One afternoon last week after morning eye surgery, I reclined quietly in a leather chair with my eyes closed in our darkened living room. I snoozed off and on. Drifting about I heard the following monologue. These are strange days indeed.

Moderator: Good evening. Tonight is the first installment of the second phase of the 2020 Democratic Party’s Presidential Nomination debates with those who always smelt slightly eggy (Softly under his breath: “damn teleprompter spellcheck — it was supposed to be edgy”).

The candidates onstage tonight have been through the wringer twice but surprisingly do not look like emotional wrecks. They are or should be ruined after the conjugal goings over they all got the last two times on live TV.

But congratulations to you all — you’ve made it to the next phase without serious mishap like getting backed over by some people in an SUV with CNN or FOXNews logos on the doors.

(Aside to the co-moderator: They all look like they were kept awake all last night by an ocean surf sound noise-cancelling app.)

(Turning to the studio audience) Their armored limo rides were on time, and they are now here with us onstage.

These real deals, you know, are not just pretty-faces, but real policy poets. No matter the problem — they always deliver. Just like the song says, you can’t start them like a car, and you can’t stop them with a gun. Talk about progressive radar love. As many of you viewers and listeners know, these things can become sorta boring, so I and my fellow debate moderator have been working on some catch phrases that we will drop into our questions and candidates’ answers to make things more riveting. The best so far is one we’ve stolen from our friend, Mr. Epstein, “In my pants!”

Periodically, when you least expect it, we will drop in, “In my pants!”

But first, here’re our top signs a candidate is too lame to continue running and debating for the office of the President of the United States in 2020. Please note that most of these folks were like the lame trick-or-treaters without costumes, who come onto your porch smoking a Marlboro, but expecting, if not demanding, the candy bars of your vote and donations. Once satisfied, they get back in their cars and drive off to their homes in the Hamptons.

Top Signs You’re Long Gone From 2020 Presidential Politicking
Yu finally get a rock-solid policy position that offends both extremes only to mutter, “Oh yeah, only my parents will love this.”

You’re dressed as a Congress person; earlier in the day you actually voted on something.
Lots of voters in your rallies’ handshake lines softly say to you as you pass them “I’m calling the cops.”

You address the downtrodden despite their broken legs and lives by telling them to dance with you and your proposed way ahead instead of spending a quiet moment and simply signing their casts.

Finally, we preface this debate with some new ground rules and crucial advice, since we’re finally getting down to the real nitty gritty:
Don’t tell viewers to buy your books, encouraging them to believe that they’re buying time to read them. They don’t have a lot of time and they want action not promises.

Don’t tell voters about your opponents’ seven deadly sins. Voters would all love to have the time and money to fit them into their own schedules.

Think about this question: why are you running? Some do because it seems like it’s easier job than carpet laying and that they might meet more chicks or dudes. Or they run because the world strikes them as being a potentially marvelous place with them in charge, and they want to keep bringing that up to everybody’s attention. But, never forget that voters know the world’s a scary, menacing place; and, mainly, they assume that you’re running because it’s kind of glorious.

Maybe you should put more value into every minute making a difference and being grateful for the present moment, like most voters do.

Recall that your ride’s always here, but voters don’t have rides.

You’ll sleep soundly, when most voters are dead and gone. They’ll just be dead, since life kills them early with their very rudimentary manual skills.

Some of what you propose looks like a magician sawing someone in half. Voters know better, since you never let them see what’s inside the box.

Some voters chose certain paths and live like rockstsar Jim Morrison, yet they live three or more decades longer than Old Jim did, and who the hell knows why. They make choices and then must live with the consequences. There are always consequences . . . until they hear your offerings. Huh?

Post daydreaming comments: Strange days have tracked us down. They’re destroying our simple, casual joys. Shall we go on playing or find new towns? Their stranger and stranger eyes fill our living rooms. Voices softly signaling their tired ends. The moderators are thinly grinning as their guests wax on about their opponents sinning. We tire of their talk of sin, since we know this is it and the fix is in. These sad times, paper mâché pols, and gotcha debates are more like voguing contests and geek shows. We linger alone, the light draining out of the day, as we enter ever stranger nights of stone.

Copyright © 2019 From My Isle Seat and ©1967 The Doors
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