I spent the afternoon drinking with two young Republicans, perhaps the only lingering Bushites who didn’t bail town that historic- and brutally cold- day 8 years ago. We were hunkered down at a Holiday Inn bar, a mile or so away from the massive throng of people congregating at the National Mall, watching (or, more likely, listening to) Obama being sworn in. They were in their early 20’s, Evan and Rachel, two out of work staffers, more disconcerted over the fact W. couldn’t run for a third term than McCain- a less than staunch conservative- failing to win the election. Watching the small TV behind the bar, they jeered at our new President as he delivered his speech. I admonished the millennials (I was a decade older, in my 30’s), proclaiming that this was Obama’s day and they should respect the process- and, in turn, democracy. They grumbled into their beers, obliging, perhaps, because I bought had the pints.

I arrived in Washington as dawn broke, a brilliant reddish-orange sunrise providing a worthy backdrop for the momentous event. The Greyhound bus left New York City sometime after midnight. Though I waited in line for over an hour, I deemed myself fortunate to make the cut, considering the slew of disappointed ticket holders left behind in Port Authority. The five hour bus ride was one of unmitigated joy. The sixty or so passengers- mostly black, mostly young- shared food, swapped stories, and belted out songs of hope and victory.  An overwhelming sense of pride swelled inside me- a feeling that hasn’t been duplicated since, and likely never will.

I had no concept of what a million people looked like. Few, I imagine, do. The largest crowd I had ever seen was 100,000 or so at the annual UCLA-USC football game. At least ten times that number flocked to D.C. that bone chilling day. And, unlike the collegiate turf war in Los Angeles, there was no division of partisanship in this gathering. As I strolled towards the Capitol with the rest of the herd, passing a multitude of vendors hawking everything from hot chocolate to bumper stickers, anxiety coursed through my body. Despite the wondrous bonhomie that electrified the air, it was far too much stimuli to handle, particularly for one prone to crippling panic attacks.

The tunnel that led towards the Capitol was already clogged with an impenetrable cluster of happy, smiling faces- all ages, all races- some chanting, some singing. Not wanting to be trapped in the burgeoning crowd, I stood atop a five-feet wall outside the entryway. From every direction, swarms of pedestrians, thousands and thousands of ’em, streamed towards the Capitol, a never ending flow. Perched on an elevated platform, alone, eyes soaking in the majestic scene, more than a few participants thought I was a cop (or FBI agent), searching for troublemakers. When I politely refused their invitations to join them in the celebration, their suspicions were seemingly confirmed. But there was no way I was going to thrust myself into that claustrophobic horde of bodies, no matter how harmonious- in the bitter cold, no less. History took a backseat to pragmatism. I hopped off the wall, burrowed through the crowd- a salmon going against a fierce current- and, like any anxiety-riddled traveler, went searching for the nearest bar.

By the time the speech was over, Evan and Rachel were good and drunk. They dropped their partisan angst and gave into the weightiness of the moment. Engaging in jocular banter, I asked Evan to name three accomplishments of the Bush administration. Hard pressed to find an answer- to be fair, the alcohol had taken effect- he slurred that ‘Bush wasn’t a racist,’ an indirect reference, I suppose, for his aid package to Africa. When the karaoke began, he became loud and boisterous. So much so, the bouncer (yes, the Holiday Inn had a bouncer that day) kicked him out. With Rachel’s prodding, I lobbied on his behalf. Maybe because he considered me a responsible adult- I was mistaken for many erroneous attributes that day- the bouncer grudgingly allowed Evan back inside.

An hour later, thoroughly intoxicated, it was time to say goodbye to my new friends- we said we’d keep in touch, but, naturally, never did- leaving Rachel in charge of Evan’s supervision. I stumbled out of the bar and staggered back towards the bus station. I had to catch the 6 o’clock Greyhound to Philly, where I would fly back to Los Angeles. Tramping through the frigid conditions as dusk settled in, I was comforted by the notion that I had witnessed, firsthand, a glorious piece of American history, even if it was at a third-rate hotel with a couple of Obama haters.

We weren’t there by choice. Naively, I thought no one was. That everyone was forced to be there. I mean, why would anyone choose to spend their time listening to a bunch of strangers pour out their sad lil’ hearts? In the musty basement of a church, no less. No, they had to be like us, ordered by the court.

A cop pulled us over in Newport Beach. We were 19 years old, on spring break, cruising the strip. Jeff and Neil were visiting from Pennsylvania; I was a sophomore at UC Riverside. I forgot exactly why we were stopped, but empty beer cans littered the floor of the rental car. Thankfully Jeff, our driver, wasn’t drunk. He was cited, though, for open container. His punishment was to attend four AA meetings, a fair penalty I must admit. After all, we were poor college students who would be hard pressed to cough up a fine, no matter how nominal.

Three months later, Jeff had still not gone to any meetings. He had one week left or face possible jail time. Jeff was always a shy kid, a passive sort. I knew it was up to me to take action. I was home for the summer, toiling as a laborer in a cement plant to pay for school. I called around for local meetings- this was the early 90’s, before the internet- and, much to my surprise, found plenty to choose from. Neil and I would accompany Jeff to all four gatherings, knowing damn well he wouldn’t go alone. Of course, we made sure we were good and drunk before we went.

The meeting was held at a church in downtown Allentown. I don’t remember what kind- the denomination, that is- but I suppose, much like the reason the cop pulled us over in the first place, it doesn’t really matter. Neil threatened to speak, make up some insane story of how he became an alcoholic. That would be something Neil would do. He was a crazy bastard and I loved him for it. Jeff pleaded with him to stay quiet. He had to get a form signed to show that he actually attended- and didn’t want to risk it. We plopped down in the middle row, in cheap fold-up chairs, trying our best to blend in with the older sad sacks around us. The first thing I noticed was three cute girls seated in the back. They were around our age and the attraction seemed to be mutual.

As people swapped their tales of woe, we engaged in schoolboy antics with the girls, tossing balled-up pieces of paper back and forth. I couldn’t wait till the stupid thing was over, so we could actually talk to them. Halfway through the meeting, though, the alcohol began to take hold. I started to doze off, head bobbing up and down, as a frail black man in his sixties told his story. He had a deep, throaty voice, like that of an emphysema patient. Somewhere during his speech, ten minutes or so in, I stirred awake. For a few frightening seconds, I didn’t know where I was. All I heard was the speaker recanting his journey into the abyss: “… Then I woke up. Looked down. And there was a knife in my throat.”

Christ! I never laughed so hard in my life. Everyone gawked at me. I couldn’t stop cackling. I mean, seriously, he didn’t notice a knife gouged in his throat? He had to look? Neil punched me in the knee, a pained expression on his face, his beady eyes begging me to stop. I had to get the hell out of there… I sprang to my feet and scuttled down the row, past the knees of horrified drunkards, and out the door. I waited outside the church for 20 minutes until the meeting ended. Neil strode outside, shaking his head, secretly delighted by my faux pas. If there was one person in the world who could appreciate humor in any situation, it was Neil.

A minute later, the girls stepped outside. I approached them, oblivious to the fact I had just made a complete ass of myself. Excitedly, I told them about an older friend of mine who lived down the street. “He’s got a full bar, anything you want.” All three girls glared at me, incredulous. One of them snapped, “we don’t drink.” They stomped away. I watched them, startled, thinking that, shit, maybe going to these things actually is a choice. Neil, Jeff, and I went to my buddy’s house and drank all night. We still had three more meetings to go.

Thwap-thwap-thwap. Flesh smacking flesh, the familiar, lusty soundtrack of vigorous sexual romps, often accompanied by feral grunts and ecstatic shrieks. In this case, however, the rhythmic thumping did not stem from any sort of carnal activity, alas, but from a far more base source- the detached sole of my left sneaker. And it flapped with every step I took, alerting my presence for a radius of no less than fifty feet. Attempts to ameliorate the situation- staples and Scotch tape, mainly- proved feckless. Ripping the rubber strip off, one clean shot, would render the shoe useless and the cost of another pair greatly exceeded my means. My monthly budget for expenses, after all, was limited to 15 dollars, a paltry sum for the bleakest days of the Depression, let alone a decade before the 21st century. Sadly, I was doomed to spend sophomore year in college, nearly three thousand miles removed from family and friends, with shoddy footwear that watermarked me for poverty as indelibly as a certain crimson letter connoted adultery.

I should never have been there, in Riverside. I had never visited, knew no one in the area, had zero ties whatsoever. The rudimentary act of picking out the medium-sized, medium-bold name on a California map proved to be an onerous chore, akin to fingering a suspect in a police lineup whom you’ve never laid eyes upon. Naturally, I assumed that a prominent river- several, perhaps, like Pittsburgh- weaved scenically through the city. My entire knowledge of Riverside, in fact, consisted of a single, negligible crumb of trivia: Butch Johnson, a wide receiver of my beloved Dallas Cowboys, attended UCR twenty years prior to my arrival. Imagine my disappointment when I learned that the university had disbanded the football program the summer after Butch graduated.

But there I was, traversing the oven baked, smog infested campus in my threadbare sneakers. Thwap-thwap-thwap. And they weren’t alone in deflating my sense of self-worth. A lurid stench of mendicancy clung to my clothes, much like cigarette smoke embeds itself in the attire of a tobacco fiend. My wardrobe was comprised largely of faded, second hand T-shirts and wrinkled cargo shorts riddled with tears and pen marks that endured long stretches of usage. Laundry was a luxury I could not afford, at least not at regular intervals. Any orphaned coins, found or scrounged, were commandeered to supplement the purchase of potatoes, rice, and ramen, the staples of my survival. A destitute outsider in a strange, balmy land, I abandoned all hope of a social life and focused relentlessly on my studies.

To combat my grinding impecunity, I secured a job at a UPS sorting plant, two and a half miles from campus. There, every weekday morning from 3 to 7, I unloaded a steady stream of boxes- some weighing upwards of 50 pounds- emptying one truck after another, clanging the packages onto a ceaselessly moving conveyor belt. My daily ritual consisted of waking up at 2, taking a quick shower that doubled as a caffeine substitute, showing a raw potato in the microwave (7 minutes for ideal softness), and scarfing it down while I intermittently walked and ran through the bone chilling darkness in my overtaxed sneakers. Thwap-thwap-thwap. It was backbreaking work, four hours of constant bending over and lifting, without a respite. When the sun finally peeked through the crags of the San Bernardino mountains, it signaled the last quarter of the shift. Then it was back to campus for an 8 o’clock class, the return trip at least aided with the warmth of sunshine.

Unfortunately, the pay wasn’t nearly sufficient to cover rent, books, and food (and tuition, well, that was covered with a series of bad checks that I’d make good later that summer). Asking my parents, factory laborers in Allentown, Pennsylvania, for any kind of financial assistance was simply not an option. So I took on additional employment at the UCR physical plant. This was where welding and carpentry and masonry and all those blue collar skills learned in shop class were legitimized in real world applications. Skills that were that undoubtedly mocked a mile away by precocious students vying for degrees with far less utility. The hours were 1 to 5 in the afternoon, completing a daily schedule that now ran non-stop from 2am to 5pm. The work was much less laborious than UPS, tidying up the cavernous warehouse being the principal duty. And it was there, during a routine cleaning, that I inadvertently became a criminal.

They were a scuffed pair of white, New Balance hightops, a gray ‘N’ stitched on either side. Size 11, too. Perfect. I found them inside a wooden tool box while dusting the work bench in the carpentry section. The sneakers were hardly in mint condition, well worn creases spidering through them like wrinkles on the face of an elderly peasant woman, but they were infinitely superior to mine. I lifted the shoes out of the box and set them on the table. For the rest of my shift, an hour or so, I deliberated on whether or not to take them. Every few minutes, while sweeping sawdust into neat piles, I stole affectionate glances at them. Surely the owner wouldn’t miss an old set of sneakers. And, heck, even if he did have a special affinity for them, I was certain he could afford to buy another pair. When five o’clock struck, I learned the industrial-sized broom against the wall, picked up the shoes- careful that no one was watching- and scurried home to my apartment, every morsel of my body consumed with a soul crushing guilt.

My compunction, though, melted away the next morning around 2:15 when I slipped my feet into them. What comfort! What style! The frosty trek to UPS was not only less arduous but downright enjoyable. The true benefit came when I strolled onto campus, tall and proud, no longer subject to the humiliating sight and sound of my forlorn sneakers. After my last class, I scampered home for a quick bite- a bowl of ramen soup, mixed with rice- and changed into my old footwear. Like climbing back into your crummy car after test driving a sleek Mercedes, my confidence tumbled. The moment I arrived at the physical plant, John, a beefy, athletic senior, summoned me over to the work bench. “Were you cleaning here yesterday?” I nodded. He opened the tool box. I gulped, hoping my crimson face didn’t betray me. “Did you see a pair of sneakers in here?” He asked it quizzically, without a trace of accusation. I shook my head, portraying all the small town innocence I could muster. “Uh-uh.” John closed the lid, perplexed. “Huh.”

It’s said, particularly in political circles, that the cover-up is worse than the crime. I can attest to the veracity of that statement. All I had to do was come clean, spew out the truth, clear my conscience. I didn’t know they belonged to anybody, sorry. I’ll bring ’em back tomorrow- no harm, no foul. But I didn’t. I lied. Right to his face, no less. No shame. What would my mom think? That’s not how she raised me. My God, she’s practically a saint, flinging her last buck in the collection basket every Sunday. And now her youngest son was not only a thief but a liar, two monumental blows against her precious faith.

For the next couple weeks, I wore the hightops to UPS and then to my classes, mindful to swap them out before heading off to the physical plant. This rigidity of habit gave me a feeling of security that I believed to be impenetrable. It was during this period of nonchalance that I spotted John on the main campus walkway, striding towards me. Though I should have contemplated the possibility of seeing him, I never thought of John as being an actual student. Face flushed with terror, I tramped into the nearest building, head down, praying that he didn’t catch a glimpse of me. Or worse, his sneakers on my feet. Only when I saw him loping past, from the safe haven of the library lobby, did my jackrabbit heart slow to a normal beat.

Then, one afternoon, a month or so after absconding the shoes, I forgot to make the switch. It was only upon wading through the layer of sawdust that habitually covered the floor did I notice my error. More tragically, John was hauling lumber off a truck parked outside the warehouse, some 30 feet away. I abruptly turned around and hightailed it to the military barracks-style bathroom, locking myself inside one of the grungy stalls. A few minutes later, someone walked inside. I lifted my feet, hiding the sneakers from view.

“David?” A voice called out. John. “You in here?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Words would not escape my mouth. When I heard the retreating footsteps, I heaved a sigh of relief. I sat on the toilet for another ten minutes, pulse racing, pondering my escape. Finally, I sprang the door open and darted down the hallway, out the front door, into the open air. I sprinted the entire way home, never glancing back. At the green, industrial-sized dumpster in front of my apartment complex, I stopped, catching my breath. I yanked off the sneakers and chucked them into the bin. A warm feeling of serenity washed over me, cleansing my tarnished soul. I walked inside my door, shoeless, vowing never to return to a life of crime.

With a tip of the cap to the infamous Chicago Daily Tribune headline declaring John Dewey as our 34th President, this would be the prevailing caption Wednesday morning if the GOP had chosen its nominee with more prudence. While there’s no denying that 2016 has witnessed an unprecedented rise in anti-establishment fervor, the messenger of this (largely white, blue collar, male) discontent is so deeply flawed as to blunt its efficacy- especially when you consider the vulnerability of the Democratic candidate. It’s not easy, after all, to play the moral card when you’ve been caught time and time again dealing from the bottom of the deck. And then there’s the glaring lack of experience. As the New Yorker stated in its endorsement of Clinton: “Trump is manifestly unqualified and unfit for office.” To defeat Hillary, all the Republicans had to do was elect a credible, risk-free alternative. And no one in the GOP ranks fits that description better than Ohio governor John Kasich.

Supporters of Clinton, including President Obama  (heck, even William Weld, her Libertarian opponent), have trumpeted the claim that she is the most qualified person to ever run for the White House. The point is magnified when you contrast her experience against Trump’s. A Kasich candidacy, however, would negate these declarations. The governor was elected to Congress in 1983, a full decade before Hillary became First Lady. Kasich served nine terms in the House, including 18 years on the Armed Services Committee and six years as chairman of the Budget Committee. He was a key figure in the passage of President Clinton’s welfare reform, as well as the Balanced Budget Act of 1997. In 2010, after a near decade in the private sector, Kasich was elected governor. Four years later, he was re-elected in a landslide. An additional benefit of this vast experience is that it dilutes assertions of sexism; unlike against Trump, she would not be the more qualified candidate for the job.

Perhaps the biggest advantage of a Kasich ticket is the unquestioned authority to assume the higher moral ground. Measured and unassuming- his tenure at Lehman Brothers during its collapse in 2008 being his biggest albatross- Kasich would effectively prosecute the case against Clinton. While Trump has been forced to go on the defensive about his treatment of women- along with the litany of indiscretions he’s committed not only on the campaign trail, but throughout his life- Kasich would have free reign to attack Clinton on everything from emails to Syria without retribution. As the Art of War professes, the high ground is an advantageous position to wage a fight. Having the upper hand on experience and integrity is a formidable combination for securing any job, let alone the most powerful one in the world.

The electoral map would look different- and decidedly more crimson- particularly in key battleground states. Having won re-election with 64% of the vote and winning 86 of 88 counties, Kasich would almost surely the carry the Buckeye state- a must win for Republicans, as history suggests. Pennsylvania could also be flipped. Born in McKees Rock, an industrial town near Pittsburgh, Kasich boasts blue collar roots and speaks easily to the working class. And if he chose, say, Marco Rubio to be his veep, Florida would likely be in the red column, as well. Not only would Rubio rally Latinos (his sharp verbal jabs against Clinton would also boost the ticket), his running mate’s less incendiary, more substantive approach would appeal to older voters. While he wouldn’t draw the fiery crowds that Trump attracts, he would undoubtedly rack up more votes, especially with the help of popular ex-governor Jeb Bush.

In one of the primary debates, Rubio proclaimed that if Trump didn’t receive a $14 million loan from his father, he’d be hawking fake watches in Times Square today. Trump’s privileged upbringing and ostentatious style make him unrelatable to the vast majority of voters (though this hasn’t seemed to matter to his most fervid supporters). Kasich and Rubio, on the other hand, have far more humble- and identifiable- beginnings. The son of a postal carrier, Kasich’s parents immigrated from Eastern Europe. Likewise, Rubio’s parents were born in Cuba; his father toiled as a bartender. They both can pontificate about the American dream more convincingly than most politicians.

Most pundits agree that this election will be decided by women and Latinos, two voting groups that Trump has deeply offended. A Kasich candidacy would not have this problem. Sure, he would be attacked for his pro-life stance and support of defunding Planned Parenthood- popular positions in the GOP- but women wouldn’t be on a moral crusade to oust him. They would be no rape allegations, no groping charges, no body shaming. Women with a conservative bent or independent streak would feel no compunction punching their ballot for the Ohio governor. And there certainly wouldn’t be any talk of building a wall. Though Rubio was crucified in the primaries for favoring an amnesty bill, this pragmatic viewpoint would reap rewards in the general. With a welcome absence of racist rhetoric in the campaign- including the more subtle cry of ‘law and order’- African-Americans wouldn’t be mobilized to cast votes against the Republican nominee.

Unlike with Trump at the helm, the party would be united in its effort to defeat Clinton (it’s hard to imagine a “NEVER KASICH” faction). The Koch brothers, silent this election, would surely pitch in for the cause. Along with more capital at their disposal, the politicos behind Kasich would be more seasoned, more professional. They would be no micromanaging, no keeping the candidate on message, no apologizing for gross misstatements. In short, there would be little chance of the governor going rogue. Endorsements would come in abundance, too, from ex-Presidents and major newspapers- even some left-of-center ones dismayed with Hillary and the hefty baggage she carries.

Furthermore, Reagan Democrats and independents would give Kasich strong consideration. Along with running an issue oriented, toxic-free campaign, the governor does not tote the party line on two key issues that appeal to indies: climate change and gun control. Kasich believes that mankind is responsible for the warming of the Earth, heresy to many on the right. Even more heretical for Republicans, Kasich received an F rating from the NRA in 1997 after passing an assault weapons ban. While he may alienate Second Amendment fanatics, they’re not going to cast a vote for Clinton. Picking off enough disaffected Dems and independents, though, particularly in swing states, would be enough to reach the magical 270 number. And in this election year against a historically unlikable candidate, that’s more than a possibility. With a proven leader like Kasich competing against her, it’s all but a certainty.

As the second debate of this (insert pejorative adjective of choice) election season approaches- and perhaps the most important since Kennedy/Nixon, at least for Trump- I pondered which presidential pulpit battles would be the most entertaining. First on the list, JFK versus Trump, set somewhere in the year 1960:

• Classic youth (and vigor) vs. age (‘I feel younger than him, believe me. Ask him about his back’) battle.
• Both have star power, with bronzed complexions and full heads of hair (whether attained naturally or not). Unlike Nixon, Trump knows how to perform on TV.
• New England vs. New York. Hyannis Port vs. Trump Tower. Accent vs. accent.
• Both have rich fathers who paved the way for their success (and older brothers who died young). Trump goes after Joe, Sr. for his alleged bootlegging- and his son’s ties to Sinatra and the mob. A 1960 version of Chris Christie leads a ‘Lock him up!’ chant at the convention to riotous applause. The Giuliani doppelganger, naturally, is insane.
• Both have an affinity for beautiful women. Heck, both married one (and, in Trump’s case, three). Trump makes a play for Jackie, bragging that ‘I could get her.’ Melania is undoubtedly charmed by Kennedy. This mutual libidinousness, much like the arms race between the US and the Soviet Union at the time, makes either leery of striking first with accusatory statements.
• Despite JFK running to the right of Nixon on foreign policy, Trump claims that Kennedy is soft on communism- and that he has a secret plan to wipe it out. In fact, he boasts about building a wall around South Florida to keep out the Cubans. And when the Bay of Pigs is invoked, Trump is confused, thinking it’s the residence of Rosie O’Donnell.
• Egged on by his fervent supporters in the Klan, Trump attacks JFK’s Catholicism. ‘People say he’s close to the Pope- very close. I love Italians- how good is pizza?- but do we want ’em running this country? I mean, how can we trust a guy in a funny hat?’ (as he adjusts his red, Chinese issue ‘Make America Great America’ cap)
• Trump bashes Kennedy’s campaign slogan, New Frontier. ‘When I think of a frontier, I think of Indians. Didn’t we kill all them drunk losers?’
• Trump makes fun of Rosemary Kennedy, John’s sister, for having a lobotomy- mostly with incredibly rude physical gestures.
• Trump takes advantage of the times and lies incessantly (yes, more than now). After all, there wasn’t much fact checking back then. He might just take the advice of Kennedy’s VP and accuse his opponent of fornicating with farm animals.
• The debate concludes with JFK’s closing statement: ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ (turns to Trump) ‘You can start by paying your taxes.’ Mic drop.

Ever since Ralph Nader was vilified (at least by Democrats) for throwing the 2000 election to Bush- and, in turn, for the disastrous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, along with the worst recession since 1929- no third party has garnered more than one percent of a presidential vote. Never mind the fact that if Gore would’ve carried his home state, hanging chads, butterfly ballots and Katherine Harris would have toiled in obscurity. Regardless, the notion of the ‘wasted vote’ became firmly entrenched in our political lexicon. Only eight years earlier, Ross Perot stormed onto the scene, racking up nearly 20 million votes- after leading the polls at one point- marshaling, perhaps, an end to the two-party system. Perot’s calamitous NAFTA debate with Gore and increasing nuttiness, however, doomed him in ’96, thwarting any momentum to crush the 200-year duopoly. If there was ever a time for the pendulum to swing back towards a third party, it’s 2016.

The choice in this election is, regrettably, between the two most unlikable candidates in American history. Truth is, the majority of Clinton and Trump supporters will punch their ballots with gritted teeth and held noses. Only the approval ratings of Congress, hovering around 18%, score lower than the presidential nominees. Sadly, that’s a marked increase from 2013, when they bottomed out at 11%. The root of this unpopularity is a metastasizing polarity, particularly in the GOP-controlled House, a tumorous cancer that destroys moderates, leaving extremism to flourish. After the 2010 midterms, featuring the rise of the Tea Party, Karl Rove and his REDMAP squad carved up congressional districts to assure their gains wouldn’t be temporary. This brazen form of gerrymandering (Google a map of the 10 worst drawn districts) led to the ouster of reliable conservatives such as John Boehner and Eric Cantor, who committed the unpardonable sin of compromising with those across the aisle. In this new era of obstructionist politics, only ideological purists need apply. Democrats, for their part, nearly nominated a tried-and-true socialist for president.

While there’s no doubt that Washington is broken, the solutions to repair it are myriad and largely untested, at least in this country. Perhaps we should look to Germany as a model of political efficacy. The Germans boast a multi-party system that, instead of a Balkanization that has crippled other nations, promotes a far greater accommodation than our own legislative branch. Working with rival factions is not only good politics, it’s a necessity. Currently, five parties share power in the Bundestag- there’s a 5% threshold to keep out the riffraff, i.e. neo-Nazis- forming coalitions to pass laws. ‘Politics make strange bedfellows’ is more than a maxim in Berlin. Based upon the country’s strength, especially economically (zero deficit, low unemployment), multiple, viable parties may just be the answer.

The first step, of course, is to support third parties, whether they be Libertarians or Greens. Which brings us back to the so-called ‘wasted vote.’ For Democrats and Republicans, only the electoral college matters, as Al Gore knows all too well. When Perot collected those 20 million votes, he failed to capture one state. George Wallace was the last third party candidate to actually win a state, carrying five of them in 1968. A vote for Trump or Clinton, especially in non-competitive states, is a truly wasted vote. A margin of victory of 1% (or 537 votes in the case of Florida, 2000) is no different than a 30-point landslide. Every vote for Gary Johnson or Jill Stein, on the other hand, matters. Not only do aggregate vote totals lend legitimacy and build momentum for successive elections, federal funding is predicated on performance. Perot, for instance, qualified for campaign funds after his impressive showing in ’92.

In addition to the virtue of voting one’s conscience- and eschewing the stale, if odious, options shoved down our throats- third parties have proved salubrious to the progressive ideals of our nation. They’ve pushed new ideas into the mainstream, like women’s suffrage, unemployment compensation, and the direct election of senators. Roosevelt’s New Deal, for example, incorporated some of the core issues championed by the Socialist Party in the 1930’s. No matter where your politics lie, there’s general consensus on one thing: the current system is dysfunctional. We’re long past due for a new brand of politics, even if it is, egads,  a European-style one. A vote for Johnson or Stein is a small step toward that change, but (hopefully) a giant leap for our political future. Rest assured, you will not have wasted your vote.

p.s. yes, the title of this piece is a reference to Johnson’s affinity for cannabis

After watching the GOP convention, I found myself reminiscing about original episodes of Seinfeld (Thursday nights at 9) and new CD’s from Nirvana (bought at, egads, Tower Records), all while sipping a Zima in a grungy flannel shirt. Technological advances aside- AT&T released a revolutionary product in ’92, a videophone ($1499)- the last two nights in Cleveland looked eerily similar to the convention 24 years ago. Namely, a heavy and repeated dose of Clinton bashing; sex scandals and draft dodging have been replaced with Benghazi and emails. Attacking Clinton was the raison d’etre of that quadrennial rally in Houston, much as it is for this one. With Trump’s political inexperience and divisiveness- you’re either with him or against him, to paraphrase W.- the best option is to destroy your opponent, a time tested strategy that eviscerated Dukakis and Kerry, among others.

The rancid tone of this convention (gleeful chants of “Lock Her Up!”) mirrors the vitriol expressed in ’92. The high-er, lowlight- of that edition was Pat Buchanan’s “Culture War speech,” a sulfuric rant laced with intolerance and hate. He railed against abortion, homosexuals, women in combat, and basically anyone who failed to sufficiently toe the God line. (As humorist Molly Ivins quipped, “It probably sounded better in the original German.”) Pat Robertson and Marilyn Quayle heaped scorn upon those who had the audacity to support feminism and gay rights. RNC Chairman Rich Bond declared from the pulpit: “We are America, they (Democrats) are not.” You can imagine Reince Priebus, much like Melania was accused of doing, lifting those words for his speech.

The issue of race has also been a common thread in both conventions. 1992, after all, was the year of the LA riots. The beating of Rodney King has morphed into the shootings of Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, and Mike Brown; “No Justice, No Peace” is a forerunner of “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot.” To be sure, the bete noir of the current GOP isn’t black (All Lives Matter, according to them), it’s more of a dark brown- specifically, immigrants from Mexico (build that wall!) and Muslims from, well, anywhere (ban ’em!).  Yes, I know, it’s illegal immigration and radical Muslims the party’s opposed to, but the tonality of such proclamations is undoubtedly one of rancor. Unless Trump softens his stance and pulls a Nixonian shift to the center, this xenophobia will likely doom his chances in the general election. Then again, thrashing Clinton mercilessly, over and over again, may just pick off enough independents and disaffected Dems in swing states to carry the day.

After losing his bid for reelection, Bush senior blamed the acrid atmosphere of the convention as one of the reasons for his defeat. Even if Trump loses in November, this convention will likely be spared any culpability; from its inception, his entire campaign has been replete with, if not based upon, inflammatory remarks. Failure will lie with him and him alone. Surely, they’ll be more fiery, rabble-rousing speeches to come over the next two days, culminating with Trump’s address Thursday. So kick back in your Doc Martens, pop open a Zima (sounds like one of Donald’s ex-wives, Zima Trump), and enjoy another round of hate-filled fireworks.

It was unconscionable to many Americans, particularly those with a leftward bent, that no less than four gun control measures were defeated Monday in the Senate. And that’s the grown-up chamber of Congress. Even if a compromise bill is ultimately passed- a new vote is expected Tuesday- what are the chances that the legislation will survive in the House, teeming with far right ideologues? With a nod to the bottomless pockets  of Citizens United and the peasants-with-a-pitchfork uprising of the Tea Party, a primary reason for today’s Congressional extremism is the redistricting that occurred after the 2010 midterms.

Engineered by Karl Rove, REDMAP analyzed vulnerable Democratic districts, then poured money into them (now unlimited thanks to Citizens United) to oust incumbents. The results were spectacular. The GOP gained a record breaking 700 state legislative seats, pushed 20 chambers to a Republican majority, and gave the GOP control over both houses in 25 states.  With the numbers in their favor, Rove and his team carved up districts to assure that they would remain red for perpetuity. Some were drawn so obliquely as to defy logic, certainly from a geographical standpoint. From its inception, the REDMAP strategy was a bold stroke of hunt-or-be-hunted politics that would make Machiavelli blush.

In the 2012 House races, Democrats received 1.7  million more votes than their Republican counterparts. Despite this, the GOP gained 33 congressional seats. The battleground states of Pennsylvania and Michigan exemplify the disparity between vote totals and victories. Obama won the Keystone State by 300,000 votes; Democratic congressional candidates bested their GOP rivals by 100,000. Still, Republicans captured 13 of 18 seats in the House. Likewise, in Michigan, Democratic Senator Debbie Stabenowby defeated her opponent by over 20 points; Obama won by almost 10. Yet Republicans seized the majority of House seats, 9 of 14.

Egregious redistricting has resulted in candidates flanking to the far right of the ideological spectrum. In these heavily crimson districts, turf wars are fought in the primaries, where moderation is equated to liberalism and, worse, heresy. Much like urban blight propagates criminal activity, gerrymandering creates polarizing politicians out of step with mainstream America. Not to say Democrats have not used redistricting to their advantage (though certainly to a less palpable degree). The inconvenient truth is that Dems haven’t been nearly as effective as their counterparts.

Efforts to alter the practice of redrawing districts have largely failed. Independent boards, supplanting the government in the task, have been spoiled by hidden partisanship of its members. Perhaps the only hope is that Trump will be such a disaster that his malignant candidacy will wreak havoc down ticket, putting even the reddest districts in play. Then, of course, the onus would be on the Democrats to do the right thing and redraw the lines in a more responsible fashion. Naive, sure, but the current system, corrupted by a toxic mix of money and extremism, desperately needs to be fixed. Ironically, the most polarizing candidate in recent history- perhaps in all of U.S. history- can unwittingly help pave the way towards reaching that goal.

Movies have been entrenched in our nation’s zeitgeist since nickelodeons dotted the landscape at the turn of the 20th century. From the first celluloid rag beatifying the works of Chaplin to the latest TMZ reporter chasing down a drunken starlet, the world of cinema has shaped, molded, and often crafted popular culture. Ever since Griffith’s monumental albeit overtly racist oeuvre Birth of a Nation, Hollywood and Washington have been inextricably linked, its relationship waxing and waning over the years depending on the tides of social mores. The grubby milieu of politics wasn’t exposed until the typically mawkish Capra delivered a cynical gem, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in 1939, a seminal year for film. Like other public figures, politicians have been judged, usually in a negative manner, against their on-screen personas. While many promising Jefferson Smiths have succumbed to the meat grinder of Congressional compromise, less desirable protagonists have had their share of imitators. Clinton was deemed, particularly on far reaches of the AM dial, to be a modern day Elmer Gantry, a slick, silver tongued preacher who eschews the values he proselytizes. Likewise, his successor was likened to the dimwitted Chauncey Gardiner, whose earthy folksiness was mistaken for profundity. As election day looms, the media, which now includes a disturbingly wide assortment of bloggers, is sure to stamp a cinematic simile on the candidates. For your consideration, I’d like to suggest the 1995 thriller Crimson Tide as a exemplary model for the 2008 campaign.

Directed by Tony Scott, Crimson Tide depicts a power struggle between two senior officers aboard a U.S. nuclear submarine that may or may not have been summoned to launch missiles at a suddenly chaotic Russia whose rebel leader, hellbent on terminating his enemies, may or may not have access to the country’s nuclear codes. Ramsey, the crusty, impulsive captain, authorizes a preemptive strike but is denied assent by Hunter, his Harvard educated yet wet behind the ears commanding officer, who happens to be three decades his junior and, oh yes, black. Beyond simple demographics, it’s a classic confrontation between experience and education, force versus diplomacy. In a nutshell, McCain versus Obama.

“Do you think I’m some crazy old coot endangering everyone as I yell yee-haw?”

No one in Washington has been a stronger advocate of aggressive military action in both Iraq and Afghanistan than Senator McCain. Despite his differences with Bush on such issues as tax cuts and campaign finance reform, McCain has become the administration’s mouthpiece for the War on Terror. Not content with maintaining the mission, he upped the ante by calling for additional troops. While the so-called surge undoubtedly has led to a decrease in violence, at least temporarily, his militaristic bent has struck trepidation in voters with a less hawkish stance. For those familiar with the film, you could easily imagine Ramsey, cigar clenched in his teeth, his face crinkled with prolonged laughter, palling around with his fellow officers, crooning “Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran.” The grizzled captain, in an early scene on the sub, boasted that not only he would have ordered the annihilation of Hiroshima, he would have “dropped the fucker. Twice.” In a similar tone of audacity, McCain declared he wouldn’t mind if troops were stationed in Iraq for one hundred years, let alone fifty. As any military historian can tell you, boldness often deteriorates into recklessness.

“You’re out of your league, Hunter. You’re not ready to make tough decisions.”

A lean resume has always been the albatross nipping at Obama’s vulnerable heel ever since he announced his candidacy one frosty day in Springfield. His work as a community organizer and law professor, along with his lone, truncated term in the US Senate, is hardly a suitable backstory for a Presidential aspirant. Similarly, his cinematic counterpart was awarded a tour of duty on the USS Alabama despite the fact he served only a single stint as commanding officer. While Obama deftly deflected the issue during the primary- though Clinton’s red phone ad still has a lingering effect- you can bet the Swiftboaters now employed in the McCain camp will slice open the wound and, for good measure, dump in the salt. As Captain Ramsey gripes to a loyal subordinate about Hunter: “The closest he’s come to combat is a policy seminar.”

“I’m the captain of this ship. Now shut the fuck up.”

McCain’s prickliness was evident in his first congressional race in ’86, when his Republican challenger suggested he was a carpetbagger. Concerns about his fiery temper were partly to blame for the Straight Talk Express derailing in 2000 when conservative kingmakers, notably Limbaugh and Hannity, questioned the Senator’s mental stability, heaping their support onto the untested governor of Texas. Perhaps worse, at least on a personal level, one of his own, Republican Senator Thad Cochran, expressed worries that his colleague was too erratic, too hotheaded to be commander in chief. A declaration which, knowing the Naval pilot’s insistence on absolute loyalty, must have stung, if not scarred.

By contrast, Obama’s equanimity has been his greatest attribute during the campaign. The image of him picking an imaginary strand of lint off his shoulder provides a portrait of his coolness under fire. Sure, Obama may qualify his remarks, as Ramsey accuses Hunter of doing, but there’s denying his model temperament, particularly when compared to his crabby opponent. Likewise, the even-keeled Hunter seeks additional information- critical information- before he’s ready to light the match that could very well ignite a global conflagration. More time to obtain more data that leads to a more informed decision. A rational approach, to be sure, one that parallels the reasoning behind the inspection of Iraqi weaponry and, later, Obama’s objection to the invasion.

“The Lipizzan stallions are the most highly trained horses in the world. They’re all white.”

There’s no discounting the importance of race in this historic campaign. Obama addressed the complex issue in a courageous, if not necessary, speech, simultaneously broadening minds and, vastly more importantly to his campaign, soothing fears. While virtually all poll respondents deny that race will have an impact on their votes, anyone familiar with the Bradley effect has wisely adopted a cautionary approach. Like Obama, Hunter seems to have transcended race, blending seamlessly into a (subterranean) world that is nearly as white as its uniforms. McCain, for his part, has steered clear of these murky waters. Considering his party busting move to the left on immigration, McCain may be viewed as much a compassionate conservative as he is a maverick. It is a stubborn fact, however- and stubbornness in McCain is more than a passing streak- that he once voted against establishing a holiday for Martin Luther King, Jr. In later years, he regretted the vote, much like Ramsey, at the film’s conclusion, conceding the fact that he was, indeed, wrong. After all, the horses may be white, but, as Hunter declares, they were born black.

If the election follows script, Obama’s cool-headedness will win the day, retiring McCain to the Arizona sunset, and, in the process, tightening the knot between Washington and Hollywood. Much like Hunter, now in charge of the USS Alabama, Obama will have to lead our nation against an avalanche of adversity, both foreign and domestic. We can only hope- and hope is what will have propelled him to the Oval Office- that he isn’t out of his league and that he’s ready to make the tough decisions.