NOVEMBER 10, 2024 – Today on the medical front it was a day of rest before tomorrow’s round of tests. In the interim . . . back to politics . . .
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As I read with amusement the continuing cascade of self-criticism by mainstream Democrats and the more acerbic attacks by progressives against the center, I imagine a chaotic scene on the poop deck of a 1763 slave ship converted first to a 1789 man-o-war, then to a 21st century “tall ship for Democrats.” The vessel’s charts were swept overboard in a horrific storm at sea, and the crew is now trying to navigate through an archipelago left unrecognizable by the same storm that blew us off course.
No one, it seems, knows which way to turn. Crowded into the captain’s quarters, the crew are facing aft as they hurl criticisms at the (old) captain and executive officers. “You should’ve seen the storm coming!” someone shouts. Says another, “When you saw black clouds on the horizon two months ago, you should’ve turned to port [left]!” A reliable thorn in everyone’s side—who always insists on veering to port—says, “You followed the money, and look where it got us!”
Meanwhile, a fog rolls in . . .
In my perch in the Elitists’ Lounge, I’m sipping a weak mojito and cracking open roasted pistachio shells. I click my tongue in feigned exasperation. “Amateur sailors,” I say to the passenger seated beside me, who’s indulging in a whiskey sour—no nuts. “What the people aboard this ship need is . . . a replacement vessel. One with a sleek modern hull, computer-controlled sails and wind-and-solar-powered electric auxiliary engines; a narrower beam, extra-steel-plated bow, computerized navigational gear, greater maneuverability and something more healthful than salted pork coming out of the galley.
“A big ol’ yesteryear sailing ship in these waters,” I continue, “isn’t suitable for all the shoals and reefs around us. Plus, it’s a giant sitting rubber duck for all the pirates who would love to climb aboard and rob us blind.
“What we desperately need for these uncharted waters is a whole lot more than a new crew on the the deck of an antiquated boat built for the open seas of 250 years ago. What we require is a ship with a whole new constitution, designed not simply for blue water and fair breezes but for fickle winds and treacherous waters.
“As we continue through this unfamiliar—make it alien—archipelago, we’re at risk of the storm circling back swiftly and blowing away everything and everyone who’s not tied down securely to withstand the horrific wind and rain. Even if we weather the tempest—some of the passengers won’t—we’re likely to run aground. When we do, another faction of the crew will mutiny and demand an ex post facto change of direction. Maybe the tide will lift us off the sands; maybe it won’t, but if we insist on forging ahead, we’ll bump and scrape until the hull breaks and the masts, yard arms, and rigging come crashing down.”
“Gee, you paint a bad picture,” says my fellow passenger. “I think I’ll order another whiskey sour while I can . . . Want anything from the bar?”
“How ’bout another mojito,” I say, “only this time with a full complement of rum. Thanks!”
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
