I. "Come on, Mom. It's a party. You should get out of the house more often. Maybe this time you'll meet a guy you like." My oldest son is ever hopeful. All I do is work, he says, and sit at the computer reading dKos. I'd be more fun, he surmises, if I didn't take everything so seriously. I should try to "grab some gusto right now."
"Yeah, you watch," I tell him. "I'll find out the guy chatting me up is a Republican and that will be that."
"You mean you couldn't even date a Republican?" he asks, suggesting I take my politics way too seriously. "Well, if it's someone who just says that but turns out to be liberal, I suppose it'd be ok. But a real Republican? Are you shitting me?"
My son thinks I am one big damn killjoy.
II. It's the "grab some gusto right now" that tips me off. Here I sit, plodding through information, thinking about strategy, worrying about the future ... and the real game is the "right now" game. Then something else dawns on me: this is a big reason why Democrats are not getting anywhere. We're the party of killjoys.
What are we telling the voters?
If we don't do something about the deficit, we're going to pay big time
in the future.
If we don't do something about global warming, we're going to put civilization in jeopardy
in the future.
If we don't correct the assault on the environment, we're going to be without arable land, clean air, and drinkable water
in the future.
If we don't invest in education, we're going to lose more jobs
in the future.
If we don't protect social security against the GOP onslaught, we're going to have starving people
in the future and old folks working until they're 90
in the future.
If we don't come up with alternative energy sources, we're not going to be able to drive our cars or heat our homes
in the future.
III. So I make nice at the party. Every summer when they throw this backyard soiree, I get to chat with Greg, advertised to be single, available, and totally financially set. He also displays a robust pomposity seldom seen in certified nerds.
"So, Greg, what do you do in your spare time? You have any hobbies?"
"I keep busy. I do some substitute teaching. And I'm treasurer of the GOP in [name of city redacted]."
"Wow," I say, glancing surreptitiously at my son. "Whaddya know."
IV. My brother owns a small company in Michigan. He makes spa covers, upholstered products; it's a sewing business. He started the business back when Clinton was president. He doesn't pay too much attention to politics, but he sure got pissed off when he discovered that the previous owner of the building left barrels of toxic goo in some back storage shed. The EPA said he had to pay to have it properly disposed of; his lawyer said he couldn't sue the seller because he'd bought the business - lock, stock, and -- unfortunately -- barrels. He got mad when OSHA came in and deigned to tell him about ergonomics and how best to design the set-up for the health of the workers, who sit at sewing machines most of the day. My brother treats his employees well: good pay, generous bonuses and vacations, health insurance. He's not a bad guy. Except he hates Democrats, the party of EPA rules and OSHA meddlers, and bad stuff that might happen in the future.
V. Greg leaves, lugging his tupperware container of dried-out bean dip with him. That's when I'm introduced to Tom, a salesman who seems to my son to be the life of the party. He is regaling the college set with bawdy stories and letting them sneak shots of Tullamore Dew in the kitchen. Someone brings up politics - nothing major, I can't even remember the comment. I try to make light with my trademark pronouncement: "I'd rather my son told me he was gay than Republican." It's not exactly politically correct, but it's true. Tom wants to argue. "Shit, all politicians are the same. You telling me that Kerry would have been any better than Bush? Yeah, right. They're all the same, they get to Washington and there's not a bit of difference between them." "That's not true," I say. "I don't think we have enough good guys, but there are some." "A crock of shit," says Tom. "Well, there are some Democrats trying to change things," I continue. "Can you name the senator from Wisconsin who has called for the impeachment of the president?"
At this point, my son is fidgeting nervously, hoping against hope that I will just bat my eyelashes and let "Mr. Life of the Party" hold sway. I can hear his innermost thoughts: Mom, could you just back down one time and let it go?
"Wisconsin?" Tom belly laughs. "I'm supposed to give a shit about a senator from Wisconsin?"
"Well, you say they're all the same, but like so many people who say this, you can't actually name any politicians, and you don't know what's going on in Washington, and you haven't a clue but you want to have the final word."
"Oh, I know what's going on, all right, and they're all the same."
"Can you name your senator?" I query.
"Who wants another drink?" bellows Tom.
VI. My sister calls today to tell me her son -- my nephew -- is enlisting in the Army National Guard. It doesn't take long to discover that he's doing it for a $20,000 signing bonus -- $10,000 pretty much up front, the rest after a 3-year stint. It won't pay to tell her what I'm really thinking. I want to tell her the Bush administration has just purchased her only son, and that she might better have tried to haggle the sales price up a bit. She went with him to the recruiting station, where they gave him a test and told him he was a friggin genius. This is a directionless teenager who couldn't even stick with a program to earn a GED and who has spent the last three years getting fired from convenience store jobs in between video game marathons.
"They said he scored really well on the test," my sister said, as though her understandable faith in her son has finally been vindicated by outside experts. "I told them he was a smart kid," she said. "He signed up to be a light vehicle mechanic."
VII. The police showed up in my driveway this afternoon. The said "someone with the street department" had reported we had stolen city property. I was totally confused and had no idea what they were talking about. I live on a nice street amongst schoolteachers and professionals in a quiet town that's getting more GOP by the day. Two squad cars are parked in front of my house, so that everyone can assume I murdered someone, I guess. They point to a street sign hanging on our garage wall. I tell them my son found it laying by the road and brought it home. The street sign is for the road that the high school is on, and my kids collect signs, and we hung it up on the same wall where one of my sons nails up his collection of license plates. I said, "You can have the sign, it's no big deal. My son just found it and thought it was cool." The cop is surly and insulting. "Where you WITH your son when he got the sign?" I hesitate, and I'm angry. The cop barks: "It's a simple question. Yes or no? Were you with him?" "No, I wasn't," I respond. "You're right, my son is probably a liar -- what do you want me to say?" Later, my daughter reminds me that her father (my ex), who lives in Chicago and comes to visit, had found the sign two years ago and dragged it out of the ditch and brought it home for the kids. He collects signs himself, and once gave the kids a Chicago CTA bus stop sign that he found somewhere. The cops mentioned that sign, too. "Bet the CTA wouldn't be happy about THAT sign," said one of the patrolmen. The cops want my son to call the police station when he gets back from his job on Friday. I should call and tell them it wasn't my son, it was their father who nabbed the sign and they're welcome to give him a call in Chicago.
I'm bothered by the vibes. Was it the "Don't Vote for Bitch Daniels" poster my kids positioned in the front yard at election time that got me on the hit list? Or was it our involvement in trying to save the wetland at the end of the block against the fundamentalist GOP mayor who is now building a road there? Do terrorists steal street signs? If not, why do I have the shakes the rest of the day?
VIII. I am really worried about the future. When I talk with my mother -- the only other progressive in my family, as far as I can tell -- I mention the Halliburton detention camps and admit my worst-case scenario nightmares. She hasn't heard a thing about this Halliburton contract, which leads us into a diatribe against the media. My mother reminds me that if everything goes to hell, I can haul ass up north where her husband has a basement food pantry without rival. Come the end of the world, we'll have plenty of French dressing and kidney beans.
IX. I watch The Colbert Report. Stephen does one of his "Better Know a District" shticks, interviewing Democrat Diana DeGette, who represents Colorado's 1st Congressional District, which includes Denver. He asks her about Denver being "the mile high city." "That's because Denver is a mile above sea level," DeGette tells Colbert. He says, "Are you a member of the mile high club?" DeGette says, "No, but send me an application and I'd be happy to look at it." Colbert faces the camera and holds "the look" for a few seconds. I hate it when Republicans are on TV. Lately, I also hate it when Democrats are on TV. I hate it when they all seem the same: dumb, craven, sloganeering, vapid, crass, unsophisticated, or ... just ... clueless. But they're not all the same, they're not all the same, all the same, all the same ... I keep at the mantra.
X. I need to stop being a killjoy and maybe go on a date again, or take a vacation, or stop listening to the birds and wondering how long we'll still have birds. I need to wean myself from dKos, Molly Ivins, Keith Olbermann, How Would A Patriot Act ... I need to hear Democrats stand up and say something clearly and resolutely. I cannot bear to watch my son flinch at my strident demeanor, to watch my nephew go to Iraq, to watch the police in my driveway, to watch the wetland die, to worry about everything that is actually happening now but won't be noticed by the great hulking mass of ignoramuses until sometime in the future.
H.L. Mencken once said, "The truth that survives is the lie that it is pleasantest to believe." Mencken was one big damn killjoy, too. We would have made an excellent couple.