Politics

 Politics 

This morning I told Dr. Feight that I had decided - on principle - to disregard the political opinions of anyone born before 1956, by which time, according to what I’d read, the last of the “leading-edge baby boomers” had come into the world. I was going to include my own opinions because, though I was born in 1957, my brain is unusually addled, as he knew. (Addled like an egg, smelly, dying.) Besides, it is time, I told him . . . it is past time, I told him, for all boomers - leading-edge, middle, and late - to let go. Much less the generation before mine, whatever they’re called - they should have let go ten years ago. “The next generations can hardly do worse if our lunatic president and lily-livered senate is our legacy,” I said. Then, it occurred to me: they're not our legacy. “We have met the enemy, and they is us ourselves.” I said that, too.

     He said, “Mmmm.”

20018 Topps

I don’t usually talk about politics with him. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever talked about politics with him before. And I don’t know what precipitated this outburst that lasted, however, only the length of that first paragraph.

     After he said, “Mmmm,” I changed the subject. “How ’bout those Nats?” I said, knowing they were barely over .500, not to mention their season had only a dozen games left - they have effectively given up. Then: “That means I’m changing the subject,” I said.

     But he asked me then if I wanted to read the Woodward book. He was finished with his copy, he said.

     I said, “No.

     “But, thank you,” I said.

I stopped then. I thought about the weather, how damp and greasy and gob-gray it had been - for how long? It was hard to say, time having disappeared in the spittle-mist. I didn’t want to talk about the weather. Then, before I knew:

     “I’m also not listening to ideologues,” I said. I’m not listening to anyone not willing to change his mind. Or hers.”

     “Who’s left?” Dr. Feight asked.

     “Michael Gerson,” I said. “Maybe. Jennifer Rubin. David Brooks. Maybe.”

     “How old are they, do you know?” he asked.* I didn’t.

“I see that our time is almost up,” I said. “Let’s call it a day.”

     “Mmmm,” Dr. Feight said. “What time do you think it is?”

09.17.18

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 * Gerson is 54, Rubin 56, Brooks 57. Dr. Feight is around in there. About him, see here.