. Rational choice.
Kamala Harris –Turns out she was once a tough prosecutor but feels kind of bad about it.
She a black woman who went to SC over and over, but nobody noticed. Someone handed her the keys to the car and she immediately lost them. Still, she is my favorite for Vice President. She would hold the Woke Left at bay with a white guy at the top of the ticket and is a vicious political elbow thrower. Her and Pence on a stage would be glorious television.
Beto O’Rouke –Nothing says a winner like losing.
I see that Beto has opened up a chain of Texas burger joints called: Hubris r’ Us
Amy Klobuchar – Man, she was really rocking the “non-socialist” world for a few minutes there.
She’s still here? OK, I didn’t predict she would be a spoiler in NH … for Mayor Pete. There is a planet where her personal story and ideas are a winner. But women don’t vote for women for president and she has no national organization. NH is probably the apex of her campaign. Pity.
Pete Buttigieg –Black voters don’t like married gay people.
Damn he has the campaign chops. His ability to create broad based campaigns in Iowa and NH is a potential national template but nothing has changed the way black people feel about gay people. It may be the only thing that the Sunday morning hat ladies share with white evangelicals. I’d love it if this weren’t the case. He is about to hit a wall in the south.
Bernie Sanders –Bernie is an actual fanatic, in all the most awful paint your team name on your belly and get drunk at the game ways.
I highly recommend Rick Wilson’s book “Running Against the Devil.” Bernie is the Trump of the left. He is surrounded by a cadre of fanatics who would rather destroy the republic to make a point than win the White House. Many of them never really liked America anyhow. I run for the hills when political candidates yell about “revolutions” or “movements.” That is cult talk. He looks good in Trump head to head polls now but wait until the Trump machine drops a billion dollars of attack ads on his head. Sorry kids, America doesn’t want to be socialist and you don’t vote. The voter profile in swing states skews over 40 years old. Trump wins going away with 45 states. Bernie would have reverse coattails taking down Democrat control of the House with him. In the end, he is a nihilist.
Joe Biden –I can even forgive his mangled syntax and old dude references. But the guy is just too damned old.
I wanted him to be better but every time I see his now translucent skin under the TV lights I cringe. He knows how to go right at Trump but as a candidate he is a dead man walking. He knows it. He isn’t stupid. If there had been a way to save face and drop out last night, he would have pulled the rip cord. My heart always sinks when I see a formerly great ball player stay one season too long and embarrass themselves at the plate when they can’t catch up to a fastball. Whiff….
Elizabeth Warren – All her “live wire” 70-year-old routine is as distracting as an angry wasp at a summer picnic.
Turns out when you offer the Woke Left Bernie-light they say no thanks and pull the full strength original out of the cupboard. She has a 1,000-person unionized national campaign staff. You are about to hear about layoffs as the money dries up, the hospice care of a campaign. She is from the state next to NH, spent more time there than any other candidate and got creamed. In a normal year, she drops out last night. A week ago, she replaced yelling “fighter” with whispering “unity.” Rejecting your core message to save your campaign is always a loser.
And the “new” guy.
Mike Bloomberg –
You will know what he is all about when he shares a debate stage for the first time. That first TV impression is make or break. Word is he has the best campaign money can buy. We don’t how hard he is hitting the airwaves everywhere else because Oregon isn’t important. I don’t have a problem with him being a billionaire. He started with nothing, had a world beating idea and executed perfectly. That is exactly how that is supposed to work. Nobody else, almost reflexively, gets in Trump’s head better than this guy. There is something to that New York toughness. Bloomberg is everything Trump only claims to be. Trump has the very best Republican political machine with a billion bucks now. Bloomberg can actually say, “Fuck off … me too.” He has a boatload of baggage with women and criminal justice that the left is going to unload on him. They actually HATE the guy. Can they get over themselves and vote for him in a general election? He may be the Democrats last hope, they just don’t know it yet.
So, there it is, Jimbo’s state of the race. After the inevitable failure of the impeachment trial, I wake up most days feeling like we are on the edge of losing our democratic republic. Just in the last week Trump is talking and acting more and more like a dictator. He and Barr are putting a thousand cuts into the rule of law. In terror of his Twitter account and bathing in the graft, the Republican party no longer exists. They are Trumpists now and have signed on to sail that ship into more power or all die in the storm. They have made the binary choice. Their survival is now completely in Trump’s hands.
Spend some time watching the cable business channels. Business is all in on Trump and now has to protect their investment and quarterly profits. If the Democrats nominate an actual socialist, they will unleash a furious tsunami of money to kill the opposition. No one seems to be hedging their bets. My take is that, whether Trump wins or loses, we are in for an economic reckoning after the November election. Retired folks get defensive in those portfolios.
I am a tear in the eye patriot and a believer in the aspirational goals of American founding. I tossed aside a successful career to finish my working life with a decade of public service. Second best thing I have ever done. (Sally #1) From childhood, I live and breathe American history and politics. I wrote a damn MA thesis on the resiliency of American institutions. But there were two things I could not anticipate. Social media and the emergence of a ruler who is a narcissistic sociopath. I am in shock how quickly an opposition party would abandon core principles. Just didn’t see that one coming.
Every day, I work to keep my psyche above water, focus on what is real around me, what I can try to control. I mostly succeed. Becoming an exhausted, demoralized opposition is what a tyrant covets the most. Stay in the damn game!!!
Today my overriding fear is the Democrats are going to find a way to fuck this up again. They have yet to prove me wrong.
The picture. It was late. Nick had been invited to the opening of a new exhibit at Pittock Mansion. As his Parks guy, I went with him. We got an amazing tour of the things the public don’t see, hidden doors, third floor rooms, the basement cast iron elevator motor. We viewed the exhibit, and as always happened, people sort of lined-up to talk to the commissioner. Pittock had their own photographer. I went to extricate Nick. The woman in the picture would not take a clue. When they sent me all the pictures to pick the ones we wanted, I said, “And print me a copy of this one.” This picture still makes me laugh because it is so damn honest. I framed it for my home office.
I hate writing these essays, these memorials, celebrations and lamentations. But I have to do it. When I suffer a great loss, like the passing of my friend Commissioner Nick Fish, I am frozen, standing on the ground at the edge of a spinning carrousel of stories and thoughts and emotions. The only way I can free my feet and heart is reach up, grab some of the passing memories and pull them onto a screen or a piece of paper. So now, if you are reading this, you are caught in how I try to make sense of absence.
I spent the best part of a decade working with Nick. I could write endlessly about his dedication to public service, a commitment exceeded only by that of watching his family grow and change. But let me tell a few little things about my friend, the pieces of Nick that will stay with me.
Nick was a New Yorker with all that implies. He walked impossibly fast and drove the same way. He covered thousands of miles back and forth across the city in his little car. He loved a good road trip. I rode with him a few times and let’s just say he quickly and loudly critiqued other drivers.
During the day, TeamFish members staffing the commissioner drove. It gave him time to read the talking points and talk on his cell phone. Nick would have had no issues if someone Crazy Glued that phone to his hand. More than once, the driver of the day came back swearing they would never do that again. Nick’s detailed driving critiques could be harrowing.
I am a car guy. My greatest discovery when I took over as the Parks Bureau liaison was that the Portland International Raceway (PIR) was a city park. Who knew!? I had a track modified Mini Cooper S and did full-speed track days at PIR. I arranged for Nick to speak at the official opening of the track season. On cold Saturday morning, we met at the paddock with a about 100 car geeks and their hot cars. I knew the organizers from my track days. They were very excited that I had arranged for the commissioner to be there.
As Nick was speaking, Gary Bockman, the president of the Friends of PIR, came over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“We have surprise for the commissioner. Got get your Mini and bring it around to the starting line. When he is done, I will bring him to you and the track is all yours for 3 laps.”
I was psyched. This was going to be fun. When Nick walked up to my car, he started to go to the driver’s side. Gary led him to the other side of the car.
“Oh no, Jim knows what he is doing. You are the passenger.”
Nick got in and buckled up. When Nick was nervous his mouth fell open, a goofy look of mock surprise.
Gary leaned into my window, “OK Jim, it’s all yours. Remember, the track is cold. Your tires are cold. Be smart out there and don’t put it into a wall. We don’t have any emergency gear here today.”
I laughed and turned to look at Nick, “You ready?”
Before he could respond I grabbed gear and squealed the tires. I did the first lap like a tour guide. Talking about the racing line, pointing out my favorite corners and the geese in the infield. Nick’s head was on a swivel. He didn’t say much but he seemed to be having fun. As we came back to the long front straight, I said, “Hang on. Now let’s have some fun.”
On a track day, my little car would hit 105 MPH before breaking into the first corner. I knew better and kept it at about 80 and braked gingerly into every corner. Still, I had to concentrate so as not to spin my boss into the infield. At speed, turn 6 feels like you are going to fly out of the passenger window. It felt slow to me but when I looked at Nick his left hand was dug deep into the seat bolster. His right hand was crushing the door handle. As we dropped down into the back straight and gained speed, I heard a little high-pitched whimper of some sort.
“Isn’t this great? You good?” I asked as I grabbed a gear.
“Oh yea,” Nick said his voice an octave too high.
As we came around to the stands, people were standing and waving at us. Ever the man of the people, Nick waved back. I slowed the car to do a final cool down lap. When we pulled back to the starting line, it was clear that Nick was a mess. I think he mostly wanted to throw up, but gamely held it together, wobbled out of the car and started shaking hands.
Here’s the deal. What Nick never told me was that he gets car sick. Our fun 3 laps were about his worst nightmare. At the Monday staff meeting, he went on and on about his time on the track with me. Well, I also think he said, “Jim tried to kill me.”
Always a gamer, Nick still rode with me to events. I made him car sick again on the little winding road up to PIttock Mansion. When I switched the Mini for a BMW sports coup, he walked up to it the first time and said, “Jesus Jim.” Turns out Nick Fish was a closet car guy too, just for the fancy cars. One day on a freeway onramp, I reached down, punched the sport button and slammed him back in his seat as I accelerated. That got a happy, “Wow!” He was much better in a straight line.
One day, back from an event with Nick, a team member asked me, “Does he just drive you nuts as a passenger?”
“No, actually, he never says a word about my driving.”
“Yea, the trick is that he is scared I will actually DRIVE my car, so we are good.”
In my memoir, I write extensively about Nick’s winning 2008 campaign for Portland City Council. I met Nick at a luncheon and few weeks later he called to ask me to join him on the campaign. After a month of writing responses to endorsement questionnaires, unsolicited, I went to see his first public forum. Afterwards, I told him I had many notes and he said, “Let’s get sushi and talk about it.” What I didn’t write about in the book was how Nick Fish ate. Watching him eat was just plain frightening.
That day, I first noted his considerable dexterity with chop sticks. With the precision of a surgeon he tugged, grabbed and dipped the tuna and California rolls then tossed them into his open mouth. “This man loves to eat,” I thought. And, he never stopped talking … not for a second. Chops sticks down, long gulp of icy soda and right back to the sticks and rolls. He was in continuous motion, reaching out with his other hand to point at something in my notes, “Tell me more about this.” Nervous, I had barely touched my noodles. He was done and scanning the room for our waitress to order more food.
Nick is the only adult man I had ever seen construct a bib at a table. Paper napkin, or cloth, if he was wearing a tie, he took the napkin, flopped it wide open then turned on the diagonal. Almost daintily, he tucked one corner behind the knot in his tie and spread the rest to get maximum coverage of his chest. Give him credit for being self-aware. Food flew in every direction as he worked his way through a plate. I am guessing there had been “accidents” to a number if ties.
In City Hall, we most often ate at our desks or in the conference room. I was a sack lunch guy. Nick sent someone out for sustenance, often a sandwich, chips and yogurt. None of us really wanted to see what happened next. With barely any interruption to his stream of consciousness talking, Nick took enormous bites of the sandwich. Chewing and talking the internals of the sandwich flew out onto the desk in front of him and on the floor. Before I had opened my bag of chips, his sandwich was gone. I began to wonder if it was possible to actually eat a sandwich in six bites. On to the yogurt. Can one call a living, milk-based sludge a victim? Somehow Nick turned the small white plastic spoon into a ladle, a continuous feeding conveyor to his mouth. The yogurt didn’t have a chance.
The endearing thing about this spectacle was just how little he cared about how he looked scarfing down his sustenance. He treated us like family, and he was merely fueling for the next thing. Generally, we tried to shelter the public from feeding time in the Commissioner’s office. I call that good staff work.
Even in public, if you knew the code, Nick never stopped communicating the subtext of what he was really thinking. One of Nick’s greatest political talents was his ability to completely change his emotional and physical aspect in front of the public. He had one of the most incisive minds I have ever seen in action. We could be behind the door in his office and he could be absolutely ballistic about something, often to do with our bureaus or someone not meeting his very high standards. Senior staff learned that he had to have a safe way to blow off steam. We all do it, but for a politician it’s essential to know when and where.
Now the magic trick. In the walk from his corner office to the door of our conference room Nick transformed. He fired questions: who is at the table; why am I having this meeting; how long; what do we need; what do they want. Every staffer had to be able to relay that information in short bursts. He was changing gears on the fly. Reaching the door before me he would sometimes put his hand on the knob, turn to me, smile with his eyes and take a breath. Door open, he ushered me in and began greeting the room before he sat down, sometimes making his way around the table shaking hands. From that instant on, the people in the room believed that they were the most important meeting he was having that day. In a long day, that could happen a dozen times. I never stopped being awed at that skill.
Generally, I sat at Nick’s right elbow. Nick, always the lawyer, could be an intense questioner, not so much intimidating as conveying rapt attention. For some people this would be their only City Hall meeting. He made sure they got what they wanted most, his attention. For bureau staff, this was their one chance to make their briefing count. You got to see people, nervous, but at their best.
Now the other part of the meeting began, the hidden fun part. As the meetings went on, Nick was narrating his thoughts to me, and those of us who knew, in real time. With a quick glance, subtle adjustments of his mouth and eyes, the parting or closing of his lips and even the outright change of his face directed only to me as he changed postures, Nick told a story.
Variously he communicated: What am I really doing here? I really like this person. What an idiot. How much time? This is fun. I am tired. I am not happy. Did you hear that? What are they talking about? You need to jump in now. I got that right … yes? But the one silent message I got most often was a slight widening of his eyes. That is the one I always thought of as “How am I doing?”
Even holding court, looking and sounding supremely confident, Nick sought reassurance. Most of us have our underlying insecurities. But we don’t get to test them all day long like he did. My response was always: eyes raised in return with the slightest nod. “Yea, you are fine.”
The subtext didn’t stop there. Our conference room office windows faced the stairs to the mayor’s office. We always had an eye on who was going up to, or coming down from, meetings with the mayor. Certain people meant movement on issues completely disconnected from the meeting we were in. Quick glances between us confirmed we both just saw who was in the building.
Some of the most fun ever was watching Nick do a stand-up outside our office door with a local TV reporters. Most of those reporters come and go so are really clueless about local issues. Inevitably, while someone else ushered the reporter and videographer out to the hall, we would linger in Nick’s office doing a rundown of what he wanted to communicate.
Nick liked to try out answers out loud. He’d toss out a sentence and look for a reaction. It was our job to say: Good or No. Try this word. You need more on that. Don’t go there. You have it now. With each critique, he edited in his head, and said the new version. I had seen him do this on the 2008 campaign when we worked in his law office. He dictated his speeches for his admin to type. Even before we had anything on paper, I would say, “No that sentence doesn’t work and you need to start the paragraph differently.” He would rewind in his head, give it back to me using the same words making the substitutions. I had never seen anything like it.
Out the door, gracious with his small talk, Nick cleverly set the reporter up with the questions we wanted to answer. I leaned against the wall an angle where only Nick could see me. As the interview progressed, he would catch my eyes for confirmation he was hitting his points. Eye shift from him. Head shift from me. If he needed more or forgot something, slight motion with my eyes off to the distance. Slight raise of his eyebrows and away he went. It was a thing of beauty. You had to know the code.
Nick Fish was serious about writing. To work in our office, the candidates had to do a writing test. They were handed a one-page ordnance, placed in front of a computer and told they had 20 minutes to write the commissioner’s talking points. Good lord, I felt so sorry for those young people. But that was how important the writing was to Nick, thus, all of TeamFish.
I wrote many of the large, set-piece speeches with him. It could be an excruciating process, starting with our tools of choice. Nick and I were both eccentrics about our writing implements. I favor a fat, mechanical pencil with a double hard lead. He was very old school, using a yellow, ink cartridge loaded fountain pen. We did this little ballet were occasionally we registered gentle concern about each other’s implement choices. We were unified in our abysmal penmanship.
For 7 years, I wrote the speeches for the “We the People” high school Constitution competition. Nick was always a judge and gave the closing speech in front of an enormous audience of kids, parents and educators. I started coming up with ideas and a first draft 2 months in advance. Nick gave me free reign to pick a topic and link it to the Constitution and what was awash in the zeitgeist. The speeches got longer and longer every year.
Nick had awful eyesight. He would brag about the prisms in his glasses. Anything he edited had to be in a 22-point font, triple spaced. We went through reams of paper. The font for the final copy got even bigger. There was always someone on TeamFish with the honored title of “formatter.”
I have a fondness for the rounded paragraph, metaphors, tangential wit and the sprinkling of emotion. Nick was the master of the lean, clean, precise declarative sentence. Always the lawyer, he was a communicator. My first drafts were a bloodbath of his changes. I knew that the words had to come out of his mouth. He had to be comfortable with the language. Still, for the next 15 or 20 drafts (that’s right … 15 drafts was nothing) my goal was often to keep little bits of soul in the text.
It went like this. We each got printed copies of the draft. Nick would read the text and mark up his copy. Either sitting on his couch or at our conference table, I would track along with him capturing some of his changes but mostly making notes on what was working and what wasn’t. He would try out parts of the text aloud and we would both let the words hover in the air above us as we considered them. When we finished, I would take both copies back to my office, lay them side by side and start editing. Well, not quite. Nick’s skinny, linear fountain pen scrawl was mostly indecipherable. I could figure out maybe half of what he wrote. The rest I took to the Nick whisperers.
Always, there were at least two people on TeamFish who could read his writing. Sonia, the longest on the team, was first among equals. I would write what I thought he wrote and show it to her. Somehow, I have no idea how, she would quickly read his scratches. More often than not, I had completely mistranslated every word. Oh, my version had a reasonable contextual meaning, it was just completely wrong.
Consider that several people were writing for Nick every day, talking points, vote statements, media announcements, op eds. Paper drafts flowed in and out on Nick’s office all day long. He took drafts to council meetings and edited while listening to testimony. He took drafts home. He read drafts while being driven to events. There were few points in his public service where he was not editing something.
TeamFish had a joke about the final copy. Nothing was final until it was final … final. Maybe even final … final … final. Even if he loved a final draft and we locked it down, when he handed us back the copy, he had used to deliver the speech, there were hand written changes in the text. I would stand in the back of the room and watch him make changes siting at the dais right up until the moment he was introduced. Nick had a vision of the perfect speech he was always chasing, and he relentlessly challenged himself to reach that untouchable star.
We had this thing, Nick and I, where we would complement each other’s writing back and forth. He would read a sentence and look up and say, “Yea, this is good.” Or, he would make a change and read it back to me and I would say, “Yea, that’s better.” But it was when we were cutting out each other’s writing where it got funny.
Can you keep a secret? I think that many times I had better sense of what words or descriptions would touch an audience. Nick was a little reluctant to go there. Sometimes, a draft would come back to me with one of those paragraphs crossed out. I would note the change and send back a draft with the wording deleted. Then, on the next version, I would put it back. Without fail, he said, “I like this part,” to something he had once deleted.
Curiously, I never saw Nick deliver one of the “We the People” speeches. Held in the huge auditorium at Lake Oswego High School, the closing speech started at different times based on the competition and there was barely enough room for all the parents and students. On the day after, we all waited for his review. I only needed to hear one word, “Homerun!!”
For the last speech I wrote in 2017, I wanted Nick to be the one to reassure the students and their parents that the competition had equipped them to handle whatever came in the age of Trump. From graduate school, I am a bit of a wonk on the election of 1800 so I equipped Nick with the invective Adams and Jefferson threw at each other to establish for the audience what we have survived in the past. Nick then took the audience through a journey of the resilience of American institutions amidst chaos. I thought it was our best work.
The next day, Nick didn’t say “Homerun!!” He looked at me and said, “Jim, a dad came up to me after with tears in his eyes to say thank you.”
I wish I would have seen Nick deliver that speech.
The Parting Ritual
I was a project leader and manager in high tech for almost 20 years. There was one important part of leadership where I woefully weak, offering praise to my team members. I worked in a world of eccentrics and perfectionists. Mostly, we were all harder on ourselves that anyone else could ever be. I, especially, had trouble giving myself a compliment and that bled over to how I treated others. But I wanted to be better. So, consciously, slowly I worked to master the little moments of praise for individuals and the grander gestures of celebration for teams. The more I did it, letting go of self, the more I enjoyed it. By time I left management, how my team members felt appreciated and supported was a hallmark of my leadership style.
As far as I could tell, Nick had never had a staff like TeamFish. He worked in groups, served on boards, did campaigns but didn’t have the experience of being the boss of his own team over time. From the start, Nick was pretty good at recognizing hard work. He was quick to poke his head in a doorway and say, “Good work” or “Nice Job.” If he caught your eye from the dais or down a hallway, he gave you a thumbs up. TeamFish is a high functioning team, always buried under too much work, so those quick hits of praise were important.
Nick also loved to honor people and organizations in public. He was forever bringing proclamations to Council or calling out people in the audience for recognition. Some would say he was effusive. OK, others said he could be over-the-top with his almost nineteen century formality when praising others. But there is one special ritual that only a few of us saw.
Every day, especially on Fridays, there was a flurry of activity on the run-up to the commissioner leaving for the evening. We assembled a package with briefing papers, memos, talking points for events, maps and staffing assignments. And, inevitably, some of us had one more thing to tell him before he parted. The call would come out from our scheduler, “Nick is about to leave!” People would drift out to our common office area and Nick would emerge from his office, coat on, holding his hopelessly overstuffed, ratty looking briefcase. He would stop somewhere around the center of the office and look around the room. He often looked exhausted as he was already 12 hours into his day and was needing the energy boost of a crowd at his evening event.
The parting ritual began like this:
“I think we had a good day,” he would say to no one in particular.
Then Nick would work his way around the room recalling something that each of us had done. Acts big and small were assembled, often with his version of self-deprecating humor, into a picture of the collective accomplishments of the team.
If someone had an especially big part in the successes of the day or week, Nick would face them, raise both hands in the air toward them and almost yell, “Ladies and gentlemen!”
And then he would say that person’s name loudly several times like they were a world championship fighter entering the ring. He started the applause, hands in the air and everyone joined in, adding whoops and hollers. The honored soul sometimes nodded or bowed or responded with a wave. When it happened to me, I felt a cool chill go down my body. Better that than a tear that wanted to find my eye.
And with that, Nick swept out of the room and to the front door, calls of “Have a good night! Thanks commissioner!” at his back. I sometimes watched him through the glass doors, marveling at his long strides. He was off out into the night, to the next thing, as happy about it as when he walked in the door that morning.
This wasn’t a one-off. In some variation of the form, it happened all the time. One night my wife came to pick me up. Sitting in our waiting area she was one of the rare outsiders to see the parting ritual.
As we walked out that evening she said, “That was amazing. I have never had a boss that did anything like that.”
Nick never lacked for people complimenting him on his work. In politics, some of that was sincere, some strategic. When I thought Nick did something especially well, or took a position on policy that was contrary and hard, something he struggled with for days, I wanted him to know it counted. Politics is a world of constant handshakes, but in my blue-collar upbringing, offering your hand to another man was a special thing, especially between men of a certain age.
I would wait until Nick was in his office alone, walk in and interrupt whatever he was doing. I walked up and offered my hand across his desk. He always seemed a little startled but then clicked in and locked eyes with me.
Shaking his hand, I said, “Good job Commissioner.” He held the handshake a little longer and said, “Thank you.”
Then without another word, I would smile, turn for the door and slip away.
Everything is true. Tapping on a phone, or keyboard, you can find the facts to support almost any claim. That is because facts can be synthesized too. Once pushed out into the Internet, any idea, no matter how absurd, will find a believer. Believers will gather virtually into an audience then form a tribe. And once you are part of a tribe, you are never alone. When you let go of truth, there is freedom in every direction. Liberty means that you can live in a world where all thoughts are confirmed and the blessed buzz of dopamine flows through your brain like the mighty Mississippi. As I considered all the possibilities of joy that a conspiracy theory can engender, I asked, why not me? I want to be validated. I want to be part of a tribe. I want my own conspiracy theory.
Any good conspiracy theory, and all effective propaganda, starts with the nub of a fact. We saw a few conspiracy theories tossed out during the impeachment hearings. They all started with facts. Ukraine exists. There were people who didn’t like Trump in Ukraine. There is corruption in Ukraine. People don’t like corruption. You see what I mean? It is possible to string together a series of general truths that are simple to understand and provide a platform for a good conspiracy theory.
Next, you need to have a goal. What is your conspiracy theory trying to accomplish? Let’s take one. It is vital to the president to prove that Ukraine is hostile to Trump. How do you do that? Turn a few people into a country. There were commentators and a handful of politicians in Ukraine who opposed Trump in 2016. Why? Because in public remarks he had conceded part of their invaded country to Russia. Hillary Clinton, on the other hand, said that Crimea was still part of Ukraine. So, naturally, people who didn’t like to be invaded preferred Clinton.
Next, say the false thing over and over, and have other seemingly smart people validate what you are saying. In this case, the big lie is: There are people in Ukraine who hate Trump, so Ukraine worked with the Democrats to defeat Trump. And there it is. Take a few facts, manufacture a few new ones and you have a conspiracy theory. Just yesterday, a US senator was on a Sunday morning talk show stating this conspiracy was a fact. You are going to hear this one a lot in the next couple of months. It is the basis for Trump’s non-defense, defense.
But what about me? I want my own conspiracy theory. OK … here goes:
I follow the stock market and the economy closely. Like millions of Americans, my retirement is now dependent on the stock and bond markets. So, a few facts. We have been in a bull market since Obama kept us out of another Great Depression in 2009. While the job mix is not working for all Americans, the job numbers are terrific. Across the board, businesses big and small are doing well. The GDP, while not going gangbusters, has been constantly above 2 per cent. Oil production is high, keeping gas prices low. Trump’s deregulation has been a boon for many business sectors. The tax cut meant that corporations can recover cash and do stock buy backs to keep their own stock prices high. The Fed, in response to Trump and Wall Street, has lowered interest rates and restarted Quantitative Easing (large scale buying of government bonds basically throwing money into the economy). Sentiment surveys consistently say people feel good about the economy. Finally, and this is the key to my conspiracy theory, the single biggest predictor of the reelection of a president is a humming economy. Like it or not, the president is the economy. People will ignore almost anything if they feel economically secure.
That’s an impressive collection of facts, isn’t it? Without a doubt, the single biggest factor to the Republicans and Trump retaining power is the economy. Trump is very good for big business. Given that, why would you believe the economy is not being manipulated to make sure Trump is reelected?
Let me be clear … I am sure the American economy is being manipulated to reelect Trump and that once he is reelected all of the economic influencers will take their hand off the scale and the markets/economy will revert to the normal business cycle. We will have a recession.
I watch CNBC and Fox Business Network. In the last year, the market gurus have begun to sound like cult members. “The markets will keep going up because they have been going up.” What? We have been in a 10-year bull market. That has never happened before. The world economy has been shaky for a while. American stands alone. That isn’t a good thing. The Fed is throwing every tool they have at keeping the economy pumped up. But in doing so, they are violating their mandate to keep some tools on the sidelines for an inevitable downturn. They are all-in on keeping this aging bull market alive. Why?
Unless you watch and read business news, you cannot begin to understand the terror that Democratic candidates like Bernie and Warren have unleashed. I don’t agree with their policies but that doesn’t matter. For big business, stopping them is an imperative. And, they have come to see the moderate Democrats as unreliable. So, the most important thing they can do is manage their companies for the election. Not for stockholders, the election. It may be the only way they are thinking beyond the next quarter’s numbers. Keeping Trump in power is essential to their bottom line.
Trump will also use all of his tools to keep the markets and economy right where they are. Billions of borrowed Chinese money to farmers to cover for the insane tariffs … you bet. And the Chinese this week said that they like having Trump around because in his simple-minded economic understanding he is absolutely predictable and easy to manipulate by tossing him a bone. Wait for it. There will be a trade deal before the election. It serves long-term Chinese interests.
The core to my conspiracy theory is simple: who benefits? There are entirely too many ways that big business and Trump are dependent upon each other for both to resist manipulating the economy over the next year. I think we are already seeing it. You just have to pay close attention. As always, “It’s the economy stupid!”
Please share this essay because, you know, that’s how a good conspiracy theory works.
People have been asking me, “How did you end up writing a book?” Like a number of insane people, I have always wanted to write a book. Since I was a kid, walking into a library or a bookstore always sent a little electrical shot down my spine. First, excitement then a soft blanket of calm. I would look up at the stacks and think, “I want to do that.”
Most directly, it was my essay site, Noclock.org, that told me that I could write a book. The rules I set for my essays are simple:
Grab an idea. (Showers, movie theaers and gardening seem to wake the muse.)
Let my subconscious work on it for a while.
Write it fast in one sitting (somehow about 1,000 words always feels right).
Do one pass of editing. I want the most direct connection to my original words, flaws be damned.
Find a piece of art and publish.
From the moment I sit down to write, it generally takes about 90 minutes beginning to end.
About a year into my essay writing experiment, I realized I had written almost 50,000 words across 40 essays. A real book can land in about 50,000 words. Damn, I thought, that’s a book. Accidentally, just for the joy of writing, I had written enough words to be a book. Suddenly, the impossible seemed reasonable. And isn’t that how many of the most important things in life work? We stare up at the hill and shake our heads in defeat only to one day find ourselves standing on the hill.
I am proud of my first book, Am I Cured Yet: My Wonderful Life with Panic Disorder and PTSD. I have had heartfelt and touching feedback from readers. But the truth is that my memoir would not exist except for this little essay site and my reader’s patience and curiosity as I bounce from subject to subject, sometimes making solid contact and other times whiffing at the ball. So, I will continue to toss out essays for your enjoyment and annoyance. But beware, while I continue to write here, a second project is already underway.
My first day working in Portland City Hall, I became the commissioner’s liaison to one of the largest bureaus in the city, Portland Parks and Recreation. In our curious system, commissioners directly manage bureaus. That meant that I now had a strange new status every time I met with employees from Parks. I didn’t fully understand that status until in an early “get to know you” meeting where I made an offhand comment about one of the many parts of my new assignment I didn’t understand. The next morning in my email, unsolicited, was a long, well written memo that filled the gap on my knowledge. “Oh shit,” I thought, “I really need to think before I speak around those folks.”
During my time in public service, I spent hundreds of hours with city employees from the director to the guy who did garbage pickup on the parks. I quickly realized that, after a career in the private sector, I could understand a huge bureau like it was a small company. Almost everything I knew from before applied. Well, except for one enormous difference, I would always be temporary in the lives of those city workers. Sure enough, at the point where I had really figured out the bureau, I got a new assignment.
We have been hearing a lot about the “deep state.” It is characterized as the evil structure of non-elected bureaucrats whole wield unchecked power thwarting the will of the voter. (Did I get that one right?)
What I discovered is the deep state is actually the reason we have a government at all. Those are the people who get up day after day to maintain all of those things we take for granted: social security checks arriving on time; people on the other end of the line when you dial 911; people who make sure we have water, roads to drive on and parks to play in. The deep state is the glue, at every level of government, that keeps our democracy together.
As an appointee of an elected official, I was just passing through. Many of the folks I worked with had seen 3 … 6 … 10 different elected officials come and go. They had weathered awful politicians who used the bureaucracy to maintain power and stroke ambition. They rejoiced when their new boss actually understood that they mostly existed to serve the public and implement projects that had timelines decades long. The time horizon of a political appointee was no farther than the next election.
Oh sure, the fabled ugly bureaucrat is a real thing. I met them too. The incompetent apparatchik sheltered by public employee union rules is a real thing. During my service we had to get rid of some senior managers who had been in power so long they started to believe they were more important than the public they served. Here’s a secret, when we did take out the dead weight in a bureau, the other people there quietly rejoiced. Just like most of us, the loyal, hardworking souls had no use for the venal or lazy. We were doing them a big favor. Almost daily, I was amazed at the dedication of the people in the deep state and their willingness to put in insanely long hours and sweat the details to serve the public.
This takes me to Trump and his deep state fantasy. The thing about people who chose to do public service is that they have pride in their work, and in the case of federal employees, they are very serious about their oaths to the constitution and protecting the system bequeathed to all of us by our nation’s founders. They too have seen presidents and political appointees come and go. They have experienced committed appointees who haven given up other careers to serve for a time in government. And, as is the case now, they have seen grifters who only showed up to take from government as much as they can on the way out the door.
Trump will never understand that there are people serving government because they believe in our system and to a soul see themselves as custodians of a something special. Trump only serves himself. And, it was inevitable that there would finally be a point where some of those people would rise up, put their lives and careers on the line to protect our government and nation from a man who is more comfortable with dictators than democrats. You can only shit on good people so long before they have had enough.
In the next few days, we are going to finally see testimony about impeachable offenses by the president. Congress is doing what the founders intended when the executive has exceeded its authority or committed illegal acts. Congress is exercising their duty to be a check and balance. Genuine, patriotic servants will be attacked mercilessly by politicians and pundits. Keep in mind when you see these deep state members raise their right hand that they are risking everything to protect our liberal democracy. Those attacking them risk nothing. Oh, they will say privately that they detest Trump but they will not risk their little piece of the power pie to tell the truth.
I fell in love with the deep state because I realized that the real heroes of a functioning democracy are people you will never hear about. They suffer the intents of politicians with a steadfastness that accumulates over years and decades. And … with any luck … it will be those patriots in the deep state who save our teetering democracy.
Roland Springborn always wore a suit to the office. It draped scarecrow like off of his tall, slight frame. The elbows of the coat and back of the trousers were worn shinny and thin. Under the coat, which he took off and carefully put on the back of his chair, he wore 3, sometimes 4, layers of pastel colored t-shirts. I never asked him why. That was something I could never ask Mr. Springborn. For the best part of a year, one morning a week, he was the oldest intern in the office of Senator S. I. Hayakawa.
The long awaited appearance of the Washington Nationals in the World Series turned my thoughts to Mr. Springborn. A native of the district, he would have been immensely proud. But his team was the Washington Senators, and his players were the icons of the game. You see, in 1980, Mr. Springborn was the same age as the Twentieth Century.
In the office at 8 AM sharp, before me, he always perked up when I arrived. His desk was directly across from mine, so we mostly faced each other. He was a talker and while his stories quickly wore thin on the others in the office, I didn’t mind listening and learning from him. I marveled that he had lived in the district the first 65 years of the century and probed him for the history he witnessed. Like my grandpa Blackwood, he was born before human powered flight. With all the questions I asked both of them, I never asked what they thought when the first time he saw an airplane. I thought of Mr. Springborn when I read the Wright Brothers flew exhibitions over the Potomac. A man with a lively curiosity at 80, I am sure he didn’t miss that opportunity.
Mr. Springborn lived in Arlington and took the bus to the city for his assorted internships. He had retired in the last 60’s from a job in the bureaucracy. His age and retired government employee status somehow allowed him to use public transportation cheaply. I soon learned that there was a very specific reason he only worked the morning shift. He was all about lunch. He had a voluminous knowledge about the different cafeterias in the various federal buildings. He had a weekly schedule that got him to a different cafeteria every day based on their specials of the day. The soup on Tuesday at Treasury. The spaghetti at State on Thursday. Precisely at noon, with a smile and a wave, he put on his coat and headed out so that he didn’t miss the specials. Lunch done, he headed back home across Potomac. A nap and then time to listen to the Baltimore Orioles on the radio. Having outlived most of his peers, this was his life, seemingly full with his assorted office mates as regular players in his each day.
While I knew he was a fan of the original Washington Senators and he had often gone to games at old Griffith Stadium, the door to his love of the game flew wide open one day when I showed up at work with my O’s hat. I was off to a game in Baltimore after work that day.
“Oh, they almost won that Series last year. I like them but they are not as good as the old Senators.”
The Senators and baseball left DC in 1961 a fact that still pained Mr. Springborn. From childhood he had gone to games.
“My favorite player was Walter “Big Train” Johnson. Boy he could throw a fastball.”
If you are a baseball fan having someone say such a thing in an offhand way is startling. Johnson is a Hall of Famer who played all 21 years of his career in DC starting in 1907 … 1907. Of course, he was a DC boy’s hero. I looked it up. Johnson still has the all-time career shutout record, 110.
Mr. Springborn knew what it was like to go to Griffith Stadium before any baseball park had lights. He talked about seeing the players outside the park on the trolleys and how during the games the players would talk to people in the stands. And then it hit me. Good lord, I thought, did he see the 1927 Yankees, possibly the most iconic team in the history of the game. I broke into his stream of conscious baseball recitation and asked.
“Mr. Springborn, did you see the 1927 Yankees … Ruth … Gehrig?”
“Oh sure,” he said, “saw Babe Ruth hit a home run off the Big Train.”
For a time, I just fell back into my chair as he continued on with the description of the day and the homer. I honestly don’t remember what he said. I remember him smiling at me and pointing out in a direction with his left arm like he was gesturing to the outfield wall at Griffith Stadium. I was conscious that that was exactly what he was doing. He was seeing it, reliving it, transmitting the moment to me. There was no film. No picture. This was it. It was something real in the memory of an 80-year-old baseball fan telling a story to another baseball fan. Generations apart, I was now the keeper of the day the Babe hit the homer off of the Big Train.
When I left DC, Mr. Springborn was still our intern. The longer he was there the more he became sort of the great grandpa for the entire office. We fretted when he called in sick and rejoiced when he came back to work. Some stories I heard a dozen times, but I took each one in as if it was discovering a hidden treasure. On my last day with him, Mr. Springborn and I exchanged addresses. I wrote him a few times from my various addresses and he always responded with a nice update in his shaky scrawl.
As such things go, eventually the letters stopped. I could guess that time finally caught up with my baseball pal. Thing is, I knew in the moment they happened that every conversation with Mr. Springborn was something special, something I would always hold close. For that I am grateful.
So, tonight when I turn on the World Series from Mr. Springborn’s beloved Washington DC, I will sip a cold beer and again recall my time with the guy who saw Babe Ruth hit a homer.
Bucking up my courage, mescal with a red beer chaser and the Nationals game on my iPad, I committed to watch all 2 hours (though I am sure I fell into a worm hole) of the Democratic Debate. Unable to swallow the whole apple, I had sliced pieces of previous debates, but things are getting serious now and as a non-affiliated voter I need to see just who the Democrats are bringing me to consider. Luckily, CNN put a camera in West Virginia to create enough distance for me to see all of the debaters on the Ohio stage. Quantity and quality …I hoped. Let’s see what we have here.
Tulsi Gabbard – They said she had been the congress person from a district in Hawaii for 7 years. No doubt the region known for its fine Maui Wowie. Evidently, she is trying to keep us out of wars that we have been fighting for a decade by giving a wink and a nod to dictators. Showing impeccable timing, she decided to take over the role of moderator. Alas, when she looked down at her, I am sure “spicy” questions, CNN went to commercial. Kind of made me really want to meet her constituents and give them a hug.
Andrew Yang – Seems he made few bucks in high tech. Good for him. And he wants to give everyone 1,000 bucks, you say. Before or after taxes and withholding? So, you are living a good and productive life but sitting in your hot tube one day the ego guards decide to abandon the closely monitored perimeter in your bean and you decide you need to be president. Better yet, you have ideas and, instead of the rational act of creating a blog, you decide you need to be on the TV. His sane claim that “it’s the automation stupid” should have been a billboard on the highway to the debate site.
Tom Steyer – “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a billionaire who bought my way onto this stage.” Did anyone else feel a little icky inside at the idea of genuinely sincere billionaire? It was kind of like seeing a beat-up white Ford Econoline van parked outside of an elementary school. You just know something isn’t right.
Julian Castro – He needed a placard in front of the podium that said, “I don’t get it. I check all the boxes. Why don’t you like me?” Later I saw, unironically on Twitter, that his attempted take down of the police was the most trending quote on, of course, Twitter. I feel good about his chances to be president of Twitter.
Cory Booker – It hadn’t occurred to me that what any debate needs is someone to break in every 10 minutes and yell, “We are having the wrong debate!! Be nicer!!” I like nice people too and if what we needed was more nice in the world, I would just sit in a room with a continuous loop of Mr. Rogers reruns. I honestly want him to find the right place for his message. If I was him I would run for a seat in the US Senate. He could be useful there. I hear he is a vegan.
Kamala Harris – How is it possible, so early in the process, for someone to give off the vibe that she once played to sold out arenas but now she is doing the Indian Casino circuit to pay the bills? She mostly made me feel sad. Turns out she was once a tough prosecutor but feels kind of bad about it. But she needs perk up. How she is going to feel about this squandered opportunity will blot out everything else, kind of like a gal on a street corner complaining about the rain when a tsunami washes her away.
Beto O’Rouke – I knew he was off to a flying start in this campaign when he made it clear that his biggest credential was that he almost beat Ted Cruz. Nothing says a winner like losing. Personally, I am all about a DIY punk rocker candidate, but his punk mostly consists of coming up with positions to pander to different 3 percent blocks of voters who in turn hate each other. With his deeply serious voice and waving arms, he reminds me of a Southern Baptist preacher giving it his all on a Sunday morning to 11 people in the pews.
Amy Klobuchar – Man, she was really rocking the “non-socialist” world for a few minutes there. A few minutes. But then she seemed to rapidly get tired of being one of the cool kids and began spouting lines that sound so good in the staff meetings the week before. I spit up my mescal shot when she sheepishly waved at her daughter somewhere out in the crowd. Evidently, when you are falling it is her family tradition to wave goodbye with an ironic smile. I waved back in case her kid didn’t see her.
Pete Buttigieg – Of course I loved him. What aging, intellectual can resist a whip-smart, patriot with more than a little self-awareness and compassion? But Mayor Pete is running against a dirty little secret of Democratic politics, something you will never hear from the Twitter Woke-O-Sphere. Black voters don’t like married gay people. It’s the one characteristic that the extensive evangelical black community shares with white evangelicals. Black voters and Mormons joined hands to kill California’s first attempt at gay marriage. He isn’t too young, or too inexperienced, he’s too gay.
Bernie Sanders – We seemed to be celebrating how good he looked after his heart attack and stents. Hey, I have family members who are alive today because of stents. I just don’t want have that thought when I see a President. Bernie is an actual fanatic, in all the most awful paint your team name on your belly and get drunk at the game ways. He will run for President over and over just to remind you that, you know, you are wrong and he’s right. And like with Hilary, he and his cohort of fanatics will stay in this to the end just to monkey wrench the primaries and prove they have better souls than all of the rest of us.
Joe Biden – Here was the moment I feared all night. He was going to begin an answer by saying, “I have 4 things to say.” Two things in I was sure he was going to lose his place. Unlike many of the others, he gets it. Trump is a republic extinction event. Screw all the big plans and great leaps, if nobody beats Trump its game over for our democracy. I can even forgive his mangled syntax and old dude references. But the guy is just too damned old. There are jobs beyond the rational capabilities of 80-year-olds and president is one of those. It kills me to write this because he gets the real problem like no one else in this field.
Elizabeth Warren – All her “live wire” 70-year-old routine is as distracting as an angry wasp at a summer picnic. She thinks America is just chomping at the bit for structural changes. She is wrong. Worse than having plans is having ones with magic trillions of dollars appearing like the aurora borealis in Texas. It just isn’t going to happen. Nothing she proposes will pass in congress. This makes her beyond delusional. It makes her a liar to all those real people she keeps talking about. The getable voters in the critical Midwest states just bought snake oil from a liar and are wondering why nothing is different. Gimme a quarter of the money Trump has to run commercials telling people how a Harvard Professor Socialist is going to take away your guns and company/union health insurance. She’s toast. Yea, you get the picture.
What in the world are the Democrats thinking? Trump is a malignant narcissist who has begun to do his best imitation of Hitler in the Berlin bunker moving invisible armies and screaming that if the people don’t love him, they all deserve to die. I am a student of our democracy and have concluded we won’t survive another 4 years of Trump. Game over. We have always been an experiment in governance and we now have the perfect catalyst to end the experiment. Oh, he will be impeached. He’s a con man and a criminal and will take down everyone around him, but he is also that damn fungus on the floor of your shower, those sugar ants that keep coming back.
I am a centrist, who believes in the power of the republic’s design to self-correct. But now we have reached the founder’s absolute worst case scenario, an executive with no moral core seeking foreign help to maintain power. This is the big one. They saw it coming. You have to be kidding me. THIS is the field of candidates the Democrats have brought to save the republic. I am down to hoping to be proven wrong. Not a place I ever thought I would experience in America.
In downtown Portland, around midnight, at the corner of 3rd and Burnside, the apocalypse is upon us. OK, not all of us, but maybe for a few hundred souls wearing all manner of inscribed black t-shirts.
In my new book, I tell the story of how in 1993 my late friend John introduced me to the local punk band Poison Idea (PI) on the occasion of their last ever show. Last night, I went to what was billed as the “Last Ever Portland Show” of Poison Idea at the former Mongolian Grill called Dante’s. Jerry A., hair graying, weight down, a waddle now under his chin, the front man of Poison Idea even joked as he took the mike, “Oh hell, we are going to play forever!” Given that I have now been at 2 last shows, I tend to believe the man. But there is something else going on that even this phoenix-like band won’t be able to escape, a wave of new development is rolling through the heart of the rock scene in Portland. Land will soon be too valuable for punk rock.
I have roamed the downtown rock scene for decades. Last night started with an extended look for parking. Once lousy with surface parking lots and secret places to deposit my car, the neighborhood now requires joining a samba line of cars snaking through an endless confusion of green painted streets and ersatz barriers marking the new territory of bicycles. One can never be absolutely sure just where a car can legally exist. Reassuringly, I didn’t see a bike in those new lanes all night, so assume that whatever is happening with that spaghetti of white lines is a success. I finally found parking a few blocks away. On the way to the club I passed a hulking, half-finished new apartment building rising from an old surface parking lot. Looming over the skinny Ash Street, I am sure it will herald this vibrance I hear so much about. I walked up Ash, careful not to disturb the guy in sleeping bag shooting up, to see what had become of the once mighty and dingy, Ash Street Saloon, a place where I enjoyed shows by friends in bands. It seems the new cheery white painted and sliced up space will become another restaurant. I crossed back over 3rd street and looked through frosted glass at Mothers to see 50. Oblivious to the decline of western civilization, I am sure some of the them will drink unironic cocktails at the new place when it opens.
The first band was playing as I reached the club. Old punk rockers smoke … a lot cigarettes. I have never seen so many people smoking outside of the little club. Between acts, about 1/3 of the crowd poured outside to re-dose their nicotine. There was a time when all that smoke stayed in the clubs. The acts played in the midst of a blue haze and the morning after shows my shower revived the cigarette smell as the water hit my hair. Beer in hand, I happily roamed the merch tables and parked myself near the edge of the stage. I started to recognize faces and uniforms, people who I have seen in and out of shows for decades. Hair now grey or missing, I saw guys in the same leather jackets and punkish vests with hand sewn badges of venues and bands. They bounced from warm greeting to greeting. Then I saw a dapper, younger guy who just made me sad. He had the required badged vest, but it was a fake, something he bought at an upscale, trendy store. Under one arm, in a tiny, black square box, was a sticker knock-off that said, “Ramones.” In another time, before the moderation of age, I am pretty sure he would have been justly beaten up for such an affront. But rounded middles under black t-shirts and essential day jobs have all but eliminated that tribal instinct.
Bathing in my own irony, I bought a lovely “last show” poster from Toody Cole, the queen of all things punk in Portland. She had gavin a benediction at the start of the show that I missed. Long grey hair waving over her red cowboy shirt, with matching pants and boots, every time I saw her, she was smiling. Her smile reminded me to smile. Later, on the sidewalk as I left the show, I saw her and felt compelled to say, “Thank you.” She caught my eye and said, “You bet!” and rushed down the sidewalk followed by what passes for an entourage in Portland.
I caught a couple of songs by the thrashing second act, then decided to walk my poster back to my car. The block was vibrating. Punk rockers milled about. Overpowering clouds of perfume and cologne wafted off of dance club partiers. Women, of all shapes and sizes perched on impossible high heels and squeezed into uncomfortable looking tube-like dresses moved in packs eying young men who had pomaded down every strand of their hair into a tight, well considered, formation. All of them seemed self-consciously sexy, about to engage in the extended, alcohol fueled foreplay of an evening leading to the inevitable hook-ups where they would have to peel away their carefully chosen layers of now perspiration soaked clothes, the tired chosen scents now unable to push back the stench of hours on the dance floor.
I happened upon a man, standing in the street, brushing the coat of a white Great Pyrenees. From a distance, he looked like a guy standing next to a polar bear. I siddled next to a young Black woman admiring the dog. We kept looking at each other, mouths agape, asking, “Have you ever…” “No, me either.” The owner a middle-aged dude, well dressed, with thinning hair and a light black leather jacket, was happy to tell us the dog weighed 220 pounds and was 9 years old. We could see the age of the dog up close, coat a little thin in spots, docile but still charming. I now understood that the man was about to march the dog in a circuit through the night streets. It was something they did together. I know that when I attach my introverted self to my dogs, strangers become instant friends. Carrie Brownstein once walked off a set of Portlandia to say hello to me and my dog Mozy. I get it. Later, I saw him just two blocks further along, surrounded by women, chatting them up, while the giant beast stood in the middle of the circle. I think that dog has done many favors for that dude over the years.
Jerry A. and this variation of the always mutating Poison Idea hit the stage. His enormous friend and lead guitarist, Tom “Pig Champion” died a few years ago. I once chatted with Pig on the sidewalk outside a show that was much delayed because Tom was waiting for “the man.” He needed a fix to do the show. Problem solved; the band roared through a great set. Tonight, Jerry A. was clutching a crumpled set list that he kept looking at over and over during the sound check. He seemed a little lost but then the first bass notes of the opening song blasted out and he was transformed. I have seen this before. Aging rockers come to life as if hit with a lightning bolt when the band cranks it up. I once saw a 70-something Iggy Pop writhe like his 20-year-old self on a wave of throbbing decibels. The same spirit infuses the crowd. Music has the power to strip away years and transport you through time. Two songs in, it was just another PI show. We were along for the ride.
But I was there being almost too self-consciously nostalgic. For me, that band, that scene, is about John. As I often do at shows, I looked up in the rafters for him. Raised my glass and toasted him. Scanned the faces and thought of him. After a few more songs, I was done. I had had the experience I came out to enjoy. Absorbed in the right dose, melancholy can actually bring you happiness.
My punk rock buddy got sick at the last minute, so I was on my own. I was actually fine with that. I was in my much documented “lone wolf mode.” I could move about the streets, seeing what I wanted, on my time. Leaning against fences and walls, I could quietly absorb the energy of the streets. Junkies stumbled by asking for cash. Homeless people bedded down in the sidewalk in front of the Salvation Army. Uber and Lyft cars came and went. Buskers plied their trade as gawkers surrounded them. For some reason, there was no line at Voodoo Donuts. These days, a donut, what I have always called god’s favorite food, is a rare treat. In the short line in front of me where two couples, achingly suburban, with acne that no fake ID could hide. I got my favorite chocolate coconut donut and walked back across the street to the back of Dante’s.
The east side of the squat building has always been a problem for the owners. From the back corner to the pizza door, the long wall has been a place for drug dealing and crime. I have seen junkies shoot up there and walked up on a fight and stabbing. For a time, the owners ran at pipe along the top of the building that summer and winter dripped water to keep people away. Now, the solution is a long rail divider that makes a shoulder width path, not wide enough a space for someone to lay down or big enough to comfortably congregate. It seems a good solution. On the back corner, facing the street is a locked heavy barred door. The band load-in door. Looking through the bars, I had a view of the backs of the bands and a pretty good taste of the music.
Leaning against a tree, I was eating a donut, listening to the band. Two rockers were right next to the door head-banging. One guy mouthed PI lyrics along with Jerry A. I remembered I had in my pocket an unused ticket to the sold-out show. I pull it out, held it between the two guys and said, “Who wants to see the rest of the show inside?” The guy leaning on the door nodded his head to his buddy and said, “He does.” The other guy saw the ticket, looked at me and kind of squealed. He took the ticket and yelled, “Oh man…Oh man…Oh man!” as he ran down the sidewalk and around the corner to the front door.
I popped the last bite of the donut in my mouth, gave the remaining dude a thumbs up and headed down the street to my car. My work there was done. After standing for hours, I folded my aching legs into my car. All good things come to an end.
I got into a fun little Twitter beef with a Silicon Valley type who was extolling the virtues of Greta Thunberg the teenager heartthrob of the new climate change generation. He loved that she took a sailboat to New York.
From the Washington Post:
After voyaging thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean, climate activist Greta Thunberg arrived in the United States on Wednesday morning. The 16-year-old began the journey two weeks ago to reach the United Nations climate summit in New York without producing any carbon…. The Swedish activist, who reached worldwide fame after encouraging young people worldwide to strike from school and raise awareness about climate change, set sail in mid-August. She declined to fly because of the levels of emissions released during air travel.
[Keep reading. I believe climate change is real and existential threat to the planet. Hell, I was preaching Small is Beautiful in the 1970’s. Go Jerry Brown!]
Without question, the first climate change celebrity was Al Gore. He was annoying and he was right. The poor guy was an easy target for climate change deniers because he was … well … Al Gore.
I think that Greta’s whole, I sailed to New York , thing was a stunt. The jets didn’t stop flying. Her seat in First Class was still in the air above her. I was told her act drew attention to the climate crisis. Really? At this point are there some sentient beings who have not heard about the crisis or been whipsawed by the fact that science has been turned into a punchline by goofballs who think ignoring the problem will make it disappear?
I think there is something more insidious about Greta and her handlers. For many people, the dire facts of what is coming are just too much to handle. Greta and her youth movement offers hope and the anxiety relief of saying to one’s self, “Yes! The kids. They get it. Hooray. They will save us!” I get it. When reality is bleak it is human to reach for a thrown rope of future hope. But here’s the real deal, it is just as human to ignore a crisis until the incontrovertible effects are literally ocean waves lapping at your front door.
Greta is also a privileged child talking to privileged people. She doesn’t come from a country where billions of poor people are praying for just one more coal fired power plant so that they can have a single lightbulb or maybe access to this Internet they have heard so much about. What I don’t hear Greta saying to her peers is, “Throw away your cell phones. Turn off your air conditioners. Refuse that ride to soccer practice or the play date. Don’t have any more energy sucking developed world babies.” No, Greta took a boat ride, documented by a film crew so that she could make a grand entrance to the United Nations climate summit. She will be the most talked about, most written about and most photographed person at the summit. She will say all the right things in an attempt to shame us to a better planet and her celebrity will be guaranteed.
My buddy in the Twitter beef actually sent me an article that said Sweden will meet its renewable energy goals 12 years early. Yippie! A tiny, mostly wealthy and homogenous country is leading the way. More false hope. I am guessing that this month China and India built new coal fired energy plants to power their economies, make cheap goods for us and bring something resembling above subsistence living to a small part of their population.
The planet adds about 82 million people a year and that increases geometrically. They all need and deserve clean water, electricity, access to the Internet, jobs and safe places to live. That isn’t going to happen. Climate change is a numbers game and we are losing. Oh, as a techy geek, I still hold out hope for a new carbon neutral energy source. But even if we discover that new source, it is likely that it will be deployed first to Greta and her people, the privileged few.
So here’s what I wish Greta would do. Make maps. Figure out the new coastline after the melt of the Greenland ice sheet has disappeared and added 25 feet of water to the oceans. Map the new coastlines and start building infrastructure for the human retreat from the current coasts. Map inland temperature changes to available clean water so that we are prepared to move entire farming areas to new parts of the globe. And while we are at it, develop new food sources that are not so temperature sensitive. Humans are almost infinitely adaptable. Because earth is an interdependent system with unchangeable momentum, we need to figure out how we adapt. That’s right. I think Greta is being too kind, too gentle and more than a little delusional. She needs to advocate for turning us all into a bunch of disaster prep fanatics.
But that isn’t going to happen. Planet advocates are going to gush over the insight of young Gretta and with a tear in their eye feel like things are just going to get better. Kids will make signs and walk out of schools, mostly unconscious of the deep privilege they are expressing because other kids around the world don’t have electricity to watch those inspirational YouTube clips. Gretta will grow-up and when she’s not so cute she will be replaced by a new climate celebrity. But hey, at least she went on a cool boat ride. I am guessing she will catch a flight home.
I have become a true aficionado of Portland street violence. No really, I savor every riot, every confrontation and each unpermitted march like a vintage of fine wine. Each clash is an expression of the Portland terroir.
I won’t critique the street politics. No, long ago I concluded that is a waste of time. The magnetic attraction of the two sides has become tedious. That’s right . . . attraction. They are the couple who you can never figure out why they got married. By all outward appearances, the spouses have nothing common, argue all the time and god forbid they actually have kids. Nonetheless, something in the nightmare of a relationship just seems to work for them. They can’t get enough of each other.
This latest street embarrassment served to magnify the unifying defining feature of street theater: it must be recorded on a cell phone. Deprived of a thrilling clash of the main bodies of protesters, the event devolved into a series of skirmishes between individuals and roving bands of vigilantes. The script was always the same. Bathed in their own flavor of righteousness, groups gave themselves permission to harass and physically attack people whose main offense seemed to be not wearing the right uniform. Yelling, pushing, punching and running. Wash rinse and repeat.
As an aficionado, I watched several of the videos. And that is the thing, everything is on video. When I looked closely, I saw that that the actors are relatively few but the number of people holding up phones and cameras is legion. The videos themselves became surreal as I realized that in what I mostly saw was the view of someone recording other people recording. When the action turned into people running, the vast majority were running in what has become a modern salute, arm outstretched in front of them trying to hold their phone steady.
Every now and then the budding videographers performed a modern pirouette, spinning in a quick circle to record those around them, and no doubt, try to discover themselves as an individual in the moment. The move always seems a little desperate, this searching for self. I get the feeling that they would like to turn the camera on themselves for a second, but that would be breaking the 4thwall and would make them uncomfortable. Seldom is narration part of these videos.
Video clips have become an Internet staple. YouTube has taken up the role of helping to define our collective consciousness. During any pause in the action, clips are immediately uploaded to social media. And here may be the pathology. Every upload begins with the need to show that something important happened and “I” was there. With millions of clips hitting the web every day, the video taker is praying that their effort will be the viral video, the one that defines a moment, and that they will thus be validated.
No doubt, we have all seen culture changing moments caught in a moment on a phone. That’s the heroin hit for anyone holding a phone aloft. You never know, you could be famous for a few minutes. You could change the world. Mostly, that never happens, but like buying the lottery ticket when the prize is huge, you have to be in it to win it.
What frightens me is that now that the preponderance of people at an event are now recording it, they changing the moment itself. It’s the old Heisenberg problem. Observing changes what is being observed. Awash in celebrity culture, that actors quickly separate from the watchers. As I watched the men and women throwing punches and yelling at mostly outnumbered and hapless targets, I wondered if anything I was seeing was real. Would it be happening at all except for the presence of all those phone cameras?
Poor prescient George Orwell didn’t have an imagination big enough to describe the ubiquity of watchers beyond a device hanging on the wall of every room and looming over every public street. He couldn’t contemplate a dystopia were every person is a watcher, an eager watcher. Though, I do think, confronted with the current reality he would still see the same tyranny.
Having watched Portland protests up close, in person, I soon began to see beyond the earnestness of the actors and understand each instance as a new sort of social narcissism. There have always been protesters who engage in street theater with costumes and thoughtful metaphors. God bless them for originality. But in general, what I saw was people constantly looking for and reaching for cameras. It is as if nothing really mattered without it being recorded so that later they could look at it over and over reveling in their existence in that place and time. Taken collectively, it is about mass self-soothing, a grasping for relevance.
No one video I saw captured the essence of this needy self-awareness better than a brief clip from one attack. The camera turns to a young man who has been hit in the face with pepper or bear spray. You can hear man on the other side of the camera ask if the victim if he is OK. He then turns the camera and yells for one of several self-defined “medics.” A masked young woman runs up and hands the victim what looks like a plastic bottle of cooking oil. She offers directions, “Don’t rub it. Water won’t help. Use the oil.” The near blinded young man takes the plastic bottle but is clearly confused. He doesn’t understand want to do. The young woman doesn’t react to his confusion. She moves directly in front of the victim, pulls out her phone and begins filming the guy’s reddened face. At that moment, as if completing a handoff, the original camera guy turns away and runs down the street.
I realized that what I was watching was the remnant of compassion. There were these little stubs of words and actions that hinted at caring for another human but those were just part of the play, lines in a script. Care would or wouldn’t be a byproduct of their actions but the video was the priority. The revolution must be streamed.