Just as my kid is nodding off for the night, it arrives: a ding. It’s Nancy Pelosi, texting to tell me that if I don’t donate $5 immediately, American democracy will basically collapse. A few minutes later, it’s Cory Booker, with an urgent request.
Don’t even get me started on James Talarico. Sometimes I’m driving, or making dinner, or trying to focus on my work, and another three messages arrive. There’s a critical deadline approaching.
A generous donor has offered an 800 percent match. As I was writing that last paragraph, I got a message from Angus, a cat belonging to Sam Forstag, a Democratic congressional candidate in Montana. Angus needed me to know that Sam was out there working to flip Montana’s First Congressional District, taking on his Republican opponent and the wealthy special interests backing him.
I’m not sure what Angus expected me to do about it. Political fundraising texts are a fact of American life. They’re intrusive, melodramatic, and relentless.
In the first 20 days of October, more than 190 arrived—nearly 10 a day. The strangest part is that most of these messages aren’t meant for me. They’re meant for a family member who I’ll call John, for privacy reasons.
John lives in California and has made small donations to Democrats. I live in New York and have made no political donations at all. We have different names, phone numbers, and bank accounts—a distinction that has apparently proven difficult for a substantial portion of the American political fundraising industry.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
