An Open Letter to Capitol Rioter Dawn Bancroft

There is a hole in my heart the shape of a psychotic fitness coach.

by Rich Herschlag

There are so many arrested and soon to be convicted Capitol rioters I could be obsessed with. There is innovator Jacob Chansley, the guy in the furry horn helmet. There is elderly statesman Richard Barnett, who evidently left behind fecal matter in Nancy Pelosi’s office. There is Oath Keeper Jessica Watkins who upon arraignment was no longer sure exactly what oath she had taken or whether it had been a good idea to keep it. But none of them and their broken upscale redneck lives mean a thing to me. Dawn Bancroft, I am obsessed with you.

On the surface, the reasons are perhaps obvious. At 58, we are exactly the same age. As a resident of Doylestown, PA, you live in Bucks, the next county from me. In the early 90s I even worked in Doylestown for a few months, getting up at the crack of (yes) dawn to drive carefully down old narrow, winding Route 611 along the Delaware River and knowing all it would take was one errant truck barely crossing the double yellow line for me never to make it to that next bridge inspection.

But the real reasons I carry thoughts of you throughout my day go much deeper. Creeping on your Facebook photos and Google images posted over the years, I see someone who at least on appearance could have blended right in with the family I married into decades ago. The Pennsylvania Dutch good looks are unmistakable—a rugged feminine beauty possessed by women who can make a stunning entrance at a polka dance one minute and fix a leaky faucet the next. What comes with the territory is the distinct possibility of prematurely hardened, weathered looks due to any number of circumstances—too many cigarettes, too many Yuenglings, too much fried dough, too many sleepless nights clicking on QAnon links.

Until it was stripped from you by a company loath to watch their global brand tank, you owned and operated a CrossFit gym. What could corporate really do? You weren’t exactly one of the low profile rioters skulking around the corridors with their heads down. As Capitol rioters go, you were pretty out. Among the more than 20 women arrested early on, you were easily the most quotable, bragging that you “did your part” and that had you found her you would have shot House Speaker Nancy Pelosi “in the friggin’ brain.” You, in your bright red MAGA ski hat, windburned face, and infinite wisdom sent those timeless poetic words home via iPhone to your kids, who couldn’t have been more proud if you were arrested streaking during the seventh inning stretch of a Phillies game.

Those same kids, who may have inherited their intelligence from their actual biological parents, urged you to delete the video. But you had a grand vision— being  guest speaker one day at a Trump rally, living on a planet where the feds wouldn’t pull a warrant allowing them to gather and analyze terabytes of data generated at the scene of the crime, or some other insight we mere center-left mortals haven’t quite caught up with yet. Whatever preternatural logic led you breach the Capitol and advertise it so adroitly on January 6, 2021, my thoughts keep drifting back to that same trade name—CrossFit.

On one level, the affiliation makes perfect sense. You and your friends, a veritable army of hardbodied Karens with eyes trained on the seat of an evil government bent on denying office to the rightful heir of all that is bold, masculine, and rapey. You and your low-carb sisters so strung out on ketosis that hormonal, acetone-induced rage took control of your bodies the way Black Sabbath, a bottle of Night Train, and a warm summer breeze blowing through the back seat of a ’74 LeBaron had a habit of doing some 40 years ago. There is no shame in getting swept off your feet—whether back then by the second string left defensive tackle on the varsity football squad, or much more recently by the divorced father of six with a Roger Stone tattoo on his left arm who does power squats at your gym Wednesday evenings. Every era has its aphrodisiacs.

But what puzzles me is why after all those years of interdisciplinary training you weren’t a little more creative on Cretin Bastille Day. No vaulting up the Capitol steps for you. No rappelling up the marble walls. No swooping down via rope into the Rotunda like a swashbuckling Errol Flynn circa 1938. Instead, you hobbled your way into the building in the wake of some dude hitting a Capitol Police officer over the head with a fire extinguisher. What workout-of-the-day was that again? I may have been out with the flu that week.

More troubling still, Dawn, is your notion of what you might have done with the Speaker had you found her. Perhaps a deadlift or a clean and jerk. A bench press followed by a hammer throw I could see. But a bullet to the head? Seems to me you just got lazy.

But I digress. Fact is, there is a hole in my heart the shape of a psychotic fitness coach. Back in the 80s I was going nowhere fast with the rich young women of Manhattan and outlying areas. I knew there had to be a better way and I found it. Discovering the neighboring state to the neighboring state with its hearty, durable women impressed by a man with a job, most of his teeth, and no glaring substance abuse problem proved to be a goldmine. Within months I was married to one so solid she could drag my bass rig up two flights of stairs should I be hungover at three AM after a club gig.

Thirty-three years, two grown kids, and $150 thousand in college debt later, I am to this day carried through life by the same gorgeous, efficiently built drill sergeant. I never forgot my greater debt to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania in general and the “fairer” sex of the Keystone State in particular. The point is, Dawn, I should have been there for you all these years. We could have been buddies—you, me, my wife, and a few of her eligible male colleagues from Rotary Club.

I could have done a Heimlich maneuver on you that time a pierogi got stuck in your trachea. You could have replaced the catalytic converter in my 2002 Honda Accord as barter for editing your cover letter for the assistant logistics manager position at Air Products. I could see us on opposite sides during a heated PTA debate on including creationism in the middle school curriculum and then laughing about it afterwards over nachos and deep dish pizza at a sports bar. This was the glorious past we never got to share.

But none of it matters now. In your hour of need, I was MIA. I was not there to explain that the camaraderie of a onetime delusional riot is no substitute for bowling Tuesday nights and friends with benefits. I was not there to tell you Donald Trump is a failed real estate developer with massive financial debt and no respect whatsoever for you or the people who service your lawnmower. I was not there the night you wept over your 1040 form to pat you on the back, feed you a leftover Percocet, and show you how to write off your elliptical machines. For all these things and more I am deeply sorry.

Most of all I am sorry we never got to know each other. So close yet so far. I may never know what was so lacking in your life that you threw it all away for a few broken plate glass windows and a selfie. Pennsylvania is, after all, a fun region of the country, with a rich cultural history. There are Eagles games. There is running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art and pretending you’re Rocky. There are over 40 local microbrews to sample at Musikfest once the pandemic is over. Did I mention Eagles games?

All this must have passed before your eyes like life swiftly draining the morning six well armed Kevlar protected FBI agents surrounded your modest three-bedroom colonial and read you your rights. Alas, you and I were just two SUVs passing on the Turnpike. But I will never forget you. I will keep your seat warm at the food court at Wegmans. I will clip coupons, make scrapbooks, and see you in 20 years. Eighteen for good behavior.

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The Incredible Dumbness Of The Vaccination Appointment Process

My mistake was figuring that with all the dozens of sites across the state it’d be quick and easy to get an appointment. I figured wrongly.

(image via WUSA9)

by Bob Cesca

WASHINGTON, DC -- For the past 10 days, I’ve been obsessed with getting my COVID-19 vaccination. Naturally, I’m not alone. So far, according to the CDC, 23 percent of all Americans have managed to be fully vaccinated nationwide, and 3.7 million people have been vaccinated in my state alone. That’s a pretty amazing feat given how ridiculous the process has been for many of us in populated areas.

Several weeks ago, I pre-registered for a vaccination through my state government’s COVID-19 website. By pre-registering, I’d enter a virtual waiting room and when my turn came up for a shot at a mass vaccination site nearby, I’d get a text message, but only after my “Phase 3” status as a healthy 49-year-old became eligible. 

The big day for Maryland and Phase 3, April 5, arrived -- but only for vaccines at the various mass vaccination sites. Not the pharmacies. As of this writing, I still haven’t received the text message, but I’m sure it’ll be on the way. Eventually. At the very least, I’m on the waiting list, so it’s just a matter of time. But after a year of being isolated in place, I’m itching to get out, and the only way to do that is to get jabbed as soon as possible. More urgently, as time goes on, the odds of eventually being infected rises. So, there’s that, too.

Fortunately, as of April 12, this past Monday, all vaccination sites, including the pharmacies, became available to Phase 3 people in Maryland. My mistake was figuring that with all the dozens of sites across the state -- I mean, there are three Giant pharmacies within walking distance of my apartment -- it’d be quick and easy to get an appointment. 

I figured wrongly.

Those of you who grew up prior to the existence of the internet remember the old days of calling Ticketmaster whenever your favorite band came to town for a show. You probably also remember calling radio stations to be “caller number 10” to win a prize. It was a frantic process of dialing, getting a busy signal, hanging up, and dialing again until you got through. The invention of the “redial” button made it faster, but it was still an intense roll of the dice, and sometimes, you’d never get through before the concert was completely sold out…. You can continue reading here. Try a Banter Membership free for 2 months: