Athena, Whataboutism, and Retribution

We could use her about now.

There’s a fair amount of consternation that President Biden has used his authority to pardon his ne’er-do-well son, Hunter (they’ll be JB and HB hereafter if there’s any chance for confusion) after promising not to do so.  The outrage is mostly from the right, as might be expected, but there’s also no little anger emanating from the left, mostly from those who believed, probably naïvely, that JB would show respect for the law, keep his promise, and thereby differentiate himself, and by extension his party, from Donald Trump’s openly stated imminent campaign of retribution.  Curmie is disappointed but hardly surprised at his reversal of course.

JB’s defenders argue that the pardon of his son is legitimized by the fact that Trump had pardoned many of his minions who had been convicted of worse crimes than those of HB.  Did Trump do that?  Yes, of course, he did.  Is that a defense for JB’s actions?  Not in Curmie’s books.  It’s difficult to say what was going in in JB’s mind when he made the vow—did he really believe that he would keep his word, or was that just another lie told by a politician looking to appear objective and above the fray of partisan squabbling? 

Did he think he would win re-election and could then “change his mind”?  Was this a strategic move intended to suggest that the prosecutions of Trump were other than politically motivated?  Curmie can’t answer those questions with authority, but let’s just say he has his suspicions.

That said, two things: 1). Trump is indeed a convicted felon.  However much those charges may have been motivated by something other than a concern for justice, the guy who crows incessantly about hiring only the best people had a legal team that really screwed the pooch if he really was innocent.  They were present for the trial, including the voir dire of prospective jurors.  All they needed was one juror who wasn’t convinced beyond reasonable doubt that the actions were not only criminal but felonious, that it was reasonable to have 34 indictments, and that Trump was guilty on all counts.  That… erm… didn’t happen.

2). JB’s announcement was ill-timed politically because it became the lead story across a compliant and lazy media who might otherwise have been noting that Trump’s nominees for important government posts are the greatest collection of rogues, scoundrels, and scalawags since Catwoman, the Joker, the Riddler, and the Penguin joined forces to form the United Underworld.  Trump also threw in a couple of idiots and wackadoodles: his version of an inclusion initiative, apparently.  (Can Vivek Ramaswamy really be so stupid that he misses the irony of his disparagement of “unelected bureaucrats”?)

The problem is that the majority of the allegations on both sides are, well, true.  Both candidates for the Presidency (well, all three if we count Biden along with the two finalists) babbled incoherently on the campaign trail, lied about themselves and their opponent, and generally proved to be unfit for office.  Both are intentionally divisive; both significantly threaten First Amendment freedoms. 

Curmie has already noted that he voted for NotTrump in three consecutive elections, not because he was particularly impressed with any of the Democratic candidates, but because he believes that Donald Trump is indeed an existential threat to democracy.  (Note to any right-leaning readers: the fact that Biden and Kamala Harris may also qualify for this description does not mean the Trump does not: not all situations are either/or; some are both/and.)

Over the years, Curmie has collected more than a few posters of shows, museums, and the like: far too many to be able to display them all, although virtually none have actually been discarded.  One that always finds its way onto a wall somewhere in the house or apartment we’ve lived in is from the London production of Aeschylus’s trilogy The Oresteia, directed by Sir Peter Hall.

The principal reason it has a place of honor at Chez Curmie is that the play was the standout production (against some pretty solid competition) that he and Beloved Spouse saw on their honeymoon <mumblemumble> years ago.  But for the purposes of this essay, it’s more than that: the poster declares The Oresteia to be “the world’s first dramatic masterpiece,” and Curmie has no argument with that description. 

What is remarkable about the trilogy is that the cycle of violence and retribution perpetuates itself until it is finally resolved by divine intervention.  King Agamemnon of Argos had sacrificed his daughter, Iphigenia, believing it to be the only way to get to Troy and thereby to return Helen to her husband, Menelaus.  In the first play of the trilogy, Agamemnon, the title character returns victorious, only to be killed, along with his concubine Cassandra, by his wife Clytemnestra and her consort, Aegisthus.

In the middle play, The Libation Bearers, Agamemnon’s other children, Orestes and Electra, egged on at least indirectly by the god Apollo, conspire to kill Clytemnestra and Aegisthus.  They succeed, but Orestes ends the play hounded by the Furies, the chthonic goddesses who believe no crime to be worse than matricide.  The fact that only he can see them may be a practical dramatic necessity, but it also renders the moment all the more terrifying: a tactic later employed by the likes of Alfred Hitchcock, who knew that the unknown can conjure a level of dread that no literal representation can match.

Finally, in the Eumenides, Orestes is brought to trial.  The judge is Athena, the goddess of wisdom.  The immortals—Apollo and the Furies—state their respective cases, with the ultimate issue being trying to rank the evils of filicide, regicide/mariticide, and regicide/matricide.  Athena has appointed a jury of the leading men of Athens, the Areopagus, to decide the case.  Their vote ends in a tie; Athena casts the deciding vote for mercy, but assures the Furies (now re-named the Eumenides, the Kindly Ones) that they will henceforth be appropriately honored in exchange for their benevolence.

Athena thus effectively ends the spiral of retribution and whataboutism.  As we prepare for a radical change in government in January, we desperately need an Athena.  The chances that Joe Biden will morph into such a figure in his last days in office: one in a million.  The chances Donald Trump will ever do so: zero.

Alas.

Curmie Is Voting for Not Trump

Yeah, Curmie could support these guys if necessary

People lie.  Politicians lie more than the average person.  Kamala Harris is a politician, and not a particularly honest one, even in comparison to other pols.  Curmie will still vote for her, however.  No, he doesn’t think she’s very accomplished, smart, or consistent.  He thinks she would be a pretty bad POTUS, in fact.  But she’s running against Donald Trump (and J.D. Vance), and Curmie is on the record that he’d vote for the Sauron/Voldemort ticket before he’d vote for them. 

Those fictional villains may be evil, but at least they’re sane, and that makes them at least moderately predictable.  They could construct complete sentences, even paragraphs.  Neither of them ever taped a maxipad to their ear to cover a quite possibly non-existent wound.  They probably even pay their bills, and they certainly wouldn’t publicly contemplate the prodigiousness of a deceased golfer’s penis.

Those on the right will no doubt call Curmie Trump-deranged.  Fine.  He’s been called worse.  Is it likely that a second Trump presidency would destroy the democratic (lower-case “d”) principles on which the nation was founded?  “Likely,” no; “plausible,” yes.  And that’s sufficiently terrifying, thank you.  Should we “vote like it’s Germany in 1932”?  Well, actually, yes.

In Peter Nichols’s brilliant play [A Day in the Death of] Joe Egg, busy-bodies Freddie and Pam refer frequently to people who are PLU: People Like Us.  The MAGA playbook is all about blaming literally everything that ever goes wrong on folks who are Not-PLU: immigrants (even legal ones), Muslims, BIPOCs, LGBTQs, the poor, educators… women.  The legitimacy of these people’s ideas is never considered; it is enough that they are Other.  Indeed, Trump’s positions on issues (has he actually said anything of substance on anything in the last year?) are irrelevant.  He’s the cult leader—a more dangerous one than Sun yung Moon, Jim Jones, or David Koresh—and that’s enough for his flock.

But this essay isn’t about the manifold ways in which Donald Trump is unfit for office.  It’s about one in particular.  Yes, all politicians lie.  But most, even the slimiest ones like Mitch McConnell, do so only to advance their particular perspective: they exaggerate their own accomplishments, actively and consciously misinterpret their opponents’ votes or rhetoric, and otherwise prevaricate their way to what they hope will be a political victory for their side. 

Trump is different.  He’s reckless and ultimately cruel in his dishonesty.  He railed against the Central Park Five long after DNA evidence proved their innocence.  He blathered on about how Barack Obama was supposedly born in Kenya.  Even these escapades, however, pale in comparison to his recent antics in the aftermath of the two hurricanes that battered the southeast.  Despite the testimony of the governors of the affected states, most of whom are Republicans, that the Biden administration and FEMA have been doing an extraordinary job under the circumstances, Cult45 is out there claiming the response was delayed (it wasn’t), and inadequate (given the enormity of the devastation, it could not be otherwise, but that, of course, wasn’t what he meant).

As a private citizen, he inserted himself into the spotlight, getting in the way of people (FEMA, relief organizations, actual volunteers) who were trying to do something to help.  He even riled up the yahoos to believe that FEMA was actually the enemy, to the extent that some operations had to be curtailed when workers feared for their safety!  The problem isn’t that Trump said outrageous, false things: as Jerome Kern wrote (sort of), fish gotta swim, liars gotta lie.  It’s not that he’s mendacious, hubristic, sociopathic, or narcissistic, even by politicians’ standards.  It’s not (just) that he’s a convicted felon.  It’s not that he was rather stupid already before devolving into a babbling ignoramus we see on the campaign trail. 

We’ve all witnessed that cognitive decline, too.  Even major Republicans are calling him “unhinged” and “dangerous.”  That’s just the ones who have joined in the chorus recently, not the host of military leaders, cabinet members, staffers, and (oh, yeah) his Vice President who endorsed Harris or at the very least made their lack of endorsement of Trump public weeks or months ago.

We knew he was amoral, too.  But he seems to have morphed from someone who didn’t care about anyone but himself into someone who consciously and intentionally hurts others: a progression from amorality to hard-core immorality, if you will.  Were he to win the upcoming election, he will only get worse.  And the best-case scenario would be that he would be replaced by J.D. Vance, who is nearly as arrogant, just as hypocritical, and probably even more Fascistic. 

It is possible—unlikely, but possible—that Vance actually believes in the crap that comes out of his mouth.  The difference is that Trump cares only about himself, whereas Vance might actually believe in a cause: a cause which ought to terrify us all.  Indeed, he may be even scarier for that reason.  The good news is that for whatever reason, Trump has groupies and Vance does not. 

Kamala Harris is a terrible candidate.  Her detractors say that her entire campaign is based on not being Trump.  That’s unfair—although far from impressive, she’s been far more detailed and coherent than her opponent about virtually anything you can mention—but even if it were true, being Not Trump is good enough for Curmie.

 

 

 

Skeezix, Gaza, and Empathy

Here’s a cat cafe in Gaza
It seemed appropriate.

Those who know Curmie personally know that he and Beloved Spouse recently came to the awful but necessary decision to have their elder cat, Olivia (aka Skeezix), euthanized.  That sent him back to his “other,” seldom-used blog, to a post about when Skeezix was the younger cat in the family and her older “sister,” Helena (Catbert), was dying. 

As I wrote five years ago:

...seeing her sister’s lack of appetite, Olivia made sure that her sister had had first shot at anything she might want. It was more important to her that Helena eat than that she herself get the choicest food. She didn’t make a big deal of it; she just did it. And then, when it became clear that Catbert wasn’t going to be wanting any food [when we came home from the vet’s without her, clearly very sad], she calmly reverted to her normal behavior. 

It is a sad but ultimately ennobling fact for our species: our pets have better ethics than we do.

Olivia was always a great comfort to Curmie and Beloved Spouse; whenever we were ill or sad, she magically appeared on the scene to help us through the bad times.  She never got along quite as well with her younger sister, Hermione (Snippet) as she did with Helena, but in Skeezix’s last days, Snippet showed obvious concern for her sibling, touching noses in what was clearly a gesture of compassion, for example.  Her yielding of the choicest morsels to her elder sister wasn’t as obvious as Skeezix’s had been, but it was there.  Empathy is not merely a human quality; it is innate across much if not all of the animal kingdom.

It’s also worth noting that the outpouring of sympathy and support from friends (over 200 reactions on Facebook alone) to our loss has been both overwhelming and much appreciated.  Curmie has heard from more than a few former students he had no idea were still on Facebook, and from professional colleagues he’s never even met in person.  Current students (Curmie is back in the classroom as a sabbatical replacement this semester) who barely know me have been especially kind, and, no, I don’t think it’s to increase their chances of a good grade.  We are, in some way, hard-wired to care about others.

Well, most of us are.

In one of those coincidences that lead to blog posts from people like Curmie, I happened across an essay decrying the media’s presumed obsession with chronicling the suffering in Gaza.  The inhabitants asked for it, you see, by electing Hamas, and the Israeli military is just trying to protect their citizens from further attacks by a terrorist organization.

To this, Curmie responds in a manner familiar to his students, especially in his Asian theatre classes: yes and no.  I have no sympathy for Hamas, but of course they’re not the ones bearing the brunt of the Israeli attacks, because active belligerents make up only a small percentage of the residents.  It may indeed be true that the average Gazan now supports (as opposed to “joins”) Hamas, but it doesn’t take a strategic genius to figure out the idea that someone might be less likely to align with the folks who are bombing you than the ones opposing the bombers.  “The enemy of my enemy…” and all that.

It’s also more than a bit of a stretch to say that current Gazans elected Hamas.  Half of the people in Gaza weren’t even born the last time there was an election there.  Half of those who were hadn’t reached voting age.  Not everyone voted.  Oh, and Hamas got a plurality, not a majority, of the votes; they got a majority of the legislative seats, but not of the votes.  In other words, the number of Gazans residents who ever voted for Hamas is perhaps as high as 10%.

Is this relevant?  Sort of, to the extent that the pro-Israeli arguments are rendered less legitimate.  The overwhelming majority of those dying, starving, and otherwise in peril in Gaza have done nothing to warrant punishment.  They’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Of course, that is the way of war.  Those who make the decisions are seldom the ones who suffer most.  The citizens of Melos in the Peloponnesian War, of Antwerp in World War I, of Hiroshima in World War II (to name but three from literally hundreds of examples), were innocent, but that didn’t save them.  Those who perished in the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001, were similarly targeted without cause.

It is certainly possible to view at least many of the untold deaths in similar circumstances over the last three millennia or so in primarily strategic terms: had this horrible thing not happened, then an even worse fate would inevitably have occurred.  

Sometimes.  But the key word in that sentence is “primarily.”  It is reasonable enough to argue that capitulation to tyranny is never acceptable.  Curmie is a native of New Hampshire, where the state motto is “live free or die.”  I get it.  And whereas it makes us uneasy to think in terms of how much “collateral damage” is acceptable, it is naïve to believe that such conversations are anything but commonplace… and necessary.  Military decisions are in a different category than what to watch on TV tonight.  There are significant real-world consequences, both positive and negative.

Getting into the weeds and weighing considerations like responsibility and proportionality is fraught with peril.  Everything becomes a matter of perspective, and decisions are likely to tell us more about the decision-maker than about the relative merits of opposing positions.  Curmie isn’t going to get involved in such disputes, as there is much to be said on both sides.  He’ll go only so far as he’s already gone, when he wrote “Are the Israelis the “good guys” here?  No.  They’re the less despicable guys.” 

All that said, Curmie just can’t wrap his head around the utter lack of even a modicum of sympathy for those caught in the proverbial crossfire through no fault of their own.  No, Gentle Reader, they didn’t fucking “ask for it.”  They’re just trying to survive a horrific set of circumstances that they had little if anything to do with creating.

Even if we don’t agree that politico-military decisions should override humanitarian concerns in at least some such cases, we can grant that there’s an argument to be made.  And concentrating exclusively on the suffering of one set of victims (in this case, innocent Gazans) while ignoring another set of victims (equally innocent Israelis) is at best sloppy journalism.

But anyone who insists that basic human compassion and empathy for those who suffer are unwarranted simply because of who they are and what a minority of their ancestors thought was a good idea… such a person is just a little too close to a monster for Curmie’s taste.  And Skeezix would not approve.

The Pearl-Clutching Podium

Curmie finds great amusement in the meme you see reproduced on the left.  He knew he’d seen the two women whose greatly magnified faces appeared above the water-line as boats carrying athletes to the opening ceremony of the Paris Olympics passed by.  He got as far as presuming the images to have been from a painting in the Louvre, but he confesses that he couldn’t quite place them, and had given up the search through the memory bank until a friend from high school posted the meme.

Of course!  Curmie remembers seeing the painting in person over a half-century ago, possibly in the company of that friend; we were roommates on a spring break trip to London and Paris sponsored by the school’s French club.  Curmie saw it again a couple years later while on a college Language Study Abroad program, and photos have crossed his path a few times in the ensuing decades.  He’s mildly embarrassed that he didn’t immediately see the tweak (if you’ll pardon the expression, Gentle Reader) to the spectators, but mostly he’s still giggling over the pearl-clutchers’ inability to partake of the low-hanging fruit: the part of the portrait that is suggested but not seen is indeed a little risqué by American television standards.  The resounding silence from the American right is indeed ironic, especially in the context of what did get their collective skivvies in a twist.  

Most of the controversies arising out of this year’s Olympics had to do with actions, past or present, of the athletes: were the Chinese swimmers (still) doping, what should be done about the convicted child rapist, what the hell was that Australian woman doing, stuff like that.  A couple of stories were about how members of the media behaved.  And, of course, there was the Great Floor Exercise Debacle, in which most Americans thought Jordan Chiles was much abused based primarily on the fact that she is American and the other contenders for the bronze medal are not.

But none of these stories make it to the podium in the Olympic Pearl-Clutching finals.  To reach those lofty heights, a contender must claim victimization on the basis of something other than nationality, and the top scorers are not the athletes themselves, but television viewers, who must claim to have suffered mightily themselves.  The outrageousness of the outrage, not its reach, is what determines the winner.

We begin, then, with the bronze medalist, the furor over Algerian boxer Imane Khelif.  Yes, it was a bit ridiculous to make a big deal out of the fact that an athlete who competed as a woman in the Tokyo Olympics was allowed to do so again in Paris.  And yes, the Italian woman who initially accused her of being male recanted after the “agony of defeat” wore off. 

But we can’t rank this any higher than third place because there’s some very real mitigation.  Transgender women, those who went through puberty as males, are in fact likely to have better upper-body strength than women who were born female.  As Lia Thomas has amply demonstrated, mediocre or merely good male athletes can become stars by doing little more than declaring themselves female.  There was, of course, a fair amount of internet chatter (without evidence, of course) that Khelif is transgender.  Some of this came from despicable but somehow trusted folks like Elon Musk and J.K. Rowling, both of whom Khelif has sued for cyberbullying.

Curmie, an advocate for both free speech and victims’ rights, hasn’t completely wrapped his head around the legal issues.  What is definitely true is that Khelif is intersex, not trans.  A lot of the people who expressed outrage believed the false reports; we can raise an eyebrow at their willingness to think the likes of Musk are even capable of truth-telling, but we can’t blame them too much.  And the fact that she’s been beaten before doesn’t automatically mean she doesn’t have an advantage. 

Moreover, there is no standard means of dealing with such issues: should we be considering testosterone levels? the presence or absence of XY chromosomes? visible male dangly bits?  The Olympics apparently make their decisions based on what it says on a passport. 

Curmie has a friend whose passport says “male” even though it was issued to someone who was born female and had only just begun the transitioning process: I can’t speak to the details with confidence, but I’d bet that surgery hadn’t happened, and testosterone boosters had only just begun if in fact they’d begun at all.  If that’s what the process looked like in that direction, it’s doubtful that going the other direction would be much different.  And there are certainly countries which would be willing to (ahem) bend the rules if there were no criteria other than passports.

Moreover, Khelif was indeed disqualified from the 2023 World Championships after the fact by the Russian-controlled International Boxing Association for unspecified offenses totally unrelated to the fact that she had the audacity to beat a Russian boxer.  (Ahem.)  The IOC cut ties with the IBA and criticized that judgment, which they claimed was “sudden and arbitrary” and devoid of due process.  When you’re too corrupt for the IOC, you are definitely not the good guys in the story.

Still, we can understand those who are hesitant to advocate for Khelif in the absence of further evidence.  So these pearl-clutchers aren’t the champions of their event.  But the mere fact that the same people who insist that everyone should be permanently classified according to the sex they were assigned at birth are the ones howling that Khelif should not be allowed to compete… erm… according to the sex she was assigned at birth is enough to earn them a spot on the podium.

In the silver medal position is the weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that accompanied the perception that there was a brief moment in the opening ceremony that someone decided had parodied the Last Supper… not the event, to be sure, but the painting.  Every pseudo-Christian yahoo with access to an X account or a Fox station was sore aggrieved, although it’s unclear whether people were actually offended or whether they dutifully pretended to be so when instructed by right-wing media.  And no, the fact that a lot of people purported to be offended does not mean there’s legitimacy to their claim.

The facts that there were a lot more people in the image than there were at the Last Supper, that there was no table, that the artist who created that particular vignette insisted it was intended to reference both the Greek origins of the Olympics and the notion of Dionysian (or, to use the Roman term, Bacchanalian) revelry: all this is to be ignored, apparently.  Even the Vatican got into the act, albeit belatedly, with this bizarre statement: “The Holy See was saddened by certain scenes at the opening ceremony of the Paris Olympic Games and cannot but join the voices raised in recent days to deplore the offense done to many Christians and believers of other religions [?!?]”  (emphasis added).

Curmie confesses that he didn’t know what the hell that moment was all about.  He didn’t think of Dionysus, although in retrospect that identification makes sense, but he fancies himself reasonably adept at understanding both cultural references and symbology, and never thought of the Last Supper, either.  It was just another in a series of rather strange vignettes that bespoke the avant-garde or, perhaps more specifically and relevantly, Frenchness. 

But let’s assume for the moment that Curmie was just asleep at the proverbial wheel on this one, and that the MAGA hordes were correct that DaVinci’s Last Supper was being referenced.  At the risk of rendering further offense, Curmie wonders, “So what?”  The Christian religion is not being parodied. 

First off, that would be a remarkably silly thing to do in a city whose principal tourist attractions include the cathedral of Notre Dame (it is an amazing space, and Curmie is very happy it will soon re-open), the chapel of Sainte-Chapelle, and the basilica of Sacré-Cœur.  But more to the point, there is nothing sacred about that painting.  A painting of a bunch of white guys all sitting on the same side of a long table isn’t likely to represent, even to believers, an accurate portrayal of a meal served a couple of millennia ago.  It’s on a religious theme; that’s it.  It would be only marginally sillier to have forbidden Curmie to cheer for his alma mater’s football team when we played the Holy Cross Crusaders.

There are, in fact, sacred relics in Paris.  When Curmie was last in that city, Sainte-Chapelle housed what they proclaimed to be the crown of thorns, a piece of the true cross, and so on.  (Those relics are now apparently housed in the Louvre.)  Make fun of those—or of items of similar significance to another religion—and you’re a first-class jackass, even if you’re “right” to doubt their authenticity.  But to suggest a pastiche of a painting obliquely and perhaps even unintentionally?  Seriously?  Your God is pretty much a wimp if he can’t handle that level of presumed disrespect.  And so, O Much-Abused Faux Christian, are you.

There’s no question that these folks deserve their silver medal.  But the fact that few observers immediately caught on to what was being represented, and that it’s merely a stretch as opposed to a fabrication to see the Last Supper referenced lends a pinch of legitimacy to the hand-wringers.  Despite their over-enthusiastic clamor, therefore, they don’t get the gold medal.

Remember, it’s the outrageousness of the paranoia, not the extent to which it gained traction, that earns points in the battle for the pearl-clutching gold.  The top of the podium is therefore reserved for those who gasped at the demonic figure in the closing ceremony.  

It is, as Curmie recognized immediately, and suspects you did, as well, Gentle Reader, a replica of the Winged Victory of Samothrace.  You can see the original here, to the right.  It strikes me as a particularly apt usage, combining the notion of victory, certainly relevant to the competitions of the previous couple of weeks, with the Olympics’ origins in Greece (Samothrace is a Greek island), with the host city (the statue has been on display in the Louvre for about a century and a half). 

It is certainly one of the most famous statues in the world.  What’s better known?  Well, the Venus de Milo, Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David, Christ the Redeemer overlooking Rio de Janeiro, the Statue of Liberty… and maybe something else that’s slipping Curmie’s mind right now.  But it’s certainly in the top ten in the world. 

Ah, but not to the proudly ignorant X user Carolann, who asserts that it is a “headless, and armless Angel with what appears to be an effigy of Lucifer (The Golden Voyager) standing in gold. Certainly a fitting close to the MOST demonic & satanic Olympics in history.”  Needless to say, there are followers who say that it is “a slap in the face to all Christians” and similar hogwash. 

Someone points out what virtually anyone with a modicum of cultural literacy knows (or at the very least suspects), but our gal Carolann responds with the classic “we can see what it is from here.”  It is impossible to argue with such idiots.  Evidence means nothing to them.  Only two things enter their minds: chauvinistic hatred and the quest for victimhood.

The latter used to be the sole preserve (or nearly so) of the so-called underprivileged or disenfranchised, whose failures are to be excused because of their demographic profile: hence, for example, criticisms of Kamala Harris’s politics or performance, even if deserved, are dismissed as racist or sexist or both.  But now the (pseudo-) Christian right is demanding their place in the Victimhood Hall of Fame, despite the lack of anyone actually doing anything to even inconvenience them.

The good news is that this particular hallucination doesn’t seem to have generated much of a following, but the mere fact that someone could go on the record with such paranoid ramblings about imaginary threats to an already privileged position is somewhere between chilling and terrifying.  Yes, the MAGA cultists are weird.

La la, how the life goes on.

Incompetence and Arrogance of Olympian Proportions

 

The three women you see pictured at the top of the page, Gentle Reader, currently stand in the third (i.e., bronze medal), fourth, and fifth positions in the Olympics final in the women’s floor exercise. You see them from top to bottom in their relative positions as Curmie writes this; whether those will be the final rankings remains to be seen.

Anyway, from the top down we see Romania’s Ana Bărbosu and Sabrina Maneca-Voinea, and the US’s Jordan Chiles.  Each of them has reason to believe that she—and she alone—should be the bronze medalist.  But a series of judges’ fuck-ups (sorry, Gentle Reader, there is no other term) have turned what should have been an easy ranking into a brouhaha that makes clear that whatever the NCAA or FIFA may do, the IOC isn’t going to give up its title of Most Corrupt and Incompetent Sports Organization without a fight.  But wait!  Who’s that coming up on the outside?  It’s the Tribunal Arbitral du Sport (Court of Arbitration for Sport), or TAS,  staking their claim, and they’re backing it up with hubristic posturing!  It’s coming down to the wire, Gentle Reader, and it’s anyone’s race!

Curmie has already made clear his distaste for sports which rely on the subjective opinions of judges rather than on some objective criterion.  Yes, referees can make mistakes, but at least we know that the team that scores the most points will win, as will the swimmer who touches the wall first.  In these events, it’s clear: the US won a gold medal in the 100m sprint because a photograph made it clear that Noah Lyles’s torso crossed the finish line .005 seconds before Kishane Thompson’s did.  The US women’s basketball team also narrowly won gold, beating the French team by a single point.

Those close finishes seem more arbitrary when there’s no objective way of distinguishing between the performances.  It’s also true that gymnastics is second only to figure skating in terms of judges giving credit to established stars just because they’re established. 

But let’s assume for the moment that the judges’ votes, though subjective, were both informed and honest.  The point that if you were to ask a dozen experts which of the three women discussed here was the “best,” suggesting that all three would get at least two votes apiece is both accurate and irrelevant.  These women didn’t go to Paris to get a participation trophy.

OK, so what happened?  By the time Chiles, the last to do her routine, hit the floor, the gold and silver medals were de facto wrapped up by Rebecca Andrade and Simone Biles, but the bronze was very much up in the air.  Bărbosu  and Maneca-Voinea were tied on points, with the former placed third because her execution score was higher.  Chiles performed well, but came up just short, with a score of 13.666, behind the two Romanian women’s 13.700.  But American coach Cecile Landi submitted an inquiry about Chiles’s difficulty score.  Less than a minute after Chiles’s score was posted, the appeal was granted, her score was raised by a tenth of a point, and she catapulted from fifth to third.

By this time, Bărbosu had already draped a Romanian flag over her shoulders to celebrate the first of her country’s Olympic medals in gymnastics in a dozen years: this in a sport once dominated by the likes of Nadia Comăneci.  Indeed, from the time Comăneci appeared on the scene in 1976 through 2012, six different Romanian women won Olympic gold in the floor exercise, and ten earned a medal of some color, averaging more than one competitor per Olympics on the podium.  This was big for the individual gymnast, but perhaps even more so for her country.

Needless to say, Bărbosu was devastated by the change in Chiles’s score.  It’s completely understandable that she felt frustrated, betrayed, and, yes, bitter.  Her initial response garnered her a substantial amount of harrassment on social media.  Of course, Chiles suffered that fate, as well, being accused of cheating, as if she had anything to do with the judges’ decisions.  Chiles received the bronze at the medal ceremony, and initiated one of the iconic images of the Games, as she and Biles bowed to Andrade in a gesture of respect and friendship to their Brazilian competitor.

But the story doesn’t end there.  The Romanian team submitted a challenge, claiming that the inquiry about Chiles’s score came after the allotted one-minute window for such appeals.  The TAS ruled that Landi’s challenge did indeed come in four seconds too late, and was therefore disallowed.  That meant Chiles’s score reverted to 13.666.  The TAS kicked the subject of what should happen to the medal back to the FIG (the Fédération International de Gymnastique) who punted the decision back to the IOC, who predictably ignored the Romanian team’s suggestion that all three women should receive bronze medals.  The IOC decided that, having already awarded Chiles the medal, they wanted it back, despite no wrongdoing on Chiles’s part.

But, as they say in the late night infomercials, Wait!  That’s not all!  Notice that the Romanians suggested that not merely Chiles and Bărbosu should receive medals, but so should Maneca-Voinea.  Why?  Well, the Romanian team sought to change her score because she suffered a tenth of a point reduction for stepping out of bounds… which replay showed she did not do.  But that appeal was denied, without explanation (!).

In other words, if the judges had done their job in the first place, Maneca-Voinea would have had a score of 13.800 and would have won the bronze medal.  Even with the extra tenth of a point she received for doing a more difficult routine than she was initially given credit for, Chiles would have finished behind her.  The inquiry, even if it was late, was still submitted before Chiles’s score was posted (the one minute timetable is from the end of the routine), so it would have gone forward, but there’d be no reason for the Romanians to quibble about the timing, because it wouldn’t have affected the medals.  No one cares who was fourth as opposed to fifth. 

Who precipitated the kerfuffle?  Not Chiles or Landi.  Not Bărbosu or Maneca-Voinea or their coaches.  This is all on the judges, the IOC, the FIG, and the TAS.  And not because somebody thinks Gymnast A was “better” than Gymnast B.  No, this is all about getting things objectively wrong.

Let’s not forget that getting Maneca-Voinea’s score correct in objective terms would have prevented all this.  But competent judges would have prevented the Chiles/Bărbosu controversy, as well.  They could have noticed that Landi’s inquiry came too late (assuming it did), and said, right then and there “we’re sorry, this request came outside the time limit, and we therefore can’t review the situation.”  Or they could have waited an extra 30 seconds or so before posting Chiles’s score, thereby announcing only the upwardly-revised total, placing her directly into third place, and not giving Bărbosu the impression that she’d won a medal, only to snatch it away moments later.

The US team subsequently submitted time-stamped evidence that Landi’s inquiry was submitted after 47 seconds, not 64.  The TAS, of course, refuses to re-examine the case in the light of new evidence, and Chiles has been ordered to return her medal.  After all, it’s her fault that the governing bodies fucked up and apparently believed false information (Curmie apologizes if it appears he’s strayed into politics here).

The two teams are, of course, looking after their own, but the Romanian suggestion that the three women each receive a medal is easily the closest we could get to a judicious and ethical conclusion.  Bărbosu has gone on social media commiserating with Chiles (she knows what it feels like, after all), and hoping that the three of them will share a podium in Los Angeles in 2028.  The athletes, the eldest of whom is Chiles at 23, are showing a lot more maturity and a lot more humility than the constipated and flat-out stupid narcissists at the IOC and TAS.

The US team vows to continue the fight to allow Chiles to keep the medal they believe is her due.  Curmie makes no prediction what will happen down the road.  What he does know is that if he were Jordan Chiles or Ana Bărbosu and they came for my medal, I’d be sore tempted to tell them to perform an exercise best suited to extremely limber hermaphrodites.  And I’d know, or at least suspect, that Sabrina Maneca-Voinea might just have a better case than I do.

EDIT: two new pieces of evidence further demonstrate the bungling of the TAS.  First, they notified the wrong US officials of the hearing (!).  Oh, and the International Institute for Conflict Prevention & Resolution reports that Dr. Hamid G. Gharavi, the head of the hearing board which handed down the TAS decision, has represented Romanian interests in such cases on numerous occasions.  That doesn’t mean that he’s corrupt, of course, but he’s definitely pulling a Clarence Thomas by not recusing himself when there’s plenty of appearance of conflict of interest.

Breaking News

Curmie is told that this was intentional.  OK?

When Curmie was an undergrad, he wrote a fair number of theatre reviews for the college newspaper.  One show he reviewed was a student-written revue-style piece that had everything from original songs to vulgar humor (the central shtick was that we should solve the energy crisis by harvesting buffalo farts for the methane).  One segment Curmie praised was a hilarious parody of a pretentious modern dance piece.  There was one problem, though.  The choreographer/dancer in question wasn’t pleased; he didn’t think it was a parody.  Oops.

That incident was called to mind this week when Curmie learned that Rachael Gunn, a 36-year-old Australian college professor with a PhD in cultural studies, has become an internet sensation by placing last in the breaking (formerly known as break-dancing) competition at the Olympics.  Competing as B-girl Raygun (don’t blame her for that part; such noms de guerre are apparently required of competitors) she went through a series of maneuvers looking like a cross between a demented inchworm and flounder flopping on the deck of a fishing vessel.  What it certainly was not was anything that could reasonably be described as a demonstration of strength, balance, or skill of any description.

There are a lot of questions here, not the least of which being what the hell breaking is doing as an Olympic event (I refuse to call it a “sport”).  Curmie has always despised the notion of “sports” in which the winners are determined by judges rather than by who got the most points or crossed the finish line first or whatever other objective criteria might be employed.  This aversion is amplified when original moves are encouraged if not required.  If a gymnast, diver, or figure skater does one more spin than anyone else has ever done or does it in a different position than it’s ever been done, that’s obviously harder and can be reasonably rewarded.  But breaking has no apparent guidelines other than what each individual judge thinks is cool (or whatever term is currently in vogue).  Gunn says all her routines were original.  We can only hope so.

All of this, of course, is an extension of a belief that any activity that requires any measure of athleticism ought to be a sport.  Hence artistic (formerly “synchronized”) swimming, skateboarding, rhythmic gymnastics, breaking, etc. appear as Summer Olympic sports.  I’m not here to suggest that these events don’t require a combination of strength, precision, stamina, timing, and agility.  Of course they do!  So does ballet.  So does roofing a house.  I’m just not interested in seeing how many style points are deducted for using more nails than necessary or having a little caulk spill out of the gun.

Anyway, revenons à nos moutons…  Gunn was, not to put too fine a point on it, pretty awful.  Could I do her routine?  Not now, no.  But I’m pretty sure I could have when I was her age, and that puts her well beneath the status of an elite athlete.  So what’s going on here?  Well, she apparently won the qualifying tournament for Oceania (I really don’t want to see who came in second), and she’s represented Australia at the world championships three years in a row, so she’s at the Olympics fair and square.  There is a qualifying time in, say, a track event (I have a former student who placed second in the Olympic trials in a middle-distance race, but missed the qualifying time by a fraction of a second), but if you’re the best your nation or geographical area has to offer, you get to go, and it’s difficult to establish a qualifying standard if there’s nothing objective about the decision-making.

So, what’s going on?  Well, there’s the post on X that calls her a “grievance studies scholar” and claims she has argued that “breaking’s institutionalization via the Olympics will place breaking more firmly within this sporting nation’s hegemonic settler-colonial structures that rely upon racialized and gendered hierarchies.”  Speaking as a PhD in the humanities, Curmie responds, “Huh?”

It's unclear, to me at least, whether Gunn’s intention is trying to a). open breaking up to other cultural influences, b). participate in an activity she enjoys despite not being especially good at it, c). parody the “sport,” either for squishy pseudo-academic reasons or because it shouldn’t be competitive (or at least not an Olympic event), or d). get international attention for its own sake.  Of course, there’s always e). more than one of the above.

If “a,” I’m not seeing how we get there from her performance.  If “b,” I have no objection, although the Australian Olympics folks might wonder why they’re subsidizing her when they have dozens of current or potential actual Olympics-quality athletes who could use their support.  (They seem to be lining up in her defense, however)  But “c” and “d” seem the most likely candidates.

I have no grudge against lovable losers—as a lad I was a fan of the 1962 Mets, after all—and the 1988 Winter Games alone gave us such celebrities as the Jamaican bobsled team and British ski-jumper Michael David Edwards (a.k.a. “Eddie the Eagle”).  Moreover, the overwhelming majority of the athletes in Paris over the last fortnight and change had little hope of earning a medal.  They went there for the experience, to meet the international stars of their sport, to represent their country, or whatever.  The Olympic ideal, tarnished over the ages though it may be, emphasizes the competition over the result, and we’ve been inundated, both at the Games themselves and (with the notable exception of a series of obnoxious Nike ads) in the accompanying advertising, with stories of sportsmanship and mutual respect. 

So should we cheer Gunn on despite or even because of her obvious athletic inferiority compared to her competitors?  Or do we suspect that her non-conformity suggests she’s in it completely for herself or perhaps for her ideology, hoping to turn notoriety into fame and/or fortune?  Is she charmingly idiosyncratic or just starved for attention?  Is our hesitance to grant her the license we cheerfully provided to Eddie the Eagle based on our interpretation of her motives or on something as basic as sexism?  What do we make of the head judge and the Australian authorities rushing to her defense?

My answer to the series of questions in the previous paragraph, I’m afraid, is “I don’t know.”  My temptation is to believe that no one could be that bad unintentionally, but I’ve been mistaken about that before and felt awful about it.  Help me out here, Gentle Reader…

Going for the Bronze

 

Curmie suspects he’s not alone in having a love/hate relationship with the Olympics, and both parts of that status have manifested themselves this time around.  The doping and spying scandals, the Dutch beach volleyball player who served time for raping a 12-year-old girl, the whoring out to corporate sponsors (too many to choose from), the dumpster fire that was NBC’s coverage of the opening ceremonies (no link here, Gentle Reader, because Curmie likes you)… all of these are good reasons not to care. 

Speaking of that opening, Curmie may or may not write up a few thoughts about that utterly silly, yes, silly, controversy over that alleged affront to Christianity that got a few seconds of air time.  But that’s a topic for another day, if indeed at all.

It is only fair to note that, to NBC’s credit, the insufferable jingoism of earlier Olympics coverage has been toned down to merely annoying, we are no longer subjected to interminable medal ceremonies celebrating Americans, and most of the announcers (especially for sports the average American doesn’t know very well) and hosts not named Mike Tirico have been pretty competent.  Forgetting the irrelevant and puerile squeals of Kelly Clarkson and the narcissistic and ultra-nationalistic bleatings of Peyton Manning (what the hell were either of them even doing there?) at the opening ceremonies will be difficult, but overall, this is the best NBC has done in decades.

The Olympics have been corrupted in innumerable ways since Curmie was a wee lad, but there are moments that will forever endure.  Simone Biles and Katie Ledecky had nothing to prove—both were already the GOATs of their respective sports—but they proved it anyway.  There were, of course, memorable efforts by non-Americans: Léon Marchand, Ariarne Titmus, Summer McIntosh, Tom Pidcock, the South Korean archery team, et al.  But all those gold medalists were expected to win; indeed, anything less would be a profound disappointment.

Curmie is well aware that there is a special kind of pressure to win when a silver medal would be considered a failure, and he’d really like to have trademarked the line “go for the gold,” but today he wants to talk about two American athletes who were rightfully thrilled to clinch a bronze medal for their team, not least because of the dramatic manner in which that was accomplished.  As Curmie writes this, only a couple of track and field events have been completed, and there’s still a long way to go before medals are awarded in sports like basketball, volleyball, and soccer.  But irrespective of what happens over the next few days, these third-place finishes will be near if not at the top of Curmie’s memories.

There have, of course, been some great stories of athletes who achieved individual bronze: women’s gymnastics alone has given us Suni Lee, Jade Carey, and Jordan Chiles, all of whom have personal as well as team-related reasons to call the Paris Olympics their “redemption tour.”  But the ones who clinch a team medal where there hasn’t been one in a long time… or ever… these are the ones that will stay in our minds for many a year.

First up, then, is Stephen Nedoroscik, a.k.a. Pommel Horse Guy.  His story is most fun because of who he is: a self-identified nerd who seems as proud of his speed in the Rubix Cube (under 10 seconds) as in his skills on the horse.  And when Curmie says “on the horse,” that’s it.  He does one event, whereas his teammates are all-arounders, and there was no little sniping from the pundits (including more than one who are now gushing about him) about including a one-event specialist on the team. 

On the sidelines, he meditates, seemingly oblivious in the goings-on around him.  He looks like a stereotypical nebbish, complete with Clark Kent glasses… until he takes off his warm-up jacket.  Yes, that’s the upper body of an athlete.  And then the glasses come off as he prepares his mount.  He says he “sees” the horse with his hands, not his eyes.  (One is tempted to wonder if eyesight is as much of a reason as innate skill for why Nedoroscik doesn’t compete in events like vault and bars.)

By the luck of the draw, the US team found itself on the pommel horse as their last event in the team final.  And Nedoroscik batted clean-up, the last American to compete.  He could secure the American men’s team its first medal in 16 years, or he could fail.  The routines at the Olympic level are by definition extremely difficult; two medal contenders in the event final a few days later fell off the apparatus altogether.  The pressure had to have been enormous.  And he nailed it.  The US medal wasn’t gold, but it was pretty special.

The only thing keeping this performance from being even more special was the fact that he didn’t actually need the metaphoric home run he hit, NBC analyst and former team gold medalist and pommel horse bronze medalist Tim Daggett said “ironically, he needs to hit a double… no, he needs a single… he needs to get on base.  He could take a walk; just don’t get out.”  He hit it out of the park, anyway.  And the meme-meisters went into high gear.

But if Nedoroscik didn’t need to be quite Clark Kent/Superman, Alex “Spiff” Sedrick pretty much had to be superhuman in the bronze medal match of the women’s rugby 7s.  Her personal story doesn’t have quite the allure of Nedoroscik’s quiet assassin schtick, but she is an unlikely heroine.  She was in her first Olympics, and is one of the smallest, if not indeed the smallest, member of the team in a sport in which size and strength are valuable commodities.  The face of the team in both Tokyo and Paris has been Ilona Maher, who’s 5’10” and 200 pounds; Sedrick is 5’3”, 137.

But both the play itself and the timing were extraordinary.  The US team had been pretty well crushed by eventual champion New Zealand in the semi-finals, and Australia was upset by Canada.  That meant that in the bronze medal game the US Eagles faced the pre-tournament favorite when the Aussies were undoubtedly a bit pissed off at the world.  Curmie was not optimistic.

Surprisingly, the Americans kept it close at 7-7 until with only about a half a minute left, Australia scored a try.  The only good news from the US perspective was that it was nearer the sideline than to the center of the pitch, making the conversion attempt more difficult; the kick did indeed sail to the left of the uprights.  Still, the Eagles trailed 12-7 with time quickly dwindling away.

The kick went deep into the US end, and the vaunted Australian defense seemed to have the American squad pinned a very long way from the try line.  Until they didn’t.  Rupert Cox, NBC’s play-by-play guy, called it thusly: “They’re going to have to go the distance here if they’re going to take this one to Golden Point [extra time].  Ilona Maher.  Ramsey.  Sedrick.”  Just then, with seven seconds remaining on the clock, Sedrick side-stepped one defender and, to use a phrase Curmie stole from some sports reporter (Curmie regrets that he can’t find the link to include here), “absolutely molly-whopped” another.

Cox then delivered what will surely be one of the most-remembered lines in Olympic TV coverage since Dick Bank’s “Look at Mills!  Look at Mills!” in the men’s 10,000 in 1964.  Cox exclaimed, “Spiff Sedrick’s AWAY!”  Sedrick made it only to midfield as time ran out, but the play in process could proceed, and she carried the ball straight down the middle of the field, diving over the try line after a 90-meter gallop, finishing with the grin you see at the top of this entry.  There was some confusion about the conversion, as Sedrick thought for a moment that she’d already won the match, and the normal kicker was on the sideline.  With only a few seconds remaining to attempt the kick, however, Sedrick nailed the conversion herself, and the first Olympic medal for American rugby in literally a century was secured by a final score of 14-12. 

Rugby, especially women’s rugby, got a huge boost in this country, and not just because Michele Kang donated $4 million to the cause.  Ordinary people, folks who’ll never make that kind of money in their entire lives, let alone be able to give it away, are going to check out the sport and follow the Eagles; some young girls (and boys, too, Curmie suspects) are going to find the sport that engages them.

Nike has been running a series of reprehensible commercials under the slogan “Winning Isn’t for Everyone,” suggesting that even a second-place finish is somehow shameful, or a sign of inadequate mental or physical toughness.  These ads appear regularly on coverage of the Olympics, which has since its origins purported to be about the competition, not the victories.  Yes, that sloganeering shows little relationship to the reality of the overwhelmingly commercialized and politicized fortnight and change, but the residue of the original intent remains.  We even see it manifested occasionally in congratulations and condolences between competitors, and that’s a good thing.

The medal Spiff Sedrick secured for herself and her teammates wasn’t gold, but the moment was nothing if not golden, and we’ll see the video replayed again and again for years to come.  She proved the acuity of the great twentieth-century philosopher Yogi Berra’s observation that “it ain’t over ‘til it’s over,” underscoring what should have been Nike’s message: there is no shame in not being the very best, but sometimes you can shock the world if you don’t give up.  Sedrick is something of a reverse Batman: Curmie isn’t sure this fractured nation deserves her, but she is very definitely the heroine we need.

Of Red Barons and Book Clubs

Curmie can’t speak for everyone, but he’s a little starved for something, anything, other than politics.  Perhaps you are, as well, Gentle Reader.  The thought that anyone would vote for either of the likely contenders for the presidency (as opposed to against the alternative) is chilling.  So Curmie has been casting about, looking for something else to write about.  This may not be much, but at least it’s something.  And Curmie did sort of open the door for this kind of post last Christmas season with an analysis of ads for Monopoly.

Red Baron (the pizza company, not Snoopy’s antagonist, but why pass up an opportunity like this?) has released a trio of new commercials, all connected to the joys of sharing.  They’re not going to convince Curmie and Beloved Spouse to buy their product—we’ve tried it and found the gustatory difference between it and cardboard to be insignificant (your mileage may vary), but that doesn’t mean their commercials are similarly boring.

Indeed, “Baddie Librarians,” in which two stereotypically bespectacled (complete with glasses chains) older women naughtily share a pizza intended for a single person, is trite but at least reasonably cute.  “Hipsters” is even more fun, as sharing a delicious pizza leads to sharing of a different sort: one character “shares” that he’s tired of being hip, another (her name is Willow, of course) admits that she doesn’t even know what her neck tattoo means, the pizza is described as “way better than kale” (I’ll grant that much), and kombucha is called “garbage water.”  It’s not laugh-out-loud funny, but at least it brings a smile.

“Book Club” starts down the same road, but it takes a wrong turn.  Sharing the pizza prompts one woman to “share” that she didn’t actually read the book.  Indeed, no one has; the closest anyone can come is the hostess, Linda, who “watched the movie last night.”  So far, so good.  But the ensuing dialogue goes like this:

-- I judged it by its cover.

-- I haven’t read a book since middle school.

-- I’m secretly seeing two other book clubs.  [What?]

-- I can’t even read.  [He’s holding the book upside-down.]

-- I’m not really Gary.  He just paid me to be here.  [Again, what?]

If “Hipsters” showed something like a moment of enlightenment for the characters—they’re questioning their past pretentiousness in the name of hipness—“Book Club” seems to excuse that very pomposity and deception.  If Willow and her friends begin to re-evaluate the illusory benefits of being hip, Linda and her book club giggle about how cute it is to be superficial, anti-intellectual, illiterate, and deceitful.  Eating that tasty pizza brings the hipsters to a realization that “kale sucks”; for the book-clubbers, though, it prompts only the joys of shared ignorance and imbecility.

No, I’m not blaming the purveyors of frozen pizza for the decline of thoughtful analysis that has characterized the last couple of decades in this country.  But that one ad in particular, while not a contagion, is at least a symptom.

One of the first papers Curmie wrote as an undergrad was for a class on Jean-Jacques Rousseau.  (I ended up in that class because my first couple of choices for a Freshman Seminar were full when I tried to register, and I’d at least heard of Rousseau.)  We’d just read Émile, in which one of the key points was that what we try to teach and what a child sees in that pedagogical moment do not always coincide.  We were assigned to write a short analysis of a contemporary story or event from the perspective of such a child.

I don’t remember what I wrote about (it was over a half century ago… ouch!), but the assignment itself keeps re-appearing in my consciousness after all this time.  I know what “Book Club” intends its message to be, but what I see is “stupid, incurious, and artificial people like our product.”

Dammit, it seems like Curmie is writing about politics, after all…  

A slightly edited version of this piece appears under the (better) title of “Curse You, Red Baron!” on the Ethics Alarms site.

If the Dog Hadn't Stopped...

Still at large

Curmie knows next to nothing about his great-grandfather (his paternal grandfather’s father) except that he was a fount of aphorisms.  His cruder, and therefore in times like these more appropriate, version of “if frogs had wings…” was “if the dog hadn’t stopped to shit, he’d have caught the fox.”

That saying resonates in Curmie’s mind as he gazes at the dumpster fire that is the American political scene.  (Curmie wishes his commentary from 17 months ago were a little less apt.)  On the one hand, we have a convicted felon who is walking the streets at all only because judges he appointed have made up ridiculous reasons to let him off the hook.  Was his prosecution political?  Probably.  But the fact remains that the lawyers for the guy who boasts that he hires only the best people were there for the voir dire.  If a single one of the jurors they helped select had as much as “reasonable doubt” that Donald Trump had done the things that he was accused of doing, and that they were felonies, he wouldn’t have been convicted.

One could make the case that Trump wasn’t the worst President in US history (he’s a contender, though), but he is surely the most vulgar, narcissistic, mendacious, and authoritarian.

On the other hand the Democrats have apparently anointed one of the most singularly unaccomplished vice presidents in American history, a smug but not terribly intelligent partisan hack who got the gig by demographics rather than competence.  (Yes, Curmie knows that could be said for a lot of white men, too.)  She was polling in single-digits even in her home state in her presidential run in the last election before dropping out before primary voting even started.  Once elected as VP, she lasted about a month on the job before she was shunted to the background, as she offered little in the way of policy expertise and made the often gaffe-ridden Joe Biden look like Cicero himself by comparison.  Jolly.

So… how’d we get here?  Well, a lot of dogs stopped to shit.

If the press hadn’t given Trump far more free media coverage than all the other Republican candidates combined in the 2016 primary season, we’d have caught the fox.

If the Clintonites didn’t actually encourage that practice, believing (wrongly, of course) that Trump would never win the nomination, let alone the presidency, but would push the more viable candidates to the right, making Hillary’s path easier, we’d have caught the fox.

If the GOP didn’t have a ridiculous policy of giving all the delegates from a primary election to the “winning” candidate, even if that person got barely a quarter of the votes, one of the not-Trump Republicans would have emerged as the nominee, and we’d have caught the fox.

If the DNC hadn’t colluded to get Hillary Clinton the 2016 nomination, there’s a good chance we’d have caught the fox.

If she’d run a competent campaign focusing on swing states instead of smugly assuming an easy victory, we’d have caught the fox.

If presidential elections were won by the person who got the most votes instead of following an archaic system designed to appease slave-owning states, we’d have caught the fox.

If the DNC hadn’t colluded to get Joe Biden the 2020 nomination, there’s a good chance we’d have caught the fox.

If Biden hadn’t made a stupid pledge to select a BIPOC woman as his running mate, we’d have almost certainly caught the fox.  [N.B., Curmie grants that Harris is a far better choice than either of Trump’s VP choices.]

If Trump were appropriately held responsible, either by the courts or by the populace (including Republican voters), for the events of January 6 and for his clear attempts to overturn a fair election, we’d have caught the fox.  [Side note: if you want to say that the press treated Trump unfairly, Curmie will listen.  But if you want to dispute the testimony of a series of Republican governors and secretaries of state that Biden had won their state, please leave.  This blog is for people who can think.]

If the GOP had said, as they certainly could have, that you’re not going to be our nominee if you don’t participate in the primary debates, we’d quite possibly have caught the fox.

If the GOP had literally any other candidate who might conceivably attract the attention of a swing voter, it’s pretty likely we’d have caught the fox.  But when Nikki Haley is the most palatable of the alternatives…

If Trump had been jailed for contempt of court, as literally any other defendant who pulled his antics would have been, we’d be well on our way to catching the fox.

If SCOTUS had refused to hear Trump’s absurd assertion of absolute immunity instead of delaying… and delaying… and delaying… and then finally granting partial immunity, denying intent as a determining factor and sending rest of the whole business back to the lower courts, thereby ensuring there would be no real ruling before the election, we’d have caught the fox.

If, indeed, any Trump-appointed judge (Curmie’s looking at you, Aileen Cannon) cared more about the nation than about their blubbery hero, catching the fox would be within reach.

If Joe Biden’s inner circle and the major media hadn’t so obviously lied to the public about the man’s mental health issues, we’d be closer to catching the fox.

If Joe Biden, his advisors, and pundits from the left really cared about their country (and their party), he’d have announced that he wasn’t going to seek re-election a year ago, when his faculties were clearly already in decline.  Then at least a sizeable chunk of the $100 million or so in Biden’s campaign coffers would have gone to a candidate whom actual voters would have had at least a little say in selecting.  Yes, the DNC would have stacked the deck for Harris, but Curmie still doubts that she’d have emerged victorious.  If she did, however, the process would have had at least some legitimacy.  Either way, we’d be in a better position to catch the fox.

If Biden had trusted his own delegates to come to their own conclusions about who should be the nominee after his withdrawal from the race, we’d be closer to catching the fox.

There’s a reason the cover photo on Curmie’s Facebook page is of John McEnery as Mercutio in the Zeffirelli film of Romeo and Juliet, uttering the character’s most famous line, “A plague o’ both your houses.” Since the only alternative, Baby Bobby, is a full-fledged wackadoodle, our choice, it appears, is between about the worst possible candidates for both major parties, although to be fair Biden (or DeSantis or Haley or Ramaswamy) would have been awful, too.  Curmie is going to vote for the mediocrity instead of the hubristic sociopath, but, Gentle Reader, we’re going to need a bigger pooper-scooper.

And the fox is still at large.