By MONTE DUTTON

I always think of this when times are like this in America.

In other words, I think about this a lot.

Back in the NASCAR years, Nate Ryan and I took road trips from Fort Worth, Texas, to Phoenix, Ariz., because the races were back-to-back. We took various routes, but our favorite was Fort Worth to El Paso on the first day, then to Tucson on the second, and north to the Valley of the Sun.

It was 2008. Nate and I got to a Marriott in Tucson late in the afternoon. It was Election Day. The nearby Democrats were holding their celebration there. We wandered in just to see what it was like. I think Nate went back to the room because he had some writing to do.

After I got my fill of balloons, placards and funny hats, I stepped outside for some fresh air, probably on the way back to the room, and exited a few minutes later. A woman walked over and introduced herself.

It was Congresswoman Gabby Giffords. I’m sure she approached me because she thought I was a constituent. I quickly admitted that I wasn’t, but we chatted for about five minutes, anyway.

She left a genial impression.

A gunman shot Giffords in the head early in 2011. She survived but remains impaired. She retired from Congress in 2012, and her husband (and astronaut), Mark Kelly, now represents Arizona in the Senate

When I got word of the attempted assassination, I probably had forgotten Giffords’ name. I recognized her from the newsreel footage.

That’s the woman I met in Tucson!

On the other hand, as best I can tell, the republic survived Saturday. The President kept it classy. An assassin is still at large. While the Army was celebrating itself and the President’s birthday, the alternative demonstrations across the country were orderly. The National Guard and Marines relieved Bastogne with relative ease.

At home, I set a new record for channel surfing, switching wildly from Minnesota to D.C. to Pennsylvania (U.S. Open) to Omaha (College World Series) to Boston (Yankees-Red Sox). I never watched an old movie or read any fiction, though I did play the guitar a little.

I had been reading about a performing bear that rode a motorcycle. Quite a change.

Life is becoming movies. Maybe it’s always been the case.

Back in the 1950s and ‘60s, the escapist fare was James Bond, who matched wits with diabolical masterminds. In the back of our heads, we thought this couldn’t really happen. No one was rich enough to have his own undersea or outerspace complex, fully staffed with unscrupulous bad guys poised to put the world in danger.

Now we have multibillionaires with the wherewithal to maintain their own space programs with pocket money.

The current blockbusters are about comic-book superheroes fortified by special effects that carry them into R ratings and adult audiences.

Goldfinger and Blofeld have become Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. I hope I don’t live to see the Joker and Doctor Doom.

Fortunately, I don’t have the gift of prophecy. My field of expertise is what already happened.

The best aspect of writing about sports is that even if I’m wrong, even if I mess up, the world’s not going to end. Occasionally, a reader thinks so.

Balanced views are in short supply. The current state of the art is knowing just enough to be dangerous.

My grandfather ran a grocery store, the kind known as “mom and pop” nowadays. I ran the cash register when I was 12 or so. B.M. was fond of holding court over at the health-and-beauty rack.

Carter’s liver pills. Who owns that?

I don’t know, Granddaddy.

Johnson & Johnson. Who owns Johnson & Johnson?

Beats me.

Colgate-Palmolive. Who owns Colgate-Palmolive?

Not a clue.

NAPA Auto Parts.

(All these are made up. It was a long time ago.)

Many of my books are available at Amazon. The Intangibles is about high-school football in the time of desegregation.