Richmond, VA City District 8 and Congressional District 4 Candidates for the 2020 General Election
This one won’t be 1500 words. It is just a list of who is on the ballot for the 2020 General Election for Virginia Congressional District 4 and RVA City Council District 8. Also, if you were looking for “unbiased” you are on the wrong web site. World of Webb is successful if it has haters. You have been warned. I’m not endorsing anyone (kind of). But I’m very annoyed at the leadership currently in office. So my triage is to vote the incumbent out. Biden, though, gives me heartburn. Most important, vote. If you don’t and the wrong guy wins, shut up.
If you must know, this whole thing is a clown show. The scary thing is that after November 3rd, some of these guys will be in charge.
Richmond City Mayor
I’ve labeled the candidates with party affiliations based on what I can figure out from their web presence. Nobody in RVA seems to want to declare a party affiliation. So it becomes, “if it walks like a duck . . .”
I picked up Inger from Tucker. She was hanging out with friends at Black Hand Coffee and had a breakdown. She started out explaining the abandoned car that was in front of my house last spring. In short order, it turned to a story about the car belonging to Donald Trump.
Prezzy Darling, she said, stole the car to escape the Secret Service and hook up with her at her East 16th Street house. The drugs and money the cops found belonged to the Donald. Ditto the used condom.
Then . . . she got triggered. There was a guy in line for coffee at Black Hand who had a scant resemblance to the Donald. Not Trump, obvi, but with Inger, once she launches there is no stopping her. She bolted from her table and ran up to the guy, trying to jump into his arms, “Donny!! What’s Up!”
Dude was stunned. Total deer in headlights. He didn’t catch her, Inger stumbled into the coffee counter and hit her head, “why didn’t you catch me, Prezzy Darling!? I thought we were a thing!”
Inger touched her scalp and saw the blood on her fingers, “what did you do?” Dude didn’t, but now he was caught up in Inger’s reality distortion field, “DONALD!!Are you trying to kill me!?” He was not. Black Hand Coffee just become a crime scene.
Some of the cafe customers started to rush the guy believing Inger’s accusing tone of voice. There was some pushing and shoving as opposing narratives embodied were litigated in the cafe. The barrista pulled on the hand of Dude and both of them headed for the kitchen at the back.
Not the Donald
Friends of Inger sat her down away from the guy. There are cell phone videos and it’s clear that Inger is the aggressor. Someone in the cafe called the cops to report an assault.
Officer Khalid Harris got there in a half-hour. It took another ninety minutes to collect statements and fill out the police report. Inger was still amped so her statement didn’t make sense. She still thought Dude was the Donald and that he had tried to kill her by shoving her into the coffee counter. Khalid listened to her and quietly requested medical transport, ‘Khalid! What the fuck!? I’m the victim here. That guy tried to kill me! What are you doing! I’ll have your job! Fucking asshole!” And so on.
Inger was cuffed, searched and placed in a transport van while they waited for the ambulance. That just enraged Inger so they had to pull her from the van, pepper spray her and put her in a hobble. All on YouTube with the usual recriminations about how the cops are brutal, uncaring asshats.
The Twitter Outrage mob kicked into high gear. The evening after Inger was hauled away there was a mob that threw rocks and Molotov cocktails at Black Hand Coffee. They finished the night on Monument Boulevard chanting, “No Justice, No Peace” on the median near the J.E.B. Stuart memorial. 3 arrests were made. Black Hand Coffee suffered some broken windows and a bit of charring from the Molotov cocktails.
CBS-6 interviewed one of the protestors who claimed that Black Hand Coffee was a racist cafe oppressing minorities. This was based on the name and an unchallenged assumption that Inger was brown and a lesbian. When the reporter tried to tell the protestor he was incorrect he shoved her in the face. The protestor also attacked the photographer. Riot over at that point. RPD stepped in and began pushing the crowd away from the J.E.B. Stuart memorial.
I drove by Black Hand this week. They are open. The broken windows are boarded up and the char scrubbed off the tan brick.
Sugar Cookie Finger
Inger is out. I picked her up last Monday. In her things were some summons charging her with assault and public intoxication. She’d stopped taking her meds because she was feeling good. That bomb kept ticking all summer. Then she started talking about Halloween and it got weirder. Then Black Hand Coffee. The Secret Service said, “meh.” They looked into what Inger was saying and dismissed it.
Now, the finger. I’m in the First Precinct. Inger’s Stuart Avenue house is in the Third. She’s created her own cross precinct footprint within the police department. The finger is in the hands of RPD and is evidence. Inger has Officer Harris’ card. She’s convinced that the Russian Mafia had something to do with the abandoned whip and that it is connected to the Donald. Officer Harris is convinced that Inger needs better meds. Inger is on the Secret Service’s radar now, though.
Officer Harris came to my house and spent a half-hour asking me what I knew about the whip and Inger. I pointed him to the two prior blog posts on the story: Inger’s Finger and No Pulse, Just a Finger. Khalid said they had DNA from the whip and were investigating. It’s not clear who the stray finger belonged to.
So, Inger . . . has turned her East 16th Street house into her own private detective office. She doesn’t have the evidence that the cops have so she’s been using her social connections to follow up leads. This is not making friends and influencing people within RPD. I mentioned Inger to Khalid and he let out a snort then an annoyed look flashed across his face. He doubled down, “we are looking into it.”
I’m writing this from my desk in the extra bedroom. Door knock. I hear the back door unlock. It’s her, “Alan I’m hungry.”
Kitten has a dry pantry you could eat out of for a year. She throws away food in her fridge because it’s gone bad. The last time I was over there her trash was full of Chinese takeout containers. She had wings and veggie fried rice circled on East Villa’s menu, “And you want me to cook?”
“I mean, if you want to.”
Not Cooking Today
“There is plenty of stuff in the fridge, help yourself,” I guess I didn’t want to fast enough. Inger gives me a dirty look and then starts opening and slamming closed the few cabinets I have in my galley kitchen. She bangs pots and pans as she works. My stove has a drawer on the oven that makes a satisfying bang if you aren’t careful closing it. She wasn’t careful.
It’s 11 am on a Monday, my day off. Since getting fired in August I’ve been working six days a week doing Uber and Lyft. I was up at 6:30 as usual and ate breakfast then.
I find this interesting. On Stuart Avenue everything is pretty. Nothing is ever out of place. The fridge is immaculate. Everything came from either Whole Foods or Ellwood Thompson’s. Inger tells me that her Mom and her people take care of Stuart Avenue. If she was there she could get her Mom’s chef to cook for her and it would be lovely. 16th Street? Not so much.
And this is the thing for Inger. She wants something of her own. Something she made. It would be so easy to slip into her lane, use her Gender and Sexuality Studies minor and Political Science major to work on K-Street, hook up with Charles, and slow walk through a career in lobbying, some kids, and retirement with a nice GS5 pension. All that went away when Inger lost her shit and claimed that a co-worker raped her. Plus, the stench of Charles still lingers on Stuart Avenue.
East 16th Street is a dump. It smells of hickory smoke, greens, and bacon. For the neighborhood it’s bougie. But Inger is from Old Gun Road. Her Mom thinks the house is a dump. This pleases Inger. Plus, the neighbors don’t really care what goes on inside her house.
She made two french omelets, “You are out of eggs. I made Orange Juice.Hungry? ” she asks me while doing something on her phone.
Not really, but the omelet looks good. Again with the tablecloth, cloth napkins, and service from Saks. Inger has upped her toothbrush game to include one of my kitchen cabinets. I seem to be the middle path between antiseptic and photogenic Stuart Avenue and chicken wings East 16th Street.
“What’s the latest on the stray finger?”
“Khalid is looking into some leads that point to Charles. I hope so. Asshole.”
Chuck E Cheese, last I heard, was off the radar in Taipei competing in Fortnite. Inger is good there, “what points to Charles?”
“The cops found an ac adapter for an XBox One and some dandruff. I had a swab of the back seat that I paid to have analyzed. Some of the DNA matched Charlie boy. He’s in ancestry.com. Creepy bastard.” You can say the evidence points to him being in the whip at some point. It doesn’t explain the expired New Jersey temporary tags or the pile of fast food leftovers with a receipt from Earl of Sandwich. “Plus, I found evidence of blood all over the way-back. I couldn’t get a sample, though.”
“Topic change. How are you? That was a pretty nasty scab on your scalp.” I haven’t heard anything more from the local news about what happened at Black Hand Coffee. Inger seems to have let it go except for the cut on her scalp, “I’m good. Scalp cuts bleed a lot so they look worse than they are. I got a couple of stitches and have to go to my doctor next week.”
“How about your meds?”
“Yeah, uhm, can you take me to the pharmacy? It’s CVS on West Broad at Boulevard.” Sure. Woo. Inger didn’t clean as she cooked. I don’t bother to ask who is washing dishes. I already know. Dirty dishes in the sink for just us two. I start to wash up. That gets me a hug.
“Licke” is a deliberate misspelling. It is a mashup of “lick” and “like”. You will find several misspellings in this piece. I didn’t just suddenly forget my B.A. in English. I don’t have dementia (yet). Comments telling me I made mistakes in writing this will not get approved.
Some talk radio bimbo was on CNN or MSNBC or whatever complaining that Ted Cruz wasn’t a very likeable (lickable?) ape. This was a comment on his debate performance. All of a sudden I had a twitch in my foot that would not stop. I had to suppress an urge to throw the TV remote at my TV, “likeable”!? Obama was likeable. His pimp hand was strong. We haven’t awakened from the morning after his disappearance from the national stage.
Bernie Sanders is a silverback, grumpy pimp-daddy who promises to make everything fair and buy me the cell phone & Cadillac I heard Obama promise and never delivered to me. Sanders tells us that the problem is that we didn’t turn enough tricks, that we haven’t tried hard enough. Billary is just degrees more deviously mamma-bear and otherwise just Sanders with ovaries.
Change isn’t likeable. Change sucks. Ask any newly recovering addict what it’s like to quit being an addict. Not fun. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Some lose people, places, things that supported their addiction. This is where we are as a country. We are addicted to a pimp-daddy government who keeps promising us more of what the wealthy have through his generosity and in actuality demands more of us, taking our liberty and abusing us when we don’t give him what he wants.
We’ve had a century of socialism. For a hundred years populist demagogues have promised us a chicken in every pot, 40 acres of land, a mule, taxing the rich to make things fair, jobs programs, free medical care, free education, free housing, that cell phone and the Cadillac. The only difference between the Democrats and the Republicans has been the pace at which the size of the government has increased and what percentage of our tax dollar goes to bullets or po’ folk. Jimmy Carter was a very likeable pimp-daddy. That went well. A likeable president makes me even more suspicious of the government than I already am.
We have crossed the pass. It will not get higher. All our roads lead into a valley. We can walk the ridge for a while but even that ridge will one day carry us into a valley. Our choice is which valley and how painful the descent will be. The Democrats want to offer us a phallacy. They claim that we have not mounted the pass, that there is further to go up the mountainside. The road ahead offers more money to the middle class and less money to the rich. They are again cooing in our ear about all the nice things they will buy us if we just let them lead for four more years. They are lying.
The Republicans are just socialist pimps of a lighter shade of pink. They also promise us gifts after we get out there and turn more tricks for them. They promise not to beat us as bad as those awful Democrats. Right. They are not promising to stop beating us. Just beat us less. That’s comforting, really.
Enter Trump, who is every bit the establishment but starts a shtick where he promises that he’s a really, really rich pimp who can make those mean Democrats and Republicans be nice to us. Trump, though, is a pussy of the first order. His pimp hand is rather weak. He never says pacifically what he’ll buy us. Just that he’ll make us great again. That said, after a century of badly behaved pimps, an old, toupee topped pimp in an expensive suit makes our crotch quiver with delight. We want him. Though, pimps be pimps. That this one is rich just means he’s not being honest about how much of a son-of-a-bitch he is.
Ted Cruz. He’s Cuban. He’s not a pimp. He’s a lawyer. He’s a former solicitor general for Texas. He’s the enemy. Now he wants to be president. We don’t like him. We want change but Cruz is a flavor of change that creeps us out.
Yet, our anus is sore from all the in & out by a century of politicians. We are tired of the broken promises and abuse. We are sick & tired of being sick and tired. We are at the pass and the valley below where our pimp-daddy has a house looks a lot like that one of the shadow of death talked about in Psalm 23. Cruz is Cuban and is of the man. He’s exactly the wrong guy but the right, likeable guy has been ass-fucking us for a century.
It’s still the second act. The story isn’t over. We have to pick a road down into a valley where we will find our leaders and the next act in this story. I’m tired of likeable pimp-daddies who keep promising me things and then asking me to fit an overly large dildo up my anus. Cruz may be a mistake but at least he isn’t like the other apes who have shiny teeth and suspiciously nice suits.
Our relationship to authority figures is symbiotic. They project a personality and we subliminally reflect it back in the way we behave. It’s not always overt. Sometimes it’s a subtle vibe, a mood that echoes some aspect of the personality of our authority figures. There is the carefully managed spin and propaganda that is broadcast to us, the peepul. There is also, and this is what this post is about, the rest of what is communicated by our leadership in nonverbal ways. A leader whose frame of reference is that not only is the glass half empty, but it got that way because someone took the first half and a couple other full glasses as well, will gather about him or her a crowd that is similarly resentful and hungry for their estimation of what is needed to make things right.
This is what we have in Obummer and the consequent mood of the country. The man strikes me as bitter. He had a chance with his speeches in New Orleans to offer praise and hope. He did offer faint praise but pressed on with saying that what has been done isn’t enough. He moved the bar. He pushed again the message that New Orleans is a place of lack owed a case of full glasses and although some glasses have been delivered, it is up to some other to bring the rest and make things right. Who, though? He is the President of the United States of America. He’s no longer a small-time community organizer in Chicago. He is the leader of one of the greatest empires in history. You can’t get much more establishment than that. If he expects some other to bring his case of full glasses to him and additional cases for those owed them, who would that be?
I get really annoyed at some African-Americans. Obama is one. They act like the whole country is still like it was in 1949 Mississippi. For them, the many successful African-Americans are ghosts not to be trusted, unreal and impossible, perhaps Uncle Toms. The real African Americans are some caricature of Stepin Fetchit. Their nonverbals speak volumes about seeking to return their kin to an antebellum South so they can restore white folk to their proper place as objects to be resented. Like an abused woman, they hunger for the very dysfunction that traps them in bondage to their abusers yet say that’s exactly what they don’t want. The world won’t be right until it’s properly wrong again and they can continue the fight. It’s a rather dangerous ‘tude.
Our bitter mood as a nation elected this president twice. We keep looking for a מָשִׁיחַ who will save us from our misery, conquer whatever dragons lurk about, ketchup bottles ready, and fix the problems of those guys who keep making a mess of our lives. The targets of our resentment seem to be memories of 19th century Teapot Dome monopolies that don’t exist in the same manner any longer. Labor unions want to fight McDonald’s on a big stage but because most of its stores are franchises owned locally they are having a hard time. The answer, it seems, is to perpetuate the very things that are said to oppress the peepul. They fight Uber in the courts as if it was Houston Yellow Cab and not a technology company providing a cloud based application platform that brokers riders and drivers. The left calls themselves progressive and accues conservatives of being luddites. I know, right?
My answer in both cases, is to challenge the president and the unions to reconsider their core beliefs, the way they narrate their lives, and perhaps acknowlege that some of what they stipulate to be true is perhaps, not true. We need leadership that believes in the good of humanity. I’m not hearing that from Sanders, Billary & Obummer. Trump is a pussy who found he could lead the establishment polls by doing the shock-jock schtick. Trump is a populist in a sheepskin coat. If you look closely at the shape of the bulge on the trousers of his Italian suit, it is a bottle of ketchup there.
Yes, we are of this world and in a lot of ways, it’s a fucked up world. There is a good chance all those floating fears about a dystopian future reflected in popular fiction might not be baseless. Leaders that feed that fear, that give us a feeling that they too are resentful and scared, don’t help. We need leadership that knows mankind is capable of tremendous good and along with good governance, helps us find that good and bring it about.
Can mankind be horrid? Absolutely. Our headlines repeat an endless chorus of the ways in which we are ugly to each other. We can also be heroic and I’m hoping for leaders that put that propaganda out there and communicate it through their non-verbals. My fear is that the Stepin Fetchin crowd will continue to occupy the headlines and usher Billary & Sanders into office. We need hope & change from leaders who are actually hopeful and will foster the sort of change that lifts all boats, values all lives, encourages us to make many pies rather than scrap for crumbs from one pie that is too small. I hope we get it in the next election.