Archives for December 2017

Each year thinks itself more extraordinary than the last. It’s not quite a boast or a brag that makes a year think such a thought, but rather a self-sure pride that comes with the passage of time. Each year comes to see itself as being more enlightened than the past, more immediate than the present moment, and more farseeing than the days to come. So far as it’s concerned, this year—the one in which we live—is the most memorable of all. It’s at once the best and the worst, the most fulfilled and wanting, and the most revolutionary and reluctant. Where its predecessor was prosaic, it’s poetic. Where its parent was humdrum, it’s brand new. Above all, though, it leaves its mark.

Such is the life of the year. But what about the life in the year? For all its indefatigable motion, it ends no sooner than it begins. Like a prophecy self-fulfilled, it hurries along its own demise while its clock continues to spin. The long crawl of its days passes in the blink of an eye. Its weeks become blurred and indiscrete. Its stubborn months melt one into the next. Season yields to season—summer, winter, fall. It demands our attention, but dashes from sight. And before you know it, with the snap of a finger, or a late morning’s rise, it’s gone. All then that’s left, is to ask where it’s gone, admit you haven’t a clue, and proceed to reflect on another year peeled away.

Looking back, over the past three-hundred and sixty some odd days, four moments stand out most to me. Perhaps I’d do better in calling them collections of moments, rather than individual events. Either way, however I group them, it feels like naming only four is naming too few. They’re but a small fraction of  the many moments that made up this inexhaustible year. How am I to restrain myself and not extend into everything that’s gone on? Such a jam-packed year can hardly be accounted for in one piece. It’s a challenge better writers than I have faced—that is, whittling down in digestible bites the ups and downs of any given time. For this year, though, four moments will do.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit one thing from the start. Namely, it’s that this list is a subjective affair. It’s unabashedly original. It must be. I’ve chosen here the four moments (all of them to have happened in America) that I personally found most salient. These are the moments that struck me most, though they might not have earned the most searches or re-tweets. Perhaps, another gauge or Google analytic could do better, but we’ll leave that to the engineer or social scientist. Right then…let’s begin.

Their order doesn’t reflect their importance, but the moments are these: natural disasters, including fires and hurricanes, from the west coast to the east, mass shootings in Texas and Nevada, the slow and painful death of morality in entertainment, media, and politics, and Donald Trump’s fledgling presidency.

All but three were acts of man. They were brought about by flesh and bone, by depravity or ambition, or both. Only one, however, was an act of god. The natural disasters that shook this country were numerous and severe. Between three hurricanes and two fires, America smoldered from coast to coast. Towns were ravaged and cities torn asunder. Beginning west and returning east, we start with the fires. They erupted in the jewel of California’s crown, Napa Valley, and the breathtakingly lush wine country for which it receives its acclaim. For weeks in the mid-summer heat, the fire’s intractable blaze engulfed everything in its sight. It razed vineyards and communities and schools and freeways without a second thought. It spared no grape, no seed, no parent or child. And it continued in this way, albeit sporadically, well into the fall. At that point it swelled and was given its Christian name, Tubbs, in a baptism by fire.

The air became acrid, as Tubbs consumed vineyards and schoolyards with an appetite as insatiable as it was indiscriminate. Oenophiles and sommeliers mourned the loss of their ancient crop and turned to their patron saint Dionysus to intervene. But not even the god of drink would dare step foot in a hell on earth. Sadder still was the loss of human life. The flames killed 22, while afflicting many others—too numerous to count—with acute respiratory distress, burns, and psychological harm. Lives, homes, and memories were lost in a smoldering, soot-filled waste. Even as I write this now, the flames persist. They rage in Ventura and Santa Barbara Counties, where over 200,000 acres have already been consumed. A small victory, though, appears to be approaching; containment, they say, has exceeded 80%.

From fires in valleys, we move next to hurricanes and cities. They were three—the hurricanes, that is—a triumvirate of death, destruction, and disrepair. First was Hurricane Harvey. In August, it landed in Houston, and at once incapacitated the bustling town below. Not since the Galveston storm of 1900 had so much rain fallen or rubbish been strewn about. At over 50 inches, the torrential rain was biblical and at over 100 miles per hour, the winds were apocryphal. After its initial landfall, Harvey dallied indecisively between hurricane, tropical depression, and tropical storm. Finally, having had its fun and having destroyed much of Houston and the Gulf Coast states, it returned to the clouds from which it came. It dissipated and died in the very place it was born.

It wasn’t long before Harvey’s sequel lumbered onto the scene. She went by the name Irma, and was brobdingnagian by birth; her reach was so wide and her appetite so endless, that she nearly swallowed in one gulp the Caribbean Sea. For her, the Edenic little island chains and archipelagos were no match. From St. Marteen to St. Croix and Barbuda, Dominica, and Guadeloupe, the islands stood their ground, but didn’t stand a chance. Irma, it turned out, was far more powerful than anything they’d ever seen. She trampled through those islands—remnants, all of them, of Europe’s imperial reach—before turning upward through the Florida Keys. Surpassing Hurricane Andrew in size but not speed, she set out on a long march up Florida’s spine. From quaint Marco Island in the southwest to bustling Jacksonville in the northeast, no city was unscathed. The sunshine state, in the course of an afternoon and evening, was torn apart. Power was lost, water was putrid, homes were condemned, and people were stranded in shelters for days on end.

We were sure that, when measured against Irma, there could be nothing worse. And we thought that, after sustaining so much damage between Texas and Florida, we’d had our share and there wouldn’t be anything else. Alas, our hopes dashed, we were wrong on both counts. Irma, it turns out, was merely the penultimate storm. Eagerly in wait behind her was Hurricane Maria.

Maria came with the urgency of a climax and the pain of a tragedy. Not wanting to be overshadowed by Harvey or Irma, she ripped a hole through America’s unattached and oft-forgotten territory—Puerto Rico. With winds over 170 miles per hour and irrepressible rain, Maria was the worst storm the island had yet seen in its history. She moved east to west, leaving no stone on the island untouched and no branch unbroken. With whatever clemency she could muster, though, she dodged America’s mainland and skipped out to sea. This, however, was little consolation for Puerto Ricans on the ground. They were left there, wretched, and without food, power, or medicine. Succor from the federal government was slow to arrive. The life-line between San Juan and D.C. seemed to be wearing dangerously thin. People languished, their patience frayed, and eventually, their anger erupted. They pleaded for help to an oblivious protector, as if they were a forgotten nation. Just as their exasperation trickled to its last drop, help finally came. But even still, as things currently stand, it will be many months before Puerto Rico returns to a semblance of life before the storm, much less to normal functioning.

If those natural disasters are our first “moment” of 2017, then these man-made disasters are our second. First at a country-music concert and then at a countryside church, two gunmen forever changed in Americans’ the meaning of the words “mass shooting”. Between the two shootings, a combined 85 people were killed and 573 wounded. The numbers are as staggering as they are nauseating; you’d think them better suited for third-world battle scenes than on America soil. But the sad truth is that this many people were killed in their moments of revelry and religion, party and prayer, in the freest country the world has ever known.

With malice aforethought and blackness in his soul, Stephen Paddock climbed five flights of stairs in the Mandalay Bay hotel. In a bag slung over his shoulder and another carried at his side, he had the weapons for a massacre the likes of which we’ve never seen. Hung on his hotel door was the sign, “do not disturb”, but hanging more ominously behind his eyes was a mind irretrievably so. From those bags, he flooded his suite with AR-15 rifles, bump-stocks for rapidity, scopes for accuracy, and scores of munitions. Then, nestled in his turret, perched high above the unassuming concert-goers below, he let loose his rage. He didn’t so much as aim, but rather sprayed bullets wantonly out onto the scene.

It lasted minutes, but felt like days. In desperation, people lunged for cover in a barren space where no cover was to be had. Shelter was sparse, barricades few, and the “active” in active shooter was living up to his name. He emptied his endless rounds and rained terror on all who scrambled to escape. At long last, authorities made their brave ascent to his 52^nd-floor suite. There, wafting in the air was the fetid stench of his guns spewing and his putrid soul. He turned on his new threat in a fury—he planned to escape the sanguinary scene in one piece. He sent a volley out into the hall, but the mounting pressure and the reality of his situation was too grim. It became insufferable, and knowing that his time was up, he turned the gun against himself and lessened its weight by exactly one bullet. In all, Paddock killed 59 and wounded 527. We’ve still not been able to attribute to him a motive, and probably never will.

The same can’t be said of the second killer on our list. His name was Devin Kelley, and at the age of 26, he was decades younger than the enigmatic Paddock. It wasn’t just age, though, that distinguished the two. Paddock, from what we’ve been told, was an anomaly of sorts. All signs point to someone you’d expect not to be a killer. He was a man of some means—quiet but indulgent, who shared his time equally between multiple homes and casinos. He was unhinged, granted, but he lacked the criminal history that might’ve led us this conclusion.

Kelley, on the other hand, sprang forth from an ugly past. He was malicious, barbarous, and psychologically unwell. Calling him a brute would be unkind to brutes and a beast, unkind to beasts. He was more reprobate than man. He lashed out in violence against his young wife, her infant child, and his small dog. No sentient being, it seems, was immune to his incivility. Because of his unstable and aggressive personality, he was removed from service in the Air Force. He was made to attend a psychiatric facility, from which he quickly escaped. He returned to “civilian” life, if one could call it that, where he worked as a security guard and, in this capacity, was able to acquire some guns.

Mid-morning on a Sunday, before the football games had begun, he entered the small church of his Sutherland Springs home. Days earlier, he had had an argument with his girlfriend’s family and reckoned they’d be there before their god. With tactical precision and a capable trigger, he showered the congregation in bullets. Again, for minutes that felt like days, the tiny Texas church house was under attack. This place of hymns and praise echoed in a sanguinary chorus. With no exit and no defense, the congregants were left to the slaughter like fenced-in sheep. Kelley shot 46 people, of whom 26 died. Unlike Paddock, Kelley was able to flee his scene. But ultimately, their ends were to be shared; Kelley committed suicide in his truck on the side of a dusty country road.

In the short span of two months, America was again changed forever; it’s the ultimate toll of every mass shooting. Now, parishioners are no longer able to congregate in peace and at ease. As for the partygoers, their days of insouciance and carefree fun are gone. We return, as too often we do, to looking for emergency exits and anxiously scanning the skies.

(A continuation of The Life of a Year: Part I)

But 2017 also saw death in the abstract—in the metaphysical, rather than in the flesh. Don McLean sang about the day the music died; in 2017, we witnessed the year morality died. It was a sweeping and eclectic death, in which no man—regardless of his business or status—was immune. As a whole, the prurient patriarchy that controls nearly every domain in every industry was exposed. From tech, to media, to entertainment, and to politics, a shadowy culture of sexual misconduct and abuse began tugging at our attention. What we thought was an aberration became a trend, and one that doesn’t appear to be going away any time soon.

Bill O’Reilly was one of the earliest men to be exposed. The revelation that he had settled sexual misconduct claims with at least five women startled us; one wouldn’t expect such behavior from a man so conservative and sanctimonious. Following in the disgraced footsteps of his former boss, Roger Ailes a year before, O’Reilly was tossed out of Fox News. He claimed it a “hit job”, but few people suffered hearing him out. Only later would we learn the value in becoming familiar with his tale. He was to be the tip of an iceberg that would sink all conceptions of chivalry, decency, and of the American gentleman in the current day and age.

It wasn’t long after O’Reilly’s firing that dirt began gathering on other prominent men. As the summer faded away, the floodgates were set to explode. Behind them, bounding was a surge of sexual misconduct allegations that had been accumulating through the years. It seemed as though the time for comeuppance had finally come. Harvey Weinstein was the first of many to receive his. Calling Weinstein a “mogul” in his industry quite underemphasizes things. In Hollywood, he was more than that; he was the dramatist’s demiurge—a master creator between god, man, and thespian. His namesake Weinstein Company has had its hand in more Oscar nominations than you could count. He helped bring to us some of the past decade’s most wildly successful films.

But not even a king of the silver screen can carry on forever the way he did. He was exposed in excruciating detail by fearless women and unsparing reporters. His history of groping, coaxing, denuding, and threatening was finally laid bare for all to see. And like that menace Goliath, Weinstein’s size could only do so much; it wasn’t strong enough to shield him. We were reminded again that he who’s largest is the one who falls hardest. The reverberations from taking down Weinstein only spread from there. Many more would soon follow, including actors like Kevin Spacey and George Takei, comedians like Louis C.K. and T.J. Miller, and politicians like Al Franken and Roy Moore. It’s these final two men that round out our third “moment” of 2017.

Their stories are still rather fresh, having been lived out only recently. Franken, the Democratic Senator from Minnesota, was made to vacate his Congressional seat just weeks ago when multiple women came forward to tell tales of his sexual improprieties. This all came in the aftermath of his now infamous “fondling” photograph, in which he’s seen to be snickering while groping at a sleeping woman’s chest. The picture was as damning as it was indelible (and likely, all the more damning because it is so indelible) and it led his end. In addition to the one in the photograph, other women came forth and described his unwanted and untoward butt-grabs and passes.

Franken tried to bide his time, submitting himself first to an ethics committee investigation. It seemed, though, at least at the beginning, that he had no intention to leave. For its part, the Democratic Party dithered. It would’ve been useful to keep him on board—politically costly to send him away. Like a pendulum, myopic and without a moral compass, the Democrats swayed between these two choices. After initially standing by the entangled senator, the party decided to turn against him. Whether it was less expedient than before to keep him around or it had simply become more inexcusable to do so, Democrats decided Franken had to go. And go he did.

As all of this transpired in Washington, Roy Moore was “happening” further south. I’ll say this about Roy Moore—without bias and without hesitation—his campaign was the worst thing to happen in politics and to politics in 2017. I needn’t recount it all. He was accused, credibly and repeatedly, of a whole slew of sexual misdeeds. Most disgustingly, he was alleged of having tried to date a 14-year-old girl. Like the name Humbert Humbert, in Nabokov’s Lolita, Roy Moore’s will provide pedophilia with a synonym for all time to come.

Undoubtedly, this was the most damning accusation, but more were to follow. Including the girl who was 14 at the time, eight more women—all barely beyond the age of consent—came forth and told similar stories. As a 30-year-old man, Moore would frequent the spots these young girls—and all young girls since—know and love best: diners, malls, and high schools. He would try to pick them up from work, pluck them out of class, and above all, prey on their youthful innocence.

The evidence of him having done so was overwhelming, but nevertheless, he and his campaign tried to impugn his accusers. First aggressively, and then desperately, he launched a PR counter-attack to call into question the women’s motivations and why it had taken them so long to speak out. As the election loomed closer, his attacks gained ground while he rose in the polls. For a moment, it looked well-nigh inevitable that he’d actually win the race. It was becoming painfully clear that his sexual perversions hadn’t been appalling enough to keep away the Republican Party elites. He was able to win the favor of the president and the party, whose tepid support turned full-throated. It was nearly enough to carry him to victory, but not even the most polarizing and energizing president this country has ever seen could get Moore across the finish line.

It was one of many things President Trump was unable to do this year. And it’s to him we now turn our attention to examine his presidency—the fourth and final “moment” of the year. He entered the Oval Office with a country astir. It was bruised from a long and vicious campaign, thrashed by controversies one after another, and stretched to the breaking point across a widening gulf of opinion and tribalism. Astride this growing chasm, Trump told Americans to look inward and to put themselves first. His inauguration was well-attended, though perhaps not historically so, and at being told this, he took umbrage. It wasn’t look before protestors, too innumerable to name, took to the streets. There, in the concrete jungles of L.A. and Seattle and D.C. and Manhattan, they pounded the asphalt and their chests with discontent. They gathered as feminists, scientists, abortionists, and environmentalists; as Muslims, Christians, pagans, and pro-choicers. They wore their various causes on their sleeves but on their placards, the message was the same: Resist President Trump. So, they did…and so they continue to do.

President Trump, for his part, made nothing easy for himself. From the outset, his cabinet simmered in controversy, and this spilled over into the public eye. Interim Attorney General Sally Yates was the first to depart the administration under strained circumstances. We’re told it was because of her insolence (she refused to authorize and implement the president’s “travel ban”), but it looked more like a matter of political convenience. Yates was a part of Obama’s old guard, an unwanted incumbent, and as such, she needed to be removed. Jeff Sessions stepped in and took her place. Since then, his path has been a bumpy one. His erstwhile senate seat now belongs to a Democrat, he’s continuously harangued by his boss, and for having lied to the FBI, he sits on the outside looking in at the biggest presidential investigation in recent memory.

“Collusion” has been the rallying cry, but for now, that’s all it is. Democrats have gone hoarse shouting about it, but Trump has replied with equal verve. They call for impeachment, he calls for vindication. They say it’s real, he says it’s a hoax. They see fire, he sees nothing—not even the amorphous outlines of a plume of smoke. The truth lies, as it always does, somewhere in between, and to find it, a special counselor was brought in. Robert Mueller began his investigation in the spring. So far, he’s netted four culprits, with the latest and most important of them being Michael Flynn.

Flynn, for a very brief while, was the National Security Advisor. His interests, however, and his most generous employers were to be found far beyond America’s borders (the same ones he’d been appointed to protect). He was nabbed for having lied to the FBI about Obama-era sanctions. As for now, he’s cooperating with Special Counselor Robert Mueller’s investigation. It might be that he avoids utter ignominy by the mercy of a plea deal.

Flynn and Yates foreshadowed the tumult to come. FBI Director James Comey was released and in the void he left came rushing endless calls for impeachment. It was the last straw, Democrats thought, that would break the president’s back. But, so far as we can tell, he stands perfectly well upright (although—upon closer inspection—he wears a noticeable slouch). With Comey came testimonies and soon thereafter, other top officials took their leave: Sean Spicer, Reince Priebus, Anthony Scaramucci, and Steve Bannon fled voluntarily or were forced to resign.

Failures were aplenty, successes few. Healthcare and immigration, both fraught subjects no one wants to touch, were beat back at every turn. Travel bans were stymied as they trudged through the lower courts en route to the Supreme Court. The smuggling of guns and drugs across the Mexican border continued unperturbed. A wall remains a pipe dream, while the pipelines at Keystone were challenged at every turn. But for all the failures, a single victory can cancel out a thousand defeats. This came but a week ago, when the most significant piece of tax legislation passed both the House and the Senate. Not since the days of Reagan has so momentous a tax bill been enacted. Under it, the rich will be more rich, the poor slightly less so, and corporations will thrive like never before. If it works as it should, all boats will rise and a middling presidency can be made great again.

So, at long length, the list is complete. These are the moments that defined life in America in the year 2017. When I try to capture its essence in a single word, only one comes to mind. That word is, tempestuous. It’s an unusual work, granted, but these are unusual times and I think no other word fits the year quite as well. Tempestuous was the stormy weather. It was both of the killers’ violent minds. It was the response to those sexual misconduct claims that ran our politics into the mud. Tempestuous was Donald Trump’s presidency, from its harsh beginning to where it now stands. Through these storms, we’ve seen many things. We’ve seen cities destroyed and families taken. We’ve seen what used to be a modest measure of a man become a high bar. And we’ve seen the early growing pains of a young presidency. I’m sad to say, but after looking back at it all, I feel a bit more nausea than nostalgia. I suppose it’s all the more reason to look ahead toward the horizon and the new year to come. Here’s to the sun rising, to hope growing, and to joy blossoming in 2018.

 

Special Counselor Robert Mueller’s probe into the Trump administration is in peril. It’s recently come to light that a few members of his team could be biased by, if not completely beholden to, party politics. That fact that this is so can’t be understated; it’s an earthquake of an exposé. So far, the investigation has needed little help in making waves. Since the middle of last May, when first it was given the green light and a broad purview, it’s done nothing but stir of the pot. And, as a pot needs its chef, and a chef his tool, Mueller holds the key. This, he wields with the long arm of the law and strikes with carte blanche.

For months, the investigation seemed to be gaining steam at a dizzying and unyielding pace. In late October, just shy of two months to this very day, the investigation claimed its first victims in Paul Manafort, Rick Gates, and George Papadopoulos. Brought before the court and indicted on a bevy of crimes, Manafort and Gates wouldn’t go away without a fight. They pleaded not guilty and, at the time of this writing, await trial this spring. Papadopoulos, on the other hand, had other plans in mind. He sought to preserve, if not exculpate himself by entering a plea deal. Those in the know think that by doing this, he’ll be a bit more forthcoming when it comes to answering Mueller’s questions. And who could blame him? The threat of decade in jail is enough to move most to squeal.

This curious trio then added Michael Flynn to its number. Flynn, the former head of the National Security Agency, was found to be profiting handsomely but treasonously from his work abroad. He was dining with Vladimir Putin in Russia, dancing like a puppet for Recep Erdogan in Turkey, and lying about it all to the FBI back home. His deceit is what did him in. During President Trump’s transition to the White House, General Flynn held conversations with Russian officials about sanctions, concealed the fact that he did so, and was forced to resign for his unscrupulousness. Like Papadopoulos, and likely for similar reason, Flynn opted for a plea deal. The victims, as such, are split in half: for Manafort and Gates, the game-plan is intransigence; for Papadopoulos and Flynn—lenience.

Next up on Mueller’s list is anyone’s guess. (For what it’s worth, my money is on Jared Kushner—Trump’s son-in-law and Swiss-army-knife chargé d’affaires; he’s too quiet and squeaky clean. The best culprit, after all, is he who we suspect least. He’s also the only high-level cabinet member to have held positions in the campaign and the presidency). The trend is unpropitious, though, if I’m President Trump. Mueller has been picking off one-by-one the officials closest to his inner circle. In doing so, he’s made a probe that is swift, severe, and systematic. It’s cutthroat, incisive, and unapologetic, and those who have something to hide had better be on edge.

At least, they might’ve been—until now. With the release of this bombshell report, everything’s changed. No longer are Trump and his confidants waiting on bated breath, counting on time and evidence to set them free. No, instead they’re breathing a collective sigh of relief. But just as they empty their lungs, in an exhale long-overdue, they’re refilling and refueling for counter attacks against Mueller and what seems to be a corrupted probe.

In the report, we learned two important things—one extraordinary, the other less so. Beginning with the second, and doubling back to the first, we learned that three of Mueller’s chief investigators have a history with the Democratic Party. This alone doesn’t demand an injunction or that the investigation be enjoined or stopped. Nor would it be wise to dismiss everything the investigation has thus far unveiled, or count it as being less credible. It doesn’t spoil the indictments or sour the intel. What it does do, though, is stir suspicions and raise eyebrows.

The three donated repeatedly, and quite substantially to Democratic campaigns. At an average of $5,000 a pop, these endowments taken as a whole were no small sum. In the scheme of things, they look less like apolitical largesse and more like party fealty. This has led Republicans to think that the investigation has been biased from the Left, root and branch.

Strengthening this thought is the fact that Andrew Weissmann, the man second only to Robert Mueller in the investigation’s hierarchy, attended a post-election party for Hillary Clinton. This was after she defeated Bernie Sanders and was readying herself for Donald Trump. The only people in attendance at such parties, so the thinking goes, are those who had a hand in the victory, or those hoping to profit in the victor’s glow. Republicans think that to the latter group, Weissmann belongs.

In addition to the suspicious largesse and the election-night festivities, there’s another factor. This one might be the most insidious of them all. It involves Peter Strzok, a high-ranking FBI counterintelligence officer. It’s just now come to light that he was quietly removed from the probe in the late summer. Why would an integral, experienced man find himself on the outside looking in to the decade’s most consequential probe? He was found to be exchanging “anti-Trump” texts with an FBI lawyer with whom he was having an affair. Before getting worked up about this, I’d challenge you to find anyone in America who hasn’t sent an “anti-Trump” text in the course of a year. I’ll wait. Even Rex Tillerson called his boss a “f***ing moron”, so it’s no standard to hold a man accountable to.

The scary thing about Strzok, though, is his uncanny ability to manipulate strings. It was he who modified—though perhaps it’s more precise to say, mollified—James Comey’s statement about Hillary Clinton. You’ll recall that when he made his decision about what was to be done with the former Secretary of State, in the wake of the e-mail fiasco, Comey changed his tune at the last minute. In his famous dictum, instead of calling Clinton “grossly negligent”, as he intended to do, he called her “extremely careless”. The first—gross negligence—is punishable in a court of law; the second—carelessness—is completely pardonable. Thus, in Comey’s opinion, and for all intents and purposes, Clinton was free.

Come to find out, though, it was Strzok who advised Comey to change his wording. At Strzok’s behest, negligence softened to carelessness, Comey recommended no charges, and Clinton competed uninterrupted (until early November, of course). So, we knew that Strzok worked in the shadows as an FBI agent, but none knew to what degree. No one could’ve guessed how much influence he wielded from behind the scenes. No one knew of his clandestine clout. It’s this that makes all the more worrying a text he sent, in which he said he wanted an “insurance policy” in case Donald Trump became president. Is he, the top henchman in the Mueller probe, simply cashing out on the insurance?

Republicans think so. At first they clamored that the investigation was a “witch hunt”, but they did so without much to back the claim. It was something they said more as a desperate defense of a besieged president than anything else. They were trying to preempt what might’ve become, and what might still become, a damning and crippling revelation about Trump. They were manufacturing doubt about Mueller’s apolitical credentials, but having nothing substantial to support the claim. Now, they’ve been given all the support they need.

Even those who’d rather see President Trump deposed must admit that things stand on shaky ground. The investigation is faltering. Its legitimacy is open to attack. And now, more than ever, it’s being justifiably impugned.

It’s unclear how or if Mueller can reshape the perception of his work. Strzok was relieved of his duty and shuffled over to Human Resources, but the damage is done. With him gone, the calls for an enjoinder remain. Pundits are calling upon the president to fire Special Counselor Mueller—an action well within his right. While this was considered nothing short of political suicide mere months ago, it now seems justifiable. Dangerous, yes, but defensible. Trump has never had a better reason to rid himself of his Becket and free himself of the Trump-Russia burden.

But this, he won’t do. The ball is in his court and it’s his turn to press. The doubt surrounding Mueller plays into his hand. Any result the Counselor’s team comes to will look like party politics. Any charge will look like a coup. Trump can contest and accost any of Mueller’s decisions without seeming to undermine justice. The advantage is his. It can be said that everything’s grounded in a biased investigation’s animus toward Trump, and this, unlike at any other time, won’t sound like moonshine or conspiracy. Mueller’s ironclad credentials have cracked. The Republican hobbyhorse whinnies with life. The investigation is all but lost.

What this tax bill needs is PR—public relations. It needs salesmanship. It needs panache. It needs a little verve, zest, and brio. It needs a face, a smile, a flourish, a campaign to advertise all that makes it good. It’s like a steak—lean with just enough bleed to be enticing and toothsome. What it lacks, though, is the sizzle. And every carnivore-turned-epicure knows, a steak is just a boring hunk of muscle and sinew if not for its ever-essential sizzle. That’s all that this tax bill is right now; a slab of ungarnished, unappetizing meat.

The Trump administration has done a very poor job of dressing up this tax bill and selling it to the American people. At the time of this writing, the bill will have been law for no more than two days. It was passed, predictably, along party-lines; it received not a single vote from a Democratic representative in either the House or the Senate. This is odd, for the bill not only eases the tax burden on the corporate titan (something the Democrats are ostensibly opposed to), but on the common man as well. This is a tax cut for the nabob and the everyman alike; for he who earns at the uppermost echelon and for the man who labors far below.

Everyone benefits, I should think, when they’re able to keep more of their hard-won income in their own pockets. This isn’t some kind of reverse-Robin Hood scheme, in which the poor man’s purse is usurped for the rich man’s profit. However, the Democrats specifically and the media more generally would lead you to believe this. Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi, the House minority leader and perpetual thorn in Trump’s side, has been leading the resistance against the bill. Among other epithets, she called the bill “Armageddon” and “the GOP tax scam” and a “monumental, brazen theft from the American middle class”. She went on to say that the bill “does violence to the vision of our founders”. I think, on this point above all others, our Founding Fathers might politely disagree. If my public education serves me well, our Revolution was fought in part for less onerous and anonymous taxation, not more. We took up arms against the boorish King George’s Stamp, Sugar, Quebec, and Declaratory Acts, all so we might be a free and untrammeled people. Our Founding Fathers were cut from a cloth of enlightened self-interest, physiocrats and then market capitalists, and above all, small government enthusiasts. So much so that it took sixteen amendments and well over a century for an income tax to be written into law.

Others, notably Senators Chuck Schumer and Elizabeth Warren, echoed Congresswoman Pelosi’s wrath. They said, respectively, that the bill is “so, so bad” and that it’s now “government for sale”. Again, I fail to see how this is the case. The bill is meant to lower taxes in every socioeconomic stratum. Conceivably, everyone (save for high-earning individuals living in high-taxed states such as New York, New Jersey, and California) stand to prosper from this bill. It’s incomprehensible to think that such a bill would be ubiquitously loathed. But this seems to be the case.

Democrats appear to have succeeded in making the worse case the better. Their sophistry has effectively trickled out from D.C. and now suffuses popular opinion. Nearly 50% of Americans are opposed to this bill, even though most, if not all, will benefit from it. When compared with previous tax cuts (think of those imposed by Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush), the Trump tax cut is far less popular. Only 32% of people surveyed look favorably upon the current bill, as opposed to 51% and 49% for Reagan and Bush’s cuts respectively. Most unfathomable of all is that this bill is actually less popular than previous tax hikes. It’s less popular than Bill Clinton’s in 1993 and George H.W. Bush’s three years before. How can this be?

Look no further than the message and the messenger. Most Americans, when asked, will say this bill is a gratuitous tax break for those at the top. It’s for those who need it least. They’ll say that it injures and enfeebles the blue-collar middle-class working man and woman. The reality is, though, that those fat cats lounging in the uppermost echelons of society are not only earning the most, but paying the most in taxes. They return a disproportionate amount of their income back to the government. Assuming the figure hasn’t changed, the top 1% of income earners in America (or those earning over $465,626 per year) pay over 50% of the nation’s income tax.

So, yes—the wealthiest of American citizens will enjoy a significant tax break, but this must be viewed in proportion to the excess they’re currently made to pay. And even under this newest bill, by dint of the fact that they still earn more and that they’re still atop a progressive bracket system, they’ll continue to pay the lion’s share.

The other issue is the messenger. Could it be that this bill is so universally loathed because it has Trump’s name appended to it? Would it be any less anathematized if it were to be called the “Romney” or the “McCain” or even the “Cruz” Tax Cut? It’s difficult to say, but I have to think that the Trump brand, so exalted in other industries—from hotels to neckties to tee times—isn’t doing it any favors. He’s the least popular president in the modern era, and it’s fitting—though perhaps not just—that his agenda suffers the same fate. The bill is damaged by its namesake. This is where a personality becomes important. It’s here that one’s perception in the public’s eye becomes relevant. If Trump weren’t so divisive, reactive, and eristic, this bill would be a boon and more people would laud it.

But the president isn’t the only messenger failing to make his case. There’s also the Republican Party. Like Trump, the party hasn’t done this bill any favors. They continue to fail to convince a skeptical public that a corporate tax cut is a good and valuable thing. Like a heresy, they hesitate to even utter the phrase, let alone make and defend its case. Because while it’s true that all individual taxes will lower, and consequently all boats might rise, the most important and lasting aspect of this bill is the corporate tax rate decrease. From 35% to 21%, the drop will rouse burdened businesses from their sleep. They’ll become once again competitive in the international market, in a way they’ve not been for quite some time.

In theory, American businesses will slow down their interminable quest for tax havens abroad and look homeward instead. They’ll pull their profits from the likes of a Northern Ireland, a Bermuda, or a Cayman Island and invest in the continental U.S.A. Inversions—whereby by a company incorporates in a different country to enjoy its advantageous tax rates—might very well occur less frequently. They’ll invest in creating new technologies, improving efficiencies, and retaining employees at home by offering a better wage. And though this tax rate is still much higher than those of European nations, it’s an auspicious start.

All of this is lost, though, when the GOP can’t articulate the point. Republicans think that to promote this idea (that is, of a lowered corporate tax rate) is to immolate oneself—it’s tantamount to setting one’s political career aflame. It’s politically unpalatable. It’s a toxic topic, and voters will bristle when they hear it. Well, bristle they may, but so far as economic science is concerned—assuming you’re of the classical ilk, and not a Marxist or Mercantilist—it’s a vital idea. The marketplace, seeing neither color, class, nor creed, as Voltaire marveled upon returning to his château at Ferney from the London Stock Exchange, is a thing to be cherished and promoted, not stymied and stifled. For their own sake, and for the sake of the bill, Republicans need to make this case. It may be a dismal science, but it’s one that needs its teacher.

Professor Trump may be just the man for the job. He, with his business bona fides and acumen, should be ablest of all to teach us the way. Ironically, he’d do well to do what Franklin Delano Roosevelt did years before. FDR was famous for his “fireside chats”. Trump should get on the airwaves (Twitter, in this case) and give a chat of his own. Instead of griping about players kneeling or LiAngelo Ball stealing, use the platform to tell the American people why this is a worthwhile bill. Brand it as the boon we’ve long awaited. Teach us why competition in the international marketplace is a thing to be desired. Expel, if you can, the “heresy” that haunts businesses big and small. This, is the sizzle. And if he does these things, the bill will just about sell itself.

In politics, we often look down upon those who change their minds and admit they’re wrong. It’s a sign of weakness, we think, to be convinced or converted or edified. We scoff when we see the mark of the hypocrite who just couldn’t stick it out. We look down on the blemished blowhard who was too eager to switch sides. It’s a permanent demerit, if you’re caught in the act of rethinking your thoughts, and it’s a capital offense if you go so far as to change them. There’s no ablution that can scrub away this sin, no confession that can wipe it clean. Views are like vows, immutable, everlasting, and yours forever to keep.

So, you must continue as always you have. Never stray from dogma and the well-worn path. New facts mean nothing—old ones even less. When the evidence is insurmountable, dig in your heels and scale the wall. When the sources are unimpeachable, scour for skeptics and confirm your biases. And when the reality is ineluctable, look to the creation of your own. You mustn’t waver. Hold fast to self-deception. You know more than everyone thinks you do, and you think more profoundly than they can imagine. Is this arrogance? Perhaps. Stubbornness? Probably. Ignorance? Most definitely. What is of little question, though, is which of the three is most dangerous.

To be arrogant and stubborn can at times work on your behalf. To be ignorant, however, is never useful. Never has it and never shall it be of benefit or of virtue. You’ll never stand to profit from its employment. You’ll never inspire others to think of you with confidence or consider you thoughts sagacious. You’ll be like the troglodyte, who—bound by chains and seeing nothing but shadows—refuses to turn around and see the fire dancing behind him. Tied to an allegory, you’ll sit stubbornly fixed in one place. When it comes to it, your ignorance is not a simple lack of knowledge, but an active aversion to knowledge. You’re ineducable and, therefore, incorrigible. Because you won’t learn, you can’t improve. You refuse to do one and lose out on the other, all for the sake of your pride.

The same pride that motivates President Trump’s ignorance is that which sustains his recalcitrance. It’s been well over one year since Russia was first alleged to have meddled in the 2016 presidential campaign. At this earliest stage, the charge was suspect; it needed further proof. Not surprisingly, credulous Democrats gobbled it up. Desperation was settling in, as Hillary Clinton’s appeal was sinking, and the charge looked like a peach ready to be plucked. One bite was enough to whet the appetite with calls for collusion—a charge that seems increasingly fruitless but tantalizingly within reach. Contrasted with the Democrats, Republicans were skeptical from the outset. The allegations seemed incidental and unimportant to what they saw in Donald Trump. It wasn’t Russia, so they thought, but rather Trump’s winning message and indefatigable campaign that was changing the tide against Hillary Clinton.

However, all—or at least very near all doubt was cast aside when we learned that the Kremlin did indeed meddle in the campaign. This was the conclusion that had been arrived at by no fewer than four U.S. government agencies: The National Intelligence Agency, the CIA, the FBI, and the NSA. Each conducted its investigation independently and came together with a unanimous result. They learned that Russia, for the bargain price of just over a half-million dollars, carried out an insidious little plan to undermine our democratic process. With Facebook groups and ads, they tried to skew public opinion from afar. Most of their ads were childish, some were downright farcical, but all of them took an unkind stance toward Ms. Clinton. That much was consistent. In addition to the this, they buddied up with WikiLeaks and infiltrated former Clinton campaign manager, John Podesta’s e-mails. This sowed further discord (all while showing the ugly inner-workings of the Clinton camp and the DNC, but that’s beside the point).

The knowledge we now have of everything related to Russia’s meddling is robust. Its efficacy is the only lingering question. Democrats overestimate it, while Republicans give it little credence. The truth, as it always does, sits somewhere in between. It’s likely not to have been as influential as Democrats lead us to believe, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still a problem that demands our attention. At its root, this was an attack on American liberty. I hesitate to equate it with 9-11, as many commentators have, but it should put our nation and the uppermost echelons of our government on high alert. We should treat it with the seriousness of an attack from abroad, albeit a bloodless one, and we should be ensuring that it never happens again. More protections should be put in place, safeguards installed, and sanctions levied against the Russian state actors who caused all the mess.

All of these things are given the seriousness they demand when the president is leading the charge. He should be at fore, exhausting all efforts to buttress our nation and punish Putin’s rogues. More than any other official in any other department, the president must be the man stirring us to be on our guard. He should be imploring us to be vigilant and counter Moscow’s guile so. Tasking us with this, he should then go off and dream up heavy reprisals and punishments for what they’ve done.

Instead, President Trump has never convened a Cabinet-level meeting to discuss, let alone address, Russia’s interference in the 2016 campaign. His fragile ego prevents him from even considering the fact that they infiltrated American democracy and attempted to tip the election on his behalf. He won’t bring himself to consider the fact—and I do mean fact—that they had their thumb on his side of the scale. Trump sees the mere mention of this as an affront to his hard-fought and dearly-won presidency. He bristles and shuts down any cabinet official who raises the issue in meetings. I should mention here that I think he would’ve won with our without Putin’s “help”, but the more we talk of Russia, the less he thinks we attribute the victory to him. It spoils his life’s ultimate glory. In his mind, it was nothing more than his unprecedented political prowess, his suis generis appeal, that landed him in the Oval Office. It wasn’t the Kremlin’s cyber-scoundrels or Putin’s KGB. It was simply the Donald, and the Donald alone.

To live in an illusory world, fully ignorant of reality, is a danger indeed. But inhabiting this world alone, without inviting in others and exchanging unenlightened ideas, is less of a threat to the whole of society. Once outside this vacuum, things become fraught. Here, in the world and encumbered by reality, the ignorant man becomes a danger in the truest sense. In this case, his ignorance informs a national security policies. It permeates the world’s most powerful government. It defines an ethos. All this, while it allows for a foreign adversary to meddle with astounding impunity. Can we hope to cure ignorance, or to soften recalcitrance?  The country demands that we must.