It’s fortunate I only dabble in gambling—never online, but one or two annual bets on the Red Sox and politics; at one time, overseas, I’d put up 10 bucks on a horse or dog race, and buy a cerveza, but that was to get into the spirit—since I’d have gotten clocked last week. As it was, I lost $60 on six separate bets with my sons Nicky and Booker (the big winner, at least for bragging rights) and longtime friend Alan Hirsch. Like most observers two days before the midterm elections (some have retroactively, as usual, changed their tune), I expected a good night for Democrats, taking the House and possibly the Senate. Strike 18 and I was out!
Nicky came over to watch the returns on Fox—former Tennessee Rep. Harold Ford Jr. was the panel’s star, the dimwitted Sean Hannity as dimwitted as ever, a dunce, giving viewers, repeatedly, a history of midterm blowouts for both sides—and probably like many I knew it was trouble for the GOP when the races weren’t almost immediately called for Florida’s victorious Byron Donalds and Ashley Moody. Around 10, with Texas (!) Democrats running amok throughout the state, I knew it was a “wave.” (I’d assumed James Talarico was a strange, and second-rate Beto O’Rourke, even running against the creepy Trump-approved Ken Paxton; I didn’t believe any polls and it was stunning to see the entire political infrastructure of Texas flip blue.
Not long after, Nicky went home to watch a movie. Booker (a conservative/libertarian Millennial who works in the finance industry) called me from his Lower Manhattan apartment—near Katz’s deli, which is now a tourist destination, unlike when we lived in the city in the 1990s and you could just walk in and get a dog—and led with, “Data centers, Dad. That’s economic trouble.” A more accurate assessment than anything I’d said to him the previous week.
Last Wednesday, not all that ruffled—these waves come and go—I skimmed through the social media palaver from euphoric “progressives,” but did get a chuckle seeing the photo of Bob Dylan, wearing his medieval dark rags, meeting with Pope Leo. Very Dylan, even at 85, still reveling in confusing, or delighting, his still-expanding base of fans. That was in stark contrast to a National Review writer who clumsily applied the noxious cliché, “Twitter isn’t real life, folks,” to explain some point about the election that I wasn’t interested in. Twitter is real life for those who engage in its ping-pong debates. Denying that is the equivalent of proclaiming, pre-internet, that reading The New York Times, Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post wasn’t “real life.”
At this point in my life, with a storehouse of political memories going back to 1964—I’m still surprised that the Times endorsed GOP incumbent Kenneth Keating over Bobby Kennedy for the New York Senate seat, not even a year after JFK’s assassination—there’s not too much that phases me. Wasn’t always so: I relished the Newt Gingrich-led Republican rout in 1994, a solid repudiation of Bill Clinton, and wrote about it in my MUGGER column for New York Press. That led to the Village Voice’s columnist Richard Goldstein asking, “When did it become cool to be a conservative??"
In 1998, I was at an election night party at the Brooklyn Heights home of The Wall Street Journal’s Robert Bartley—one of the three most influential journalists of the second half of the 20th century, along with Dan Wolf and Tom Wolfe—and what was expected to be a good night for Republicans (post-Monica Clinton) turned out to be fizzle. It was disappointing, but at one point Bartley came up to me and said, with a laugh, “In the scheme of things it’s just a ripple.” I’ve kept that in mind ever since.
Meanwhile, I’d be very surprised if Trump (on Stephen Miller’s counsel) didn’t—and soon!—preemptively pardon, a la Hunter Biden, his two idiotic sons and the smarter son-in-law Jared Kushner, since the new Democratic Congress is sure (despite themselves; hell, they might even impeach the President again) to launch investigations in hopes of getting three scalps. No peace pipes!
The accompanying photo is of Alex Schweitzer (at a New York Press party), who, before print newspapers dried up, sold advertising space for NYP. Always liked Alex, a jovial fellow, who arrived at work (usually) with a let’s-go-team smile on his face. Several colleagues and I were at bar one summer night after work and young Alex walked in, bedraggled and sweaty, and tried to hawk some Pilsner Urquell swag. We passed on that, but asked him to have a pint, and that led to a 30-minute discussion of his career hopes. Very curious, I asked him to interview for a sales job the next morning, and after 10 minutes, hired him. After learning the ropes, Alex was brilliant, and made a lot of money.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Rolls-Royce Motors is acquired by BMW; David Trimble and Gerry Adams have a pow-wow in Northern Ireland; the Ford Focus is named the European Car of the Year; Ella Hunt is born and Linda McCartney dies; the Florida Marlins (54-108) have the worst record in MLB; Roger Clemens wins the A.L. Cy Young; Don Sutton is inducted into MLB’s Hall of Fame; Alice McDermott wins the National Book Award for Charming Billy; Ian McKewan’s Amsterdam and Bret Easton Ellis’ Glamorama are published; Paula Vogel wins the Drama Pulitzer Prize; and American Airlines is the first to offer electronic ticketing.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023