Spectator Editorial

"What’s made Milwaukee famous / Has made a fool out of me.” So sang Jerry Lee Lewis back in 1968, another election year with a lively summer of party conventions. Donald Trump, an infamous teetotaler, will not be sampling the city’s brews as he secures the Republican nomination this month, the first convicted felon to do so. But that’s not to say he’ll be able to steer clear of the foolishness of his party’s attitude toward its quadrennial colloquium. The selection of America’s Dairyland as host for the 2024 Republican National Convention is the punchline to an eight-year-old joke: Trump’s first opponent Hillary Clinton never bothered to visit the swing state, which could have cost her the election.

As the weather has warmed, it’s time for that time-honored tradition — protest season. Because everyone knows the plight of the disenfranchised is best solved at 70°F. Setting up winter camp in a college quad seems unpleasant — the revolution will take place at a time, place and temperature that’s convenient for America’s poetry graduate assistants. Campus protests are nothing new in America. They’ve been a feature of university life since at least the Vietnam War and beyond. And sure, it’s fun to get wrapped up in a romantic cause you only just learned about and of which you have only a surface-level knowledge. It might give your life meaning at a time when you’re trying to figure out what the point of all of this is.

The theme of this month’s edition is technology. The advancement of space exploration, defense technologies, artificial intelligence and the like should excite us. Yet the geopolitical issues they present are great and Western governments seem ill-prepared to grapple with them. Watch any congressional hearing where a crusty congressman tries to keep pace with Silicon Valley’s top autists if you need further evidence — and read Spencer A. Klavan’s analysis of the high-skill but low-status rejects uniting into a formidable social class on p.12. The Silent Generation and boomers simply cannot keep up. The Space Race is back on, as tycoons seek to cash in on the final frontier.

Muriel Bowser is a woman with a plan. In late February the mayor of the District of Columbia unveiled a $400 million, five-year economic development strategy to revitalize the capital’s downtown. It involves converting empty office space into residential units and rebranding parts of the neighborhood. Soon, visitors to Washington will be able to watch homeless addicts shoot up in “Historic Green Triangle” and get their phones stolen by moped-riding teenagers in the “Penn West Equity, Innovation & University District.” Bowser has drafted these desperate measures in a belated response to the desperate times.

Donald Trump’s long march through the Republican primaries leaves little doubt about the inevitability of a Biden-Trump rematch in November — court cases and old age notwithstanding, of course. Unlike previous contests, foreign policy looks set to be at top of mind for many voters. Which, if you’re a Biden supporter, isn’t great news. In a recent AP poll, four in ten American adults named foreign policy as issues the government should work on in 2024. The president’s decisions abroad broadcast weakness, lack of direction and myopia, traits that have come to define his first term. The deadly and chaotic withdrawal from Afghanistan was only a sign of things to come, as more conflicts and crises sprang up around the world.

The modern political observer has moved on from the idea that “all politics is local.” In our interconnected world, politics now comes down to sophisticated data analytics, nationwide donor networks and money that’s used to drive the narratives that take hold on 24/7 cable news or social media. “All politics is local” is the type of Rockwell-esque trope that wasn’t necessarily true even when the phrase debuted in 1932, let alone when former House speaker Tip O’Neill made it popular. But last year showed us that even old clichés are subject to a gritty reboot.

Are you desperate for a deal? Usually the start of a new year provides the patient ones among us the chance to snag a bargain in the January sales. Good things come to those who wait, the old adage goes. Yet 2024 seems set to offer us more of the same. The usual stalls are at the market — all of them trying to hawk shoddy wares to Americans. Take the primary process for our presidential elections, which kicks off in Iowa and New Hampshire this month. If the prognosticators are to be trusted, we are set for a rematch between President Biden and former President Trump. Biden’s approval rating doesn’t seem to be improving and the cries for him to drop out and let a younger candidate step in are still sounding — and they come from more and more prominent people every day.

If there could ever be a positive that comes out of the horrific terrorist attacks in Israel in October, it’s this — the battle lines have never been clearer. That may seem obvious in the context of Israel versus Hamas, but for Americans, watching the drawing of the fault lines has been extremely clarifying. In the hours that followed the atrocities, the people who reject any sort of nuance in politics wanted to “put into context” the murders of 1,400 Jews — including elderly Holocaust survivors, women and children. The Manhattan chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, of which Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez remains a member, tweeted support of Palestine and its intention of holding a rally in Times Square.

Corruption and influence peddling seem to be running rampant in Washington these days, but that’s nothing new. We have a rich history of political scandal that goes back to our founding. America loves the spectacle of bringing a politician down: it’s part of our heritage. The tyrant King George started it all when he demanded higher taxes on tea and quartering soldiers in colonialists’ homes. Our rebel forebears weren’t having it and thankfully we have the Third Amendment to ensure it can never happen again. Aaron Burr, of course, is one of America’s favorite politicians to have been run out of public life.

The mantle of song of the summer generally belongs to whichever hit Americans heard the most in clubs and bars, at cookouts or on their way to the beach: the earworm that dominated the airwaves and was the soundtrack to their fun in the sun. But as temperatures cool, the most talked-about song of the summer of 2023 wasn’t a mega-hit from a superstar, but a stripped back political ballad by a previously unknown country musician from southern Virginia. Oliver Anthony’s “Rich Men North of Richmond” is an angry song for a restive country — and, astonishingly, given Anthony’s status as a complete outsider, it shot to number one in the charts. His rise is unprecedentedly steep: never before has an artist with no prior chart history debuted in the top spot.

There is one thing about which both Donald Trump and his most vociferous critics are happy: the 2024 election is gearing up to be all about him. The former president is hamming up his victim status on a score-settling vengeance tour that he hopes will propel him back to the White House. His huge poll lead suggests it is a winning strategy — at least in the Republican primary. On the other side of the aisle, Democrats are vain enough to have persuaded themselves that their legal and electoral crusade against the former president amounts to the most important fight in the history of the Republic.

By the time you read this, tech billionaires Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg may have beaten the living daylights out of each other. Earlier in the summer, Musk tweeted that he was “up for a cage fight” with Zuckerberg. The Meta CEO responded on Instagram Stories, “send me location.” “Vegas octagon,” suggested Musk, referring to the arena where UFC fights are held. Cue an avalanche of hype, some of it serious, much of it tongue-in-cheek, about the possibility of this plutocrat showdown. The Spectator takes no house view on whether the jiu-jitsu-loving Zuckerberg or the barrel-chested Musk should be viewed as the favorite. But we will admit finding this approach to dispute resolution refreshingly old-school — dueling for the new Silicon Valley aristocracy.

The internet has transformed presidential campaigns. Barack Obama micro-targeted his way to victory in 2008. Donald Trump tweeted his way into the conversation in 2016. In 2020, Joe Biden Zoomed his way to the White House. And yet, for all the ways in which communications technology has upended how we do politics, some things haven’t changed all that much. The race for the White House remains a made-for-TV affair: from debates to campaign stops, events are planned with the television viewer in mind. Even in the digital age, the power of television has endured. But as the country gears up for 2024, could that be about to change? News channel ratings have plummeted, households are ditching cable packages and viewers’ trust in the networks is at rock bottom.

Ask anyone about politics these days and you’re likely to hear that our government institutions are in crisis. And not just government institutions, really, but American institutions: the nuclear family isn’t what it used to be; the local community group is drying up; the glazed donut bacon double cheeseburger is harder to find than in our glory days. But in particular it’s our government institutions that are in crisis — which is why the Supreme Court is so important. As Congress buckles under the pressure of endless fundraising and cable news navel-gazing, as the presidency stagnates with its shambling commander in chief and massive bureaucracy, at least the Court still seems to work. In fact, it can seem like an oasis of deliberation in a political scene gone mad.

Mark Zuckerberg has dubbed 2023 Meta’s “year of efficiency.” The slogan is a corporate euphemism for layoffs, of course — and not an especially subtle one. Zuckerberg’s company has parted ways with tens of thousands of employees this year. Other tech firms are following suit. Crunchbase estimates that US tech firms fired more than 118,000 employees in the first quarter of 2023. These are lean times in Silicon Valley — and, as Joel Kotkin explains in this month’s cover story, there is more to this tale than Big Tech belt-tightening after a pandemic-era hiring spree. The Valley, Kotkin explains, is in trouble. A place that America, and the world, once looked to for an ambitious and optimistic vision of the future, has grown sclerotic.

Lori Lightfoot became the latest face of municipal failure in America in February when Chicago voters delivered a resounding thumbs down to her record in office. A first-term incumbent, Lightfoot managed to secure just 15 percent of the vote in her reelection bid, finishing a distant third and failing to make the runoff. “I am a black woman in America,” she complained when searching for an explanation the day after her defeat. But her vertiginous fall — she won with three-quarters of the vote in the runoff four years ago — has nothing to do with her race or gender, and everything to do with her record in office. Chicagoans were frustrated with her management for many reasons, but the question of crime dominated the race.

Unless you work for the White House, where the emergency declaration doesn’t expire until May, the pandemic has long been over. March marks three years since Covid upended Americans’ lives and, for all but a tiny minority, it has ceased being a day-to-day consideration. After long and bruising fights over everything from lockdowns to vaccine mandates, perhaps the only thing Americans can agree on is that the country’s response to the pandemic was a failure. From that starting consensus, arguments about what went wrong soon diverge sharply.

Half a decade ago, with America’s elites trying to make sense of the rise of Donald Trump, an essay from the Sixties made a surprising comeback. Richard Hofstadter’s “The Paranoid Style in American Politics” became part of the conversation over fifty years after it was first published in Harper’s. It was less something concerned citizens actually read, more something they mentioned at dinner parties to sound smart. Writing with Barry Goldwater’s 1964 presidential bid in the background, Hofstadter described in pseudo-psychological terms what he saw as the right’s tendency towards the paranoid style, a phrasing he chose “simply because no other word adequately evokes the sense of heated exaggeration, suspiciousness and conspiratorial fantasy that I have in mind.

Are we in a permanent state of crisis? The Britain-based lexicographers at the Collins Dictionary think so. Last month they chose “permacrisis” as their word of the year. Defining the neologism as “an extended period of instability and insecurity,” Collins explained that their selection “sums up quite succinctly how truly awful 2022 has been for so many people.” It’s easy to see why the word has particular resonance for the Brits, now onto their third prime minister this year. But the sense that we are stuck in an endless cycle of crises is a global one. As 2022 draws to a close, the world faces a daunting set of overlapping disasters.