Playing for Keeps
I ended up listening to, instead of watching, last night’s vice presidential debate because I was at a poker table. There’s lots and lots of TVs at the card room in which I play, but none of them were tuned to the debate because politics is verboten at the poker table, although that almost never stops somebody from saying something which cause my blood pressure to spike.
Last week, for example, I had a day in between taping and doing an event the following night, so I went up to Connecticut to visit my friends Kim and Vinnie, who live about seven minutes from Foxwoods. In fact, they specifically bought their home because it is seven minutes from Foxwoods, so these are my kind of people. Kim picked me up at the New London train station and we drove straight to the poker room – again, these are my kind of people.
They were airing a rerun of Real Time with Bill Maher in the poker room, and the guy to my right kept asking, “Who is that?” every time Bill’s guest Fran Leibowitz appeared on the screen. Fran looked like Fran; if you’ve ever seen her, you know what that looks like. But something about her was really bugging this guy. “Who is that?” he kept asking.
Normally, I don’t like to display my cornucopia of knowledge in front of my fellow poker travelers, but just to shut him up, I finally said, “Her name is Fran Leibowitz. She’s one of the celebrated humorists of the last fifty years,” or something to that effect.
The sound on the television was off so we could not hear what was being discussed, but it was almost certainly not his theory: “She’s probably talking about abortion,” he said, “That’s the only thing unfuckable women ever talk about.”
Kim and I looked at each other and there was certainly a moment that passes between us. The moment of, “Are we going to get into it with this guy or are we not?”
Had I been alone, I almost certainly would have, but this is her home casino, she’s well-known there, and I thought it best to not make a ruckus. But that’s the level of political conversation one can expect at the poker table.
Needless to say, I did not wish to draw attention to myself as I quietly listened to last night’s debate. The thing that struck me, above all, was how civil it was. We’ve gotten so used to “debate as blood sport,” that I found it heartening to just hear a couple dudes debate policy with hardly of the nastiness we’ve come to expect in the Age of Trump. Vance was polished and articulate, albeit lying out of his ass.
What really struck me about Vance, however, was the effortlessness with which he seemed to shed his “attack dog” skin and become, instead, the humble face of a violent ideology. And it is a violent ideology. Any movement that would round up millions of people from their homes for deportation is, definitionally, a violent ideology. A movement that places itself, primarily, in opposition to so much of the nation is purports to serve - immigrants, the press, every American institution - and then stages am insurrection when the vote doesn’t go their way, is violent.
Of course, they don’t see it that way. They wish they didn’t have to do these things, but circumstances have forced them to get tough. Listening to Vance last night, one got the sense that he regrets very much bending you over his knee and beating you within an inch of your life. “Look what you made me do,” seems to be his animating message.
I also found it strange that the JD Vance we saw last night bore little resemblance to the JD Vance who’s been having awkward interactions with donut shop employees, attacking childless adults, and making half-hearted (and half-empty) campaign stops. This new Vance, instead, seemed like the Ivy League lawyer he is, defending a client he knows to be guilty as hell. Vance lied about energy production, abortion, manufacturing jobs, and the Trump record. And, of course, he refused to say that his boss lost the 2020 election, turning the question instead into a nonsensical talking point about “censorship.”
(If you’re interested in more of my thoughts about JD Vance, I wrote a piece for the Daily Beast about him today, in which I compare him to the Game of Thrones character Reek.)
Time and again, Walz failed to pounce on opportunities to hammer the Trump/Vance lies, instead preferring to be the genial half-man/half-labradoodle we know him to be. I will say, I enjoyed the congenial atmosphere in the room, and I was relieved to not have to brook another 90 minute temper tantrum from the diaper head in chief.
Stylistically, I’d have to say Vance won the debate. He put a charming face on malfeasance and corruption. Walz won on substance, but only if you believe substance matters. I’m not sure it does. Given the choice, though, between seeing two adults agreeably disagree or fling shit at each other, I’ll take the former.
Listening to last night’s debate left me anxious about the Harris/Walz momentum, and worried that Vance managed to paint a smiley face on Trump’s perma-scowl. Will any of it matter? Probably not. But I can’t shake the feeling that everything has to break right for Harris/Walz to win this thing. Last night, it did not.
When it was over, a guy at the table asked if I was listening to the debate. I said I was. He asked how it went. “Respectful.”
“Good,” he said, and raised.
“That’s the only thing unfuckable women ever talk about.”
That's exactly what an unfuckable man would say.
"What really struck me about Vance, however, was the effortlessness with which he seemed to shed his “attack dog” skin and become, instead, the humble face of a violent ideology. And it is a violent ideology."
That struck me as well. Vance is obviously experienced at debate (thanks, Yale), and can easily slip into that persona, not the guy at the donut shop. And he's so adept at lying that he can lie and appear to be reasonable. "Don't be fooled, folks!"