On the Other Hand

Reading the news still feels too much like reading Harry Potter books 6 & 7, in which Voldemort consolidates his power as a racist dictator supported by a puppet bureaucracy and by a few chosen favorites forever squabbling with each other.

However, unlike our current figurehead, Voldemort is capable of choosing words sequenced in an order that effects a generally understood and accepted meaning. 

 

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Some Days

Some days it really does feel like Voldemort has taken over the Ministry of Magic.

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TfH Reads Harry Potter!

Because I prefer my pop culture moldy, I finally read Harry Potter this month. In 2017. And after months of reading jokes about how Trump is like Voldemort, I’m here to tell you that:

HOLY F**K YOU GUYS TRUMP IS LIKE VOLDEMORT.

Except he’s stupider. And has a nose (I think). And probably can’t talk to snakes (but if he could would the MSM be brave enough to report on it do we need frickin’ crowdfunding to maintain the basic functions of a democratic society’s media infrastructure that could accurately report on the presence of parselmouths in our government?!?!?!?!!?!?!??)

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I Hate to Critize Gawande, But

His recent analysis of the latest way that the GOP has screwed itself and their voters by worshipping a fantasy of a “free” market and a white, straight, born-here manvoter who can act unencumbered (swing around his big ol’ wallet, rub it on anything) within that “free” market presupposes its own falsehood: that this administration and its Congress respond to rational argument, evidence, and voters’ needs to see a fucking doctor without going broke. (Or breathe clean air. Or use a bathroom without getting clobbered. Or not die in nuclear holocaust. Or conventional holocaust. Or smoking rubble of a formerly greenish planet.)

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Dystopia and American Individualism

Today I learned the word “centi-millionaire.” I did not want to know this word. I did not require a vocabulary for gradations of unimaginable wealth. I did not want to imagine billionaires benevolently sharing social theories, real estate tips, and 60-year-old wine with their scrappy li’l neighbors in the soundless, glinting moneyscape of the topmost fraction of a percent. But now I know, and I cannot un-know.

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