Behind opposition lines

I attended a meeting of the Conservative Patriots of OC last night. It wasn't entirely what I expected—for good and bad.

I wasn’t going to lie.

That was the major rule—no made-up name, no fake identity. I’ve done that before, and it’s equal parts exhausting and unnecessary. Or, put different: How can I bash ICE agents for wearing masks, then create a mask of my own?

So, upon entering the Santa Ana Elks Lodge at 5 o’clock yesterday evening, I checked in at the front table of the Conservative Patriots of OC as JEFF PEARLMAN, grabbed a name sticker and wrote down JEFFREY.

Then, for $30, I passed through.

Technically, I came to hear Sonja Shaw, the uneducated attends-high-school-track-meets-to-berate-the-parents-of-trans-athletes Fruit Loop Republican candidate for state superintendent. I’d seen a flyer that hyped Shaw’s appearance and thought, “Well, this should be interesting.” Then, however, the meeting began—and I quickly realized Shaw and her irrational hysterics (as well as her 0% chance of winning the general election) would be the least-engrossing piece of the event.

See, what this was—for me—was a blessed opportunity to observe conservatives in action. To see what they pondered. To hear what they planned. To try and grasp how they roll with 2025. Not steal anything, obviously. Just watch and learn and educate myself.

My biggest takeaway: In many regards, they are us. What I mean by this is, like many Democratic clubs throughout Orange County, the 40 (or so) attendees inside the Elks Lodge were, well, old. Really old. Gray hair. Wobbly knees. Bad backs. It’s a problem that plagues both parties: Unless you’re promising Olivia Rodrigo tickets, no one under the age of 30 is showing up. Also, the Conservative Patriots of OC are (like the majority of Democrats these days) remarkably self-critical. Much of the early chatter concerned what wasn’t being done; how the opposition was better organized; how the finances needed a boost. I easily could have closed my eyes and imagined myself at a million different self-loathing liberal gatherings. Considering the GOP is enjoying a golden age for the party, the mojo was surprising.

Furthermore, and not for nothing, the people were lovely. I mean that—absolutely lovely. Folks were warm, inviting, engaging. I talked NBA Finals with one dude, Newport restaurants with another (he highly recommends Ospi). The meeting began with a Call to Order, and immediately afterward a woman named Stephanie Townsend (the club’s first vice chair) gave the invocation. Now, on the down side, I found her prayer to be, well … eh … um … jarringly weird and offputting. Townsend thanked God for health and togetherness (great), but then also thanked God for, like, giving the world Donald J. Trump and a whole slew of bonkers conservative talking points that I’m quite certain God isn’t so happy about (bad).

But just when I was thinking poorly of Townsend, she approached me, introduced herself—and was wonderful. I told her I was a political moderate (OK, I guess that was a stretch), and she said many folks in her life were moderate, too. Even Democrat. And that it was totally fine. And that people should be able to come together and split bread and talk out their differences. And that she’d love Democrats and Republicans to meet side by side every so often.

And, in that moment, I loved being in the company of Stephanie Townsend.

I legitimately did.

But then …

Shit got super weird.

I probably should have seen it coming early on, when Susan Stivers, the club president (and a very energetic presenter) stood before this backdrop …

Susan Stivers with Giant Trump.

When she brought it up (the big image of Trump), folks applauded. And, just being honest, it was the first time I wanted to rush the podium, snatch the microphone and scream. In my head, the words flowed: “Seriously, you guys all seem lovely and warm and friendly. Why are you worshiping this conman? Do you not know about the five draft deferments? The 18 sexual assault accusations? The ridiculing of POWs, of soldiers? Do you not know about the phony “university”? Do you not know about the endless bankruptcies? Do you not know about his lies about being a hero on 9.11? Do you not know about the Central Park 5? Do you not know how he cheated on wife 1 with wife 2 and wife 2 with wife 3 and wife 3 with the porn star he paid off in hush money? Do y’all really not know?”

Alas, it was neither the time nor place. This was their meeting, and I have no interest in being yet another dime-a-dozen clickbait TikTok agitator. So I listened—and it did not get better. According to these peeps, Donald Trump is a human Jesus. And that’s not a direct quote, so much as a takeaway observation. As Southern California citizens (crime: Being brown and speaking Spanish) are being kidnapped by masked ICE agents lacking identification or warrants, and as the Middle East rests on the edge of massive warfare, and as Pete Hegseth and Kristi Noem play Important Person dress-up, the people inside the room glowed and drooled every … single … time Donald’s name was mentioned.

The wackiest moment came when Stivers boasted that there was now “official proof” the 2020 election was stolen by the Democrats—and that the proof came in the form of a (glub) Twitter video clip about fake Chinese drivers licenses …

And a few things about this:

A. Stivers’ inability to work the volume has to be a metaphor.

B. It’s a little weird how we’re in 2025, and suddenly a never-before-mentioned-conspiracy-theory (China creating drivers licenses) is now the way Dems cheated. Finally, we caught you scoundrels! (PS: It’s been debunked).

C. How does it never seem fishy to Republicans that Trump said the Emmy’s were rigged against him, the non-sale of the Buffalo Bills was rigged against him, the 2016 Iowa Caucus was rigged against him, the 2016 general would be rigged against him and the 2020 general was rigged against him? Why is everything rigged against him?

D. The part that made me sad was, even without volume, so many in the room clearly believed what Stivers was saying. I mean, here we are. Donald Trump is the president. Kamala Harris conceded quickly and without drama. The 2020 loss has been litigated and re-litigated about 764,321 times. And these folks are still buying the conspiracies. Still. All because Trump won’t let it go.

Wait.

I digress.

Food was served. Cheese enchiladas and salad, with churros for dessert. It was a fairly dingy spread for $30. But as I was munching on my 75th piece of lettuce, I listened as someone named Linda Cone was handed the microphone. She is 83, looked fantastic, wore red glasses and spoke with an eerie-yet-engrossing certainty. She has clearly drank heartily from the Donald Trump Kool Aid goblet, and knows—in her deepest of hearts—that the 47th president can do no wrong, and loves America, and only bragged about grabbing pussies because, eh, he was referring to an actual cat, and only paid off a porn star because he thought she said, “corn star,” and only stood by as rioters attacked the Capitol and set up a noose for Mike Pence because, eh, never mind.

Enter Linda …

When she wrapped her remarks, I rose to leave. The evening was going long, and I’m all too familiar with the girls-with-penises script Shaw would adhere to in her own remarks. Yet as I removed my JEFFREY sticker and exited the building, I found myself overcome not by fatigue, but sadness. The ol’ This-isn’t-Ronald Reagan’s-Republican-Party line has been repeated ad nauseam, and it really is true. Things seem lost. Gone. The zombie apocalypse came, spread and stuck. As much as people like Stephanie Townsend surely aspire for Americans to come together, it feels far too late. The current White House occupant says we (liberals) are enemies and perverts and folks who hate America—and so, in the minds of the Republicans gathered within the confines of that room, it is written.

Though he was 3,000 miles away, I could feel Donald Trump’s presence inside the Orange County Elk’s Lodge.

For those in attendance, he does not merely serve as their president.

He is their master.

sigh.