The Great Big Mess!
Will someone spruce this place up a bit?
GRAPHICS BY Benjamin Uribe, Max Van Hosen, and Johnathan Arellano
It’s early. The sun is shining brightly and the sky has adopted a deeper shade of blue than it has been the last few days. I have a lit cigarette and more where that came from in a carton beside me, Neil Young is singing Hey, Hey in my ear. I’m supposed to be writing a hilarious rumination over the doomsday election we had last Thursday evening, but no matter how hard I rack my brain, the past few days feel very opaque. Not much can be seen properly from this angle. So, I’ll write this one out in one fell swoop — nothing more than my naked thoughts on this wicked Sunday morning.
I can’t help but say I feel a profound sense of defeat and doubt as this cigarette charts its course to the most sensitive parts of my lungs. All my predictions for our country went sideways; I damn near lost my house on this bet. The gamble was that Dems would take the presidency, and at the very least, the House. “Gambling was not a happy experience for me last week,” as Hunter S. Thompson said in his ESPN column the morning after Bush and friends swept the election and the Colts won by just a measly three points instead of the seven Thompson needed to bank out. Eerie — the Colts lost by ten today. Time is not a circle, but rather a boomerang with a V-curve. It always comes back around, but from a slightly different trajectory each time.
Dems bet badly on Kamala; spoiler, the hand was tragic. Sleepy, Slow Joe ducked a tad too late… The Trump train had already left the station by the time the second bullet rang out and the debate mic had been dropped, departing just on schedule.
Attempts to assassinate Trump were easy to tell because they came directly, but I couldn’t tell you who Biden’s political killer was… If I was given a line-up I’d need extra arms to point out the perps. Could it have been that horrid debate performance with weak one-liners and ugly dunks? The inopportune time for economics and the American people’s comprehension of how they work? The refusal of both Biden and Kamala to do anything about one of history's most divisive wars and save at least one of the dwindling numbers of Palestinian children?... It was probably a little bit of each and more on the side.
Sometimes I wish I could see what was going on in ol’ Joe’s mind… It probably looks like a pinball machine in there. A bunch of pointless bouncing around and two million point scores that don’t mean shit because all he did was use rudimentary tools to deflect a ball and the points just came to him in one hundred thousand batches, never allowing him to step back and see that his accomplishments were empty… All he racked up were meaningless, big nothings.
Biden’s domestic achievements in the job, education and housing sectors were pretty meaningful if we give him the benefit of the doubt: higher rates of new housing units built and more in development than ever before, ten thousand big ones off loans for a few and generally pro-labor and domestic. manufacturing policies all around. Some slip-ups here and there within our borders with some severe falls on policies at the actual wall. I suppose that can’t be helped, considering our history with the downstairs neighbors. Not too shabby, Mr. Jump-The-Boat Joe.
We have this strange colloquial term in journalism to describe stories with the most juice: Sexy. A little ugly, on-the-nose vulgarity — I know — but relevant nonetheless. The point is, Biden was a policy failure on all of the sexiest issues… On war, humanitarian aid, day-to-day prices, immigration and our standing in the world sphere, he was a real dud. On all the issues that matter to even the voter who can’t be bothered to read the news or much of anything else, but possesses eyes enough to see what’s going on, Biden was like a blank round in a toy gun that didn’t even look real on the outside.
This is not to say that Trump’s ideas are any better. Trust me, I won’t harp on Project 2025 like the Democrats spent seventy-five percent of their campaign doing, but that man is running buck wild on a dictator kick. His policies are sounding strongly constitutional, more than they have in the past. All of his rallies have references to the sacred document like he’s still in midst of writing it — or, perhaps, rewriting it. The podcasting men in his ear have allowed shroom-based anti-federalism to pervert his rhetoric, with some strongarmed totalitarianism mixed in for the usual show. To me, the campaign seemed like a total oxymoron on all fronts with no solid base to jump off from aside from being a supreme jackass for the sake of it. There were times I even thought he might be preparing for a grand drop-out, his last big joke.
Will abortion be federally planned or decided by the states? Will the war in Ukraine end or will the U.S. allow Zelensky and crew to get swallowed up by the big, bad Kremlin? Are we deporting immigrants or trying to purge them from the country entirely? Unfortunately, these are vague tells — most especially for Trump himself. In all of these policy examples, he’s flip-flopped on the campaign trail so many times it’s been dizzying.
Still, all of it is extremely convincing to many-a voters. When whatever Trump is spewing seems improbable, his base will already have it computed, circled and signed. When there are misunderstandings, they have it straightened out in the Truth Social Thunderdome and ready to relay. He seems more akin to a father or a brother than a politician. What he says, goes… And that in of itself is deeply unpredictable.
While America — and my election night bets — were going belly-up, I was doing some live reporting from a Republican election celebration party bonanza In Who-The-Hell-Knows, Yorba Linda. The Lone Wolf Brewing Company hosted the event in their fluorescent-lit bar with fans that made an artificial flashing effect in the room that gave me a headache as strong as the real thing.
The most noticeable feature of this party was the display of MAGA merchandise. We live in an age way away from the days of red hats with bold fonts… The merch was so deep-cut that I couldn’t believe there was a distributor in existence for them. Shirts, hats, glasses, suits, blankets, ponchos, plates, flags, three-piece suits, thin sundresses, face paints, stamps and even MAGA baby onesies were everywhere the eyes could touch. How’d those infants get in the bar…? Not important. Those four letters were grails here, the Japanese denim of Trump’s America.
I’m almost sure that I was assigned to cover the Make California Great Again party because my editor thought I would dig it. It was quite the assumption because I didn’t mind whatsoever. I needed a laugh, and ever since January 6th the Republican party has possessed the more fascinating subjects of the two Legions of Doom. While it’s a little difficult for me to proceed without bias when they start to moan about yesteryear’s stolen election or theorize about which Democratic leaders were at Epstein’s island, it’s a nice change of pace from the usual talking-head responses you get out of your “normal” subjects. For such an event, you need a reporter who can keep their head on straight despite any absurd twists or turns or remarks that get racially testy. My editor knew this, so there I was in Yorba Linda.
The hostess of the night and the first person I laid my peepers on, Jo Reitkopp, was an absolute trip… She was a short woman with spindly, grey hair and a floral shirt that looked like it was from a Pico-Robertson boutique. She emanated a kind of chaotic disorganization. Not in a bad way, but it was like you could tell she bounced off the walls often, trying to get a lot done at each landing.
When I first arrived with my two photographers, Reitkopp hounded us about our affiliation — apparently, multiple news organizations signed up for the event only to have a million excuses for their absence. “There’s a bigger story somewhere else.” “Our coverage changed.” “My editor assigned me to another event.” All prime bigheaded excuses I used on occasion, mostly when the other events were make-believe.
And so, we would be the only ones there to chronicle the night, the watchful eye with voice recording software and cameras. Crack for a drunken American politique, except they light up on my microphone.
In a painfully awkward scene, Jo introduced me in front of the bar full of people with a busted mic that screamed and crackled periodically, shouting out a feature on me over the Fox News election coverage.
“Christopher, you haven't graduated yet, right? You're a journalist… So anyway, I'm going to turn it over to Christopher. Whatever you want to say. Go ahead,” she told the room with a wifely smile
I was paralyzed. This was not the place for me to be making a grandiose introduction, but the mic hung there in front of me like an ignited bomb. Tick tick tick… I couldn’t avoid picking up the flaccid machine. I let everyone know I was there with the same phrasing Jo used, like she hadn’t said a thing and this was my first time meeting everyone. She made an OK template to build off of.
“Hello, I’m Christopher. Very happy to be here. If you’re in the mood to be interviewed, I’ll be sitting over here,” I pointed to a chair with animal skin on the seat.
I would’ve performed a voodoo curse on Jo with that same animal’s spirit if this strategy hadn’t ended up working out so perfectly, not even ten minutes later. For the first time in my career I had interviewees walking up to me! Me! Honey to bee, as if I had anything worth saying aside from complimenting the drinks I helped myself to. Jo! She was a madman, but she did me well.
A lot of the interviews practically went in the same direction. I would ask a very simple question: “How do you feel about the fact that Trump is gaining momentum in some of the swing states,” and then after replying “Good.” or “Excited,” they would use the rest of the allotted period to start on some conspiracy about the last election or the evils of Hollywood. A lot of “mhms” and “yeahs” on my part. It was exhaustive, but I found some people with a good enough head on their shoulders to maintain a conversation without mention of Chinese interference or evil underground lairs that stretched from Sunset to Venice Boulevard.
I learned that night that to understand Trump's stronghold on the everyday Republican psyche, you must understand three things: religion is currency, love is mostly unconditional and issues are power.
There’s a faith in Trump on the red side of the fence that is nearly divine. Daniel Schoppe was a very sharp man, in both appearance and general intelligence, whom I spoke to extensively about God’s vision for Trump. He was with his wife and they looked happy to love each other. He also spoke with a sort of confidence that one would only have in the crucifixion.
“God saved his life twice. Okay? Twice? God wouldn't save his life twice to lose,” Schoppe said. “I knew before the assassination attempts… The guy the bullet took his ear off, that's a God thing. That's just America.”
He left me off with a little prayer, “Chris, you're going into journalism, don't ever compromise your principles,” he said. “Tell the truth. always, no matter how much they pay you to lie, always tell the truth. Maintain your integrity. Remember who you are.”
Thank you for the blessing to keep on keeping on, Daniel Schoppe.
Rocco Vitalia, former actor and director of the Italian and Sicilian Make America Great Again Coalition, joined in near the end of my conversation with Schoppe. He was short and had a boyish haircut with an uneven dye job that somehow looked appealing. It was done in such a way that looked intentional, you could probably see it somewhere on Melrose. He was quite excitable, like a yapping dog with a larger bark than bite whenever Trump or the “Communist Haven” California were brought up.
He told me multiple times that he worked on the Trump campaign, providing a little anecdote about the time he got to shake Trump’s hand and have a short conversation. I imagined his petite body getting swept with the crowd like dust while the Secret Service hounded him just so he could get a word in. His dark Mediterranean eyes brightened immeasurably when he talked about the work he did on the 2016 campaign. The role? He never clarified, but I heard of “the work” multiple times.
“So, Trump was walking and he started to look at me. He actually looked me right in the face like you’re doing now. So, I walked up to him, and you know with all the security it's almost impossible to touch him, but there he is in the flesh! You would never guess, but he grabbed my hand to shake it! Yeah! My hand. So I tell him, ‘Trump, I have ideas for you,’ and he responds, ‘What is it? Just know that whatever idea you had my team had it already,’... So I tell him my idea, and he tells me ‘We’re already working on it!’ He really said that to me as close as you and I are now.”
While Rocco told the story, you would’ve thought he was talking about the first time playing catch with his big brother who left for college. His adulation was very juvenile. It was the purest kind of reverence I’ve seen since playing soccer at the park as a child and hearing a boy talk about his firefighter dad I couldn’t have given two shits about before he ate shit on gravel and cried for the same firefighter. Throughout the whole conversation, his lips hadn’t straightened out once — it was all smiles from Rocco. His love for the man was almost palpable. All the while, I was also smiling at the tale.
At this point, I had given my editors all the updates that my end had to give. There wasn’t much of note happening at Lone Wolf Brewing company that could be placed comfortably in a hard news story: I had a nice conversation with Jo’s husband about Neil Young and Willie Nelson, talked to an Orange County school board elect who wore the three-piece Trump suit about gas prices and also asked some middle-aged tan-victims about how they got turned on to Trump’s politics to a giggle and a response in unison — “Our husbands!” So much for Rosie the Riveter… These ladies were like Mother Geese, floating in the pond without direction. I wondered if they’d always had their heads held underwater.
Nobody I interviewed talked about the things that I would have expected before. Not one mention of Palestine, no real claim about the economy, no talk of abortion. It was like these conflicts hadn’t existed in the first place; just dry, obscure topics of conversation not fit for this fiesta. All anyone wanted to talk about was how much better things would be once Trump won, getting ready to pop the champagne and celebrate because they had finally gotten their way after four years of super-hell. Only now could anything change, as they saw it.
The votes in Pennsylvania were nearly counted and I decided to pay a visit to Jo Reitkopp before I got the hell out of there. Trump had all but secured the election, so all I needed was an empty quote or word of wisdom to get me on the road and back to the disaster that would be life from now on.
Jo, the woman gone wild, took every question only in the direction she wanted to. “How does it feel that Republicans have control of all three branches once again?” “Good… Democrats have been really evil.” “What was it like organizing this event?” “It went so great… That trans medicine can kill you!” “What do you think will change about the country?” “A lot will… But even when he was trans, he was a really pretty girl. He chose to live instead of becoming a girl. He had a guardian angel.”
Jesus.
I found the biggest piece of Trump’s political puzzle: making irrelevant issues into everyday problems for the feeble-minded. Jo was a sweetheart. A mother of two quite successful young women, a UCLA alumnus and a warm presence that truly livened up a room of Republican drunkards. Hell, if I hadn’t known she was a Trump supporter I might’ve assumed she sold crystals and ayahuasca out of a Volks Van with more tapestry than space for full-time living inside. But she wasn't like that. She was a paranoid middle-aged lady who believed that someone — either an immigrant, antifa terrorist or God — was going to get her and the family she built if she didn’t listen to the kooked-out president-elect.
Self-preservation, a most natural instinct… Like putting your hand up to your face before a boomerang comes back around and knocks you numb.
It’s darker now, whenever I’m writing this. I suppose I shouldn’t be playing another hand after my last week’s flub, but I will anyway. Here are my predictions: first, I predict that things will be quite grim, there is no denying that — every cabinet position will likely be somebody so unquestionably incompetent that we’ll think it’s a joke at first. Trump might pull a reverse Bush, electing a weak cabinet for a headstrong leader. At least Bush could step back and empty the air from his head, on occasion.
Second: things will probably be a bit messy. Blue states and the federal government will have dick-measuring contests almost daily that amount to nothing except lifelong political careers. Third, the conflict in the Middle East will not end for the foreseeable future. I don’t believe Trump or any other politician cares enough to make that any other way. Destruction is almost assured. If Palestinian resistance has any chance, other Middle Eastern countries will have to intervene. The only way out of this one is a Netahanyu slip-up that affects Trump in some way, which could see the beginning of WWIII. It looks quite unlikely, though, so I would only be acting in bad faith and poor luck if I put my money on that one.
I wish I could see what direction we were going, where this twisted boomerang would come back to land. What makes this election different than all the other clown shows is that, for the first time, we as a country threw out the boomerang, covered our eyes and turned around. Not much can be done until we find out where it went out, when it comes back and knocks us out cold.