Cupcakes and Shrapnel
Notes from Your Local Gadfly
I’ve been called a naysayer, a killjoy, a purveyor of hot takes with too much vinegar in the batter. Fair enough. In Oregon politics, where public messaging often arrives pre-frosted with solidarity statements and pre-approved hashtags, anything sharp or unsweetened can feel like sabotage. But here’s the thing: not every cupcake is for a birthday party. Some are meant to wake you up.
This is the gadfly’s dilemma. You point out that the supermajority can’t pass a transportation budget, and suddenly you’re “undermining the team.” You ask whether a regressive gas tax is the best we can do in a climate-conscious state, and you’re accused of “helping Republicans.” You mention that sanctuary laws aren’t keeping ICE out of hospitals, schools, and courthouses, and you’re told to “get in line” because Trump.
At some point, you stop trying to explain that your criticism isn’t sabotage. You just start baking more cupcakes.
The gadfly, in classical terms, isn’t a hater. Socrates was the original: a persistent, annoying question-asker who believed that discomfort could be ethical, even sacred. The gadfly exists not to destroy, but to prevent stagnation. Institutions—especially those that claim moral clarity—are prone to groupthink. They confuse alignment with righteousness, and internal critique with betrayal.
But someone has to ask: What if this isn’t working? What if we’re telling ourselves a story that isn’t true anymore? What if we’re using language like equity, sanctuary, and resistance as branding tools instead of policy mandates?
These aren’t rhetorical bombs. They’re pressure tests. They’re the questions you ask before the floor gives way under your own messaging.
Of course, it gets lonelier the more cupcakes you hand out. The same party that hosts keynote dinners about Medicaid access will ghost your email when you ask why local enrollment gaps persist. People will smile politely at your concern about data-sharing loopholes in sanctuary policies—until you suggest closing them might require real budget and legal fights. Then suddenly, you’re “unrealistic.”
But “realism” shouldn’t be a euphemism for inertia.
And “tone” shouldn’t be a stand-in for don’t make me feel uncomfortable.
Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: Oregon Democrats hold power. Real, structural power. And power is supposed to deliver outcomes—not just newsletters and emergency donation buttons. The test of leadership isn’t what you say when Republicans are in charge. It’s what you do when you are.
So if someone’s throwing a little heat in your direction, don’t assume sabotage. Maybe they’re just tired of cupcakes with no calories. Maybe they’re asking for the thing you said you believed in.
For those who complain about “throwing hand grenades,” I’ll put it like this:
Did we miss anyone with the shrapnel? If so, let’s talk.
This isn’t an attack. It’s an invitation. Because the work of democracy—especially progressive democracy—is messy, iterative, and deeply human. Tools are just tools. What matters is the integrity of the hands that wield them.
I’m not interested in being right on the internet. I’m interested in making the places I live and vote in actually work. That includes the inboxes where fundraising emails land. That includes the podiums where values are professed. That includes the community boards, the transit stops, the clinics, and the kitchens where policy shows up in real life—not just in mission statements.
So yes, I’ll keep baking.
Some of what I write may be too dry for the sweet-toothed. Some of it might go stale before the next election cycle. But occasionally, someone bites into something and realizes: oh—this has substance. This could keep me going.
And that’s enough.
Because I don’t write to end the conversation. I write to prove it’s still worth having.