So yesterday I put something out there that was half joke and half confession.
I said:
Maybe this entire political movement is just me trying to find my soulmate.
And apparently THAT’S the political platform America has been waiting for.
Forget healthcare.
Forget taxes.
Forget campaign-finance reform.
Apparently America’s number-one issue is:
“Let’s get John a girlfriend.”
I’ve been talking about voter participation for months.
Crickets.
I mention being single?
America mobilizes.
Apparently loneliness has better polling numbers than democracy.
I may have accidentally discovered the only bipartisan issue left:
John should not die alone.
But the joke keeps bothering me, because maybe it isn’t just a joke.
Maybe the reason people respond so strongly is that loneliness is not some private little problem happening behind closed doors. It’s everywhere. People are surrounded by other people and still feel completely alone. They sit at home, scroll through endless opinions, watch strangers argue on television, and go days without having one honest conversation with somebody who actually asks how they’re doing.
So maybe when I say I’m looking for a soulmate, people hear something larger:
Somebody should know I’m here.
And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if there’s something to this.
I’m 69 years old.
I’ve survived cancer three times.
And instead of buying a fishing boat and disappearing into retirement, I started a political movement, built a website, made videos, held a rally—and four people showed up.
So naturally I said:
“Excellent. Let’s interview 100 strangers.”
Most people get rejected and go home.
I get rejected and create a longitudinal study.
Now I’ve got almost 50 interviews. I’m talking to bartenders, business owners, young people, old people—anybody who looks like they might answer a question before calling security.
And every time somebody stops to talk, something happens.
For a few minutes, two strangers who would normally pass each other without making eye contact are actually listening.
Not agreeing.
Not arguing.
Listening.
That may not sound like a political revolution, but these days I’m willing to start small.
I’m even trying to figure out how to meet wealthy people.
Strictly for research.
STRICTLY.
I mentioned trying to get into the Greensboro Country Club, and people misunderstood my intentions.
I’m not looking for wealthy women.
I’m looking for a representative socioeconomic sample.
Some people worry about inflation. Some worry about climate change. Some worry about their children.
And some worry that the valet might scratch the Bentley.
That’s valuable data.
Although if the representative sample has a lake house, I believe in following the data.
But here’s what’s fascinating.
I started this thinking America needed to reconnect.
People needed to stop sitting home, stop staring at screens, get out, talk to strangers, listen to each other, and participate.
I thought civic participation meant voting, attending meetings, joining organizations, maybe showing up at a rally where more than four people came.
And it does mean those things.
But maybe it starts earlier than that.
Maybe democracy begins with the simple act of noticing another person.
And somewhere along the way I realized:
Holy shit. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
Maybe I’ve been giving myself advice this entire time.
“Stop being a spectator.”
Okay.
“Get involved.”
Done.
“Meet people you wouldn’t normally meet.”
I’m approaching strangers in parking lots. At this point I’m one clipboard away from being escorted off the property.
I walk up and say, “Can I ask you a question about America?”
They look at me like I’ve just emerged from a bush with a petition.
But then they talk.
They tell me what scares them, what they hope for, and what they think is broken.
And for a few minutes, they’re not anonymous. They’re not a demographic. They’re not a voter segment or a statistic on a cable-news graphic.
They’re a person telling another person the truth.
And I’m realizing how desperately people want to connect.
Maybe that’s bigger than politics.
Maybe that’s where politics has to begin.
Because before we can solve anything together, we have to remember that there is a “together.”
Maybe what we’re all looking for is simple:
To be heard.
To be noticed.
To matter to somebody.
And maybe I’m looking for the same damn thing.
Maybe that’s why I keep going back out there after the awkward conversations, the rejections, and the occasional suspicion that I’m conducting an unauthorized survey in a grocery-store parking lot.
Because every once in a while, somebody stops.
And for one minute, we’re not strangers anymore.
So I’m going to stop worrying about where this leads.
I’ve got 50 interviews left.
I’m going to keep talking, keep listening, keep meeting people, and see what happens.
Maybe I find something that helps this country.
Maybe I find 100 fascinating stories.
Maybe I find absolutely nothing—which would still be more productive than most cable-news panels.
But maybe the real point is not finding one perfect answer.
Maybe it’s creating 100 small moments when people feel seen.
Maybe it’s proving that participation doesn’t have to begin with a grand speech or a perfect platform.
It can begin with a question.
It can begin with listening.
It can begin with one person deciding not to stay home.
Or maybe, somewhere in those next 50 interviews, I ask a woman:
“What worries you most about the future?”
And she says:
“Dying alone.”
And I say:
“Well, ma’am… you’re not going to believe how convenient this interview just became.”
That’s not a pickup line.
That’s a bipartisan emergency response.
And maybe that’s the whole journey: trying to find a connection while reminding everybody else that they’re connected to one another, too.
50 down.
50 to go.
For democracy.
Obviously.
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