#Democratic Vice Presidential Nomination

[tomorrowusa]

« I mean, the problem with JD Vance is he has no conviction — but I guess his running mate has 34. »

— Gov. Andy Beshear of Kentucky on CNN commenting on Trump's opportunistic running mate Sen. J.D. Vance.

[deadpresidents]

Do you have any opinions on who Harris should (or shouldn’t pick) for vice president?

Since Admiral McRaven is out of the picture, I'd be perfectly happy with Buttigieg, Beshear, Kelly, Shapiro, or Walz. I think they all would be great running mates.

I was leaning towards Governor Beshear, but I've started to really come around on Mark Kelly. My only hesitation with Kelly, as I've mentioned a few times, was that he's a Democrat with a seat in the Senate that is safely Democratic for a few more years from a battleground state where it's no guarantee that a Democrat is going to win statewide. But I think Senator Kelly's advantages as a running mate outweigh the risks of potentially losing that Senate seat, especially since there is a Democratic Governor in Arizona, and it seems like Arizona's GOP keeps nominating Senate candidates that people in Arizona don't like. He helps Kamala Harris on immigration, he's a military combat veteran, he's a leading advocate on gun control, and he's a fucking astronaut. If I were Kamala, I'd pick Kelly and just have him show up to the Vice Presidential debate against JD Vance wearing his NASA space suit and say, "Is it true you fuck couches? I was a fighter pilot...and that was an entry-level position for what I did after that".

But I'd really be good with any of the people mentioned on the shortlist.

[tomorrowusa]

Kamala Harris chose Tim Walz, in part, because of his governing style.

As governor of Minnesota, Walz had a split legislature during his first term: a GOP Senate and DFL (Democratic) House. When the Senate flipped blue in 2022 he immediately prioritized progressive measures like free breakfasts and lunches at public schools. He doesn't believe in sitting on a lead.

Walz also has no trouble changing his mind when events cause him to do some serious rethinking. As an avid outdoor sportsman and 25 year member of the National Guard, he used to get an A rating from the NRA. But after the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland he did a complete reversal on guns and now gets an F from the NRA. David Hogg, a Parkland survivor who has become a political activist, is an enthusiastic supporter of Walz.

55 Things to Know About Tim Walz, Kamala Harris’ Pick for VP

I can't wait for Republicans to attack Walz for being able to speak Chinese; he spent a year as a teacher in China. He can respond by pointing out that Trump can't even speak English coherently. 😅

• [Y]ou don't win elections to bank political capital -- you win elections to burn political capital and improve lives. —Tim Walz

YouTube YouTube (at Internet Archive)

NOTE: A slightly different version of this quote by Gov. Walz appears at The Washington Post (archived).

[creativemedianews]

Why do the US political parties hold presidential conventions?

Why do the US political parties hold presidential conventions? #2024election #Chicagoconvention #conventionhistory

[reasonsforhope]

Article

"The Democratic Party largely coalesced around Vice President Harris as its likely new presidential nominee on Monday [July 22, 2024], as she kicked off her campaign by promising to prosecute a forceful case against Republican nominee Donald Trump and defend the legacy of President Biden.

Hours after she delivered remarks laying out some of the themes of her campaign, Harris secured pledges of support from a majority of Democratic National Convention delegates, a forceful show of unity behind her presidential campaign that signals she is likely to officially become the party’s nominee next month.

“Over the next 106 days, we are going to take our case to the American people, and we are going to win,” Harris said during a visit to campaign headquarters in Wilmington, Del., where she was greeted by a group of energized staffers for Biden’s now-abandoned candidacy. Harris accused Trump of wanting to “take our country backwards to a time before many of our fellow Americans had full freedoms and rights.” She added, “we believe in a brighter future that makes room for all Americans.”

Biden dialed into the impromptu meeting, using his first public remarks after dropping out of the presidential race Sunday to thank his staff and ask them to support Harris with “every bit of your heart and soul.”

“The name has changed at the top of the ticket, but the mission hasn’t changed at all,” said Biden, who joined remotely from Rehoboth Beach, where he has been recovering from a case of covid. “We still need to save this democracy. Trump is still a danger to the community. He’s a danger to the nation.”

The high-energy, highly unified setting reflected the broader sentiment across the Democratic Party, in which Harris’s swift ascendancy has upended an already tumultuous and unpredictable presidential race. After being exhausted by weeks of turmoil and infighting over Biden’s prospects, relieved and newly energized Democrats across the country rushed to embrace Harris’s candidacy and unite around the goal of defeating Trump.

Less than 36 hours after Biden abruptly exited the race and endorsed Harris as his successor, hundreds of state delegates, the majority of Democratic lawmakers and governors, a group of state party chairs, and several influential interest groups threw their support behind Harris, as other potential candidates said they would not challenge her. Top congressional leaders followed suit, with Senate Majority Leader Charles E. Schumer (D-N.Y.), House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries (D-N.Y.) and former House speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) expressing support for Harris on Monday.

While a small number of Democrats have advocated an open, competitive process, Harris appeared to have an inside track Monday to quickly securing the nomination ahead of the party’s convention next month...

After celebrating the extended infighting and discord that plagued Democrats in the aftermath of Biden’s halting performance at the June 27 debate, Trump’s allies watched Monday as Democratic leaders quickly fell in line behind Harris.

“I’m excited to fully endorse Vice President Harris for the next president of the United States,” Kentucky Gov. Andy Beshear (D) said Monday on MSNBC’s “Morning Joe” program. “The vice president is smart and strong, which will make her a good president, but she’s also kind and has empathy, which can make her a great president.” ...

Democratic Govs. Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan, J.B. Pritzker of Illinois and Wes Moore of Maryland also endorsed Harris on Monday, joining a growing list of potential rivals for the nomination that instead opted to endorse her candidacy. Govs. Gavin Newsom of California and Josh Shapiro of Pennsylvania, each considered potential candidates, both endorsed Harris on Sunday.

Democratic leaders on Monday unveiled a new virtual process for selecting a nominee to replace Biden that would conclude by Aug. 7, ahead of the nominating convention in Chicago next month. The dates for the virtual process will be announced on Wednesday.

The private doubts about Harris’s vulnerabilities and less-than-impressive polling numbers largely remained unspoken Monday as Democrats appeared eager to consolidate around a candidate and head off a messy competition for the nomination 106 days before the Nov. 5 election. During her visit to campaign headquarters in Wilmington, Harris was greeted by more than 100 staff members who gave her a standing ovation. The room was covered in newly printed signs that read “Harris for President,” though at least one lingering “Biden-Harris” sign stood as a testament to how rapidly the presidential race had shifted.

Campaign aides said more than 28,000 new volunteers had signed up to lend support, more than 100 times the typical number. Harris, who has been traveling around the country, planned to continue her campaign travel this week.

Trump had built an advantage in polls of key swing states and has at times appeared frustrated with Biden’s exit from the race, lamenting Sunday that he had to “start all over again” after long focusing on Biden...

Harris’s operation raised a record $81 million in the first 24 hours after Biden dropped out and endorsed his vice president, aides said. A group of tens of thousands of Black women gathered on a virtual call Sunday evening to showcase their support for Harris’s bid to become the first woman of color to be president...

Harris has already begun leaning into her background as a prosecutor and state attorney general as she began to cast the race against Trump in a new light.

“In those roles I took on perpetrators of all kinds,” she said. “Predators who abused women, fraudsters who ripped off consumers, cheaters who broke the rules for their own gain. So hear me when I say I know Donald Trump’s type.”"

-via The Washington Post, July 22, 2024

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[genderkoolaid]

Aug 19, 2024

The Democratic Party released on Sunday its official platform for the 2024 presidential election, omitting language from the 2020 platform that stated a commitment to “protect the lives of sex workers. Both the 2020 and the 2024 platforms contain sections titled "Ending Violence Against Women," in which Democrats commit to "ending sexual assault, domestic abuse and other violence against women." The 2020 platform voted by the convention that nominated President Joe Biden, however, included the following passage: “We recognize that sex workers, who are disproportionately women of color and transgender women, face especially high rates of sexual assault and violence, and we will work with states and localities to protect the lives of sex workers.” The 2024 version released over the weekend, expected to be approved at the Democratic National Convention currently taking place in Chicago, omits the statement recognizing the existence of sex workers and stating a commitment to protect their lives. As XBIZ reported, Vice President Kamala Harris, the presumptive Democratic nominee for president, has been widely criticized by both sex worker and adult industry activists and organizations for her vocal support of, and prosecution of cases under, the controversial FOSTA-SESTA legislation. In a 2019 interview, Harris claimed to support decriminalization of sex work, but described her approach in terms that contradict that claim and instead closely match the criminalizing Nordic Model. Harris said that as San Francisco district attorney, she advocated “to stop arresting these prostitutes and instead go after the johns, and the pimps.” Harris’ conflation of “the johns” — a tellingly outdated word for those who pay for sexual services — and “the pimps” — which in practice includes anyone who helps a sex worker in any way, regardless of coercion — is a common strategy of both outright prohibitionists and the supporters of the “Nordic Model” of sex work. The Nordic Model technically decriminalizes the selling of sexual services by sex workers, it ramps up penalties and enforcement focus for any third party profiting off of the sex worker (categorized as pimping) and for buyers of sexual services. Its goal is to end sex work in all forms and “rescue” sex workers, whom it considers as invariably exploited. In practice, the Nordic Model drives sex work underground, forcing sex workers to operate in a shadowy, hazardous environment.

[strryhaze]

jack at the democratic national convention in chicago, illinois. august 1956.

this moment needs to be huge in the jfk netflix series (if it ever happens, that is) because it’s when jack — as a political figure — went beyond the senate halls, beyond massachusetts in the public eye. it’s when he went national. despite the inevitable chaos and defeat of not winning the vice presidential nomination, this moment set him right on the presidential path. and the most important detail in all of this was that it wasn’t planned.

and because of that one detail, this event could make for such an iconic episode. the culmination of it all. the emotion. the drama occurring behind the scenes: joe senior yelling at jack and bobby through the phone and telling them that they have absolutely ruined jfk’s political future which the audience would find incredibly ironic, then the quick, neurotic, almost thrilling pace of bobby and jack trying to gain enough delegates for the vp nomination, jack and jackie’s relationship being on the rocks like never before bc of cheating allegations on BOTH sides (and the divide is unfortunately only exacerbated soon after)

but what would make the episode really shine, especially in a jfk centered series, is that aside from this moment being a monumental event in jfk’s political career, it would also work as a moving force within jfk’s emotional development in the show and demonstrate his state of mind at the time. somewhat fragile but within that fragility, a tough determination moving at high speed, impossible to break.

this spur-of-the-moment decision he made to try and obtain the vice presidential nomination stemmed from jfk’s near death experience in one of the harshest surgeries he’d ever faced. he always put on a good face, but as many biographers have pointed out, genuine fear always resided beneath the smiles and witticisms. two siblings had already died on jack and this time around, it was him that almost didn’t make it — that’s when it became all or nothing for him. and instead of his instincts backfiring on him like his father expected them to, they pushed him onto the political national stage; a stage that would be waiting for him when 1960 rolled around.

[zvaigzdelasas]

Harris had previously, as a candidate for the 2020 presidential nomination, vowed to ban fracking, as well as back a Green New Deal, a progressive resolution to shift the US to 100% renewable energy, and new government dietary guidelines to encourage people to reduce their meat eating.

“I’m committed to passing a Green New Deal, creating clean jobs and finally putting an end to fracking once and for all,” Harris said during her unsuccessful campaign. She separately told CNN there is “no question” she favored a ban on fracking, or hydraulic fracturing, which involves using pumping liquids and sand into deep underground fissures to help dislodge more oil and gas.

Since becoming vice-president in 2021, however, Harris has followed the Biden administration approach that allows fracking, although the Environmental Protection Agency has drawn up rules to limit the emission of methane, a potent greenhouse gas that often escapes during fracking.

Trump has nevertheless sought to tie Harris to an anti-fracking stance, seeking to damage her position in key states such as Pennsylvania, a fracking hotspot. “She wants no fracking,” the former president told supporters in Charlotte, North Carolina, last week. “You’re going to be paying a lot of money. You’re going to be paying so much. You’re going to say, ‘bring back Trump’.”

30 Jul 24

[philosophicalconservatism]

More On The 2024 Election.

First, the Democratic party elites made the decision to push a cognitively compromised Joe Biden out of the presidential race, not for the welfare of the country, but because they did not believe he would be a viable candidate for re-election. But then they had another problem in the form of an unpopular vice President. Yet as unideal as Harris was as a candidate they were terrified of bypassing her; for they believed that this would enrage black Americans, an indispensable voting bloc for the Democrats.

Now in reality, the public appeal of a candidate is not a major issue for a group which thinks autocratically. Public appeal can be manufactured. The public can be manipulated. They would not be campaigning on substance but on "joy" and "hope". Once they assume power they will simply do what they know is best for the people. It is therefore unnecessary for the country to be informed on the particulars of the candidates positions. Just as the people had no need to nominate their own presidential candidate, they had no need for her to be closely interrogated on her beliefs. The elites will determine and delineate the interests of the public.

Furthermore the entire news media was expected to fall into line with all of this including by editing all content as the campaign saw fit. Why should anyone be surprised that such tactics were rejected by the citizens of a free nation?

[mariacallous]

When U.S. President Donald Trump posted on Truth Social, on Feb. 7, that he’d appointed “an amazing Chairman, DONALD J. TRUMP!” to the Kennedy Center, people responded with bafflement and jokes. When the president-cum-Kennedy Center chairman then appointed his loyalist follower Richard Grenell interim executive director and installed a MAGA-inspired board, the bafflement and gallows humor reached new highs.

But Trump’s takeover of a cultural institution should not just be a source of amusement, especially since the president has also promised to change the center’s programming. The moves put him in the company—historic and current—of tyrants, not auteurs.

Classical music is rarely front-page news, and the move took the Kennedy Center by complete surprise. The cultural center in Foggy Bottom, after all, hosts a leading symphony orchestra and a major opera company and is hardly a center of political fights.

The idea that Trump might be interested in its chairmanship had been on no one’s radar. In fact, so unexpected was the news that music aficionados on social media began asking which symphonies and operas the new chairman—noted for his love of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Cats—might decide should be performed there, and whether he might decide to conduct them himself.

The jokes swiftly faded when, a few days later, Trump appointed Grenell the Kennedy Center’s interim executive director. The jokes fell completely silent when, on Feb. 12, the Kennedy Center announced its new trustees, installed to replace trustees fired by Trump. Those now installed on the board of trustees include Vice President J.D. Vance’s wife, Usha; Trump’s chief of staff, Susie Wiles; his deputy chief of staff, Dan Scavino; White House Presidential Personnel Director Sergio Gor; and Allison Lutnick, the wife of Trump’s secretary of commerce nominee, Howard Lutnick.

To be sure, the Kennedy Center’s board has always included a bipartisan political element; Democrats and Republicans have traditionally nominated half the board each. But this is different. Now every board member belongs to the Trump camp. The reconstituted board. “President Donald J. Trump was just unanimously elected Chairman of the Board of the prestigious Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. The President stated, ‘It is a Great Honor to be Chairman of The Kennedy Center, especially with this amazing Board of Trustees. We will make The Kennedy Center a very special and exciting place!’” he posted on Feb. 12.

This is a president who despises (or perhaps doesn’t know) high culture taking over a famed cultural center. And it’s not a silly game. In announcing his own appointment as chairman, Trump vowed the programming was going to change. He had heard about drag shows at the center. As a regular visitor there, I recall only countless opera performances and symphony concerts, as well as a lot of jazz and folk in the foyer, though the center has hosted the occasional drag event. Either way, Trump announced that “THIS WILL STOP. The Kennedy Center is an American Jewel, and must reflect the brightest STARS on its stage from all across our Nation. For the Kennedy Center, THE BEST IS YET TO COME!”

I’d hate to be alarmist, but the president of the United States is invoking the language of a certain German regime that, in the 1930s, banned what it labeled “Entartete Kunst,” degenerate art. The Nazis wanted German culture organized neatly under the government’s control. Soon after taking power, this regime made its preferences known to Germany’s myriad publicly funded theaters, opera houses, and concert halls. It also created the Reichskulturkammer (Reich Chamber of Culture), under which culture in Germany would operate; Joseph Goebbels was appointed the chamber’s president.

Soon German culture—for so long the envy of the world—became more and more constrained as practitioners and artistic products, especially books, were banned, while other practitioners, from conductors to painters, engaged in self-censorship or left the country. That’s how Thomas Mann ended up in Pacific Palisades. In his novel Mephisto, Klaus Mann—Thomas’s son—masterfully portrays the careerists who thrive in autocracies, while talent withers.

And the urge to control culture didn’t die with Goebbels and his ilk. Wanting to control culture is, in fact, the hallmark of authoritarian regimes. The Cold War was characterized by Eastern Bloc regimes’ attempts to govern all culture and, in the process, ensure that undesirable expressions of it were weeded out. Every novel Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote was at immediate risk of being banned, and the Russian author constantly faced the risk of imprisonment. In Czechoslovakia, Vaclav Havel was kept under constant surveillance and denied jobs worthy of his talent. The artists the regimes deemed acceptable, by contrast, were well-looked-after by the respective countries’ cultural organizations. Untold numbers of artists less known than Solzhenitsyn and Havel suffered the same fate.

Today, Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro continues this tradition. Until recently, countries around the world sought to emulate Venezuela’s El Sistema, a government-funded program that teaches scores of children to play instruments at a level previously thought unachievable. Not only have hundreds of Venezuelan children grown up to play in El Sistema’s many symphony orchestras, including the world-class National Children’s Symphony of Venezuela and Simón Bolívar Symphony Orchestra; many of the musicians have also been appointed to the world’s very best orchestras. The double-bass player Edicson Ruiz was hired by the Berlin Philharmonic, considered the world’s best symphony orchestra, while still in his teens. Listen to him here.

But Maduro couldn’t resist the urge to control the program. Now El Sistema is fraying, the inevitable result of political encroachment that has seen Maduro install his vice president and his son on El Sistema’s board and try to use El Sistema for propaganda purposes abroad. In 2017, after El Sistema’s most celebrated graduate, the conductor Gustavo Dudamel, wrote an op-ed voicing criticism against the regime’s brutal crackdown of pro-democracy protesters, Maduro canceled a planned U.S. tour by Dudamel and the National Children’s Symphony of Venezuela. Many El Sistema musicians in their late teens or early 20s have now found conservatory places or jobs abroad or are trying to do so.

On the other side of the spectrum are the political leaders who are passionate about the arts but would never dream of politicizing them, precisely because they understand that the arts will languish if put under political control. Helmut Schmidt, West Germany’s chancellor in the late ’70s and early ’80s, was a concert-level pianist. (Hear him play Mozart here.) If he’d decided he wanted to become chairman of the Berlin Philharmonic, it would have made a lot of sense. But he didn’t, because he knew that arts thrive only when separated from politics.

Trump has never considered himself an arts lover; indeed, he recently told a reporter on board Air Force One that he’s never attended a performance at the Kennedy Center. Even so, for the purported sake of protecting the arts, he’s putting himself in the company of Maduro, the Soviets, the Czechoslovak rulers, and Goebbels.

[tomorrowusa]

Let me make a case for Kamala Harris choosing Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz as her running mate.

Tim Walz b. 06 April 1964 (just a few months older than Kamala)

Second term governor of Minnesota.

Midwestern born, bred, and educated.

Taught social studies for 20 years.

Served 24 years in Army National Guard (decorated).

Served 12 years in the US House representing a heavily rural swing district.

Excellent progressive record as governor.

Married - has wife, son, and daughter.

Folksy but intelligent.

Gov. Walz oozes Midwestern credibility. Hillary took the Midwest for granted in 2016 and carried just Minnesota and Illinois. Walz was born in Nebraska and moved to Minnesota for grad school.

He represented a House district in Minnesota which has usually been held by Republicans. He understands the problems of rural America better than more urban Democrats.

He served in the US House for 12 years. He knows how things get done in Washington. He's not some n00b who could get rolled by slick operators.

His record as governor of Minnesota would make liberals smile. After his first term with a split legislature he quickly pushed through progressive programs after Dems took control of both chambers in 2022.

Tim Walz is a team player. He seldom talks about his administration without mentioning Lt. Gov. Peggy Flanagan. This is from his re-election site. The phrase "Tim and Peggy" is mentioned 20 times.

Accomplishments - Tim Walz for Governor

Unlike Trump or Vance, Tim Walz is actually likeable.

Unlike Trump who hates pets, the Walz family has two: Honey the Cat and Scout the Dog.

[deadpresidents]

I’m leaning towards Mark Kelly of Arizona, Josh Shapiro of Pennsylvania, and Secretary of Transportation Pete Buttigieg as the most likely VP picks. Admittedly, Kelly and Shapiro are more likely as they are representatives of states that the Democrats need to win. But I would pay anything to see a Buttigieg v. Vance debate. Ultimately, my guess would be Kelly. He has an interesting/impactful biography. He seems to be well-liked and able to connect with people.

I think pretty much everyone on the short list for VP is a good pick. I'd be happy with Beshear, Kelly, Shapiro, Buttigieg, Polis, or my personal choice Admiral McRaven. I definitely think Senator Kelly checks all of the boxes but, again, my big worry there is giving up a Democratic Senate seat that is safe until at least 2029 in a state where it's difficult for Democrats to win. Every Senate seat is important to hold on to considering how close the past few Congresses have been. That's my only hesitation with Kelly.

The only potential candidates for VP that I've seen mentioned in a lot of places that I'm not high on are Governor Pritzker of Illinois and Governor Cooper of North Carolina. I think Cooper would be a good pick if Kamala was running for President of North Carolina, but I don't see how he translates nationally. I know Pritzker has been a pretty good Governor and is relatively popular in Illinois, but I'm always reluctant about billionaire candidates because I think they live in a vastly different world than the people they are elected to govern.

It shows you how deep the bench actually is in the Democratic Party when it comes to this generation of leaders who have been somewhat blocked by the older Democratic leaders who have dominated the party for the last 30+ years. We saw that logjam start breaking once Nancy Pelosi and the older House Democratic leadership like Steny Hoyer and Jim Clyburn stepped aside for Hakeem Jeffries and the current leaders of the Congressional Dems. And there are some rising superstars amongst the Democratic Governors and Lieutenant Governors throughout the nation. I think the Democratic ticket is going to be in pretty good shape with any of the names being mentioned most frequently as being on the shortlist for VP.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Shefali Luthra at The 19th:

Cecile Richards, the former president of Planned Parenthood and feminist activist, died Monday of an aggressive brain cancer, her family confirmed in a statement. She was 67. Richards, the daughter of the former Democratic Texas governor, was one of the nation’s most prominent advocates for abortion rights. 

“This morning our beloved Cecile passed away at home, surrounded by her family and her ever-loyal dog, Ollie. Our hearts are broken today but no words can do justice to the joy she brought to our lives,” the family wrote. Even after her 2023 glioblastoma diagnosis, Richards had remained a fixture in Democratic politics. In August, she helped cast Texas’ ceremonial votes at the Democratic National Convention to nominate Vice President Kamala Harris, and delivered one of the event’s speeches focused on reproductive rights.  “When women are free to make their own decisions about their lives and to follow our dreams, we are unstoppable,” she said in the August 21 speech. “But when Roe v. Wade was overturned, a generation of young people lost that freedom.”

In late October, Richards told The 19th she had voted early in New York City for Harris, adding that she told an election worker she had “waited for this chance all my life.” [...] Under Richards, Planned Parenthood — now inextricable from the Democratic Party, which largely supports abortion rights — became more politically active. In 2008, it endorsed Barack Obama for president, the second time it had waded into presidential politics. In 2016, it issued its first-ever primary endorsement, throwing its support behind Hillary Clinton, a longtime supporter of reproductive rights. Richards argued that the moves were not partisan, but instead about supporting politicians who cared about reproductive rights.  Richards stayed involved in progressive politics after leaving Planned Parenthood, co-founding the feminist organization Supermajority in 2019. The organization focuses on training people to advocate for women’s equality. Richards left Supermajority at the end of 2020. 

Former Planned Parenthood director Cecile Richards died at 67 today due to aggressive brain cancer.

[saywhat-politics]

Vice President JD Vance was called upon to break the tie on Hegseth's nomination to be secretary of defense.

Vice President JD Vance voted in the affirmative on Pete Hegseth's nomination to be defense secretary, breaking the tie after the Senate divided 50-50 on whether to confirm him. Three Republican senators — Susan Collins of Maine, Lisa Murkowski of Alaska, and Mitch McConnell of Kentucky — joined all Democrats in voting against him amid concerns about his treatment of women and alcohol use and a sexual assault allegation. He has denied any wrongdoing.

President Donald Trump held a round table conversation in Pacific Palisades, California, following the conclusion of his tour of the area's wildfire damage. Trump earlier suggested he could withhold disaster aid to California over disagreements about voter ID and water policies. He also said he would sign an executive order to overhaul or possibly eliminate FEMA.

[vague-humanoid]

“Just like 1968! There’s nothing here to celebrate!” Protesters chanted those lines on the first day of pro-Palestine demonstrations outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago as the Democrats prepared to nominate Vice President Kamala Harris as the party’s presidential candidate. Many news outlets have also made comparisons to the 1968 DNC, which was also held in Chicago, when police viciously attacked anti-Vietnam War demonstrators. The chaos is thought to have contributed to Republican Richard Nixon’s victory that November.

On Sunday and Monday, police responded to protests with a massive show of force that was at times violent, leading to 14 arrests and two protesters hospitalized, according to the National Lawyers Guild (NLG). That’s an ominous beginning, but thus far it has not dominated coverage or the DNC itself as the widespread police violence did in 1968. 

Despite police antagonism, the protests have been defined by broad progressive solidarity with Palestine. Protesters made consistent, focused demands for the end of U.S. military aid to Israel and for an end to a genocidal Israel military assault, which has killed 40,000 Gazans, 70% of them women and children.