Sunday, February 26, 2017

362. Progress

 C.W. taught me a lesson in equality yesterday. I think he had fun. I didn’t.

 It happened this way.

I woke up, made myself a cup of coffee and wandered into living room of our condo. The sun had not yet risen, but there was light enough. There, sitting on the couch, staring out at the skyline lights, was a man who resembled me in many ways: my age or older, Caucasian, blond, and nattily dressed in a sport shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. “Good morning,” he said.

I nodded and waited. He appeared to sink deep in thought for a moment before turning to me. “Do you believe in self-reliance?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Would you like to hear my story?”

“Why not?” I said. I don’t know why. I guess it was because he looked so sincere and honest. He began.

“From the earliest age I can remember,” he said, “I’ve done everything more or less as expected. I obeyed my parents, who were hard working and honest people. In grade school, I was an exemplary student. In high school, I excelled at one of the finest educational facilities in the state. I took home awards. Garnered scholarships. Gave up many of the social activities enjoyed by the other students so I could study. My parents never stopped instilling in me the value of hard work, dedication, honesty, and sacrifice.”

I nodded, and he continued.

Then I made a seamless transition to college. I graduated with honors and prepared for a career.”

“You sound like a perfect American example of self-reliance and hard work paying off,” I said.

“There was war, then, and the draft,” he said. “I volunteered, served my time and ended my career with a thankless assignment in a foreign war. When I finished, and the plane took off over the South China Sea, I saw the blue water beneath me and relaxed. I knew that I would return unscarred. I dozed as the plane ascended into the clouds.”

The most amazing thing happened next. As the first gleams of the morning’s sunrise landed on the distant buildings, a change occurred in the room. As it lightened, he darkened. All of his features changed as if electronically synced in reverse with the emerging sunrise. His hair soon turned from straight blond to a tightly curled black, His face transformed itself into ebony, and an African-American of my age sat in front of me.

“The plane landed,” he said, “and I was soon back in my home town. It was a large metropolitan area and I felt opportunities would abound. They didn’t. Employers seemed almost surprised that I would apply for executive positions. A few offered me jobs driving trucks or managing cleaning crews.

“What about public-sector jobs?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Neither the police nor fire department would hire persons … persons like me, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” I said.

“The only job I was ever offered in the public sector was as part of a road crew in the street department, and it wasn’t a supervisory job. You never enjoyed that kind of experience, did you?”

Still somewhat in shock over the identify shift, I could only shake my head, and say, “No.”

“Finally,” he said, “one of the railroad lines offered to hire me and teach me about diesel engines.”


“I took it, what else?” he said.

“Were you interested in diesel engines?”

“Are you kidding? My degree was in accounting, with a minor in finance.” He shook his head. “Diesel engines.”

“What then?”

“I met this girl,” he said. “We dated, most often at the movies, where we had to sit in the balcony. She cooked meals for us. There were few restaurants in town that served our kind.”
Once a sign for resaturants.
Now a political slogan. - C.W.
I said nothing.

“Then we married.”

I said nothing.

“I was eligible to buy a house on the GI Bill,” he said. “Nothing down, and what was a reduced interest rate at the time.”

“What happened then?”

“You don’t want to know.”

We sat in silence as the light finished filling the room. After a long period of nothingness, he slapped his leg. “Well,” he said, “things got better after that. Jobs opened up, but my college classmates had years of seniority by then. At least I didn’t have to come home smelling like diesel anymore.” He smiled.

I said nothing.

“Yes,” he said. “Things got better and better, until the country elected a president who looked more like me than like you.”


“I don’t know. It was like a long-standing resentment lay like a deep boil, unseen and forgotten. But there were plenty willing to prod that boil. It burst.”

“And now?”

“More and more, I’m thinking back to that long plane ride home.”

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Friday, February 24, 2017

Morning thoughts: Insanity

C.W. and I were talking …

“I read somewhere,” he said, “that this person you’ve elected president plans to increase the number of your country’s nuclear warheads. Want to explain?

“First,” I said, “I didn’t elect him. Second, I’m not sure it’s my country anymore. It certainly doesn’t resemble it. Third, I haven’t a clue.”

“Doesn’t he know those things are dangerous, those warheads?”

“I would think so. But maybe not.”

He thought for a moment. “Do I need to go talk to him?”

“You’re a Falloonian,” I said. “I think he listens to aliens from another galaxy.”

“Ramadongia, probably, the scourge of the Universe," he said. He resumed the conversation. Do you know how many of those things going off it would take destroy the planet?”

“You’re the scientist,” I said. “You tell me.”

“A half-dozen or so,” he said. “Tops. And I read where you already have over 4,000.”

“It’s insanity,” I said. “I understand that.”

“My point exactly,” he said. “I think he’s playing a game we call, on Falloonia, Bloalleupkrsauf.”

“Say what?”

“Rough translation: ‘the crazy leader ploy’”

“The what?”

“Crazy leader. We’ve seen it employed a few times across the galaxy. The leader of one group keeps the leaders of other groups cowed and subservient because they truly believe he is insane enough to pull a stunt that would destroy them all … himself too.”

I thought about this. “Does it work?”

“On occasion.”

“What kind of occasion?”

“The occasion in which all other leaders are sane.”

“I beg your pardon?”

It fails any time there is another leader that is as insane as he is.”

He could have gone all day without saying that.

Better teach your children
how to "duck and cover." - C.W.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

361. Hoarding's Dangers

It started as a quiet day at the farm yesterday. The most exciting thing should have been the trip C.W. and I took to the county dump to clear away some trash from our place. He loves going to the dump. Says it is the best one-image microcosm of our species. The only way I can describe his chosen form is as the late entertainer Liberace dressed as a supporting character from the old TV series, Green Acres.

Yeah. Real inconspicuous, but I have only limited control over him. Anyway, we arrived and dumped our stuff into the large dumpster. It was only then that I noticed he had brought along a rather long “grabber-reacher” of the type used to pick up trash. “Hey,” he said as he retrieved a long section of rubber tubing and held it before me, “wasn’t Mrs. Big Dope wanting a piece like this for her washing machine?”

Before I could answer, he tossed it into the truck. Then he picked up a partially used package of coffee filters. “Great for straining things in the shop,” had said, tossing it the truck. He did likewise with other items:

- Several plastic storage containers, “You can always use theses.’
- A partially used can of pressurized ether. “Now we can start those diesel tractors on the coldest morning.
- A thermometer. “Remember I broke the one in the shop."
- A box with an inch of kitty litter still in it. “Mrs. Big Dope will thank you for this.”
- A funnel, glass beaker, and a partially used roll of masking tape. “Got to be good for something.” (The hoarder’s anthem—I’ve heard it for more than 40 years).

I noticed the dump operator watching us and persuaded C.W to desist. He pitched a half-used bottle of methanol gasoline additive into truck with a “Just trying to help save money,” and we took off.

We had been driving for a few minutes when I saw a county sheriff’s vehicle on the road with its blue-lights flashing. I started to move to the outside before I saw an officer standing behind the car motioning for me to pull in behind it. I glanced at the speedometer. It showed five miles a hour below the legal limit. “What the …?” I pulled in.

The officer motioned for us to keep our hands visible. C.W. was confused. “What does he want?”

“He wants us to show him our hands.”

“Which ones?”

“The usual two,” I said. “And don’t mention your others. Seeing the officer motion for me to lower the window, I complied. He walked to my side.

“What you boys been up to?” he asked.

C.W. and I spoke at once. I said dumping trash and he asked what business it was of the officer.

“Pay no attention to him,” I said. “He’s not from around here.”

The officer frowned, but said to me, “May I look in your truck bed?”


Returning after a long inspection, he said. “Got a call you were gathering some interesting stuff.”

“Interesting? How?”

“It’s mostly stuff his wife says she needs,” C.W. said, “for her farming business.”

“And where is this farm?” The officer took out his pad and pen.’’

Before I could stop him, C.W. blurted the address.

“Thanks,” the officer said. “Don’t move.”

He went to his truck and talked on the two-way for several minutes, before returning.

“You boys know what those kinds of things are used for, don’t you?” He paused. "Of course you do."

“Making money. Didn’t you know?” C.W. said. I felt like slapping him.

“Just things around a farm,” I said. “Is there a problem?”
This certainly doesn't resemble
a science lab on Falloonia. - C.W
The officer took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Maybe yes. Maybe no,” he said. “I have no probable cause that you are cooking up a little “meth” out there, but we’ll be watching you. Very close.”

“Hey, that sounds like fun,” C.W. gave him his best entertainer’s smile.

“You can go now,” the officers said. “I figure I’ll see you again. Now have a nice day.”

I drove as fast as the limits allowed toward home, hoping against hope. When I made the last turn, however, I saw a patrol car exiting our drive onto the state highway. Oh dear.

We parked quietly and I made C.W. come with me and sneak into the back door. Alas, we had just made it to the kitchen when a female voice boomed from the front of the house. “You boys better get in here and do some explaining.”

C.W. bounded toward the sound. “Hey,” he said, “guess who we met today?”

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Saturday, February 18, 2017

Morning Thoughts … blessedness

C.W. and I were talking …

He had been re-reading the Bible, both the old and new Testaments. “I’m confused,” he said, laying it aside. “How did the kangaroos get to Australia after the flood? And why did they not stop anywhere else for a little procreative fun?” He stopped, and two of this three faces smiled. "I've heard that both partners jump up and down when they 'do it' and I'll bet that is worth watching."

“I think the story of the Ark might be what I call an ‘Insight Myth,’ and not science or history,” I said, “more didactic than literal.”

“So what is the lesson?”

“Oh,” I said. “The story might teach us that those who make a total mess of their lives might, in fact, share  a common experience with the gods themselves, and may correct things if they are willing to pay the price.”

“A sort of behavioral ‘do-over’ in fact?”


He thought. “Isn’t there a moral instruction that wouldn’t involve millions of dead babies floating around?”

I decided to shift the emphasis and delivered a short exegesis.

The so-called Beatitudes, in the Christian New Testament have always attracted my attention. Largely ignored today, they provide a great embarrassment to the apocalyptic evangelists. In fact, they pretend the Sermon on the Mount was a liberal plot, added during the "New Deal" era. Imagine a right-wing politician offering the following maxims, as expressed in the Christian Book of Matthew.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,
for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

 I’ve been researching the origin of the word “blessed.” If considered at all, many so-called “Christians” today would take the commonly used definition of blessed as “happy” and say all those covered by the eight Beatitudes should be delighted with their fate and worry about other things. "Don't worry," they say, "about anything except what we tell you to worry about. Be happy."

I don’t think it is that simple. I tend to side with the theologian who defined “makarios” (the Greek word actually used for "blessed' in the New Testament) as “the opposite of cursed.”

C.W. seemed interested, so I left him with a Jewish Story worth considering in our times:

The old Rabbi said, "In olden days there were men who saw the face of God."
"Why don't they any more?" a young student asked.
"Because, nowadays no one stoops so low," he replied.

Now if that wouldn’t make Franklin Graham’s sphincter muscle dance the polka, I don’t know what would.

Where is the part where he tells
people who to vote for? He seems
much more interest in telling folks
how to lead their own lives. C.W.

Friday, February 17, 2017

Morning Thoughts … Armageddon

C.W. and I were talking …

He commented that I seemed more at peace than usual this morning. I explained.

I’ve been doing some thinking. If the “We want Armageddon” crowd wins, and America sends ground troops into this Middle East mess, I’ve plotted two alternate courses. I call them “pro” and “con,” I thought about “Uday” & “Qusay” but those seem to be taken at the moment.

With “pro,” I’ll grab my protest-posters, find my old tie-dyed shirt and my “Che” hat, and hit the streets until they gun me down, or reason returns to America. C.W. thought that would appeal to our old friends and neighbors.

 Under “Con,” I’ll build my wife a mansion and a ten-acre dog pen with heated dog houses, take that trip to Gal├ípagos Islands I’ve always wanted, purchase that $5,000 guitar I crave, get a case of cigars, load up with expensive Scotch and cheesecake, then pick, while she tends the animals, till the fireball gets us. No need to save our money for old age. We’ll be as old as we’re gonna get.

C.W. thought that approach a little cynical. “You just want to appeal to your right-wing friends, don’t you?” he said.

One could do worse, in either case, than dying without ever voting for a scoundrel or a warmonger.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

360. Bad People

Oh my, it was that kid from perhaps the most famous Twilight Zone episode ever filmed: It’s a Good Life. There was something different about him, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Was it C.W.? Or, had I really entered The Zone? I’ll report. You decide.

He pointed at me. “Are you happy?”

“Uh, yeah, I suppose.”

He smiled. “I like it when you’re happy.”


“Are you happy we have a business man as president?”

“Not sure about that.”

He glowered. “I don’t like it when you’re not happy.”

“A person can’t be pleased about everything,” I said. “Most people with grand kids aren’t too pleased either. In fact, most are floating somewhere between despondency and terror.”

“I don’t like you.”

“What can I say?”

“You’re very bad man.” He pointed at me.

“Now wait,” I said. Then it dawned on me, the difference, that is. "What happened to your hair?"
My favorite saying among the Earthlings?
The one about life imitating art. - C.W.
He ignored me and his eyes narrowed. “I’m going to wish you away to the cornfield. You're a bad man. You’re a very bad man.”

As he pointed, a chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t happening, was it? Then a female voice came from the next room.

“All right. Which one of you has been messing with my food dyes?”

The kid turned toward the voice and pointed. “She's a bad woman. She’s a very bad woman,” he said.

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Saturday, February 11, 2017

Basic Civic Class One

Things you would know if they still taught civics in high school or, things you'd better learn while we still have high schools.

C.W. and I were talking …

He asked about how our federal government was structured. That prompted me to compose the following in a form suitable for broad dissemination.

So …

There are three branches of the United States federal government:

Legislative Branch (House and Senate) They make laws.
Executive Branch (the President and cabinet) They carry out laws,
Judicial Branch (federal courts, including the Supreme Court) They evaluate the constitutionality of laws).

Interestingly the Judicial Branch was believed, early on, to be the weakest. Then, in 1803 came the case of Marbury v. Madison, 5 U.S. 137.  Chief Justice John Marshall’s court established the principle of judicial review which claimed the Supreme Court’s right, under Article III of the Constitution, to determine if a law passed by the legislature and signed by the president is compatible with the Constitution, and may, thereby, be enforced. (Yes, Virginia, there is more to the U.S. Constitution than the Second Amendment).

This gave the Supreme Court a level of power perhaps not envisioned originally Who knows? But it's been working that way for over 200 years. 

Now, I can pass the foregoing along because I teach public administration at a university. But, please don’t ask me what happens when a president of the United States of America is unaware of it because I do not teach abnormal psychology.

Your current Executive Branch leaders.
They seem happy. - C.W.

Friday, February 10, 2017

Morning Thoughts: Useful Lies

C.W. and I were talking …

Actually, he was talking and I was listening. He’s decided that our language is insufficient and needs expanding. So, he is in the process of inventing new words. Here is his first effort as he describes it, to be added into a volume he calls, Earthling Talk.

Prevarigitate: A new word I invented. (I do that bigly. I’m the best at it there is). Anyway … prevarigitate: v. the act of stating a gross, hate-inducing lie that agitates the selected audience to the extent that they vote for unready candidates. It involves implying a cause for outrage when the cause doesn’t exist. But, who cares?

For example, on social-media one might post, “Hit ‘like’ if you think American women should be made to drive on right side of the highway the same as men are.” or, “ … if you think men should also share in the conception of children.” Sure-fire winners (no pun intended) include, "Sign this petition if you think you should be able to purchase a firearm in America."

Of course, there is the old standby, “Share if you think only citizens should be allowed to vote in American elections.”

I plan to sell these new words on-line. My ad for “prevarigitate” will include a photo with a modest white church with a large cross on top. The ad copy will be, “Check us out if you think Christians should be allowed to attend the church of their choice without interference by the government.”

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Morning Thoughts: Miracles and their use …

C.W. and I were talking …

He noticed I seemed in a pensive mood and offered his normal sympathetic entree, “What’s eating you, Big Dope?”

I explained that I was thinking of topographic maps. That puzzled him. Those are maps used in my profession that show representations of ground relief, usually using contour lines. The best and most expensive are prepared by professional surveyors.

The cheap ones can be assembled from topographic maps prepared by the United States Geological Survey. That’s what we did years ago. I spent many a day or two, in my early career as an urban planner, assembling such maps for a specific property, city, or region. It involved multiple trips, sometimes, to agencies, photographers, and printers. The final result was a taped-up affair presented to a draftsperson for use in a project.

He wanted to know why I was thinking about it.

I told him, “current times.”

“Current times?”

“Yep. Want to know what it takes to produced such a map today?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Maybe half-dozen punches on a computer keyboard.”


“That’s just a personal example of the miracles of the digital age and for what marvelous things a computer may be used.”

“Why does that bother you?”

I pointed to my computer screen. He looked. There, on a social media website, someone had accused one of his dear friends of being a baby-killing cult member because of his socio-political view of the world. The time-stamp indicated a point well into evening “drink time.”

"How long do you think it took to develop that friendship?"

He thought before he spoke, a bit unusual for him. "Maybe years. Many years."

"How long to produce such anger?"

He thought long and hard this time. "A year or so, if one watches the right TV networks and listens to the right radio stations. Some of the churches your species has produced could speed the process. Hours on hours of concentrated effort might shorten it to months."

"And this posting?" I pointed to the message on my computer screen again.

“That only took one punch on a computer keyboard,” He said.

It takes eons of love to built a city.
Hate can destroy one in days. - C.W.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

359. Mistakes

When The Galilean walked into the room, I knew I was in for some stimulating conversation. When C.W. takes on this form, he gets serious and moves to the higher levels of thought and analysis. He puts aside all thoughts of levity and cheap talk. In short, he is the epitome of thoughtfulness and high-order behavior.

I motioned for him to sit, and prepared to be stimulated. He obeyed, spreading his long, white robe into a semi-circle around his feet. He looked off, drew a breath, exhaled and looked at me with serious intent.

“I need a beer,” he said.


“A beer, dammit. You heard me.”

“A beer?”

“A beer. You freakin’ deaf or something?”

I assured him I wasn’t and left. I brought back two cold ones and sat his before him. He took it, nodded, and held it out in a mock toast. “To screw-ups,” he said.

I returned the gesture. “What screw-ups?”

“The ones I create. People don’t expect it of me, do they?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You ever read a book entitled Hud, by any chance?”

“Uh, I saw the movie.”

“Close enough, I suppose,” he said. “I hear that a lot when I visit the lowlands. Doesn’t your species ever read?”

“Some do,” I said. I was about to get defensive when he continued.

“I was talking to the author, a Larry McCurtry. I think it was originally called Horseman, Pass By, or something like that.”

This time I interrupted. “You talk to authors?”

“When I choose to.”

“Only living ones?”

“Oh no, I have spirited chats with some of those who have passed.”

I pondered this.

“That was a little word-play joke,” he said, pleased with himself. He drained his beer, held the bottle out and looked at me with a question on his face.

I fetched another beer and handed it to him. “Tell me,” I said. “Do you really talk to dead authors?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “I used to talk to Ernest Hemingway all the time.” He slugged his beer. “No more though.”

“What happened?”

“Last time we got into an argument and he asked me if I wanted to box.”

“What happened?”

He drained his beer, and stared into space, recalling the memory. I could tell it was a fond one. “I knocked the son-of-a bitch through four clouds and into the Pearly Gates. Bent two bars.” He finished the beer and held the bottle out. “Boy,” he said, “did the Old Man get pissed.”

I returned with another beer. “You mentioned Larry McMurtry and Hud.” I said, anxious to change the subject as I feared he might be feeding me “alternate facts.”

“Quite so,” he said. “Well … Larry was telling me that Hud was originally a minor character, intended to symbolize the loss of morality in the species. Not a nice guy at all. The very image of a despicable man.”

“What happened?”

“The movie came out and Hud became a cult hero in the 1960s. Sort of a literary transmogrification.” He finished the latest beer and motioned for another.
If this literary character were real today,
he would hold high political office in
your country. No doubt about it. - C.W.
After I returned, I was curious. “So how does this all relate to you … Hud and all?”

“It started when the Old Man and I, along with Casper … .”


“The friendly spirit. The old man brings him in on important stuff.”


“We set out to create two of the worst characters on your planet. You know … as moral instruction of the negative type. Casper wanted to call them ‘The Deplorable Duo’ at first.”

“What happened?”

“The Old Man sprayed him with Febreze.”

We sat in silence for a moment. This time I voluntarily replenished the beers. “So, did the lesson work?” I asked when I returned.

“Are you sh …, uh, kidding me? Worst mistake we ever made, even though we started them out as boys who loved to torture animals.”

“What happened to them?”

“Ever heard of Stevie and Donnie? They grew up.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shook his head in a forlorn gesture. “Don’t you ever watch the news?”

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Friday, February 3, 2017

Morning Thoughts: Peace

C.W. and I were talking ….

He wanted to play a game, but I wasn’t in the mood. Then he explained it. See what you think. He calls it “What’s the metaphor for?” I know, I know, but let him have his fun. Here is an example, as he put it to me.

A young farmer had a farm, at least that’s what we’re told. And on this farm he has a barn, to keep things from the cold. And in this barn are hornet nests. All, we’re told are bold. But, they are quite small and cause little harm unless one harasses the individuals in the nest. The previous farmer had lived in peace with them for years. So, we have a small farm here, a big barn there, a farmer home, and hornets everywhere. See, I've told you so.

Now it gets interesting. A half-mile away, the “Mother of all hornet nests hangs from an oak three. This nest provides the inhabitants of other nearby nests.

Once a day, sometimes more often, the farmer walks down the road the half-mile and pokes the great hornet nest. As the hornets fly out in search of the danger, he quickly moves back to the farm, whereupon he goes to the barn and pokes a couple of the smaller nests. This, he thinks, makes them fearful, maintaining peace and harmony.

Well, it turns out that this particular species of hornets has a genetic code that passes memories from generation to generation. They also have communication skills.

No matter, the farmer says, “They’re just dumb hornets and I’ll handle them.” Off he goes to poke the mother-nest again.

So, what’s the metaphor for?


Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Morning Thoughts: Ships

C.W. and I were talking …

He kept asking me what the hell had gone wrong. I said I didn't know, so he went outside to play with the dogs. He likes dogs. He says the Fallooninians hold them in higher esteem than they do homo sapiens. After he left, I started thinking and made some notes.

In my adult life, I’ve viewed my country, in the sense of a collective entity, as a nation with flaws, and capable of making poor decisions, but one also capable of making sublime ones: the elimination of slavery, the civil rights acts, the Marshall Plan, the de-fanging of Joe McCarthy, the efforts to remove glass ceilings for minorities and women, the efforts to afford human rights and respect to our LGBT brothers and sisters, and the care of “the least of those among us."

I’m old enough to remember the first time I saw an African-American brother allowed to sit in a movie theater or restaurant in the American South, and the first time I worked with female chief executive. I remember the first time one of my gay brothers-in-life felt safe in proclaiming to the world the sexuality that nature provided him.  (I wonder if anyone else is confused by the tendency of right-wing evangelicals to assign their own actions, particularly their shortcomings, to “God’s will” but insist on referring to the sexual physiology of others to “choosing sin).

Anyway, we’ve not fully achieved what should be moral imperatives in our country’s governance, but I do believe we try. Although the path gets blocked at times, we seem to bumble through. Our country has often benefited from wise and enlightened leaders. 

Now, I see a country increasingly run by a minority of mean-spirited, cruel, anti-knowledge creatures elected not on capabilities but on artificially created hatred of their perceived enemies . As the old salts used to say when the top-heavy ship on which I served rolled in a storm, “It will right itself.” Here is a story I wrote using my old Navy ship, the USS Hunley, AS-31 as a metaphor. The old girl always enjoyed a steady hand.

I hope my country shall, for I do love it so.

She was top-heavy and could roll in a storm.
She always righted herself. I hope we do.