Democrats, still stinging from November's humiliating loss to Donald Trump who came into town like gangbusters and in his first two weeks dismantled most of the Left's most cherished programs. DEI - Diversity, Equity, Inclusion - the cornerstone of the progressive agenda to remake America - had been tossed aside like old pot roast, and ditched for a new, muscular patriotism.
Climate change, always a febrile assumption, was dismissed as the overheated, overhyped, overblown issue it always had been. Love of the Earth was being replaced by Love of Country, and the entire cancel culture itself was being cancelled.
Almost three months after the election, the Left was still flummoxed, whirling like a Turkish dervish, spinning and spouting, hoping to make sense but making less than ever. 'The black man....forest divinity...women!...the Planet...' and much more, far more tangled and incoherent than Kamala Harris ever had been.
Chuck Schumer, the Senator who could never resist a camera, warned that Trump tariffs would cause havoc with Super Bowl parties. Looking like an old fashioned snake oil salesman, a shyster, and a tout, he held up an avocado and bottle of Modelo and said that these would be too expensive for guacamole and good times.
The Schumer thing, that mesmerizing weirdo charade became the caricatured meme of the progressive Left. This was all the fools can muster? laughed Trumpists on their way up Pennsylvania Avenue; and so it was, bruised, feeling misunderstood, harassed, and put upon, progressives began to pack up their belongings and head West, across the plains and over the Sierras like the Okies of the Great Depression, to California.
There in a deep blue state, they would find solace, succor, and a resting place. California, the new home for all comers, the tolerant, commiserating, generous host to the homeless, the addicted, the mentally disoriented, wanderers, beggars, and asylees. There in La-La Land and The City By The Bay, they would be welcomed with open arms. Room for all, said the Governor, happy to swell his ranks with committed, purposeful progressives like Bob, determined to fight the interloper, the insurrectionist imposter.
Bob Muzelle was one of these Washington foundlings. A long time social justice warrior, Bob had cut his teeth on civil rights, found a home in the peace movement, and had moved on to women, gays, and the environment, an easy elision for a man whose vision was all inclusively caring.
While some Hollywood personalities were heading for Canada as a sign of disgust and protest, Bob wanted something warmer. The allure of Bay Watch, as much as he demurred and denied any interest in it, had held his attention for decades, and the dream of studly Bob walking the Pacific among silken, blonde women was still very much alive.
While he insisted he was going to California for political reasons, he was glad to be rid of Washington and its gaggle of ugly, ill-fitting progressive women. California liberals, ipso facto, would be no different than Pamela Anderson and her beachy crowd - beautiful, sexy creatures all committed to social justice and democratic reform.
'Come one, come all', said Governor Newsom, looking so much like a Hollywood leading man, enticingly so, and the perfect shill for the place to be. Who wouldn't want to be here, he said, in a land of liberal values, perfect weather, and beautiful women? And Bob and his fellow operatives fell for the pitch hook, line, and sinker. Ahh, they mused, life would be better there, more accommodating and congenial, and a place for a new footing on fertile ground.
They, Bob and his cohorts, were not giving up the political resistance by any means. Not one inch of political ground would be ceded to the neo-Hitler who was sending his storm troopers into federal offices, arresting and penning good, honest bureaucrats into cold, shit-stinking cattle cars, and shipping them off to a North Dakota Auschwitz. No, moving to Cali was not abandonment, but a regrouping, a marshalling of resources, a place to reform the phalanxes of justice.
For generations Americans have headed west for opportunity and fortune. Covered wagons, flivvers, and horse and buggies headed across the plains and onward to the sea. Lewis and Clark mapped the way and thousands of Easterners followed. Jefferson's Manifest Destiny was the banner under which the new Crusaders travelled west to open new lands and populate them with ambitious Americans.
Some of Bob's colleagues flew West, but Bob in a singular homage to Dust Bowl refugees, packed up his Corolla, strapped his cases, tables, and chairs on the roof, found room for his wife, and headed for the Shenandoah.
Bob's wife, Beatrice, had objected to the idea. California made sense, what with the awful happenings in Washington and the promise of four years of anarchy on one hand and the intractable progressivism of the state on the other, but the notion of sending a visible message, channeling the poor Okies in Model Ts who had no clue about anything and were simply desperate and ignorantly hopeful, was silly. 'Bob', she said to her husband, 'let's fly'.
Bob, however was convinced and dutifully armed with American history on his side. He would show 'em what he was made of!
Like the Okies of yore, Bob headed West with no job in hand; but unlike his predecessors who would cross the Sierras and have to fend for themselves, thanks to a generous social net created by Governor Newsom, he would be fine. In a commitment to political generosity and inclusion, all refugees regardless on national origin or reason for flight, would be welcome in California; so Bob and his family would be housed, fed, and cared for like the Mexicans, Guatemalans, and Hondurans who preceded him.
'Thank God for California', Bob said to his wife by the pool at the Hilton overlooking the canyons to the ocean, and settled in to his new life.
A motivated actionist, Bob could not live on Governor Newsom's largesse for long. He needed to show his mettle and his commitment to the cause; and decided to drive to Sacramento for some face time. However, as notable as Bob had been in Eastern non-profit advocacy circles - he, had been the Director of Scientists for Global Reform, a small lobbying group for a grab-bag of social causes, and a frequent speaker at women's and racial conventions - out here he was a nobody. That kind of Eastern gumshoe eagerness didn't cut the mustard where there were no Congressmen to be blandished and cajoled.
'Who?' said the Newsom aide to whom Bob's letter of request had been routed, and moved on to other things. Despite many further appeals, no dice. No meeting in Sacramento was in the cards.
Meanwhile, Bob commiserated with his fellow Washington refugees who had formed a support group based on the lines of classic grief counselling. There Bob was able to openly share the difficult reality of changing coasts and finding the climate not as welcoming as they had thought.
'Maybe when Kamala gets elected', one said, referring to the former Vice President and Presidential candidate's political overtures - Senator Harris once again, or even Governor Harris- but that was still only in the offing. So Bob and his friends began to spend more time at the beach with only periodic stops at the Social Welfare office to pick up their asylee checks to break the increasingly pleasant routine.
'One more on the dole', said the accountant responsible for checking California government outlays and budget needs, upset that funds that could have gone to more politically visible refugees of color, were keeping this faded, supernumerary wannabee in daquiris and Margaritas.
'Ahh, this is the life', sighed Bob after a dip in the ocean, living the life for which he had inalterably fought back in Washington - the right of asylum, the guarantee of government support, the absolute, undeniable dignity of those fleeing persecution. He had fought the good fight, and rejecting the insurrectionist who vowed to undo all Bob's good works, he had no reason to feel ill at ease about taking public money for his idyll.
'Fuck it', said Bob to no one in particular, applied more sunscreen, and dozed off to the gently lapping waves of the Pacific.
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