The democratic party’s soul search

JFK didn’t randomly decide to land the first man on the moon. His announcement that we’d be the ones to do it by the end of the decade came on the heels of fifteen years of escalating competition with the Soviets. They were grilling us in the space race and this was how we were going to best them. Two years earlier, as a way of competing with the communistic vision of the future, Nixon co-hosted highly televised exhibitions with Khrushchev where they each showed off the latest and greatest home appliances their countries had invented. It was 1961 now and winds of rock and roll, sexual liberation, and civil rights were catapulting us out of the domestic centrifuge of growth and progress that had powered the previous decade, which was quickly starting to seem quaint. It was audacious, but only natural, that the moon would be our next frontier.

Ever since the day after the 2016 election, media commentators have been talking about how the Democratic Party needs to “do some soul searching”.  About how we need a bold new vision that inspires people to be a part of the party beyond just being anti-Trump. Like JFK’s call to land man on the moon, we need something big, something new, that galvanizes us and brings us together.

The conversation always manages to trail off before they reach the specifics, though. Two years in and it still lives in this esoteric, hypothetical lull. Concrete policies aren’t listed—not definitively, at least. It just needs to be something, the commentators conclude before moving on to the latest breaking Trump news.

The weird part of this conversation’s seemingly permanent hypothetical state is that you don’t have to look around very hard to see a bunch of distinct movements on the ground, or national conversations on the verge of movements. All of the following has started or grown significantly since Trump got elected: People are talking about single-payer healthcare a lot. A report just came out that climate change is escalating way faster than we thought it was—and conversations about a “Green New Deal” are the most excited people have been about solving climate change since An Inconvenient Truth came out. Tens of thousands of low-income workers have been marching about the fact that they live in poverty while working forty hours or more per week—they’re calling for a $15 minimum wage, and cities are starting to agree. We’re losing a record number of teachers because they’re paid so abysmally—posts about teachers having to cover their classroom supplies routinely go viral, and the nation watched as public school teachers protested about their wages and pensions in the conservative states of Kentucky and Oklahoma. Millennial college graduates are talking about how they’re straddled in student loan debt and can’t afford the basics of life; economists are talking about how this is going to drag our economy.

The only way to explain the fact that this conversation about the Democrats’ plan still goes nowhere, which is a conversation between professional politicians and media commentators who are trained to observe America, is that they don’t want the solutions these people are calling for to be the party’s platform. It’s not that they can’t think of any possibilities, it’s that they can’t think of any within the confines that bind them. Sure, they want a bold plan that invigorates and inspires voters—you’d better believe they’re coming up with one for 2020—just not this one. Of course they’re going to propose solutions that alleviate Americans’ suffering—just not the ones that are already drawing thousands of them out of their houses and into the streets.

What they have yet to realize is that movements have to be a natural outgrowth of the places that the times are driving people towards. You can’t observe where the masses are headed and be like, “nah—but how about some other thing instead?”

You can choose to lead a movement, or you can choose to resist it. What you can’t do is capture all of the energy of a group of people fighting for something without delivering on anything that gave them the energy in the first place.*

We’re barreling towards 2020 without a platform—not on purpose, but by accident, because we have a fallback. Forward movement isn’t the only human driver: fear of moving backwards can be, too. And it’s a lot easier to respond to the latest astonishing Trump thing than to come to terms with the fact that you’re holding your own people back.

*An example of the Democrats trying to capture the energy of a movement sans movement: when scores of media commentators and centrist Democrats said to Bernie, when he lost the primary, “you’re going to deliver your base to Hillary, right?!?!?!” They were of course saying this out of strategic necessity, but I want to point out the glaring error in their assumption that the leader of a movement can corral their followers like that: the reason Bernie had such an enthusiastic base in the first place was because of what he was offering that others weren’t. And the thought that he could inject that somewhere else that didn’t offer those things and conjure the same enthusiasm reveals how shallow the Democrats’ thinking on voters and platforms is.

Different types of lotteries

This is Colin Jost talking about the Amazon HQ2 announcement last week on SNL’s Weekend Update:

“By the way, only New Yorkers could complain about getting 25,000 new jobs. All the cities who lost out must be like, ‘shut up you whiney bitches’. New York basically won the lottery and we’re like, ‘oh, but the subways might be slightly more crowded.’ Meanwhile, people in West Virginia are like, ‘well? Back to the mines!’”

When he says, ‘New York basically won the lottery’, Jost is invoking the lottery we play in gas stations, the ones run by Mega Millions and Powerball. A bunch of people pay into a fund and a few lucky winners based on sheer chance get to keep it all.

People who play the gas station lottery are often scoffed at for wasting their money on something with such long odds. High-brow society says it’s a stupid bet. But the Powerball winner is funded by and only by the people who think it’s not a stupid bet—by other people trying to win the Powerball. It would be as if the Rio Olympics were only funded by people in Rio who wanted the Olympics to be there.

That’s not how the Olympics work, though: just look at Rio. In spite of the fact that Rio de Janeiro has some of the worst income inequality in the world, in spite of the fact that Brazil was entering the worst recession it had seen since the 1930s, and in spite of the clear evidence that the Olympics do not financially benefit their host countries, that they often, instead, bankrupt them, Rio threw down $13 billion to host the games.

What explains the government officials that continue to insist in spite of all evidence that the Olympics pay for themselves through tourism and temporary jobs? It’s the narrative they get. It’s the world stage glory. That’s what they’re really paying for. Like Powerball hopefuls paying for the narrative of ‘I just might be the winner’, these government officials are bidding for a feeling and a story.

Unlike the Powerball, though, the Olympic lottery would still go on whether or not the people paying for it thought that narrative was worth it.

If you’re the mayor of a city like New York, the narrative of ‘we’re emerging as the East Coast rival of Silicon Valley’ is valuable and exciting. Maybe enough to pay $3 billion for Amazon, even though you’re New York and you didn’t really need to. Your people don’t really give a damn about being the East Coast rival of Silicon Valley…but you do.

Colin Jost is right and he’s wrong at the same time. New York is one of the only cities in America that would complain about Amazon coming to town. We shouldn’t take from this that New Yorkers somehow suck and have a massive case of #firstworldproblems. It should instead be a sign that our lottery is askant. Cleveland could have used those jobs. Same with Nashville, Austin, and Denver, which are all desirable middle-sized cities where young talent would have been more than willing to locate. New York and DC got them, though, where the players say it was worth it even though the payers say otherwise.

There are different types of lotteries.

Democracy on purpose

True, participatory democracy should be about so much more than voting. We know this—but besides occasional rallies and letter-writing, few things come to mind. Maybe this has nothing to do with the options that are available to us and everything to do with how much or how little we’ve built deliberate cultures around the things we do.

Voting is an action, but Election Day is a culture. A culture that we do on purpose. The waiting in line at your local rec center or fire station or dance studio. The background noise of holes being punched through thick paper. The sticker. At home you turn on the network news ahead of time because you want to feel the anticipation before the results pour in and all of the national channels have special programming designed to make you feel like today is a big day. The culture is distinct—and it’s fun, too.

There are countless open slots in participatory democracy that we could build a culture around. There’s no culture around getting into an accidental political debate with friends or family, for instance, with the goal of arriving somewhere new together. Maybe it’s no wonder that we avoid these conversations even though they would strengthen our ability to communicate our own opinions and deepen our understanding of others’. There’s no shared playbook, and as a result, when the opportunities crop up, we feel unsafe.

We could make new rituals, new norms, an entirely new taxonomy designed to make these conversations productive and fun.

I was at an activist meeting the other day, and two activists sitting next to each other realized they had similar, interconnected ideas that they each wanted to share.

“You wanna stack?” one said to the other.

We could make stuff like that.

In praise of more noise

With anything you want to do in the world, there’s two things you need – and an awkward tension between them. On the one hand, you need domain knowledge. You need to know who came before you, you need to study the work of those in the field right now. You need heroes. You need influences.

On the other hand, you ought to have opinions about the work you see. Often, critical ones. If your intentions are genuine, if you’re not doing what you’re doing for connections or prestige or status – well, why the fuck would you get in the arena if you took a look around and thought that everything seemed just fine?

The Democratic Party seems to misinterpret criticism from progressives seeking office as a repudiation of membership on the team. You can hear it in the predictably chronic questions about “party unity” every time a Bernie Sanders-style candidate challenges a centrist incumbent. The reasoning behind the call for unity is that public in-fighting will weaken us in the general election against the Republicans. And with the scary state of affairs in our country right now, why would we ever take that risk?

I want to throw down the opposite idea: Public criticism is a virtue. Debate within a group—what some mislabel ‘in-fighting’—is a good sign. It means that our group is awake enough and diverse enough to still be alive.

My new professor at journalism school structured our first big lecture series around this James Carey quote:

“Republics require conversation, often cacophonous conversation, for they should be noisy places.”

There’s a really legendary book in 20th century American politics that often gets misinterpreted. It’s called The Vital Center and in it, the author—who was writing in 1949, during some fun Cold War/Red Scare times—told us that Democrats and Republicans need each other to balance America out and keep us from caving to global threats of socialism and totalitarianism. Those cold, capitalist Republicans need the Democrats to help them care about marginalized people, and we soft-hearted, spendthrift Dems need the Republicans to instill some discipline and national security. This tug-of-war, this counter-balance—is how we’ll protect democracy.

But—and here’s where the mass misinterpretation comes in—Schlessinger wasn’t arguing that we all become centrists and tone ourselves down. What he was saying was that all of the voices—right, left, further left, weird outspoken libertarian who thinks he has it all figured out, condescending Greenpeace activist— in clanging cacophony, in debate, and indeed, in public—that noise, aka, democracy, would be what saved us. No single way would ever be the way, no one ideology would ever save us. It was about the process itself—not the mythically perfectable ends it might promise to achieve. So to stabilize democracy—unlike any other form of government under the sun—we ironically had to embrace our lack of internal cohesion. We had to embrace bumping up against each other. Because doing so, and figuring how to mutually negotiate our way around it—was the entire point of this thing.

With that in mind, something worries me –

Newcomers to any field that seeks to serve the public are basically told to fall in line. So people with genuine intentions in politics or media tell themselves, okay – I’ll do it their way for the next 2, 4, 8 years until I get to this higher position. Then I’ll get to call all the shots. And by the time they make it there, they often find that they more or less have come to see things the same as those around them. Or, they realize that there’s another job, another election, another rung they need to climb before they can stand apart the way they’d like to stand apart. The cycle never ends, but democracies have been known to.

Democrats tell us that given the precarious state of our democracy, now really isn’t the time to be making more noise.

I say the opposite. Given the precarious state of our democracy, we need noise – more of it. In public. All together now.

The Masses are Dead, Organize Accordingly

“Who’s the leader of the modern civil rights movement?” my dad asked me over sushi.

“We had Martin Luther King Jr. Who’s your guys’ version of that?”

I told him that Shaun King was probably the closest. But even coming off of my lips, I knew it wasn’t true. The truth was that I followed Shaun King on Facebook, that I connected with his posts and looked forward to seeing them whenever they came up on my feed. He wasn’t the biggest influencer, he was my biggest influencer.

It drove the mainstream media crazy that there wasn’t a leader of Occupy. They spent a lot of precious interview time covering the movement to democratize wealth and power by asking the many who called themselves co-organizers to pinpoint the key instigator, the—“yes, sure, you’re all leaders but who is the leader”.

What type of peasant would crowdsource their restaurant choices to a bunch of randos instead of consulting a Zagat? Why would you visit a YouTube channel that only has 110,000 followers when an Emmy-nominated show is playing on channel 7? Why would you even bother reading this blog when it’s the beginning of the month and the staff at the New York Times is kind enough to let you read any ten articles you want before the pay wall goes up?

The masses are dead, and they’re not coming back. The internet killed them. Down with it is the concept of singular leaders. Leaders don’t lead masses anymore—they lead pockets. All of us follow a bunch of different pockets. Our friends haven’t even heard of most of them.

We used to share a culture. Back when there were only 3 channels on TV, no network could afford to run a show that didn’t have mass appeal. Edges were liabilities, because your intended audience was everyone. So exceptional wasn’t the goal: adequate was. What you ended up with were sitcoms about so-called “average American families” that were crafted—intentionally—to be generic.

If you were trying to sell something, your best bet was to run ads during those generic shows—everyone would be watching. And how would you win over that heaping, faceless mass? Certainly not by being something weird or specific—something a small group would be fanatical about, but might not be for everyone. You needed to be something that would be for everyone! And how would you convey that? By being the biggest. By being chosen by authorities (“The makers of 25 automatic washers recommend Tide!”…“More doctors smoke Camel than any other cigarette”)

We can start to see that the instructions we gave to journalists to “be neutral; fashion yourself as an authority; get placed on the biggest network” weren’t about some unyielding allegiance to impartiality. They were the foundations of the industrial business model. Offend too many people and lose the mass. Lose the mass and get scrubbed off the limited number of on-air channels.

In the post-industrial age, the riskiest thing you can do is to try to be for everyone. We’re living in an age of tribes: not just political tribes but those of bloggers, speakers, and creators who step up to share a message that means something to a relatively small and distinct group. There’s no limit on the number of YouTube channels we can follow, and someone with 5,000 true fans could have more influence than someone with 500,000 tepid ones…so no need to sand down your edges to try and be the voice of a movement. That isn’t a thing anymore. We’ll probably ignore you if you try. We’re not trusting our new leaders because they’re “authorities” but because they’ve built a secret clubhouse and invited us in. “Neutrality” doesn’t grant them influence—emotional labor does.

News networks are responding to the death of the mass by becoming increasingly partisan. By increasingly stoking our anger at, and fear of, the other side. It’s not some ethereal moral mystery—it’s their attempt to fit into this new world of tribes while still maintaining a heaping mass of viewers enough to stay on primetime.

How far left or right you skew is a very narrow and flat view of what a tribe can be. Next week, I’ll talk about what the news of the future has the potential to be. It’s way cooler.


So when all these pearl-clutching New York Times journalists and CNN hosts warn us that the internet is sending us down a dangerous spiral into a post-truth world, they’re smushing two things together:

  • the more-recent concern of “how do we stop malicious actors from spreading lies to vast swaths of the population,”


  • the steady dissolution of their perceived authority over news and the telling of it

And when establishment politicians warn us that ‘social media is polarizing us’ when the candidate they and all their colleagues recommended still loses, they’re smushing two things together:

  • the fact that that social media is polarizing us


  •  the fact that nobody gives a shit what the establishment recommends anymore


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Funny Thing About Charity…

Walmart routinely tops the list of the world’s most generous companies. And for good reason. It donates 90 million pounds of fresh food per year to Feeding America. In 2015 alone, it pledged $100 million to advance economic mobility for retail workers. It gave out $47 million in grants to local fire departments, law enforcement agencies, schools, and rec centers in the communities where it operates.

The biggest group of food stamp recipients in the country is full-time employees at Walmart. We pay $6.2 billion in taxes every year to support them. In its notorious political spending to hold down the minimum wage and eliminate union protections, Walmart strives to prevent its workers from living a life in which its hunger alleviation partnership would be less necessary. In its notorious lobbying to slash corporate taxes, it funds both local fire departments and those who work to ensure those fire departments will continue to need it.

Last week, Amazon successfully bullied the Seattle City Council into cancelling a homelessness alleviation tax. The tax—which the Council had already passed unanimously—sought to fix something that the Amazon headquarters in large part created by pricing most residents out of the housing market and prompting a rampant homelessness problem within just a few years. In its original form, the tax charged $500-per-employee, per year, on corporations that made more than $20 million per year within the city. But when Amazon responded by halting construction on a building downtown, putting 7,000 jobs in immediate jeopardy, the council brought it down to $275-per-employee.

At that, Amazon resumed construction, but joined forces with the likes of Starbucks and Microsoft (also headquartered in Seattle) to sponsor a mass PR campaign against the tax.

Last Monday, the Council voted 7-2 to cancel the tax that all nine of them voted for just four weeks earlier.

This may not surprise you. But perhaps these two Jeff Bezos tweets will. Mary’s Place is a homeless shelter in Seattle:

He tweeted this next one last week, the day after he got the homelessness tax cancelled:

So what gives? Why do corporations insist that we’re “anti-business” to tax them more or demand they pay their workers a higher minimum wage, and then proceed to give away hundreds of millions of dollars to provide the exact services for the exact populations that their taxes and wage hikes were designed to address? Why do so many wealthy people fund both hospital wings and lobbying to free themselves from the requirement to help others afford the visit?

As progressives, we say that the root problem is greed. I think that’s an incomplete answer, and a little bit lazy. Donating millions of your own dollars to charity and public projects is, let’s face it—by-definition not greedy.

Consider instead this quote by Nietzsche:

When the democracy vanishes, and with it any kind of social contract, there is no use to feed the “useless/excluded” anymore. Therefore, the excluded disappear and the upper classes depend less than ever on the society. Already today, the members of the upper classes of the world are more close to each other than they are to the excluded of their own country.

We see this in our neighborhoods, where income segregation has increased 20% since 1990. We see it in the global rise in gated communities over just the past decade. In the national surge of private police forces.

Why would you pay into a safety net that you don’t need and can’t imagine needing? Why would you allow the government to siphon off even more of your earnings to support a flailing group of Americans that keeps growing in size as it shrinks in relevance to you?

That’s what charity is for.

The problem with charity is that it does nothing to address the inequalities in capitalism that make the giver’s charity so necessary in the first place. Clean water, feeding the hungry, getting the homeless back on their feet—charities that work on these issues are irreproachable. Wealthy individuals and large corporations that donate their millions here are irreproachable.

But requiring them and all their peers to pay the type of wages and taxes that would diminish the world’s need for their boundless charity, and indeed, would diminish their and their companies’ ability to be boundless in their charity?

Then, it’s war.

And that’s the difference.

PS: I’m back, baby. Rather than bore you with my excuses for not writing lately, I thought I’d throw down a no-matter-what commitment. Tuesday mornings. Every week. Anyone has my full permission to annoyedly ask what the deal is if it doesn’t show up, and thanks to those who did. Thank you for being a part of this, and for caring.

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I do well in red states

In 2nd grade, my teacher Mrs. Bahedry decided to conduct a poll. “Raise your hands,” she said—in the fall of 2000, an election year—“if your parents are voting for Al Gore.” A sea of hands went up. This was a private school in Bel Air, a notoriously wealthy—and, at least according to this sample, liberal—enclave. “Now raise your hands if they’re voting for Bush.” Only Julia Carroll and I raised our hands. Julia looked embarrassed. I was stoked. The same way I desperately wanted to break my arm or be on crutches or have to wear glasses—something happens to you, that’s out of your control, that makes you stand out and get special attention? What could be better?—I was elated to be part of this apparent minority that, apparently, carried some sort of meaning.

Mrs. Bahedry nodded as she contemplated Julia’s hand (which was practically buried in her armpit at this point) and mine (soaring in the sky): “Very interesting,” she said. She was taking it all in.

I sat down at the dinner table that night and told my parents the story of just how delightfully unique they were. But their facial expressions gave off more of an ‘a bomb just went off’ vibe. It wasn’t until years later that I understood why.

Mrs. Bahedry was peeking—and it clearly wasn’t because she didn’t intensely judge our parents no matter what.

Looking past the highly immoral methods of a second grade teacher, how many times in the past year have we each wanted to peek? Have we met a stranger who we liked and then, based on something in the way they talked or where we met them, thought, “Oh shit. What if they voted for so-and-so?”

I wonder if George Strait is for or against gay marriage. I get the creeping nervous feeling that he might be against it as I listen to Cowboys Like Us—which, for the record, is a delightful song that has nothing to do with politics, but the concern has arrived ready-made and I can only dismiss it by thinking, he’s probably for it. He’s been in the entertainment industry too long not to accept the LGBT community.

It’s as if I can only enjoy his work—which, as a reminder, is singing songs—if I can delude myself into believing that he has the same politics as I do.

Increasingly, when considering the people around us whose ideologies we do not know, we present ourselves with the following choice: to peek or not to peek? “Peeking” because we wonder if we want to know about the political views of, say, our favorite neighbor in the same spirit as we wonder if we should listen in on what’s said about us after we leave a room: risk learning something we don’t like? Or continue to live in a state of blissful ignorance? Just like right before we peek, the trademark emotion in this dilemma is nervousness: nervousness because we know, deep down, if they turn out to have politics we’re opposed to, we’re going to have a hard time liking that person as much as we thought we did. If they turn out to share ours, on the other hand, we’ll breathe a sigh of relief and like them even more.

Americans having different views from members of the opposite political party is nothing new. What is new is our fear that the people we know, like, and live near may indeed be members of that other party. As Bill Bishop writes in his book on the geographic clustering of like-minded America, in 1976, less than 25 percent of us lived in counties where the presidential election was a landslide. Meaning that 75 percent of us lived, went to school with, and played poker with people who were likely to have different beliefs than we did. Compare that to today. The statistic has flipped: 80 percent of Americans live in counties where either Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton won in a landslide. Meaning that only 20 percent of us are living in places where we don’t expect the person we’re talking to in the grocery store line to have the same stance on abortion as we do. Only 20 percent of us are living in places where it wouldn’t be a potential piece of gossip that so-and-so voted for the other candidate.

One good example of ideological migration is a 1976 San Francisco County, where the Republican Gerald Ford got 44 percent of the vote. In 2004, George W. Bush got 15 percent of the vote. As Thomas Jackson of American Variety puts it and Bishop confirms in his data, “Republicans did not all die or convert; they cleared out”.

Ideological sorting, in other words, didn’t happen because neighbors influenced each other, but because they chose each other. It also coincides with a particular separate but interrelated trend: Americans are moving way more than they used to. More young people than ever are moving to cities where they didn’t grow up and more families are moving, too.

The changing job market, a growing emphasis on “lifestyle”, the skyrocketing cost of rent in major cities—the factors impelling us to move are rarely ideological on the surface. It’s not like a footloose liberal is looking up Multnomah County’s election stats before making the big leap…but well-known identity cues like “artsy”, “entrepreneurial”, “yuppie haven”, and “sanctuary city” leads them to conclude all the same that Portland, Oregon is a place where they’re bound to encounter plenty more of their own kind. A conservative doesn’t need to ask about politics to know what a town with a big Veteran’s Day parade and “strong hunting culture” connotes. We’re not using these gratingly cliché, horrifyingly simplified cues to define how we think about ourselves as individuals. We are, it turns out, using them pretty hardcore to define the type of place we think we would and wouldn’t be comfortable living.

My dad and I have an inside joke. “How many girls who went to private school in LA, do you think, want to live in Kentucky and Idaho?”

“I do well in red states,” I’ll say back with a smile.

But that’s not the whole story. The whole story is that I do well in liberal enclaves within red states.

I love Idaho, but my main vantage point is Sun Valley, Idaho, a tourist ski town heavily influenced by its coastal guests and the type of place where the bookstore sells “Blue Girl, Red State” bumper stickers. I live in Kentucky, but in Louisville, Kentucky, which is like if you stuck a half-pint Portland Oregon in the South. It allows me to wear cowboy boots unironically and drive a pickup truck and say to my overwhelmingly liberal, coastal friends, ‘hey, look at me: I live in Kentucky!’ (hey, look at me! I have glasses and a broken arm!) while ensconced in a thick ring of micro foam coffee shops and “No Human is Illegal” signs. I get to be simultaneously close to and far away from “the other”. I get to answer the dilemma, ‘to peek or not to peek’ by convincing myself that I already have, and that it’s all just fine with me.

Assuming we’re not going to inspire a conservative infiltration of Brooklyn anytime soon or undo 45 years’ worth of place-based preferences that most of us thought were incidental, what do we do?

I don’t know the answer, but I keep coming back to the image of me when someone I know professes a political opinion that I can’t stand: wringing my hands, trying to look like I’m listening but really I’m so stressed by what they’re saying that I’m not listening, switching back and forth between hoping they stop talking as soon as possible and hoping they keep talking long enough for me to develop a three point rebuttal plan.

No wonder we all moved so far away from one another. That person sucks. Nobody enjoys being that. Nobody enjoys receiving that.

Here’s a small shift we might try: as a game, the next time one of these conversations comes up, what if we didn’t allow ourselves to respond with our own opinion at all? With the stress off the table that comes with having to address a worldview to which we’re dramatically opposed, how would this change the questions we ask? How would this change the goals of the connection we seek to make?


Don’t Rock the Boat, Baby

A couple of years ago, a big publishing company called Hachette had a problem with a contract that Amazon wanted them to sign. Hachette publishes top-shelf writers like David Sedaris, J.K. Rowling, James Patterson, and Malcolm Gladwell. Hachette’s contract with Amazon had expired and the new contract’s main proposed condition was that Hachette set all of their e-books at the much-lower price of $9.99. Hachette and most of its authors felt that this was way too low. They weren’t yet willing to sign.

It’s a negotiation, right? These things happen in business. The two companies hash it out and eventually reach some sort of agreement.

Nope. Amazon apparently wasn’t interested in a convo. They immediately retaliated with a full-blown delivery throttle, imposing a 2-to-5 week delivery date on each and every book written by a Hachette-represented author. They removed pre-order buttons from all upcoming Hachette books, including J.K. Rowling’s highly anticipated follow-up to Harry Potter. Many of their books weren’t coming up in search results at all. All because Hachette had the audacity to try and counter-negotiate with their business partners.

During what ended up being Amazon’s six-month storm of wrath against the publisher, the many journalists covering the story were overwhelmingly—and rightfully—critical of Amazon’s behavior. But perhaps they shouldn’t have been. This is exactly how we should expect companies to act when they merge and grow and merge and grow until they have nobody left to compete with.

Many people who consider themselves free market capitalists will argue that the way big corporations operate is basically none of the government’s business. They don’t say this because they’re heartless monsters, but because they truly have faith that the free market will tell a company like Amazon where their limit is based on what a company like Hachette will and won’t accept. And in a truly free market, they would be correct. In a truly free market, your company would outsource its costs as long as it was profitable. But there comes a point—there used to—where the people you do business with aren’t willing to accept your cost-cutting measures. They’ll switch to your competition if you go through with it, and not working with them would be bad for your bottom line, so you don’t do that thing you wanted to do. The market takes care of limits by itself—no regulation necessary. If you like free markets, and in an ideal world, I would too—this is what you believe.

But what happens when the companies within a single market take over such a large portion of the market share that you, the consumer, or you, the producer, have no choice but to accept whatever the company demands? Is it capitalism anymore when with every passing year, if you want to fly on a plane, use Internet in your house, or sell a book, you have fewer and fewer options but to accept the terms of an 800-pound gorilla? Is it capitalism anymore when one of the two parties stops having options?

This is what’s happening to chicken farmers. Tyson and 3 other companies have come to control an alarmingly high portion of the consumer chicken market. Meaning that if you’re a chicken farmer and it’s 2017, you have fewer and fewer outlets to sell your product to except Tyson, Pilgrim’s Pride, Perdue, or Sanderson Farms. So when Tyson, and soon after, the other big three realized that it sure did cost a lot to own all that land to store and raise their product—chickens—they came up with a genius idea that would have never worked two decades earlier when they had more competitors: they approached the many independent farmers who were increasingly struggling to make a living in a Tyson-saturated market, and recruited them to work for them under a flock-to-flock contract. The farmers would raise chickens on their own land (thus enabling these companies to not have to pay for any of the land needed to raise their product). And hey, since it was the farmers’ land, the farmers would pay the roughly $900,000 it costs to erect the industrial chicken houses and other equipment consistent with company standards. “You get to be an independent contractor!” Tyson said, and still says. Except even better, because you don’t have to worry about the changing cost of feed like you would if you worked for yourself. Tyson sets them up with the baby chicks, the feed, and the precise instructions on how to grow the chicks effectively. Plus, they hook the farmers up with a bank that will issue them the massive loans they need to pay for their chicken houses out of pocket—loans that a bank would never give to someone of their means if they weren’t with Tyson.

The farmers are willing to take on such massive debt because they see what they’ll be making once the equipment is paid off in 8 years or so—assuming all goes well and Tyson keeps contracting with them flock after flock. It’s good money—better than they’d ever make alone in this climate. ‘I’m hardworking. I’m enterprising,’ they think to themselves. ‘I can follow their instructions. There’s no reason I won’t get out of the red.’

Except there’s one part of the story they forgot to account for, which is when Tyson approaches the farmer two years in, while he’s still very much in debt for the original chicken houses he bought to enter the relationship. “Hey Paul,” they say, “you’re doing great. So great, in fact, that we want you to upgrade to this new, more efficient ventilation technology we’ve developed. It’ll cost you $250,000. We’ve spoken to Brenda at the credit union and she’s willing to issue you the loan.”

“No thanks,” Paul says, “I don’t want to take on any more debt right now.”

“No really,” Tyson says. “Do it.”

“No,” Paul says, “I can’t right now.”

So Tyson starts giving Paul shittier, sicker chicks to raise. Since the farmers are paid on a per-pound basis, this directly impacts how much money Paul earns. He starts to not be able to make his monthly bank payments to pay off the original chicken houses. All because he didn’t want to buy upgraded equipment out-of-pocket at the precise time that Tyson demanded he did.

So much for being an ‘independent contractor’.

You may be thinking—well, there are three other big options you named that the farmers can work for instead: Pilgrim’s Pride, Perdue, and Sanderson Farms. That’s a borderline-acceptable amount of competition. But here’s the kicker, which chicken farmers have known for years and Christopher Leonard details in his extremely entertaining book on this topic: these top four companies have what is effectively an unspoken “gentleman’s agreement” with each other: they won’t recruit farmers on each other’s turf. So there are ‘Tyson communities’ and there are ‘Pilgrim’s Pride communities’, but never both. If Tyson terminates your contract, good luck getting a job with anyone else. And you’re still wildly in debt from those industrial chicken houses, which you owe bank payments on regardless of what happens with your employer.

“Over the past 15 years, I have sold millions of dollars’ worth of books on Amazon, which means I have made millions of dollars for Amazon. I would have thought I was one of their best assets. I thought we were partners in a business that has done well. This seems an odd way to treat someone who has made you millions of dollars.”

That’s what many-time bestselling author Malcolm Gladwell, who was represented by Hachette, had to say to the New York Times when Amazon was retaliating against them for not agreeing to sell their e-books at $9.99. The journalist he spoke to rightly noted that he sounded more like someone who was hurt by a friend than angry at a billion-dollar business.Why would that be? Why would the world’s most famous social scientist be so…emotional over something that was so strictly business? Well he, and I would argue, most of us, are still assuming that the basic laws of business from the days of our parents and grandparents apply to us: that if we create something that makes boatloads of money for the company that sells it, that makes us an asset that the company doesn’t want to lose. In other words, the bigger you get, the more respect you get; the more your business partners will stretch—within reason—to keep you happy and keep you working with them. But in the age of monopoly, we’re late to the party in realizing that the old rules of business do not apply. As fewer and fewer corporations control more and more of the market share across almost every industry, no person, no supplier matters enough to listen to or accommodate—not even the superstar moneymakers.

Enter Malcolm Gladwell’s sense of dismay, dismay over the respect—seemingly more than the price—he felt he was owed. Gladwell is one of the most in-demand writers in the world, and thereby, on Amazon; we get the weird benefit of witnessing the moment he realized that his demand was unhinged not only from his supply and from his prices, but from the basic dignity that producing something popular used to get you. Corporate consolidation not only warps the logistical rules of capitalism but the emotional matrix of anyone who participates.

Speaking of which, up until the day that Tyson would come to town, farmers in any given community would share advice, tricks, and tips with each other. You could do well and your neighbor could do well at the same time. No longer. The farmers in each community are put in a “tournament” system with each other to determine their salaries per flock… the same concept as being graded on a curve. So the size of their checks every six weeks aren’t determined by how big they grow their chickens but how big they grow their chickens in comparison to their neighbors. Your success depends on your neighbor’s relative failure. And your neighbor’s success is, by design, bad news for you. And since you’re all deeply in debt for the chicken houses Tyson had you buy, the stakes couldn’t be higher. It’s actually in the farmers’ contracts that they’re not allowed to communicate with each other about their methods. They’re only allowed to communicate with their assigned technician representative. The design literally rips communities apart socially as much as it does economically, transforming amicable neighbors into nervous competitors, isolated not only from their craft but from each other. Without antitrust, we literally create an anti-trust. And, much like the real game of monopoly, if your competitors can’t pay back the bank for the property they bought and have to declare bankruptcy, you’re not supposed to care. Because it means you win.

While the tournament system sounds shocking and cruel when you get what’s really happening, think about how a high-up at Tyson would describe it: “It promotes competition! It encourages farmers to do their best work! It rewards the hardest working chicken farmers with bonuses! That bonus is available to any of the farmers who are willing to work hard enough.”

I have to admit: if I heard a corporate representative saying something like this about another industry I didn’t know as much about, I doubt I would think it sounded that bad. I might even nod my head along a little. Yeah, that sounds innovative! That sounds like how capitalism probably ought to work. I think I’m down.

We end up with something that sounds like a free market and looks like a free market to anyone on the outside. But most of those on the inside are—once they get in deep enough—ensnared. And, to win, which in industries like these is coming to mean ‘to not get dropped or go bankrupt’, it ends up costing them next to all of their autonomy and dignity. Wasn’t a sense of autonomy the whole reason we were more or less down with this capitalism thing? The feeling that our fate was ultimately in our own hands? That if we could create a killer product or service…we could win?

In 2012, Obama and his Secretary of Agriculture held hearings across the heartland for contract poultry farmers intending to develop new antitrust regulations aimed at their giant employers like Tyson. In spite of receiving tens of thousands of anonymous online comments prior to the hearings, almost no chicken farmers showed. Why? They said they were scared that their employers would retaliate against them. They had seen what had happened to their various ‘Paul’s’, let alone to the few brave souls who publicly spoke out against Tyson while they were working for them. Their stories often ended in bankruptcy and foreclosure… due simply to “poor performance”, according to their employers, based on low-weight chickens, which awkwardly coincided with the time they started to cause a ruckus.

Corporate consolidation isn’t just maintained by the technical reality that producers have fewer and fewer options; it’s maintained by the cold-sweat fear this dynamic instills in anyone who has a problem with it. With each merger and acquisition, the risk of speaking up increases. It becomes a risk to whisper. Even when the President himself is inviting you to.

Hachette and Amazon ended up reaching an agreement that the Hachette CEO said was “great news for writers.” But in the process, they learned an intractable lesson about their business partners: any time they wished to push back against Amazon, it was going to be high key. It was going to keep their writers from writing and cost them millions’ of dollars in sales, however noble the cause, however reasonable the request, and however overwhelmingly supported they were by the press and public opinion—as they were from the start. As far as their bottom line was concerned, Amazon appeared to be insulated from six months of sharp public criticism as well as not-shipping a number of the world’s most popular writers —people just bought one of the other two million titles they had on tap. Amazon could evidently withstand the hit. Could Hachette? If this happened even one more time, it’s easy to imagine how talented publishers might migrate to a firm that was in better graces with those that controlled almost 70% of their market. It’s easy to imagine how hot new writers might avoid working with Hachette out of fear that another dispute would arise. After all, they all got into this business to put great ideas out into the world, not to be activists. Under a virtual monopoly, any wrong movement threatens to bar you from the passions and skills you spent a lifetime investing in. Why rock the boat when the stakes couldn’t be higher?

This is where politicians come in handy, like when conservative president Teddy Roosevelt passed the Sherman Act when Standard Oil started to behave like today’s chicken companies. Unfortunately for the 21st century, The National Chicken Council lobbied the shit out of Obama’s poultry industry reforms, shelling out every last fiber of their anti-monopoly provisions and nearly everything else that would have made a difference. And weirdly, around the time that everything was going down with Hachette and politicians were starting to take notice of Amazon’s bullying tactics and asking questions like, ‘Hey, do you think Amazon’s a little too big?’, weirdly, and incidentally, Jeff Bezos purchased The Washington Post for $250 million.

So just imagine, as Zephyr Teachout said in her TED talk, any senator wanting to pass antitrust legislation and seeking re-election with The Washington Post hanging over their heads. No, billionaire business tycoon Jeff Bezos isn’t hunched over his editors’ shoulders demanding they write articles defending Amazon and slashing any senators who stand against them. That would be too transparent and too blatantly anti-free speech. Much more likely that he achieves the same effect through a concoction of op-eds, unspoken fear amongst mainstream sitting senators, and the access to powerful people one gets when one owns a newspaper. Looks like democracy. Sounds like democracy. But the key players are utterly ensnared.

Not only are all of these corporations’ actions perfectly legal—most people claiming to be free market capitalists will tell you that it’s perfectly natural, too. As markets mature, it’s only natural that the most successful corporations will get larger as they buy out their competitors. This is not something to be punished but celebrated, they’ll say—it’s a sign of success. But that’s not what their homeboy Adam Smith argued in The Wealth of Nations. His real argument for free markets was this: Markets, when under conditions of perfect liberty, will lead to perfect equality. In other words, free markets are good because they’ll lead to perfect equality. Free markets are the answer, he concludes, precisely because the people working under them won’t be forced to agree to outside orders that they don’t want to agree to—they’ll just switch over to another competitor.

When we encounter industries where this option is disappearing or already has, we ought to consider forcing corporations to stay small enough to have competitors. Especially those of us who are true free market capitalists—and hey, in a perfect world, conservative.

“Pick Yourselves Up By Your Backpacks”

Republicans have long spoken of “picking yourself up by your bootstraps” to justify why millionaire CEOs deserve their help lowering their taxes while low-wage workers deserve to live in poverty with no one to turn to but themselves.

We the Democrats have come to adopt our own strain of this ideology: higher education. I pulled these quotes straight from a page in Thomas Frank’s book Listen, Liberal!Or Whatever Happened to the Party of the People? :

“If there is an income divide in America it is over education, and this makes sense: People who are better educated should make more money.”

-Democratic media strategist Bill Knapp in the Washington Post in 2012

“What I fundamentally believe—and what the president believes, is that the only way to end poverty is through education.”

-Arne Duncan, Obama’s secretary of education, to a reporter in 2012

“The biggest issue in the world today is growth, and, in this information age, improving educational outcomes for more young people is now the most important lever for increasing economic growth and narrowing income inequality. In other words, education is now the key to sustainable power.”

-Thomas Friedman, Obama’s favorite newspaper columnist

The income inequality ravaging America today, according to Democrats, is nothing more than an education problem with an education solution. To be clear, I’m not taking issue with the idea that—of course—if you put yourself through Yale Law School, you ought to be making more than someone with a high school degree. But the idea that more access to education is the only idea Democrats have to keep workers who didn’t go to college from sliding into poverty? Poverty? That’s all you can come up with? Not only is that solution reductive and, well, lame—it’s a vast departure from the original blue-collar mission of the Democratic Party.


This type of guiding party philosophy—to get out of poverty, rise to the top of your class and become part of the managerial elite like we did—would be unrecognizable to FDR or any of the New Deal Democrats from the 1930s through the 1970s. There are plenty of examples of the Democrats being the working class party from before then, too, but we’ll stick to this century. Up until the 70s, organized labor was our primary party base. Organized labor, and civil rights groups—and although it wasn’t ever close to a perfect marriage, the two often stood in solidarity with one another: like when MLK talked about how weakening unions was akin to economic tyranny and thousands of white teamsters marched hand in hand with civil rights activists across the country. From FDR creating the Works Progress Administration which provided jobs building infrastructure to millions of unemployed Americans, to the National Labor Relations Act which prevented corporations from treating their workers unfairly, to his speech for re-election in which he said to a packed Madison Square Garden, “The forces of organized money are unanimous in their hate for me—and I welcome their hatred”, FDR and the Democrats who succeeded him for the next four decades spent vast swaths of their energy coming up with new ways to help blue-collar America that didn’t revolve around telling them to go back to school. And they relished doing so.

So why are most Democrats today so much more comfortable talking about gay marriage than about income inequality? Why does this ever-important social task elude them, the task of figuring out how we will live and how we will live together, when we’ve reached a level of wealth disparity that we haven’t seen since the age of robber barons, and when the Democrats just a generation ago would have dove in headfirst with creativity and zeal?

If you’re looking for a turning point, it was in 1971.

In response to the social movement tides of the ‘60s—which blessed scores of young, college-educated, upper-middle class once-complacent white people with a budding interest in politics—the top democratic strategist of the time wrote a widely circulated manifesto that was no-joke called Changing Sources of Power. 

He glowingly referred to these young people as “aristocrats—en masse” who would “rescue,” “recover,” and “refurbish us”. Sure, he said, the many ‘city dwellers’, farmers, and blue-collar workers that have comprised our base thus thus far are still, like, a thing, but they shouldn’t be for much longer. It’s time to harness the power of the yuppies.


It’s not uncommon for parties change direction, and every time they do, it’s because of a demographic shift. The difference this time was that our party chose it. We chose to create a demographic shift that wasn’t naturally happening. We wanted a more sophisticated base, the Archie Bunker stereotype was embarrassing, and we were pretty blatant about saying so. And while it’s easy to blame them looking back, the period of economic prosperity from the New Deal had been going on for so long that you can see why we’d come to take it for granted. The unions were so powerful by then that you can see why we didn’t consider the gravity of throwing them under the bus when these exciting new kids came along in whom the leaders saw so much of themselves. The man who wrote that manifesto Changing Sources of Power became the director of George McGovern’s campaign, which made him not just another strategist or commentator, but the driver of the party’s direction for a full year. And even though McGovern lost, Democrats only seemed to see this as a reason to double down. A tide of ‘New Democrats’ entered congress in 1974, who “came out of the anti-war protests and the McGovern campaign, the Peace Corps and the women’s movement, the professions and the suburbs,” according to historian Jefferson Cowie, “but not the union halls and the wards.”


We weren’t yet at the point where all the Democrats were saying things like, “obviously income inequality is just a matter of education,” and actually believing it was true. But we’ll get there.


What immediately followed this period was a decades-long series of policies that were repeatedly good for well-educated, white-collar professionals and repeatedly lousy for the working class. Take Jimmy Carter’s entire presidency: he cancelled numerous public works projects, ushered in the era’s first big period of deregulation and tax cuts for the rich (in collaboration with an approving Democratic congress), and appointed a Fed chairman with whom he implemented budget reform after budget reform that directly punished the working class in the name of helping businesses run by white-collar America. Or take Bill Clinton’s NAFTA: Awesome for those who employ. Terrible for those who work.


Each and every cycle of these ‘reforms’, of course, concentrated us more and more into a party for and by the white-collar professional-managerial class. And as it was happening, it didn’t seem like such a terrible thing for anyone who might remotely qualify. We became the assumed home of the ‘best and brightest’—the go-to for Ivy Leaguers and well-respected professionals who had risen to the top of their fields. Notice that I say, “risen to the top”: and therein lies the moral justification for this new type of meritocracy. While presidents like Reagan and Bush were implementing policies that worked for the top one percent, which didn’t discriminate between uneducated CEOs, educated CEOs, and mere heirs who had never worked for their fortunes, the Democrats came to work for the top ten-to-fifteen percent, almost all of whom had achieved great things to get to where they were and almost none of whom would have been able to do so if it weren’t for doing great in school. They rose to the top of their classes, got admitted to the best universities, and worked themselves up the ranks of their respective fields. We came to demand the same from our presidents, and it’s no coincidence that Bill Clinton and Barack Obama each came from humble backgrounds and worked their way up to being top-of-their-class in the best Ivy League colleges and graduate schools in the country, and then repeated this trajectory in their careers, rising from relative obscurity to the helm of party politics. This new plutocracy, it appeared, was okay, because it was also a meritocracy. A “valedictocracy,” the term New York Times columnist David Brooks used to describe 2008 Obama’s incoming administration as he salivated at the mouth. What could be wrong with that?


Well, like drinking your own pee for survival, nothing, at first. But it makes you thirstier, and, having nothing but your own pee to turn to, because you’re isolated, you again drink it. And the concentration of the very things you filtered out end up killing you. What the Democrats ended up creating was a feedback loop of high-achiever ‘of course this is great’ groupthink that eventually reached torrential proportions. By the time Obama was trying to pass the Trans Pacific Partnership, which would clamp down on the job loss that the working class went through with Bill Clinton’s NAFTA, our party was so concentrated with ‘people who employ’ that we didn’t even try and persuade the rest of America of its benefits because it seemed so obviously great to most of us, let alone everyone who had Obama’s ear. We didn’t even think it was necessary to talk about it until the working class and their few progressive advocates started making a fuss.

Donald Trump’s administration is a testament to what happens when people with almost zero expertise enter the highest-ranking seats of government power. Obama’s, and the working class disasters that occurred under him, was the tipping point of another sort: a testament to what happens when the only people around are the highest-credentialed Americans of a very narrow category.

Over time, blinded by our regard for each others’ excellence and with less and less accountability to anyone who wasn’t us, we honestly started advocating ‘become us’ as the chief economic strategy to fight income inequality—the very income inequality that our policies in large part co-created with the robots. We return again to the quote from the beginning of this note, by Democratic strategist Bill Knapp in 2012: “If there is an income divide in America,” (lol) “it is over education, and this makes sense: People who are better educated should make more money.” The least appalling and most accurate part of his statement is the end of it: “people who are better educated should make more money.” Sure. But look at what he’s implying in terms of income inequality and the Democrats’ role in fixing it. And the point I want to make is that this isn’t a case of platform corruption, of special interest donors telling him what not to say. This is a case of someone who appears to never have believed that it’s the Democrats’ job to keep blue-collar jobs in America, that we ever could or should do more than turn some of those blue-collar workers into white-collar workers. It’s the case of someone who must have spent his entire career so surrounded by others who feel the same that he doesn’t even think he’s making a controversial statement.


PS: SO much of what I learned for today’s post came from Thomas Frank’s book Listen, Liberal: Or What Ever Happened to the Party of the People?, which was published at the end of last year. I could not recommend it highly enough if you’re interested in this stuff.


PPS: I am planning to switch the day/time of this e-mail. Does anyone have any thoughts on this? If so, e-mail me by the end of this weekend with your preference.

My “Morning Joe” Addiction

There’s a morning show on MSNBC called Morning Joe that epitomizes everything that’s wrong with political journalism today. The founding fathers intended for journalists to be the dissenters. The misfits and miscreants who establishment politicians dreaded bumping into. The ones who pestered the politicians for interviews in the hallways of things they weren’t invited to, the ones who asked questions that endangered the powerful people and dominant corporations whenever fit, the ones who told us what we didn’t want to hear about our government—and the government certainly didn’t want us to hear about them—with zero regard for how angry it would make the reigning powers. There’s a reason journalism is the only professional industry that’s explicitly protected in the constitution, and it’s because the founding fathers planned for journalists to piss powerful people off. A lot. They wanted them to. Doing so—and bringing that info back to us so we could demand change from anyone who we decided wasn’t representing our interests—was the mechanism that would allow democracy to sustain itself.

Flash forward to Morning Joe where the cohosts vacation with the Koch Brothers, for instance; profess their close friendships and extracurricular social experiences with an absurd number powerful politicians they report on, for instance; praise every general that they invite on the show for their discipline and bravery without ever once asking them a tough question about the shady things the US does abroad under their watch, for instance. This holds true for both their Democratic and Republican guests. What they all have in common is that they’re powerful people from the status quo.  And never once do Joe or Mika put any of them on the spot in a way that would actually make them upset for more than five minutes. How could they? They’re going to see them at a cocktail party this weekend. How could any of us do that to our friends?

They were recently impersonated on Saturday Night Live and when they got engaged, Vanity Fair did a cover spread on them.

The last thing I have to add about Morning Joe is that I am very addicted to it.

I watch it all the time. Like, multiple times per week. I love it. It’s a sensory type of love. When I watch Joe and Mika sipping venti Starbucks drinks against a blue-sky dawn Rockefeller Plaza, my morning feels official. It feels good. It feels like I’m waking up to America. Their close relationships with the majority of the powerful political guests they’re supposed to be holding accountable? All the more satisfying vibe-wise: it makes me feel warm and cozy that they have this clubby rapport with so many of these people who intimidate me. The powerful people seem to enjoy Joe and Mika as much as Joe and Mika enjoy them, and in a fucked up way, I don’t want them to break that by asking them a confrontational question because that would be tense and icky. Compare that to Amy Goodman, who runs the brilliant and necessary anti-establishment show Democracy Now! that literally does the opposite of everything I just described. She was the only broadcast television journalist who covered Standing Rock from Standing Rock, and a warrant was put out for her arrest for doing so. She’s the solution to everything I’m talking about, she has zero corporate owners, she is what the founding fathers intended when they described the relationship between journalism and democracy, and I only watch her for five minutes at a time max. Her show—in spite of reaching millions of viewers every week—has the production value of a bored 13-year-old boy whose mom forced him to make it after school because she’s friends with the host. Amy keeps her hair grey instead of dying it, the intro credits give off a distinct 1997 vibe, and the theme song reminds me of being forced to read Time Magazine for Kids as a fifth grader in morning advisory. Again, she is the solution to every problem I just described. She is the alternative we need. And I’ve been so trained by The Today Show and Morning Joe to see her brand of news as “unofficial” that I do: I see it as unofficial. It’s cellular-level subconscious. It’s worlds apart from my rational beliefs about what our democracy needs in order to continue and that’s what’s so scary.

What’s the cost of being trained this way? What are we unknowingly drowning out because it doesn’t feel official enough? Why am I more turned off by Amy Goodman’s theme song than I am by Morning Joe bowing at the heels of the Koch Brothers, the billionaire brothers who flush money into media conglomerates to keep them from reporting on climate change and singlehandedly fund radical senate candidates from states they have never been to who promise to give bigger tax breaks to the top one percent, support corporations that outsource jobs abroad, and pretend like they doubt global warming is a thing that humans are creating? (By the way…now seems like a good time to add that Morning Joe is not a Republican show. It’s on MSNBC. One of the cohosts is a “moderate Democrat” and one is a “moderate Republican” and they spend a ton of time each morning bashing Donald Trump. What they share in common, with each other and with most of the political news programs on either side of the aisle, is corporatism.) And I sure do love watching them. “Morning Joe” is a super cozy name and I may or may not have a weird thing for Joe Scarborough.

Ever since we were four, the happiest, brightest representations of American news and entertainment have been brought to us by AT&T, McDonalds, and General Electric. And the sets look freaking dope because of it. So now, as my subconscious revolts when confronted with their poorly-lit alternatives, it’s kind of like…no duh.

But that’s what Time Warner Cable (the owner of CNN) and Comcast (the owner of MSNBC and NBC) want us to do. If we intuitively equate ‘credible news’ with bright and shiny cable shows featuring star anchors, then Amy Goodman and The Young Turks could be screaming at the top of their lungs about the information the mainstream media isn’t telling us and we won’t let it sink in. We enable them to have de facto message control and they don’t even have to tamper with the first amendment. “Information is the currency of our democracy,” Thomas Jefferson is rumored to have said. We’re now living in an age where we have access to more information than ever before. Some of it’s fake, and we’re rightfully rejecting it. But along with those calls to be a ‘responsible consumer of news’, no one’s mentioning the travesty of all the real news that’s available but assumed to not be worthy of circulation. How much longer can we continue to be a democracy if we only know what the nation’s most powerful leaders and corporations are okay with us knowing?

I don’t know how to train my brain to stop equating Rockefeller Plaza with trustworthiness, but I do have a YouTube account and the ability to make a podcast or a WordPress blog for free. And so do you. We can request an interview with anyone we’re bold enough to ask. Dick Clark is dead. Ryan Seacrest is boring as shit. The Today Show viewers are getting older every year, but the internet exists and all of us have access to a pool of limitless information and seven billion people if we choose to redirect a fraction of our time consuming media into making something instead. By all means, reject fake news. But maybe we each ought to use one of the platforms available to us to spread the unspoken truth around us. Isn’t it funny how at the exact time when our civic democracy is hanging by a thread, the playing field has never been more level for spreading any message we want regardless of what the gatekeepers think?