There was an incident today.

Don’t worry. It’s wasn’t the incident to end all incidents, like we’ve talked about.

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Rachelle: I’m sorry, honey, that’s just not the way that it works.

Rachelle: Although you identify as a two-lunged person, it does not change the fact that you only have one lung.

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: Yes, I think it would likely disqualify you from being hired as a bodyguard.

Rachelle: Hate speech?

Rachelle: Really? You think that’s hate speech?

Rachelle: Well, yes! You should Tweet about it then!

Rachelle: That will really help get things done!

Rachelle: I like the way you fight for justice, you really are the sharp end of the spear!

Rachelle: Oh Pickle, if it’s of any consolation, there are all sorts of reasons beyond you needing supplemental oxygen that would likely stop a person from hiring you as a bodyguard.

Rachelle: Well, you’re pretty weak.

Rachelle: I know.

Rachelle: That rope hang test back in primary school was hard!

Rachelle: I don’t know what they were thinking.

Rachelle: I agree.

Rachelle: It was biased against those with upper body strength issues.

Rachelle: I’m sure you would have gotten a gold star if not for that test.

Rachelle: Well, bronze for sure.

Rachelle: Regardless, my love, I think it’s time to let that go now.

Rachelle: It was a long time ago.

Rachelle: Okay. If Tweeting about it will make you feel better, you Tweet away!

Rachelle: I’ll wait.

Rachelle: What did you Tweet?

Rachelle: FUCK THE ROPE!

Rachelle: Well, that will show them!

Rachelle: Do you think people will know what that means?

Rachelle: Yes. I am very naive.

Rachelle: I believe you. It probably will go viral.

Rachelle: But look, there are other reasons you might not flourish as bodyguard.

Rachelle: You’re kind of clumsy. You move like a pigeon, all jerky and unpredictable.

Rachelle: Also, you don’t enunciate very clearly. I think people would have a hard time understanding the things you reported into your lapel microphone.

Rachelle: Yes. There could be confusion.

Rachelle: Communication is key for a bodyguard.

Rachelle: You’d have to repeat yourself all the time. Lots of wasted time. A terrorist only needs a second to blow himself up.

Rachelle: Oh Michael, I am not “shitting on your dreams.”

Rachelle: His name is Richard Madden. He’s the star of the tv show Bodyguard.

Rachelle: THAT IS NOT TRUE!

Rachelle: He is not an asshole.

Rachelle: He’s just very organized and knows what he wants.

Rachelle: It’s called confidence and strength, and it can be very, very sexy.

Rachelle: A commanding, strong man.

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: That’s not hate speech either.

Rachelle: If I was an “Alt-Right Nazi” who wanted to “exterminate” those who lacked confidence and strength, do you really think I would have married you, Pickle?

Rachelle: Yes, it is true.

Rachelle: Your potential was, and still remains great. Very great.

Rachelle: You’re my favourite bodyguard.

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: Sorry.

Rachelle: I was mistaken when I wrote that.

Rachelle: Richard Madden is still my favourite bodyguard.

Rachelle: He could guard my body any time.

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: Sexually.

Rachelle: Well, as much as it would pain me, if a beautiful actress asked you to be her bodyguard, I wouldn’t stand in the way.

Rachelle: I expect Jennifer Lawrence already has a security team in place, though.

Rachelle: But maybe she’d still hire you on. I hear she has a big heart.

Rachelle: You could be The Littlest Bodyguard.

Rachelle: Maybe get on Ellen.

Rachelle: Yes, it would be the Christmas story the world needs right now.

the White House Press Secretary to President Donald Trump, was refused service at the Red Hen restaurant in Lexington, Virginia based on “moral grounds.” The owner, Stephanie Wilkinson, simply did not want to serve somebody she found so politically offensive, and so she didn’t.

Since then the Red Hen restaurant in Washington, DC, which has no affiliation with the one in Lexington, has been getting attacked by both left and right on social media.

Keep in mind, this is not the restaurant that refused Sanders service. No matter, even after they explicitly stated that this was all a case of mistaken identity and they had nothing to do with the Huckabee Affair, people still demanded that they take a political position on the matter. The Red Hen responded by saying that businesses in DC are prohibited from discriminating against people for political affiliation because they are in a federal district. This wasn’t good enough. People still pressed them. Okay, we know you’re not the restaurant that was involved, and we know that you are subject to different laws and therefore don’t have a choice to make in the matter, but what if you did have a choice? What if you were the restaurant she walked in to? What would you do then?

And so it goes.

And now Donald Trump is tweeting furiously at the Red Hen in Virginia ( the right one) in the hopes of destroying their business.

The owner, likely seeing in herself a patriotic exemplar, stands by her act of micro resistance while the pitchfork and torch crowd– from both the left and right–gather, eager to burn some shit down.

So surreal and terrible and hilarious and scary.

It’s amazing to me just how quickly things are reduced to the symbolic. All the nuance, history, vulnerability and complexity that informs a person– or a restaurant, even–are swept to the side, reduced to little more than the baleful projections of a furious, roiling,  unconscious. The appetite right now is for enemies rather than friends, so if you’re caught in the public eye you become what that public needs you to be, not who you might actually be.

And so when I see Sarah Huckabee Sanders tossed about in the media, I think of Monica Lewinsky.

They really look alike.

 .      

I mean, they really do.

But beyond that, remember also how Monica Lewinsky was treated by the press and public? She was despised– crucified, by both the left and right, for the sins of Bill Clinton. Honest to God, I think it’s a miracle she didn’t jump out a window. But she survived, admirably, in fact, and it’s as if her ghost is now visible in “the perfect smokey eye” of Sarah Huckabee, and the antipathy that Lewinsky withstood is now being visited upon her. Both of them appear as privileged white girls, Beckys, really, and their ambition, greased by a system that favours people like them, propelled them right next to the most powerful man in the world, and this, this seems to be something our society simply cannot abide.

Ask Hillary Clinton.

And so these women rise up into the culture like cautionary tales. Reduced to cartoon figures, they float slowly above us, soft targets, while we, the rabble beneath cast stones and curses. If you’re a woman and your cultural centrality can in any way be traced back to a powerful man, you will be hated for it– by men, and by women, it would seem. This is America, and if you’re a woman and you fly too close to the sun, you’re declared a witch and you’re going to get burned, whether you deserve it or not.

What stunned my class most about the book was the casual attitude the characters had toward slavery. I mean, how could they not know that slavery was an evil? Nothing could have been more clear to us, nothing. Slavery was pretty much the most evil thing we could think of, and it was mind-blowing to imagine that this wasn’t vividly reflected in the experience of our ancestors.

And so we figured that people back then must have been hateful and stupid monsters, willfully acting in their own best interests at the cost of others. And so we judged everybody in the book, imagining ourselves morally superior to the louts, trolls and insane people who populated the past.

But this didn’t make any sense.

There was absolutely no reason for me to think I had a more finely developed sense of morality than anybody who came before me. There must have been some decent people who participated in slavery and had no idea that what they were doing was wrong, no? They were simply living in the world into which they were born, and to them slavery, like the weather or landscape, was an unexamined fact of life rather than a conscious act of moral will.

This seemed clear to me. I was not unique. I was like everybody else, and that, of course, is a very scary thing to admit to oneself.

Technology has accelerated and amplified our culture in ways that are inconceivable.  Every year it seems that the world has changed more than in all the previous millennia stacked before it. It’s dislocating, and I often think of technology, in particular our online lives, as an emergent dimension we don’t yet understand or know how to interact with. Whenever we’re uncomfortable or bored with our physical lives, however briefly, a smart phone serves as a magic wand we can wave to take us to this other realm, and put in that context, none of us should be surprised to find discontent, even anger there.

Our desire for social justice has far outstripped our ability to deliver it, and in many ways I see ideological conflicts as dimensional clashes rather than moral ones. By the standards of today, so much of what we as a society did just ten years ago seems appalling, but as we judge it’s worth remembering that ten years ago we had no idea what we were doing was wrong or unfair. We were just operating within the framework of time and place. So how then to police this if every generation, indeed, every person, is going to be witlessly complicit in ghastly acts ?

Of course, revolution is not about justice, it’s about change.

And as the future and the past battle for supremacy in a ruined present, it seems that the only way it can end, the only way it has always ended, is like in a Shakespearean tragedy—everybody on stage dies, and then, the world purified and laid bare, is seized by those, now done with watching, who had been waiting in the wings.

In an effort to combat this, my wife Rachelle has developed a side hustle in which she combs through various stores for used children’s clothing and then sells what she finds online. I have recently become a part of her purchasing team.

What follows are the texts she sent to me while I was on a shopping mission:

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Rachelle: So, did you get those pink Sorel boots at the Value Village that you promised to pick up for me?

Rachelle: Oh.

Rachelle: I’d have thought you’d be there by now.

Rachelle: What problem?

Rachelle: Oh, I didn’t realize that taking the Queen streetcar to a destination on Queen street was “counter-intuitive,” especially considering that we used to live on that street.

Rachelle: Yes, I guess that was a lifetime ago.

Rachelle: We were very different people then, it’s true.

Rachelle: That’s right, there was no Netflix back in those days!

Rachelle: Yes, those were much more innocent times.

Rachelle: Those were the days before you fell down the conspiracy theory rabbit hole!

Rachelle: I’m sorry dear, of course I meant “Got Woke.”

Rachelle: Yes, you really are just as woke as fuck, and you’re right, the Lame-stream media can’t be trusted– it’s just too bad you still have such trouble with ordinary challenges is all.

Rachelle: Oh.

Rachelle: That’s what you want people to think.

Rachelle: I see.

Rachelle: Conceal the truth within a fog of misdirection! Just like a magician!

Rachelle: It’s amazing how successful you’ve been at making everybody believe you’re not very hygienic and unable to hold a job!

Rachelle: Oh, don’t be like that!

Rachelle: You’re still my favourite flavour of ice cream!

Rachelle: What? Something’s happening on the streetcar?

Rachelle: Bullying? Well that is serious!

Rachelle: What’s he saying to you, Pickle?

Rachelle: Well sure, it could be somebody else getting bullied, but I just figured it was part of your plan. You know, to draw fire from the weak to the strong!

Rachelle: I do know you well, Pickle!

Rachelle: So what did the guy say to you?

Rachelle: She called you a “weak-chinned twerp” because you got the last seat?

Rachelle: You’re right, it’s not your fault she’s slow.

Rachelle: You know what I think? I think she underestimated your quickness! Just like you planned!

Rachelle: But still, it’s amazing how bullies know exactly where to attack!

Rachelle: How did she know that you’re so sensitive about your weak chin?

Rachelle: Oh, good one, telling her you just had hernia surgery and needed to sit is sure to shut her up!

Rachelle: Oh, I’m sorry that it didn’t work.

Rachelle: And now she’s making fun of your “Solidarity Pin?”

Rachelle: What is a “Solidarity Pin.”

Rachelle: Oh, it’s a safety pin that signals to others that you’re a safe zone? And any persecuted group or person can take comfort under the umbrella of your entitlement, is that it?

Rachelle: So you’re kind of like an X-Man?

Rachelle: Got it.

Rachelle: Are other people wearing safety pins rushing to your aid?

Rachelle: No?

Rachelle: Well, maybe it’s your responsibility to find them?

Rachelle: Do you have your Ativan with you?

Rachelle: You better take one, honey. Maybe two.

Rachelle: Remember your breathing exercises.

Rachelle: In through the nose and then slowly out the mouth like you’re blowing out a candle.

Rachelle: Oh, Pierre, my power skating coach is trying to get through right now, so I have to go.

Remember to pick up the boots, my brave, little cloud of disinformation, and don’t let that bully scare you off your mission!