My cell phone chimed at 3:00 a.m. on Christmas morning. I knew it was Duke.
“Where are you, doc?”
“Morocco. Long, complicated story.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Bah. I read your blog. I don’t believe you’re done with politics.”
“It’s true.”
“Temporarily, maybe; I give you four to six weeks. You need politics as much as I need illegal substances. It’s who you are.”
“Too depressing, doc. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You going cold turkey?”
“That’s the plan.”
“No more Alternet?”
“No.”
“Democracy Now?”
“No.”
“New York Times?”
“No.”
“TruthDig?”
“No.”
“Huffington Post?”
“Done. E-mail lists, too. Move On. Democracy for America. Color of Change. Courage Campaign. All of them.”
“Cold turkey?”
“Cold turkey.”
“I repeat: you’ll last four to six weeks. What else are you going to write about?”
“Dunno yet. My wife thinks I should write about raising kids, parenthood, that sort of thing.”
“Borrrring,” Duke sang.
“When are you coming back, doc?”
“My house is let for another month. Landscape painter. Lady on the run from a knucklehead husband. Paid in cash. I told her she could paint on the ceiling if she felt like it.”
“You’re full of surprises, doc.”
“Surprises. Shit. Sanctimony. Sentimentality. Spite.”
“What’s her name?”
“The painter?”
“No, the woman in Morocco.”
“Why do you assume it’s a woman?”
“When isn’t it a woman?”
Duke laughed. “You know me well. Allahu Akbar, boy. Give me a call when the jones for politics becomes overwhelming.”
I switched the Christmas tree lights on and went back to bed. Right before I drifted off to sleep I reminded myself to cancel my subscription to the Nation.
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