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Art: Sustainable Contraption

We’ve a climate problem.

A symmetry between the world’s need to transition to clean energy and practices on one hand, and the GOP’s need to change its policy portfolio to something non-toxic. Who will get there first?

All these Repubs seeking the nomination and not one is bothering to run against the party status quo? Where’s the choice? No fullthroated rebukes of a platform that is so antiquated it’s written on parchment?

Free tip to those looking to differentiate themselves from Donald John Trump: try being actually different from him. You fight fire with water (or special chemicals in case of grease fires), not with more fire.

But in the saner parts of the world the summer is turning out to be a showroom floor of climate-future. The applicable media departments are giving it some of the due coverage, but come next year during the elections, who expects a clear line to be drawn (by the political media) between the candidates who face the problem and the candidates who lie about what we see with our own eyes?

It’s enough to make our heads spin, in which case we should attach turbines to them to generate clean energy. Get some juice from our country’s debasement for once, I say.

Art: Years Since Revolution

May we go 247 more!

Or has it been that long? There was the industrial revolution, a couple of civil rights revolutions, a digital revolution, and now we’ve got a sort of climate revolution going on.

In any case, the flag always makes for some nice art. You’ve got the three colors, the linear stripes versus the gridlike starfield. That starfield is always a mesmerizer, tracing the different patterns out with your eyes.

Art: Lonely Jet Seat

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody owns a plane…

“Federal Socialists Hotline, Randall Sinclair speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“This is an emergency,” declared self-made billionaire Paul Singer. “I have an empty seat on my jet, and I need someone badly.”

“One moment,” Sinclair said. “I’ll transfer you to the lonely jet emergency companion line.”

Singer wiped the sweat from his brow with a crisp $100 bill. “It’s going to be okay,” he told himself. “They’ll come through. Federal Socialists always do.”

A few hours later, the justice, still in robes and wearing a pair of rollerskates with little flame decals on the sides and a snakeskin crash helmet, came shuffling up to the tarmac gate at high speed. “I came as fast as I could. Where do you need me?!” he called to the security guard. The guard pointed out over the plain, to a jet waiting on the runway.

The justice wasted no time, rolling himself with long steps and hard pushes against the concrete ground, over to the lowered stairway even as he heard the engines begin to twirl, heard the pitch rising to a roar.

“You Singer?” he yelled above the engines as he ran chest-first into the stairrail, where Paul Singer was sitting, head down, fretting.

“Oh, thank you Federal Socialists! The day is saved! The trip is saved!” Singer cried out, standing up and sticking out a stiff hand to shake the justice’s. “Welcome aboard. Would you like some wine?”

The justice’s eyes squinted. “How much does a bottle of it cost?” he asked as the stairs closed behind him.