GETTING FUCKED WITHOUT OUR CONSENT AGAIN

GOD DAMN IT, GRAHAM PLATNER

AUTHOR-TURNED-RECOVERING-COMA-VICTIM’S NOTES: I’m updating this column — a couple days after Platner’s staggeringly selfish and humility-free concession — replete with fresh knowledge I should have had in the first place, and the need to correct a couple lines that now make me wanna puke in my mouth. THANKS FOR BEARING WITH ME, AS I TRY TO MAKE IT RIGHT!

Yesterday, I woke up depressed, and I wasn’t sure why. Sometimes that happens. I’d had a wonderful Monday. Gotten a ton of exciting work done. Rent was paid. Food and weed on the table. Had just received my first beautiful blurb for The Change, with big plans moving forward. All systems go.

But I woke up sooooo sad, with just this hopeless weight upon me. Like a system of gravity that made everything thirty pounds heavier. Including my thoughts.

And I was like, “Man, what is going on?”

Then I remembered Graham Platner, and it all clicked into place.

Full confession: I was really rooting for Graham Platner. Having him wade in outta nowhere, from his oyster farm in Maine, to whup the political tar outta Susan Collins seemed like a beautiful dream come true.

I liked that a manly man’s man with a harsh and troubled past was humbly stepping up to boldly speak truth to power, in a clear and straightforward manner. I liked that his anti-oligarchical working class message was resonating with people. Those people included me. He looked like the kind of reluctant hero that – in being thrust into the limelight – could rise above his past and be of genuine service to a world that deeply needs leadership and courage under fire.

I knew about the Nazi tattoo. But I bought his story about drunkenly getting it with a bunch of his bros, while on leave. The drunk history of humanity is largely made of rash decisions, often carried with regret. And besides, I have more than a few friends who collect Nazi memorabilia: not because they’re closet fascists, but because they’re fascinated by the stylishness of evil in its 20th century Teutonic form.

Somehow, the Times reports of twisted arms and getting locked in rooms slipped past me. (I’m sorry! I was writing a book!) I never read the full Reddit posts, because hearing them endlessly quoted seemed sufficient. And the whole “Maybe a lot of rape could be avoided if people didn’t get shitfaced with other shitfaced people” thing just seemed objectively true to me, albeit gracelessly (and probably drunkenly) stated.

(Of course now, in retrospect, a lot of its power comes from what an immense self-own it is. Like, maybe a lot of rape could be avoided if people steered clear of a shitfaced Graham Platner.)

But really, when thinking of him – and in particular, of the people who seemed determined to drag him down – I found myself psychically referring back to ol’ Ulysses S. Grant, and all the people advising Abraham Lincoln not to trust his general, because the man was a drunk.

Lincoln’s response – which I’m slightly paraphrasing here – was something like, “Fuck that. Get him a couple cases of whatever he’s drinking! WE NEED TO WIN THIS FUCKING WAR!”

And honestly? When half the people coming after Platner were exactly the kinds of mealy-mouthed, weak-willed, do-nothing corporate Democrats he was railing against, I was like, “Yeah! FUCK those guys! PLATNER FOR SENATE!”

Then, after the sexting scandal, I watched his last round of apologetic “Judge me for the man I am now, not the screwup I used to be” performances. Listened to the concerns of super-smart women like Alex Wagner (along with Jennifer Welch, my current favorite non-musical talking head). And went, “Okay, dude. You got one more chance. I’ll still rootin’ for ya. DON’T FUCK THIS UP.”

And now it turns out that he’s been very credibly accused of rape. And, on top of that – at least as far as I’m concerned – 1,000% CONVICTED of being a lying sack of unrepentant shit who’s putting the whole democratic project in serious peril by blatantly raping the truth.

So yeah, it’s depressing. And it’s good that I woke up depressed, because that means I’m still engaged, and still care deeply about winning this war against the psychopathic greedheads who wanna strip this Earth for parts and then take off for Mars or the bottom of the ocean or their new bunker under the ballroom where the East Wing used to be, leaving us to choke on their fumes.

I’m furious with him, but I’m also brokenhearted, because I put my trust in him, and he betrayed that trust with his bald-faced bullshit. And honestly? I still suspect that he believes in the cause. And that – WERE HE NOT A FUCKING RAPIST - he might have done some really good things that would genuinely help.

On the other hand, he might have been just another creepy, swaggering, narcissistic blowhard with too much power. And instead of probably not getting away with his fucked-up past — which appears to be catching up with him now (WOOPS!) — he’d have wound up getting away with far more unforgivably fucked-up abuse in the future.

So now we just need a fighter who’s NOT A RAPIST to go kick some serious ass in Congress. In fact, we need a bunch of them. And I suspect that we’re gonna get more than a couple.

Which is where I get my hope.

Which is why I’m not depressed this morning.

We get knocked down. We get back up again. And that is the name of the game. Hopefully with a little more discernment, and a little less desperate maneuvering, next time.

LOVE YOU!!! Have a beautiful day!

Yer pal in the trenches,

Skipp