TWO OLD WHITE GUYS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT? WHAT A SHOCK! By Marilyn Armstrong

“Everyone wants change,” said Garry, “until they get to the polls and then it’s the same old game all over again.”

We were both bummed at how poorly Elizabeth Warren did, how far Bloomberg’s money didn’t take him, and that in the end, we are going to have a battle between two old white guys.  Well, that never happens in America! Oh, wait, that’s what usually happens. Sorry.

Garry said it better than me. I said I had read that a lot of people didn’t vote for Warren because they didn’t think she could win. He said we never think anyone different can win until they do win. You can’t make changes without voting for change.

I don’t much like Bernie and I doubt he can — should he win — get much done. He doesn’t have numbers, doesn’t have a plan, and worst of all, he doesn’t have allies in the Senate. He’s a great rabble-rouser, but is he going to find a way to “sell” his plans? Or is he going to just make everyone even more discontented and overwrought? Can I survive another four years of overwroughtness? Of endless battles between the supposedly “equal components” of our government?

Biden is old. Bernie is old. Bloomberg is old. Even Warren is no spring chicken. My favorite loser was Yang. I really liked him. He’s smart. He makes the numbers work. He has a grip on what the future looks like.

But what we have are two old white guys. A big surprise, isn’t it?


A final note: Owen talked to a lot of people yesterday. A lot of them said (and this is a quote): “The election is rigged. What difference does it make?”

If anyone is rigging these primaries, it’s us. We are our own worst enemies.

THE CAT CAME BACK – Marilyn Armstrong

My bowl of chicken soup was sitting on the kitchen table. It had been quite a while since I nuked it and it was probably barely tepid at this point.


Probably I should nuke it again, though if it had ever contained anything other than artificial flavoring and salt, nuking it would surely finish it off.

Nonetheless, I was disinclined to touch my soup. In fact, I didn’t want to go anywhere near it. I was standing just a little bit left of the bowl. I was still wrapped in a damp beach towel while my sandy, soggy bathing suit lay in a wet lump on the bathroom floor. I promised myself I’d go wash it out any minute.

Except for the cat. The toothy cat’s grin was hanging in the air.

The Cheshire Cat was back. His grin was hanging in the air in my kitchen. Any minute now his body would show up too.

He wanted my soup.