Skip to main content

"It Was All a Lie: How the Republican Party Became Donald Trump"

My liberal strategist friend has a Republican friend. If my liberal friend wants to combat a particular Republican evil, e.g. homophobia, the Republican's favored response is: "I understand and agree with you, but I really think you want to save my fire power for something else."

In other words, protecting a certain minority is a worthy cause, but there are many *worthier* causes: Why not save political capital for the *really worthy* causes?

This way of punting makes me think of "It Was All a Lie," a book by Stuart Stevens about the recent history of the Republican party. Around 2016, various Republicans were alarmed that Trump might prevail. Stevens led an effort to recruit high-profile centrist Republicans to run for the presidency--just to carve some votes off of Trump's plate, and thus ensure a victory for Hillary Clinton.

Each of the centrists said: "No, no. Trump is a fascist, and America will understand this and let HRC win. Let's watch Trump sputter on his own."

This is eye-opening for me. It's generally not possible to say: "I'm craven, and I know the right thing to do, but I'm going to bury my head in sand and hold onto my job."

It *is* possible to say: "Let's save my fire power for something that is *really* worthy." And so the country collapses.

P.S. "It Was All a Lie" is a thoughtful book, and it's like the confessions of St. Augustine: It's a reformed sinner, being blunt with the reader. But I don't think that Stevens donated the profits to Eleanor's Legacy. I think he used the profits to pay his bills. So it's like he is saying: "I feel really bad about having been a right-wing strategist, and if you help me buy a boat, I'll tell you about my guilt." Paying for the book was a queasy experience for me.













Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...