By Alfred P. Doblin
“Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be prov’d upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer, so and, which is more, a householder, and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns and every thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!” — Dogberry
Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare
On Election Day, I went to the theater, as sure enough a proof that I have cast my print journalism days aside, said adieu to cold pizza stacked high in boxes that oozed grease like the palms of a backroom political broker. Alas, those days are gone.
As it was this past Election Day, I went to see the glorious Jamie Lloyd production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. It is a starry cast and the production, with its nod to 1990’s techno music and the Lloyd-required alignment of industrial chairs instead of a set (Chromolume #7 George? “I was hoping it would be a series of three, four at the most.”) I was transfixed. Yet, there was an omission: No Dogberry.
I have read that the cutting of the much-maligned constable was to create a more streamlined narrative for the barbed romantic comedy that sees Beatrice and Benedick go from sparring partners to lovers. While it works, I found, after the last piece of pink confetti fell from the ceiling, and I reawakened my phone for election results, it was Dogberry’s voice I heard.
The famous monologue of wishing he was written down an ass came flooding through my brain like a blue tsunami, which I will note in digression is a bit redundant since, a tsunami is composed of water, and so much that water by its nature is blue, and so much that a tsunami would then have to be blue, that the addition of the hue which is blue is merely punditry goo.
But, yeah, merrily I will roll along to the point that Dogberry bears a strong resemblance to someone not of dramatical invention who sees himself as a householder, is rich enough, and as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, allowing that he would rename that Italian town after himself.
Seriously, the tectonic shift of the 2026 elections was not and is not much ado about nothing. It was much ado about everything – rising costs for fuel, inflation, immigration policy and an unpopular war of choice. If I were clever, it is fodder for the entirety of my Riverside edition of Shakespeare that has gone untouched longer than a Taylor ham sandwich in a household of vegans.
But no one his written me down as clever in quite some time, yet my need for some punditry has not diminished in the absence of cold Election Day pizza. What troubles me that like Dogberry, his modern-day doppelganger has not a clue that he is indeed the pompous blowhard.
For while the electorate is much aggrieved by the aforementioned consequences of bad policy decisions and hubris, our Dogberry remains focused on his ballroom, his renovations to the White House, and the application of gold to an excess that, apologies to Barack Obama, leave every Cheesecake Factory I have eaten in languishing in gilded dust. On November 5, the Dogberry doppleganger declared the Oval Office and a few other areas inside the White House as national monuments. In part, the presidential proclamation reads:
“The monument shall consist of the Oval Office itself (Room 110) together with the Outer Oval Office (Rooms 106 and 108) and the Cabinet Room (Room 105). The boundaries of the monument are the smallest area compatible with the proper care and management of the objects of historic interest to be protected.”
If you read the whole document, it actually does not prevent future presidents from changing the cosmetics of the room. In other words, the gold could, and I expect will, go in years to come. It is much ado about… well, nothing.
And that is the whole point of it. It is a deflection. A dodge. Or is it a DOGE?
Something extraordinary did occur on Election Day. Across America, people voted. People of all races, ages, genders, religions, and sexual orientation voted en masse. The result was the ouster of incumbents in supposedly safe red states. To be glib, there was more proverbial “flipping” than I have seen in nearly seven decades of living in urban areas from New York to Los Angeles.
This a good thing, regardless of your politics. Citizens need to be engaged; the whole house of cards upon which our republic rests depends on that. What is dangerous is to think that the shift in one branch of government changes the direction of the other two. It does not. For that to occur, another election is needed for the executive, and time and opportunity for the judiciary.
To continue to borrow from the cast of Much Ado About Nothing, that the doppelganger to Don Jon, the noble Don Pedro’s bastard (Shakespeare’s word, not mine) brother, is now the new chief of staff for Dogberry’s doppelganger should serve as a reminder that we are not living in a comedy, not even a comedy of errors. There is nothing funny here.
The joy of comedy is that it allows us to laugh at ourselves and our betters. The importance of tragedy is that it offers lessons about what happens when we cannot distinguish between what is consequential and what is folly. Because uncontrolled folly is always consequential.
We do not need to be serious all the time. An evening of flowing pink confetti while listening to words more than a half-millennia old sound fresh is a fabulous thing. But if we fail to notice that the pompous narcissist is no longer center stage, we risk not recognizing that he must be somewhere. You can cut him out of a particular production, but you cannot cut him out of the play. Dogberry is part of the lasting narrative, like it or not.
A Shakespeare play has five acts. Election Day 2026 was the end of Act Two. I am an optimist. I hope this play that is our republic is neither comedy nor tragedy, but history – a history glorious and vain, rich and, at times, struggling, but never ceasing in its movement toward a most satisfying Act Five conclusion.
The play is the thing, and perhaps, in other production – soon – someone will grant Dogberry his wish and write him down an ass.
Until next time, this is Alfred with a P.