DC Train Wreck
Our national parliament of dunces is distinguishing itself of late for its hypocrisy, its incompetence, and its venality. President Biden, already having accomplished the one thing he was elected to do, believes that his relatively close (in the EC) victory last November and his razor thin margins in Congress represent a mandate for $3.5T in new spending and social policy expansion and a trillion dollar plus infrastructure bill, to go along with the trillions already expended (I would say generally wisely) to combat the COVID virus and its economic depredation. Oh, and he wants to raise taxes to do so.
The infrastructure bill would likely pass both chambers if it were presented, but lefty back-benchers in the House want to tie votes on the $3.5T grab-bag to assenting to a vote on infrastructure. Nervous moderate D’s want nothing to do with this, thinking that (rightly) that they are getting set up for another 2010 style ass whuppin’ in the off year election.
Republicans are quite naturally, against much of this and so are using their political power tactically and cynically. Raising the debt ceiling—something I honestly do not understand and will not attempt to understand—was for this bunch a sign of patriotism when their man was in the White House. Because the other party is now in charge, Congressional Republicans have re-located their situational love of thrift, and are not budging on debt ceiling relief necessary to fund Democratic wishcasting.
Then there is the inconvenient fact of our national fiscal year ending 30 September without a budget to replace it.
None of this is new, as these exercises in brinksmanship have become the primary means of performative governing. I would say that we have become a banana republic, but this would unnecessarily impugn the memory of Hugo Chavez.
If Democratic leadership put forward an infrastructure bill and debt ceiling relief, it would pass. Republicans would snort and grouse about fiscal irresponsibility from their glass houses built upon four years of runaway spending under the last guy, but enough of them would vote for the measures to move them forward. Were this to happen, the Weather Underground wing of the Democratic Party would mutiny, and the Democrats would find themselves with yet another opportunity to curb-stomp the Republicans—the seemingly go-to move of this bunch. We hear now and again calls for a parliamentary system in the U.S. from those who are especially hostile to the two-party system. What they fail to realize is the degree to which those two parties are themselves governed by looney parliamentary infighting, especially after forty years of being legally and bureaucratically weakened.
The Storage Unit
Recently, She Who Must Be Obeyed requested the use of my (our?) storage unit as a staging area to facilitate the logistics of another necessary household project. Of course I agreed. This resulted in her surveying said unit and declaring a number of boxes stored therein as requiring my attention. These boxes are the archives of my life, moved from place to place throughout a 21 year career in the Navy and then pretty much settled into their moldy prison behind padlock for most of the last fourteen years. They were transported here to my office last week, and I have spent some time going through them, walking down memory lane, becoming reacquainted with old girlfriends, shipmates, drinking buddies, Navy memorabilia, and the like.
What to do with some of this stuff is a challenge. I’ve begun to think that the Navy is unlikely to recall me to active duty (some thirteen years after retiring), so I’m looking to give away a ridiculous stash of uniforms, that as I survey them today, represent a considerable sum of money. A high school classmate has already snapped up a ceremonial sword-belt for her recently commissioned son who is in flight school.
There are also pictures. Lots of pictures. In my fever dreams, great grandchildren are rummaging through some attic somewhere and they come upon this treasure trove of pictures of this man who entered the family lore in the summer of 2007. They wonder about what those medals mean, they make fun of the funny glasses I wore (a.k.a “Birth Control Glasses”), they say “wow” as they look at pictures of the ship I commanded. The likelihood of this happening is remote.
A fellow also accumulates a goodly stash of certificates, letters, awards, etc. in a 21 year career, and many of these come in their own little presentation folders. Truth be told, there are some in this pile that I haven’t set eyes on since they were presented. Why do I keep them? I don’t have an “I Love Me” wall in my office.
A final category of detritus is my writing life, or at least that which wasn’t created as internet content. There is my college senior thesis (choppy sentences in iambic pentameter), my grad school work (thirteen years later, better writer) , numerous letters to editors, magazine articles and the like. Who actually cares about all this stuff? Clearly not me, at least based on where it has spent the last decade in a half.
I suspect some of these questions arise as I look back on the first two thirds of my life and ahead to the last third. Catherine’s mother died a couple of years ago, and the work required to determine what would become of the things accumulated across a life was enormous. While I can look at every scrap of paper, every photo, every silly plaque in these boxes and be instantly transmitted back in time, all these things are is someone else’s burden when my time comes. Don’t even get me started on what to do with all the books I’ve piled up over the years.
I think it is time for some ruthless discipline and maybe sending off a ton of stuff to be digitized.