The Meeting and The Cruise

Last night, Plot and Duck went to the home of an associate of Ducknik's. This very nice lady and her husband, and perhaps twenty other people, get together once a month, in their lovely early 20th Century home high on the flank of a foggy slope in Saint Plotniko, to talk about political issues.

But not to just talk: after dinner is cleared away, everyone is asked, one at a time, to mention a political issue that has been bothering them. After a small discussion, the next person around the table brings up his or her issue. When all have finished, paper and pens and addresses and envelopes are brought out and everyone is encouraged to write a letter to their appropriate congressperson or to the mayor or to the governor or to the President, giving their thanks or conveying their dismay, or simply voicing an opinion on an issue. At the end of the evening, perhaps 75 letters have been written. The hosts supply the stamps and people can feel like they've at least done SOMETHING.

The prevailing political slant around the table is Edwards with a shrug towards Obama.

(Plot and Duck had never been to the group before, and wondered what they should bring? They decided against wine, because who knows what progressives drink? It's a good thing they didn't bring wine because the hosts make their own -- an excellent cabernet, Plottie must add.)

(Plotnik decided a six pack of good beer would work. But what kind of beer? For himself, he would have bought Boont IPA, but instead he purchased the default Saint Plotniko beer, Anchor Steam.)

Plot and Duck were welcomed like old friends, even though nobody knew them and they knew only one person. Many of the men had gone to college when Plotnik went to college. Some of their bald spots were bigger than Plotnik's, some smaller. The women mostly wore black or white casual clothes and were trim and composed. Everyone seemed interesting and all had come to the meeting to try and find an avenue for political expression. There was one openly gay person with his poodle. There was one openly black person with his Nigerian cap. There were two infants and two people in their thirties. The rest were Plotnik and Ducknik's age, give or take a decade.

There were many educators, two architects and one entertainment writer -- this much we know. The others' occupations were unstated, but Plotnik doubts there were too many investment bankers.

A barbecue was charcoaling away in the back yard. By 8pm a huge spread was served: bbq chicken, ribs, tri-tip, polenta, salads (the host had grown some of the lettuce), chocolate truffles and ice cream with boysenberry sauce. Don't forget that excellent cab. After the magnificent dinner was cleared away, it was time to write letters.

No, Plotnik is not going to get all snarky and cynical here. What were you doing last night? At least, The Great Plotnik wrote a letter to Representative Mark Leno condemning the upcoming mandatory spraying of insect pheromones over Northern California, and he also wrote a letter to Senator Barbara Boxer asking her to support a bill in Congress to allow people receiving HIV medication not to have to have that medication count against their Medicare medicine allotment, which as of now is making it impossible for many to afford their lifesaving pills and supplements.

He wrote it in a cursive script he had forgotten he even had. It's been a long time since he wrote a real live letter and put it in a real live envelope with a stamp.

Ducknik also wrote letters, but Plot does not know to whom nor on which issues.

Does Plotnik think Rep Leno or Senator Boxer will ever see his letter? No. But he does think someone on the staff will glance at the letter, note the issue addressed and check off 'For' or 'Against' on some yellow legal pad, and in the end will tell his master or mistress which way the wind is blowing.

(Sigh).

So, why did the evening, filled with great food and like-minded people in a beautiful, vibey home, with the opportunity to do some good, not leave Plotnik feeling like he had accomplished something...meaningful?

Maybe it's because he knows all he did was write two letters that will barely be glanced at. Maybe it's because he has always thought of himself as a leftie, but in this particular group of people he bit back several comments that would have placed him between Mayor Newsom and Ghengiz Khan.

For example, Plotnik thinks issues like immigration are a lot more complicated than "let's throw our borders open and allow everyone in." And he likes it when rich people want to donate their art collections and put them in a museum. Without Princes and Kings, there would have been no Bach, no Mozart, no Beethoven, no Matisse. So Donald Fisher is rich? Welcome him, for God's sake. In the end, he'll move his museum half a block away and they'll have a naming ceremony and he'll cut a ribbon while wearing a Gap Tuxedo. Then, he'll die. We'll have the art. Everybody wins.

Also, Plotnik does not think economists are all bad and hard working Colombian coffee farmers are all good. He just doesn't buy anybody's party line. God, he is starting to sound normal. What is probably true is that Plotnik doesn't do groups very well. He'd rather be the fly than the ointment.

But these were nice people. Their problem was they were Plotnik's age. If they're not kids anymore, Plotnik isn't a kid either. The Great Plotnik doesn't want to have gotten older.

He doesn't want his kids to grow up either. And he doesn't want his family to move further and further away. And he doesn't want his heart, as each year passes, to more and more miss the beautiful days and the glorious years, as they move further behind the boat as it cruises down the river of life, picking up speed, and he can't do a damned thing to stop it.