The Chameleon

 Everyone knows how J.D. Vance reinvented himself for the Trump era—going from the NPR-listening public's favorite "hillbilly"-whisperer—and frequent Trump critic—to the president's favorite lapdog (not to mention one of the world's most prominent ideologists for the new wave of radical right populism/white nationalism/neo-fascism sweeping the globe).  

Once it became clear that white supremacism and Nazi-curious Groyperism were the hip new thing in the Republican party—and the fastest way to rise in Trump's political movement—Vance had no trouble abandoning his earlier assessment of Trump as a "demagogue" and adopting the new far-right "nationalist" talking points as his own. 

The Shades

 My family and I just got back from a week in Michigan, where we were mostly insulated from the daily reminders of the tragedy we had just been through, as my dad died from cancer. 

Now that I'm in Florida again, though, I'm definitely back in the presence of the shades. Every place I go in the house or the neighborhood reminds me of some awful, or sometimes sweet, scene from the last four months. 

Testosterone

 After the spectacle of the UFC cage-fighting on the White House lawn yesterday—not to mention Elon Musk's debut as the world's first trillionaire, in the same week he was personally egging on a lynch mob in Belfast to burn asylum-seeking families out of their homes—you might think that more brain-dead testosterone is the last thing this society needs. 

You might think, in such a world, that mindless, infantile masculine posturing is "the one thing a man has had too much of," to borrow a phrase out of context from D.H. Lawrence. 

A Roman Holiday at the White House

 Trump's UFC face-smashing party on the White House lawn last night catered to a long-running sadistic interest of his in blood sports. I was reminded of an earlier news cycle in which he mused about segregating martial arts leagues by immigration status and pitting undocumented people against U.S. citizens to fight each other for his amusement. 

In short, this is a man who gets off on the idea of other men bloodying their faces, while he looks on from a position of safety—like the Roman emperors of old watching a gladiatorial game. 

Pagan MAGA

 The endless social media flame wars that define our modern politics gave us one piece of nastiness last week that I thought was unintentionally revealing. Stephen Miller said something gross and mean about Senate candidate James Talarico. 

The official Democratic Party account clapped back at him by calling him "ugly." (You see what I mean about this not being exactly our most lofty and inspiring moment in national politics?)

A Painless Death?

 The Supreme Court unexpectedly did the right thing yesterday when they granted a zero-hour reprieve to a death row inmate in Alabama, sparing his life (if only temporarily) from imminent execution by nitrogen gas. 

The case prompted a surreal back-and-forth in the lower courts, though, about just how painless the various available methods of execution in American prisons might be. 

Irish Avatar

 Seeing the reports of the race riots in Northern Ireland yesterday—in which gangs of masked men burned Black and immigrant families out of their homes, like something out of a turn-of-the-century pogrom, or the 1921 Tulsa massacre—I thought of John Berryman's words: "culture was only a phase/ through which we threaded, coming out at the other end/ to the true light again of savagery."

There's something particularly heartbreaking about seeing this evil in Northern Ireland, which has known its share of violence, persecution, and oppression before, and ought to make common cause with its victims. Byron wrote in his poem "The Irish Avatar" that he could only be glad that the heroes of Ireland's freedom struggle past were no longer alive to see what the country had come to.