Repetition—now more than ever!, as the slogan of a once-again rehabilitated GOP president read—is the rule that MSM “journalists” slavishly follow in 2025, and despite an instinctual cynicism about politics I’m still mildly surprised. On the repetition front, I’m at fault too, since in this space dating to last February I’ve wondered why there’s no discernible pulse in the Democratic Party, or their media enablers (flunkies, spear-carriers, cry-in-your-Bud-Light late-night buddies and sycophants all fit as well) when, given Donald Trump’s whirligig lame-duck second term, you’d expect at least two “shadow presidents” to emerge. It’s as sure a bet as any that a struggling economy will consume voters, and the current administration will take the blame. In a traditional campaign cycle—and I know that “traditional” is a bad word now—a popular governor or senator would be campaigning, like Jimmy Carter did in 1975, living in Iowa, for the 2026 midterm elections and collecting I.O.U.’s to put in his or her pocket.
Instead, media personalities (their preferred description) like The New York Times’ Ezra Klein, busy-in-the-outhouse Nate Silver (remember him?), 90 percent of Atlantic writers and what remains of the reliably left-wing roster of The Washington Post and Los Angeles Times, are writing mushy articles that either re-hash the 2024 election or put forth proposals about how to capture “centrists” for the Democrats. That’s a Colorado Rockies game plan.
One example: A long essay by the Times’ Michelle Goldberg on Oct. 1 promoted James Talarico, who’s running for the Democratic senate nomination in Texas, where he’s now in that state’s House of Representatives. It’s very Beto O’Rourke to me (even if Talarico is a devout Christian) but any enchilada in a storm I suppose. She writes: “Democrats are in the wilderness, eager to latch on to any inspirational figure who can guide them out. But it’s also a testament to the unexpected power of Talarico’s plain-spoken message, which combines Bernie Sanders’s anger at oligarchy with a diagnosis of the spiritual sickness that almost everyone in this country feels.”
Luigi approves.
I don’t have any “spiritual sickness,” and while some people say they do, it’s hardly “almost everyone in this country.” But that’s Michelle From Brooklyn slathering the vegetarian hot dog with the peppy mustard bought in her Mamdani Country neighborhood.
There’s still a flurry of stories about Joe Biden—whose name you’d think would be banned by Democrats who want to win (but maybe they don’t: the “end of democracy” shtick still draw paychecks, and it’s not likely Davids French, Brooks and Frum would forfeit that loot)—but I’m taken aback by the robust coverage of Kamala Harris’ ghost-written book about her embarrassing presidential campaign, 107 Days, and if you believe (I don’t) publisher Simon & Schuster, the “tell-all,” a reward for losing, will top the memoir charts this year.
Arwa Mahdawi, in The Guardian, is representative of this myopic mindset. Her Sept. 22nd review began: “Almost a year after the 2024 election there are still some houses with ‘Harris’ signs in their windows dotted around my liberal Philadelphia neighbourhood. The result left many people in a state of shock and denial, unable to process what went wrong.”
Mahdawi has some really stupid neighbors.
She continues: “No one was more shocked than Kamala Harris, whose inner circle had been confident on election night that they eked out a win during the whirlwind campaign. Cupcakes with ‘Madam President’ toppings were ready to go; champagne on ice.” Harris, who doesn’t appear very bright in public (in private… probably not), must’ve had an even dimmer “inner circle” to expect victory. Did they miss the events of Butler, Pennsylvania? Were they unaware that their imperious candidate from Kamalot wouldn’t make the effort to spend three hours on Joe Rogan’s podcast? Or Trump’s triumphant Madison Square Garden rally just before the election, or his very clever and funny turn as a McDonald’s attendant? Maybe not: given the reported $1.5 billion the Harris campaign pissed away, it could be the “inner circle” was too busy talking to real estate agents and planning long vacations.
The above photo—I’m on the left, flanked by brothers Gary and Doug, and our mom—was taken when New York’s Herald Tribune was still publishing and was a counter-balance to The New York Times at the breakfast table. I’m not sure of the station wagon’s brand name, but it was a Dodge.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Donald Glaser won the Physics Nobel Prize; Adolph Coors III was kidnapped and later found murdered; William Wyler cleans up at the Oscars; the 50-star American Flag is unveiled in Philadelphia; Francis Gary Powers sweats it out in Moscow; Cassius Clay wins first professional fight; James Spader is born and Phyllis Haver dies; Nancy Mitford’s Don’t Tell Alfred, John Barth’s The Sot-Weed Factor and John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me are published; Kai Negle wins the British Open; and John Coltrane’s Giant Steps is released.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023