course

As a student years ago, I dove deep into the history of the Red-hunting McCarthy era and became familiar with the actor who emerged second only to Wisconsin Sen. Joe McCarthy as the villain of that insidious time: his shameless, conniving young lawyer, Roy Cohn. Never would I have imagined that a future president would count Cohn as a mentor and role model.

Then came Donald Trump.

Now, in Cohn-inflected McCarthyesque style, President Trump is channeling his tutor yet again, baselessly labeling his political enemies — all Democrats — as communists as he looks ahead to the fall’s midterm elections. Once more Trump shows that his catchphrase “Make America great again” means regressing, this time to Trump’s formative 1950s and the McCarthy era that sadly helped define it.

In recent speeches, including on the Fourth of July, Trump’s utterances of “communist” or “communism” reached double digits each time. (As that implies, the president didn’t set aside his divisive rhetoric even for the nation’s 250th birthday.)

“Our warriors did not fight communism on battlefields across the world only to have that menace rear its ugly head right back here in America,” Trump said late on the Fourth on the National Mall.

Trump couples his commie-baiting with a dash of his trademark xenophobia. “There is now a resurgence of the communist menace in our land, including by newcomers to our country who embrace ideas totally opposed to our way of life and our great success,” he said at Mount Rushmore a day earlier. (He’s got it backward, of course: Immigrants come here for the American way of life and promise of success.)

Here’s the irony: Trump’s actions in his second term make him look more like the commie. He’s projecting again.

Now that Trump is exploiting a few victories lately by left-wing democratic socialists in Democratic primaries to paint the entire party as communists, it’s time to review the record — his record.

A hallmark of communism is government ownership of companies and control of the economy, at the expense of private property and free markets. In just over a year, Trump has used billions of taxpayers’ dollars to buy shares for the government in a growing list of private companies — U.S. Steel, Intel, Westinghouse and more — citing national security. The companies don’t always welcome their new stakeholder; at a minimum, they rightly fear it for the demands the government could make about prices and production.

“It’s what Putin did,” the estranged Republicans at the Lincoln Project posted online Monday. “Trump is the closest we’ve ever come to communism.”

“What began as a populist revolt against so-called elites has become a program of state ownership, price fixing and top-down industrial control,” free-market economist Veronique de Rugy wrote in The Times last October of Trump’s actions. “The power to ‘partner’ with business is the power to control it.”

Comrade Trump’s first big government grab, and a model for those to come, was in June last year, when he wrested a permanent “golden share” in U.S. Steel in return for approving its sale to Japan’s Nippon Steel. The company’s charter was revised to give the U.S. president extraordinary veto power over nearly a dozen corporate activities, including closing or relocating plants, supply-chain decisions, even pricing.

“We have a golden share, which I control,” Trump told reporters at the time, in words I never thought I’d hear from a president of the party once associated with free markets.

Just last week, Trump boasted to CNBC how he’d extracted a 10% stake in beleaguered chip giant Intel last August, after first demanding that its chief executive resign. “Intel came in. They had a problem. I said, ‘I can solve your problem, but I want 10% of the company.’ … Somebody said that’s not very American. I said, ‘No, I think it is very American, actually.’ And I’ve done that with other deals.”

And so he has.

The Pentagon is now the largest stockholder in struggling MP Materials, a large rare-earth mine in California, and guarantees a 10-year price floor for its output that stunned competitors. The administration has since taken shares in other rare-earth companies. The Commerce Department took an option for an 8% stake in Westinghouse, to spur construction of nuclear reactors, and has the right to 20% if the government decides the company should go public. The government takes a 15% cut of Nvidia’s and Advanced Micro Devices’ AI chip sales to China.

As much as anything he does, Trump’s direct intervention in private enterprise invites the question “What if Biden/Harris/Obama did that?” The answer, of course: Trump and Republicans would cry “Communist!”

Trump’s actions are the sort Americans generally have only seen during economic emergencies or major wars, and then rarely. I covered the frenzied and ultimately successful response to the near-collapse of the global financial system and the U.S. auto, insurance and housing industries. Behind the scenes in the Obama White House (and George W. Bush’s at the outset) was constant, angst-filled debate about any actions smacking of government takeovers and a determination that interventions be temporary, unlike Trump’s schemes. (For all the still-lingering unpopularity of the banking bailout, the Treasury — the taxpayers — got all the money back and then some, and exited the business.)

Trump’s economic big-footing isn’t the only way in which he resembles the commies Americans know best, and whom he so admires: Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, Kim Jung Un. There are also the images of himself everywhere, monuments planned, drearily long and self-adulating speeches and interference in the nation’s cultural, educational and legal spheres and — worst of all — in elections.

At Rushmore, Trump closed with a demand that Congress pass his so-called SAVE America Act to restrict voting. “We do that and we’re not going to lose an election for 100 years,” he said, speaking of course about Republicans.

One-party rule through central government election finagling? Now that’s a communist.

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My dinner course is served. It is a Campbell’s-inspired soup can, lightly angled so strands of broccoli are peeking out. I lift the can to uncover a slow-braised short rib and mashed potatoes. An American dish to represent an American artist, here Andy Warhol.

The room is overtaken with projections, scenes of bustling New York traffic paired with bachelor-pad-like guitar riffs. Shown on a wall above a dinner table is a selection of Warhol silkscreens. It’s a Friday night in West Hollywood, and I’m surrounded by a mix of out-of-towners and those celebrating an anniversary. And while this is a special occasion, we’re urged to get a little messy with our food — to use our hands, to paint with a salad, to draw on a cookie.

Play is the primary side dish at “7 Paintings,” a tech-infused dinner theater that aims to be a crash course in fine art. That selection of veggies paired with multiple mini cups of colorful dressings? Guests are encouraged to mix and match the vinaigrettes into a mess of hues, a nod to abstractionist Jackson Pollock. And yellowfin tuna with dashes of avocado and taro chips? That’s an edible tribute to Banksy, of course. What does raw fish have to do with stenciled street art? It’s bold, heavily angled and has a short shelf life? Maybe? Perhaps don’t overthink it.

“Have you ever eaten a painting before?” says Nadine Beshir, the Dubai-based creator of “7 Paintings.” “We try to get people out of their comfort zones and eating paper. I want to bring out the child in them.”

“7 Paintings,” held at Sunset House L.A. through the end of August, is the latest example of immersive dining to arrive in this city. These experiences often involve guest participation and are accentuated with advanced multimedia technology and sometimes theatrical elements.

Worldwide, there have been standouts. For instance, Eatrenalin at Germany’s Europa-Park, a dining room-meets-ride where participants are whisked around the space on trackless “floating chairs,” has just received a coveted Michelin star. Ibiza’s Sublimotion has similar haute ambitions, pairing 12 diners together in a room that will come alive with otherworldly projections and performers. At times, diners will win don virtual reality headgear.

But tech-driven immersive dining experiences have never quite taken off in Los Angeles as a trend. Last year, the Gallery, where fantastical cityscapes and projections surrounded downtown L.A. diners, stood just a couple months before the concept was abandoned.

“The economics of a restaurant are not the same as the economics of theater and the challenge of combining the two lies in thinking outside the box with respect to pricing and cost structure, such that the customer perceives high value from both the food and the experience,” says the Gallery co-founder Daren Ulmer.

Entrepreneurs keep aiming for that careful balance. “Le Petit Chef and Friends” is currently running at Tangier at downtown’s Hotel Figueroa, an event in which a fully animated film is projected on our plates and tables. Long-running pop-up event Fork N’ Film leans more dinner and movie, pairing dishes directly inspired by what is happening on screen. Upcoming films include “Ratatouille” and “Lilo and Stitch.”

The field comes with challenges. “The costs are very high,” says Joanna Garner, an immersive designer and former creative director with experiential art firm Meow Wolf. Garner has been experimenting herself with communal, immersive dinner events, and her next, the flirtatious “Please Open Your Mouth,” is set for July 11. (No tech there, as Garner is after a more sensual, adult-focused gathering.) Tickets for her event are $150 and a spot in the “7 Paintings” dining room runs $175, priced on par with a number of city’s most acclaimed restaurants.

There is also the reality that all public dining is in some fashion immersive, usually requiring varying combinations of engagement, communication and presentation. And then, are all these added elements distracting?

Throughout “7 Paintings,” for instance, an animated Mona Lisa, situated on the wall next to the main dinner table, will provide brief biographical details of each artist represented.

“Being able to nail the food, and nail the story, those are two very difficult threads to weave,” Garner says. “I do think, ultimately, people come to a dinner table to talk to the people at the table and to have intimate experiences. To have an experience where you’re constantly being taken away from the food, I’m not so sure if that’s what people are looking for.”

Food is framed as a star of “7 Paintings” but tasting it is just one component. At one point, we must uncover a cheese course in a tiny treasure chest, the code for the lock hidden in the projections (don’t stress, it’s not a hard puzzle). Beshir highlights the Pollock-inspired salad course, which is accentuated with a jazz soundtrack, as the thesis of the evening.

“This course is really about getting people to free their minds from preconceived ideas,” Beshir says. “Like, you have to eat with a fork and knife, or the salad comes and then the dressing. No, the dressing comes and then the salad, and it’s trying with big brushes to paint the way he did. A lot of people do not understand Abstract Expressionism, and they think it’s people just splashing colors around. But when you understand the link between the rhythm of the music and painting, you live it. We give you time to paint with your salad dressing.”

In L.A., Beshir has partnered with nightlife impresario Kim Kelly, who is plotting a “Sleep No More”-inspired walk-around theatrical show for the Sunset House venue later this year. “7 Paintings,” however, is fully seated, and purposefully a little silly. Beshir and Kelly have been evolving it during its L.A. run, recently adding a stronger painting component by giving guests their own canvas to work on throughout the evening. Each night crowns a winner.

“Everyone comes over to look at their art,” Kelly says. “It just kind of changed the whole thing, to be honest. People are now being creative throughout the entire evening. Instead of just watching and occasionally painting, you’re now painting the whole time.”

As for what, perhaps, soba noodles with edamame and mushrooms have to do with Pablo Picasso, or why Salvador Dali gets an unexpected dessert course of a white chocolate potato souffle, Beshir clarifies the goal of the evening. While the animated Mona Lisa will provide backstories on each painter, this isn’t an educational night. “It’s fun dining, not fine dining,” Beshir says.

And by the end of my night, strangers were socializing, showing off their painted cookie creations, sharing Banksy tidbits and asking for recommendations on various vinaigrette combinations. Ultimately, it’s an evening of discovery, packed with surprises like finding an entire course hidden under a canvas.

“We try not to have too much sophistication, like fried ants or something. I’m personally very adventurous in how I eat, but if I want to have this in 100 cities around the world, I cannot be too meticulous.”

And Beshir has big goals.

“I want this be your movie and dinner thing,” Beshir says. “I want people to be waiting for our next show, and to be able to afford to come every couple months.”

And to come home not with leftovers, but perhaps a painting of their own.

“The World Cup is ruining my life,” a neighbor recently said with a laugh. “I’m supposed to be working; instead I’m watching World Cup. I’m supposed to be doing chores; instead I am watching World Cup.”

I laughed in guilty recognition. We had met on the street by chance while I was walking the dog. Having just spent the last two hours watching, then celebrating Lionel Messi’s hat trick during Argentina’s first-game victory over Algeria, I had less than an hour to get back in time to watch Austria play Jordan.

That was on Day 6, and it’s only gotten worse. If I had to calculate my own ratio of work done to soccer watched … well, as I am not a sports reporter, I don’t think my editor would be thrilled. (Though I’m sure she appreciated the England/Congo updates I provided as I finished this piece.)

Like millions worldwide, my family and I have been deeply, and in our case, weirdly, engrossed in this year’s games. “Weirdly” because we do not follow men’s soccer. The World Cup is different, of course — going in, I figured I would check out the U.S., keep an eye on Messi, then tune into the final few games. Perhaps my husband would join (but only if he at least pretended to understand the offside rule), but with our two oldest children out of the house, it is, with the exception of the Super Bowl, unheard of for our family to concurrently view any sporting event in real time.

Until this World Cup. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but suddenly we’ve got game times written onto our calendar. Entire days have been spent in front of the TV with at least one child and the others watching from their homes, our family texts studded with “are you watching…?,” “did you just see that?” and, of course, “OMG MESSI!”

(I would attempt to calculate my recent ratio of chores done to Messi videos watched if I weren’t legitimately concerned that my family would have me committed.)

The fact that my son and his girlfriend live in Kansas City certainly helped spark our newfound fascination. Yes, Los Angeles is also a host city, but L.A. hosts so many things; inevitably we were mostly concerned about what it would do to the traffic. KC, on the other hand, is the smallest and most unlikely of the host cities, and over the last few years we have seen — on visits and through my son’s accounts — all the construction, effort and can-do spirit that has gone into preparing for the event.

We were thrilled when it was announced that Argentina, England, the Netherlands and Algeria would be based in or near KC. We wanted the city to shine, and it has — from nearby Lawrence’s enthusiastic adoption of Algeria to Messi’s historic hat trick at Kansas City Stadium.

But it’s more than vicarious Midwestern pride. When our older daughter began texting out missives from the earliest games and our son sent pictures of fans streaming into Kansas City Stadium, we started watching as a way to stay connected.

First, as a family, and then to our country and the rest of world.

The games have been inevitably exciting, especially as now that they’re in the knockout round, but the overall sensation was unexpected relief, a soul-soothing balm.

At a time when the news cycle seems to serve up nothing but conflict, crisis and woe, the World Cup offers shelter, a truly international event in which conflict is defined by long-term sports rivalries and questionable referee decisions.

We want our national or preferred teams to win, of course, but no matter the outcome, it’s impossible not to be thrilled by the sight of phenomenal play, underdog tenacity and so many adoring and enthusiastic fans.

Soccer is called the beautiful game for many reasons, and hours/days/weeks of sustained beauty is impossible to resist. Even social media has surrendered to spectacular highlights along with tales of Japan supporters cleaning up stadiums, fans of the victorious consoling fans of the defeated and Europeans discovering the glories of free refills and ranch dressing.

None of this changes the realities we face in America and the rest of the world. Grocery and gas prices remain catastrophically high; Iran continues to contradict U.S. claims of diplomatic resolution to an unpopular war. The unnecessarily revamped reflecting pool in Washington remains a swamp of algae and tourist arrests, as the semiquincentennial struggles under the weight of our president’s self-centered hubris.

But for a few blessed weeks, the World Cup offers inspiration, escape and cultural healing.

It has also, thus far, escaped President Trump’s so often internationally insulting social-media notice and more importantly, his presence. Historically, the leaders of host countries attend the opening match; Trump has, apparently, been too busy (including planning and attending the UFC Freedom 250 cage match recently held on the South Lawn.)

Given his tendency to suck the oxygen out of any room (like his recent reception at Game 3 of the NBA Finals in New York), it’s definitely for the best. If nothing else, the World Cup has given us a chance to take a break from politics and talk instead about Messi, France’s Kylian Mbappé, England’s Harry Kane and all the amazing goalkeepers, including Cape Verde’s now-iconic Vozinha.

Never before have I so understood the therapeutic power of sport.

Who wouldn’t want to at least take a break from rising measles cases, the latest federal or Supreme Court decisions and primary tea-leaf readings to lose themselves in a game where exquisitely patient passing suddenly bursts into spectacular feats of speed and footwork? Where a well-defended ball can suddenly become a goal with a nearly undetectable flick of a foot, or a perfectly placed shot blocked by a goalie’s incredible ability to launch into space? Where an outcome that seems assured can be overturned in the final minutes to the collective roar of an international cast of thousands?

Like many Americans, I have been occasionally embarrassed by the World Cup’s exposure of my world-geography ignorance — I know where Bosnia and Herzegovina lies on a map, but until recently, I couldn’t place Cape Verde, Curacao or, if I’m being completely honest, Cote d’Ivoire.

Isn’t it wonderful, though, to have a reason to reacquaint yourself with a world map that isn’t related to war, natural or man-made disaster or economic and political tension? The current U.S. administration may seem to be at odds with just about everyone, but visiting World Cup fans are here to remind us of all we share, beneath our crazy wigs and face paint, our cheers, groans and chants.

And we, as hosts, have shown them that America is so much more than the sum of our current government’s policies and posturing.

Watching all this happen, in real time, has been magical, miraculous and magnetic.

Not every moment, of course. Various visa issues created unnecessary and embarrassing drama; high ticket prices and transportation issues were blamed for empty seats at some of the early games. Members of the Iranian team and its coaching staff criticized the way they were treated (though the team left a handwritten note in the dressing room of Los Angeles Stadium, thanking L.A. for its hospitality). The controversial hydration breaks, and the extra commercials they accommodate, can be irritating (though when it’s close to 100 degrees in many stadiums, quite necessary). And though it didn’t matter in terms of standing, watching the U.S. lose to Turkey wasn’t much fun for American fans (though the Turkish exuberance was pretty infectious).

Overall, the 2026 World Cup has done exactly what it was supposed to do: create, in this country, a stage for the finest teams and players in the world’s most popular sport and, more important, carve out five weeks in which we can all spend a few hours removed from the political and cultural divisiveness that threatens to define us.

It’s space in which we can cheer, gasp and leap out of seats along with our families, friends and all the millions we will never meet but to whom we are connected all the same.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the next game is about to start.

Buckle in because the training wheels are OFF for this improv drop-in. So Much Improv, created and led by comic Joe Fahey, focuses on getting in your reps by doing back-to-back improvised scenes. Classes are held at Kingsley Studios, which can be difficult to spot. The two-level complex is located right in front of a liquor store, and the studio is on the second floor behind gated doors. The studio looks like a cute living room, with a couch against one wall and plants across another.

The class size tends to be small (my class included five people), but that allows more time to improvise per person. The class is mostly regulars, so there is already a good rapport between Fahey and the students. That means he can give more specific feedback. After completing other beginner courses, this one felt the scariest, but I leaned in. After a few reps, I felt more confident in my ability to improvise and develop tactics to work with my scene partner. By implementing his feedback, I was able to fine-tune my improv skills.

This class is perfect for those who want more practice. The type of reps can differ each class, but the week I went centered on UCB auditions (it was that time of year). Since the class is small, you get a more catered experience.

Best for: Back-to-back practice on intermediate or advanced drills
Cost: $20
Time commitment: Two hours
Parking: Street parking
Pro tip: Bring water because you will be talking a lot, and something caffeinated to beat the late-night crash for this evening class that requires your full attention.

With President Trump continuing to tank in the polls, the parlor game we know as “2028 Republican primary speculation” is back in full swing among the chattering classes.

Vice President JD Vance — who would normally be considered the heir apparent, and who just happened to make a campaign stop in Iowa recently — now finds his “America First” brand positioning complicated by Trump’s Iran misadventure. So much for an easy glide path to the nomination.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio would seem to benefit from Vance’s stumbles, but in a political moment that fetishizes “authenticity,” Rubio risks coming across like a man who irons his blue jeans. Add to that his reputation as a foreign policy hawk in a party that increasingly wants out of “forever wars,” and he’d be the ideal presidential candidate for … 2004.

All of which has opened the door to more imaginative speculation. “If Pat Buchanan and Roger Ailes had a baby,” former “Meet The Press” host Chuck Todd recently quipped, “it would be Tucker Carlson.”

Ailes, of course, was the media-savvy evil genius who took Fox News to No. 1. And while “Pitchfork Pat’s” populist presidential campaigns weren’t ultimately victorious, he is credited with paving the way for Trump’s eventual 2016 victory.

As this comparison suggests, Carlson could make a formidable Republican presidential candidate. The hitch? Carlson and Trump have recently been trading blows, which is not where any potential Republican candidate wants to be.

For all of his polling woes, Trump still enjoys an 85% approval rating among Republicans, according to the recent Washington Post-ABC News-Ipsos poll. And his recent defeat of Indiana Republican legislators who dared defy him over gerrymandering only underscores the point: Trump’s grip on the Republican Party remains firm.

Even if you dismiss talk of a third Trump term as overwrought constitutional fan fiction, it’s hard to imagine a Republican nominee emerging without Trump’s blessing — let alone in defiance of it.

Which brings us to the latest theory making the rounds: Trump isn’t going to pass this torch to anyone lacking the proper surname.

In this telling, Vance is the loyal, if naive, assistant manager waiting for the boss to retire and hand him the keys to the office — only to discover it’s a family business and the ne’er-do-well son has just pulled into the parking lot in a Ferrari.

Enter Donald Trump Jr., whose chief qualification is name recognition so strong it could probably win a Republican primary on its own.

Add to that daddy’s endorsement, and as the Bulwark’s Jonathan V. Last has noted about Vance and Rubio, “Challenging Don Jr. would turn them into enemies of the people.”

But that doesn’t mean this is a slam dunk for Junior.

As British-American journalist Sarah Baxter recently wrote, “like Logan Roy, the patriarch in the television drama Succession, Trump loves playing his children off against each other. He thinks it instills a healthy killer instinct in his privileged offspring.”

This is to say that Junior isn’t the only potential heir lurking in the wings.

Last year, for example, Eric Trump told a journalist: “I think I could do it. And by the way, I think other members of our family could do it too.”

Which brings us to the wildest speculation of all: Ivanka Trump.

Now, to be sure, Ivanka has kept a polite distance from politics (and her father) in recent years, and she doesn’t exactly electrify the MAGA faithful. But she was always her father’s favorite, and her aforementioned liabilities could be overcome with a sufficiently enthusiastic paternal endorsement.

And once she became the standard bearer, Ivanka could market herself as both continuity and “change” — a neat trick, if she can pull it off.

In that sense Republicans could keep the Trump brand while offering a kinder, gentler, fresher face — all while making GOP history with a female presidential nominee.

This, of course, raises the question: Why would Ivanka — or any of the Trumps — want to be part of a political dynasty?

Among the many reasons, the Trump family is raking in cash. Lots of it. And as long as the next president could conceivably be a family member — a possibility that remains operable even if a Trump family member were to lose the general election in 2028 — the spigot will remain on.

That’s one of the reasons that, although Vance would normally be Trump’s obvious successor, the smart money might actually be to bet on someone with the last name “Trump.”

Now, if this dynastic denouement sounds far-fetched, of course it is. But so was electing a thrice-married casino magnate to the presidency in 2016. And so reelecting him in 2024.

We’re living in an era when the seemingly improbable isn’t just possible — it might even be likely.

Matt K. Lewis is the author of “Filthy Rich Politicians” and “Too Dumb to Fail.”

In June 2017, with President Trump newly installed in office for the first time, one of the biggest battles with the administration was about oil. He’d just named the chief executive of Exxon Mobil, Rex Tillerson, as his secretary of State, even though great reporting — in this newspaper among others — had recently shown that the company knew all about, and lied all about, climate change as far back as the 1980s.

Back east, the attorneys general of New York and Massachusetts were trying to take the oil giant on, initiating investigations of the company to try to hold it accountable. Environmental advocates and consumer groups were pressing hard for California Atty. Gen. Kamala Harris to join in, and she seemed to be considering it. Then she left the office to assume her new U.S. Senate seat, and the decision fell to her replacement, Xavier Becerra — now a leading candidate for California governor.

As I wrote in these pages at the time, it was a great test for him, and a great curiosity that he was staying silent, “since the rest of Sacramento is hard at work dealing with climate change.” I was not the only one who noticed. Seventy thousand Californians signed petitions demanding action. Eight California representatives in Congress — including Jared Huffman and Ted Lieu — sent him a letter demanding a “vigorous” inquiry and pointing out that it was particularly important because the newly elected Trump administration was clearly favoring the oil industry. “California has led the world in responding to the dangers of climate change, and we know that it will continue to do so,” they wrote. “You now have a leading role in that effort.” But ultimately Becerra did not have a leading role, or indeed any role at all: He punted, as this editorial page pointed out. What Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) is now trying to do by statute — immunize the big oil companies from prosecution for climate liability — Becerra accomplished by sheer silence.

In the years since, of course, California has paid a huge price for our inaction on climate. Just looking at wildfire, there were of course the great blazes that Los Angeles County will never forget in 2025, but also the 2020 August Complex fire in Humboldt and Mendocino counties, the 2021 Dixie fire up north, the 2017 conflagration across Napa and Sonoma counties, the 2017 Thomas fire in Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, the 2018 Camp fire that devastated Paradise — the list goes sadly on and on and on.

Meanwhile, Big Oil and its friends at Big Utility have racked up huge profits, and Californians have faced ever higher bills. An unhobbled oil industry played a huge role in reelecting Trump in 2024 and in taking us to war with Iran.

And through it all, during his years as attorney general, Becerra did little or nothing to help. As I said all those years ago, it’s a mystery why, though I fear the mystery gets clearer with each campaign funding filing over his long career. As California’s top prosecutor, he took big donations from oil industry giants such as Chevron, and also from energy companies Sempra and Southern California Edison. As a member of Congress, he took larger checks from Pacific Gas and Electric and Edison International.

This time around, as he seeks the governor’s office, Chevron has maxed out its contributions to his campaign, the first time they’ve found a gubernatorial candidate to back in a decade. Meanwhile, across the country, leading progressives have signed a pledge refusing fossil fuel donations. Another gubernatorial contender, Katie Porter, is among them. Needless to say, Becerra is not.

The California chapters of Third Act — a group of Americans over 60 that I helped found — canvassed their members last month and issued an endorsement of Tom Steyer, on the grounds that he had worked hard over the years to address energy and climate issues. Instead of taking money from Big Oil, he’s given money, time and counsel to those of us volunteering in the fight against the industry. In fact, I think that whether one is most concerned about lowering utility bills with clean energy or protecting California’s forests, beaches and insurance rates from the global warming threat, he’d be the most climate-conscious elected official in America.

But Third Act was also founded to help protect our democracy. And that means disconnecting public policy from campaign donations. We need leaders who will do the right thing for us, not for their donors. Steyer has called on Becerra to return his donations from Big Oil. That would be a start, but it doesn’t really make up for the wasted decade we’ll never get back.

Bill McKibben is the founder of Third Act and the author, most recently, of “Here Comes the Sun: A Last Chance for the Climate, a Fresh Chance for Our Civilization.”