On the night of the first presidential debate, I was eating hot dogs at a roller disco. The roller rink was new, and it looked like Mars, and it felt nice to be off our planet, gliding in blissfully indifferent circles through possibly the highest-stakes, least inspiring election of my lifetime.
Now, I’m hooked. I’m waiting for podcast pundit bros to drop new episodes. I’m craving cable news. My friends and I are talking politics at parties for the first time in years, and it doesn’t make us want to die. Whatever happens with Joe Biden, whether he commits to the bit or drops out, I think this is actually, honestly, good.
I’m here to give you a vibe check from the great experiment that is young USA: we were all asleep at the wheel over here, and Biden’s public short-circuiting has officially shocked us into the land of the living. Ironically, Old Man Summer may have been the thing democracy needed. It woke us all up.
Back to that night. We skated until the texts rolled in: “Biden is stammering and hopelessly senile,” wrote one friend. “Trump’s lying, but the other guy shouldn’t handle a remote at a bingo party.” I checked in with my family chat, notorious apologists for Biden’s warning signs in recent years. “Terrible,” wrote my sister. “Horrible,” wrote my dad. “Horrific” (sister). “Painful” (dad).
My partner and I, both journalists, raced home to watch the rerun. I redownloaded X. It felt, for the first time in months, alive, like Twitter.
I shouldn’t be tapped out. I’ve always cared about politics. But I’m not alone in my indifference this year. Turnout in the primaries was tragically low, with about 10 per cent of eligible voters voting, down from around 15 per cent in 2016 and 2020. Online engagement with political news has decreased considerably compared with 2020, while sports and entertainment is up.
Things that should have woken us up, didn’t. When Trump became a convicted felon, my partner and I ran to the Manhattan courthouse — not for a story, just to gauge vibes. There were, I’m here to report, zero vibes. The most excitement we could find were a few old progressives in pussy hats, yelling “guilty!” 34 times on a loop.
But the days after the debate were a thrill. I gossiped with friends and strangers alike: “Who had to break it to Joe? Was it Jill?” “Who’s next, Kamala? Gavin Newsom?” “Ugh, not Gavin Newsom. Well, maybe Gavin Newsom.”
My mother texted me: “I went through a long list and I decided this is the man who can win: Sherrod Brown!!!”
It dawned on us that August’s Democratic convention will be the best reality show on television.
Despite my enthusiasm, this really isn’t fun. We are post-post-post despair. Our political disillusionment happened at warp speed, and now the infection is mutant and resistant to drugs. In 2014, Beyoncé stood over a sign that said “Feminist” and it was a radical act that helped depoliticise a polarising word. But just last year, someone gave me a pillow that said “feminist” and it was kind of embarrassing, and I had to throw it away. Those pussy hats I saw outside the courthouse? I shuddered, seeing those pussy hats. An ick-inciting relic of a former time, when people so earnestly believed. Outrage? At what? The Supreme Court just gave our presidents the authority of a king. Let it burn.
But debate night exposed the Wizard of Oz. And it seemed to break some spell. We’d gone numb to what radio host Charlamagne tha God calls the dead language of politics. But now, Democrats have a rare chance to reset, stop talking like robots, and start talking like humans. Donald Trump, a felon and serial liar (with fascist impulses!), has been talking like a human this whole time. It’s all anyone is asking for, and surprising no one, it works.
Biden has committed over the past few days to staying in the race. He’s gone quasi-populist, raising two fingers to his haters and the liberal “elites”, ignoring the hard-to-swallow reality that everyday voters are worried, too. It’s a selfish take, but at least it sounds honest. There’s a fun Delaware bravado to it, an ‘Oh really? You’re saying a Biden can’t?’
When our president lost his words, he revealed a very human and dignified thing: that we all age, and plans can change, and that’s OK. Seeing that happen was, strangely, a huge relief. And because it’s still early, and all historical precedent is officially broken, I’d really love to see the Democrats be cool. Put on skates, eat a hot dog and show us they have flesh and blood. Put in Kamala, or Gavin, or . . . sure, Mom, Sherrod Brown. But be profane! Level with us! Trust the vibe! And for the love of country, speak a living language. For the first time in years, we’re all watching.
Lilah Raptopoulos is the host of Life and Art, the flagship culture podcast from FT Weekend
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