The BBC’s The Tunnel features brilliant and sadistic arch villains being pursued by a team of dogged French/British police detectives. The criminals generally have a societal, moral or vengeful bone to pick. In other words, “the world sucks and it’s somebody’s fault and I’m going to conceive a diabolical plan that will terrorize an entire nation.” You can be sure the motive for mass murder is presented in such a way as to suggest it has some legitimate cause. In other words, the crazies out there do have justifiable grievances against greedy institutions like evil corporations who poison the air, food and water. In this type of scenario, the fiends naturally are multi-skilled, technological geniuses who lead the trudging cops on a merry chase. Not unusual for Brit or U.S. TV drama. The good guys have to be on the losing end of every episode until the final episode when miraculously an underdog hero, and often heroine, cop saves the day. The Tunnel is just one drama. There’s a bevy of others — well done, well acted, complete with lesbianism, homosexuality, mixed race lovers and every other social category that Brit entertainment loves to promote in its passion for diversity. But you couldn’t care less about the virtue of TV screenplays. What compels about Brit crime fantasy is the matter of Brit crime reality — which is — detectives and other law enforcement personnel don’t in fact bear arms — no guns, Mr. Dillon. No, these Sherlock Holmes wannabes enter worlds of demonic evil, armed simply with cell phones and the full backing of Mother England. True, charmer that he was, Andy never carried a gun, and Barney did have only that one bullet (in his shirt pocket); but Mayberry, circa 1960, ain’t 21st century London. You will continue to tune into BBC’s The Tunnel, Shetland, Endeavor, Midsomer Murders and other thrillers because the products outstrip America’s shopworn whodunnit programming. Still, you cringe when film directors must insist on ruining an otherwise good story by including a nonsensical scene. For example, a highly experienced, young, athletic detective gives chase on foot, his quarry a bad guy (in this case, a woman) who carries a rifle with attached wicked bayonet. There the two stand on high ground, facing each other. Doubtless, your detective is at risk, not even carrying a taser. The assassin walks up to him quite deliberately. He stands immobile as if hypnotized and watches as she sinks her 18 steel blade to the hilt, in his gut. Mortally wounded, he begs for mercy, as she callously rolls him off a cliff top. Captivating scene, yes. Dumb, yes. Dumber than dumb, yes. Your highly trained hero, skilled in self defense, didn’t weave, didn’t dodge, didn’t run like hell. Which is what the BBC director should have done, as far away as he or she could from a scene that caved in what otherwise was a good episode of The Tunnel. After countless reviews, the producers let the scene stay in as is — you assume their argument has merit. This actor had to leave the show permanently — let’s make his exit particularly gruesome and build viewer hatred for our vicious assassin. Whatever. Despite criticism, you continue to have high regard for much of what is good about Brit film making. For England itself (and Ireland, Norway, New Zealand and a handful of other domains), you can only shake your head in dismay at policies that embolden evildoers as they weaken the arms of justice. Some say England remains true to its un-armed tradition. Explain tradition to Nicola Hughes and Fiona Bone, Brit officers killed in the line of duty — defenseless.

Excluding death camps and other instruments of torture, you could argue that every happening, every situation, has some element of both advantage and disadvantage. Millions, perhaps billions, of people who have acquired a 10 week old pup know the truth of this maxim. Within 30 seconds of ownership, you come face to face with the concept of unconditional love. You experience the joy of instinctive intelligence that allows certain breeds to retrieve. You gain satisfaction of teaching a willing pupil, of seeing him learn and remember more quickly in two days than some humans can in a lifetime. When it’s time to play, the teaching continues and the fun begins. When it’s time to exercise, your little athlete knows only one speed — full bore. Everywhere you go, he lights up doting eyes and big smiles, loving hugs and cuddles. And the sweet talk. He is perfect. You agree he’s a bright star, but perfection may be a stretch. Happiness for a lab pup is destroying anything and everything. That includes fingers, toes, apparel, upholstery, electric cords, houseplants, chair legs, eyeglasses, door handles, TV remotes and a flat screen — if he could reach it. Naturally, you can’t expect an energetic animal to always sit quietly as you attempt to work, cook and clean. It’s not his fault that he’s cooped up in your house. For that reason you take him out every 30 minutes to roam a half acre of natural areas and ivy, to allow him ample opportunity to do his personal business. Forty five minutes later, he’s back inside and promptly and strategically pees in three separate locations. Sometimes, he may decide to deposit poop in his secret recesses. Collecting a diarrhea-like morsel has little redeeming value for normal people. In time, you began thinking of renaming your pup Ass Wipe. But you thought better of it, imagining how embarrassed he would feel at AKC festivities among the more intellectual breeds, canine and human. You have to admit that wiping up and disinfecting a pee place is clearly something of a disadvantage. You must find a way to limit this activity to under six times daily. There’s no cause either,  to be irritated with 2 AM trips outside, sometimes in the rain, for bladder relief. Plenty of adults have that problem. The most pervasive downside to living alone with a puppy — and you feel a bit guilty saying it — is that the little bastard is never satisfied. If he’s not asleep, there’s not a second he doesn’t demand your attention, or that he threatens you with untrammeled bodily function. This criticism is also a little unfair because all your companion wants is to be near you at all times. This is his expression of love and devotion — an emotion you sense as you trip over him in the hallway and fall flat on your ass. All in all, the advantages must outweigh the disadvantages. Being housebound, serving as 24-7 custodian, making waste elimination the centerpiece of your existence, giving up athletic pursuits and foregoing your own hygiene and nutrition — these deprivations are trivial in comparison to the outpouring of true love that enriches you in a myriad of inexpressible ways. At least that’s what you read in a book somewhere.

It’s a fantasy, but don’t knock fantasies. Galileo futzed with fantasy before he gave it astronomic structure, then earth shaking efficacy. What’s good for Galileo Galilei is good for anyone; so here’s a new mind trip. Since the vast majority of Trump supporters — the infamous “deplorables” — accomplish the bulk of productive work, they immediately should organize into one massive, national congregation. Not another political party, mind you. Not a religious sect. Not a union. Not a colossal Chamber of Commerce. No, this human swarm would be a grass roots wave made up of individuals who share economic, moral and ideological values. They know who they are. Call them an Army — one without generals, troops, membership fees, budgets and other organizational accoutrements. As with the onset of any hypothetical fantasy, you have yet to work out the mechanism for its composition and disposition. Armies do need some unifying structure. Especially an army that could number 75 million foot soldiers. By comparison, AARP boasts nearly 40 million members. That organization has success because it promotes a type of greed — a 24-7 discount program that fosters an entitlement psychology — rewarding participants simply for reaching the magic age of 50. Your fantasy offers no such financial allure. And since your vision is in its infancy, you must work out a rationale and strategy that could galvanize tens of millions — and worry about structure later — not unlike the dilemma that faced America’s founders. First, your Army may benefit from a name. TRUTH ARMY is a good term. It’ll do for now. Next, TRUTH would need a statement of purpose. Consider this one: To restore individual liberty and the U.S. Constitution — as it was written. Pretty much a cosmic aspiration, wouldn’t you say? Like any credible marketing plan, TRUTH also needs a situation analysis. America’s work ethic is dwindling — in fact, has been slumping for decades as industriousness gives way to sloth. Increasingly, younger generations choose peripheral, dispensable careers. Essentially, these vocations are nonessential to the advance of civilization. These occupations are too voluminous to reference thoroughly, except to suggest that they are mostly expendable. Actors, broadcast media celebs and athletes sit at the top of the list, surpassed only by the purveyors of social media. Include 80 percent of the financial sector, attorneys, journalists, authors, advertising producers and the vast array of corporate and governmental bureaucrats. Conversely, TRUTH members are the doers. They are engineers, inventors, architects, builders, physicians, mechanics, carpenters, welders, farmers, scientists, cops, small business owners, product manufacturers, plumbers, electricians, utility workers, rescue workers, sales persons, locksmiths, machine operators, nurses and dozens of essential technicians — to name just a few. You conclude, therefore, that the situation is topsy turvy. The people who do nothing occupy the seats of power, while funded by “deplorables” who are too busy doing things — so busy, in fact, that they routinely concede power to the “do-nothings.” So busy they finally decided they needed to act — so they elected a renegade to do the job for them. Predictably, the outsider Trump took office with bulls eyes on his back and chest as the “do nothings” have mobilized their immense power to drive him from office. Strategically, your fantasy says that TRUTH ARMY members could play their trump cards by a 1-2 week work stoppage — let the “do nothings” climb utility poles, repair gas lines, mine the coal, drive the semis, run the trains, build the homes, man the factories, pursue the criminals, fight the wars, etc. Shut it down, baby. Something approximating The Day The Earth Stood Still. In Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand proposed a version of this fantasy. You can see  eyes rolling and  heads shaking. Here a sneer, there a sneer, everywhere a sneer sneer. Deservedly so. Even 9-11 couldn’t rally an army of like thinkers, much less 75MM souls. But there is a small army already afoot attempting to accomplish your exact statement of purpose. The Convention of States is on its way toward restoring individual liberty and the Constitution — as it was written. The TRUTH ARMY could make it happen in matter of a few  months if Trump voters would step to the plate and simply sign a simple petition. It’s not asking a lot, is it? Is it? It’s certainly no fantasy. Nothing approaching the pipe dream of July 4, 1776.

www.conventionofstates.com