Lots of reasons to say Phew! today.
● For one, the holiday’s over. I know, I know, I’m a Grinch. But for pity’s sake, we’ve all got enough crap, so much so that one of this holy land’s premier growth industries is the construction and maintenance of storage facilities. We’ve got more junk than our homes can hold.
At the same time, over the last half century, Americans have been spending less and less time at each other’s homes. The drop-in, which used to be so common back in grandma’s day is almost unheard of today. In fact, it’s a faux pas now. I read somewhere once that Martha Stewart bears the brunt of responsibility for the death of the drop-in. Decades ago people just visited each other. Then Stewart, Laura Ashley, and the rest of their ilk, those who fetishize home decor and hyper-cleanliness, came along to tell us our homes should be not only spotless but they must reflect the highest, really impossible standards of creativity and self-statement. The irony was, all the crap they pushed was so much assembly-line gewgaw, so that one homemaker became indistinguishable from another. Anyway, homemakers were loath to have anybody ring the doorbell unannounced because their homes had to be perfect. Grandma’s home was never perfect. She knew it. Her drop-in visitors knew it, because their homes weren’t any better. Everybody knew it, so come on in, let’s have a cup of coffee together and gab about what a-holes our husbands are.
People, at one time in the fuzzy past, simply dropped in on each other at Christmas time, too. Nobody called. Nobody made a date to do it. They just did it. Why? Because we’re humans and we crave each other’s company. Or we did. Once.
So much for the old-man-yelling-at-clouds rant.
● Phew! Swear to god, I feel this. And I don’t think I’m being Pollyanna. But it’s becoming clearer each day: The MAGA-cult house of cards is tumbling. Rarely do I congratulate my fellow countrypeople on their intelligence, but I feel that the 15 percent who really weren’t DJT cultists but who voted for him in November ’24 because they wanted “change” or they detested old man Joe Biden so much, are suffering through buyer’s remorse at last. That 35 percent who are dyed-in-the-wool Trumpists, well, they’re way too far down his rabbit hole and are beyond redemption. It’s the 15 percenters, though, who boosted 45/47 over the top in the last presidential election. And they’re not gonna go for him or his party again. At least in the next two major election cycles.
James Carville, one of the very few astute Democratic strategists of the last 60 or so years, said on a podcast recently that those who voted for Li’l Duce in ’24 because they craved “change” were “goddamned idiots.” His words. Mine, too. Carville went on to predict Democrat tsunamis in 2026 and 2028, resulting in the party’s retaking of the White House and both house of Congress. He also predicts the next president will commission a blue ribbon committee to study the make-up of the Supreme Court, leading to an increase of the number of justices in that august body to 13. I don’t know about that one, but I buy Carville’s elections forecast.
Just remember, we Americans are products of our throwaway culture. We’re always looking for the next, different, shiny object. The Mad King ain’t that no more.
● Phew! I’ve finally completed the manuscript for my book-length history of WFHB. It’s now in the hands of five volunteer preview readers. My next step will be to gather some good historical pix for it and then lay the bugger out and publish it. I’m gonna charge dough for it, both to benefit WFHB and me. I’ve been working on it since summer 2023 and, in the last 4 months or so as I’ve pressed the pedal to the metal to get it done, just about all my other projects have fallen by the wayside. My podcasts with the estimable Tristra Newyear have been put on hold. And my posts in this global communications colossus have became scarce. That’s all about to change now.
● Phew! I’m still alive, still in cancer remission, not in prison, got enough to eat and a solid roof over my head, and, mirabile dictu, The Loved One, who similarly is in fine fettle, has yet to bash me over the head with a heavy skillet. I consider all those things great accomplishments, especially the part about TLO being in fine fettle.
Happy New Year.