I cut short my career in political commentary when I realized that all my nouns and verbs were expletives and deleting them all would leave nothing but air. Not even hot air. Tepid air, the heat having been sapped from me over the past three years and the last 100 or so days of Corona living in America. Another casualty of this time – my ability to rant.
Instead, I sit on the couch every night, nursing a rum and Coke, shaking my head, not figuratively, literally, from the first moment of news to the end, which, depending on the outrages of the day, could run the entire evening schedule of MSNBC. Many of the guest experts have become my friends. They deliver their scathing analyses of the day’s insults to democracy and I shake my head. This is how they know I’m with them. We are simpatico, the wickedly smart commentators and me. We share higher order thinking.
Perhaps I am saying this to evade the obligation to do my own ranting, claiming fatigue and lack of vocabulary. That I can say nothing political without swearing shows a poverty of intellect that is embarrassing if honest. I should be able to reach deeper, parse more expertly, make complex historical analogies, you know, up my game. But instead I sit, drinking, shaking my head, sometimes for hours.
I am but a remora on the blue shark of cable news commentary.
There are worse things.