I get the hats, I really do. Not that I wanted one, but as political tchotchkes, they were perfect. Bright red, boldly lettered, one-size-fits-all, they were the ultimate two-way street. Aficionados got to contribute to the candidate of their choice and get a totem that was easy to flaunt, while the campaign got to rake in the cash. How much? Eighteen months before the election campaign manager Brad Parscale bragged they had shipped nearly a million hats. With the average contribution being $45, and the cost per chapeau being $2, well, you do the math.
It's a funding vehicle that all practice whether blue or red, top of ticket or down ballot. Elizabeth Warren had coffee mugs sporting a "Billionaire Tears" logo, while Amy Klobuchar has a "Amy for America" ice scraper. A little further away from the center, Georgia's John Ossoff had "Vote Your Ossoff" tee shirts, and Alabama's Tommy Tubberville had a pack of ten Tommy Tubber engraved straws. Candidates have even turned lemons into swag lemonade. A former opponent of then Senate Majority leader Mitch McConnell called him "Cocaine Mitch," an allusion to an allegation of drugs found aboard a cargo ship owned by McConnell's wife's family. Far from sparking outrage, the McConnell campaign printed up "Cocaine Mitch" tee shirts featuring a faceless figure with a sprinkling of white powder, and "Cartel Member" on the back. Sales of the shirts led to one of his best fundraising days ever, pulling in $70,000.
But it's not just those actively running for office that offer premiums to the faithful. In a different spin on the old mantra that "winners never quit," victorious pols use their newly found positions as platforms to keep raising money even if the need for it is far in the future. They do so with the ostensible purpose of supporting like-minded candidates and causes, leveraging the trappings of their current offices to solicit donations in exchange for trinkets. Technically candidates are not supposed to profit personally, but their campaigns and representatives are free to ask for and stockpile cash without running afoul of ethics guidelines.
That partly explains the latest missive to my inbox. By simple virtue of using the internet and having my address scrapped into the vast maw that is data collection, I find a continual flow of solicitations for charities, products and services. Add in a stop or two to both Democratic and Republican sites, and the trickle sent my way becomes a torrent, necessitating continual pruning, deleting and unsubscribing. To paraphrase a quote attributed to everyone from writer EK Means to comedian Dick Gregory to musician Albert King, if it weren't for bad email I'd have no email at all.
Still, I hate to completely cut off the flow because you miss the latest good stuff, like this one. Datelined Washington and sent by the Democratic National Committee, it seeks to raise funds in support of candidates and causes hewing to the left side of the ledger. And with one of their own holding down the fort at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, what better image to exploit that of "The People's House" itself.
As the solicitation is from the DNC and not the president himself, all is considered legal and on the up and up. Still, what trappings of the office do they choose to entice me to give? Not a "Ridin' with Biden" bumper sticker. Not a "Malarkey Mug." Not a "Doug the First Second Gentleman" hoodie. Rather, a "limited-edition White House painting featuring First Dogs Champ and Major."
Yup, the iconic South Portico, site of signings and rallies and celebrations noted in the history books is merely the backdrop to the First Pets. For a donation of just $7, they will pull a print and send "what is sure to be a collector's item – after all with only 30,000 in stock, we're expecting to run out quickly." Sure enough, there's the official residence being guarded by the boys. Checkers would be jealous.
It's no MAGA hat to be sure. And to be blunt, it won't get me to fork over any amount. If they want to get me, the swag is going to have to rise to a higher level, and appeal to my other self interests. Maybe if they offered up a pound of freshly roasted "Just Joe," we could have a conversation.
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Marc Wollin of Bedford doesn't contribute to any parties he's not attending. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.
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