The gods must love reruns...
On that great television screen we call the sky the One (&/or Many) deities seem to be hitting the replay button lately, or maybe it's that thing we call 'history'.
And (S)He/They/It must've been in touch with Mr. Sorkin, you know, when he was scribbling on those cocktail napkins he had to use while serving that last legal drug to people pretending to experience catharsis and other states of mind the ancient demigods they'd been forced to read at their overpriced colleges told them they'd find in the theatre.
You remember that play, 'A Few Good Men', the one made into that film version that gave Jack Nicholson his Col. Nathan R. Jessup tag line which so precisely sums up the epoch in which we all find ourselves breathing, and all the more shallowly and nervously these days, that line having to do with an prevalent inability to handle the ever-elusive truth.
Let's do as those sky entities do, and break down that drama and try to divine (pause for double meaning effect) its pertinence to that feeling in the air (there's that skyward reference again) having to do with the color red and its geopolitical punch we're beginning to feel in our collective solar plexus.
As you may recall a lowly hispanic lad finds himself the victim of a militarized culture of scapegoating, the head man having winked and nodded at a certain code about making certain Americans 'grate' again and again until they, you know, got the message. Well, a young JAG lawyer--let's call him Lindsay--who knows and dislikes what that head man, the Colonel who attended a certain military school, may have been encouraging and rather directly at that. So, sure enough, Lindsay gets wind of a few loose cannon military aides to the head man who are more than happy to interpret this code, Red by name, rather harshly, right under the noses of that other code for commies along a certain wall the head man insists Lindsay and any other critics need him on. (As we all know, walls and their necessity are a particularly favored symbol imparting who's in, who's out).
Well, perhaps your recollection has filled in the blank, that word describing the expression on the Colonel's face when he reminds young Lindsay about the squirmy nature of the naked truth and how both he and that wall are necessary to grating America, or something, just before that head man's self-incriminating Humpty Dumpty downfall.
Which brings us to another head man, the one those hispanic chefs down Mexico way named a salad for; he was famous--some would say infamous--for wearing a red cloak in battle to ingrain upon the minds of his men his brave leadership. Despite this outward toughness, though, was this great Roman's 'falling sickness', said by the Greeks to be a sign of those sky gods favor.
Some favor; maybe they should be told, in all those prayers we send them--especially now--to stop doing us such favors.
Which brings us to the present day, now, today. The head man's top national security dude has been doing something unheard of--gambling with the sovereignty of the nation his boss has promised to make grate..again, conspiring with the Reds to, you know, get and keep the head man on that..wall. Ahem.
The calendar tells us that in mid-March the debt ceiling is due for renewal and increase, among other things permitting the financing of a certain southern border wall. Many are warning, unheeded, that he, the head man, should be wary of that soon-to-be confrontation with his adversaries. But the head man's not worried, having already used an ancient trick--that of poisoning the well from which the dishonest media draws its..inky livelihood.
Enter Lindsay, and his older heroic sidekick from a parched region of the realm, bearing the message of a British soothsayer of sorts whose scroll they've read and found ominous. This is where we pause for intermission, repairing to the lobby for some needed stout refreshment; we approach the bright young barkeep, now distracted from his napkin scribbling.
"What'll it be?" he mechanically utters.
"What do you recommend?" we reply.
"Well, we've got this aged liquer, 'Caesar Brute', from Rome" Sorkin posits, now dramatically.
"Eh, two...Brute" we order, with more than a hint of deja vu.
"Two minutes to curtains up" comes the public address announcer.
To be continued?