What I would like to vote for is a candidate that is socially

Host: The bar was tucked between two bookstores on a dimly lit street where the rain had turned the asphalt into a wavering mirror of neon light. It was the kind of place that collected people who were too tired to believe in slogans but too restless to stop arguing about them. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, pushing cigarette smoke through thin air that smelled faintly of whiskey, wet wool, and lost conviction.

At a corner booth, Jack leaned back against cracked leather, his shirt sleeves rolled, his grey eyes sharp and weary. Across from him, Jeeny sat upright, a half-empty glass of red wine before her, her dark hair pulled loosely behind one ear. She was still dressed from work — the faint crease of idealism in her brow refusing to relax, even here, in the dim glow of realism’s den.

Host: Outside, a political poster flapped weakly against a lamppost, its smiling face distorted by rain. The ink had begun to run — red, white, blue blending into something closer to grey.

Jeeny: “Tyler Cowen once said,” she began, “that what he’d like to vote for is a candidate who’s socially liberal, fiscally conservative, broadly libertarian but sensible — and with a chance of winning. He said that’s basically the empty set.”

Jack: (chuckles) “Yeah. That sounds about right. The mythical moderate — half unicorn, half compromise, entirely unelectable.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not mythical,” she countered. “Maybe it’s just… neglected. People want balance, Jack. They just don’t trust it anymore.”

Jack: “Balance?” he smirked. “Balance doesn’t win elections. Outrage does. Simplicity. Certainty. You can’t sell nuance to a crowd that wants villains and saints.”

Host: His voice was calm, but underneath it, a trace of bitterness — the flavor of someone who’d once believed and learned the cost. The bar light reflected faintly off his glass as he swirled it, watching the liquid spin like a tiny storm.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the voters,” she said. “Maybe it’s the game. The system rewards division. It’s built for extremes — people screaming at each other while someone counts the clicks.”

Jack: “Clicks don’t vote. People do. And people don’t want to be challenged — they want to be confirmed. It’s easier to feel right than to be right.”

Host: The rain intensified outside, a steady percussion against the windowpane. In its rhythm, the world beyond the bar blurred further — as if the city itself didn’t want to choose a side tonight.

Jeeny: “So what, we give up on sense? On moderation? On candidates who might actually think instead of perform?”

Jack: “You say ‘give up,’ I say ‘wake up.’ The middle ground’s a graveyard, Jeeny. Every politician who tries to stand there gets buried by both sides.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they stand in the middle without conviction,” she said, leaning forward. “They try to please everyone instead of leading anyone. Balance doesn’t mean bland. You can be pragmatic without being hollow.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, filled with quiet urgency. The light from the window caught her eyes — deep, fierce, unflinching.

Jack: “You’re talking ideals again,” he said. “Politics isn’t built for ideals; it’s built for survival. You can’t get votes by saying ‘it’s complicated.’”

Jeeny: “Then we deserve what we get,” she snapped. “If we keep rewarding noise over reason, passion over policy — we’ll keep electing performers, not leaders.”

Host: The air between them thickened — not with anger, but with the tension of two truths colliding. In the corner, a jukebox played an old Bob Dylan tune, the words muffled but haunting: You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

Jack: “You think the world’s ready for nuance? For a candidate who says, ‘I don’t know — let’s look at the data’? People don’t vote for honesty; they vote for hope. Or hate.”

Jeeny: “Then hope needs a better publicist,” she said. “Because the truth is, most people do live in the middle. They’re just shouted down by the fringes.”

Host: A moment passed. The bartender polished a glass, pretending not to listen. The clock ticked over the bar, each second a soft reminder that conversation rarely changes the world — but sometimes it changes a mind.

Jack: “You really believe moderation can win?”

Jeeny: “Not moderation,” she corrected. “Maturity. The courage to think two thoughts at once. To admit the world is messy — that compassion and responsibility can coexist.”

Jack: “You make it sound like politics could be therapy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it should be,” she said. “A nation trying to talk itself out of its trauma.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not mocking, not convinced, but almost... wistful. He took another sip of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light like liquid fire.

Jack: “You know, I used to think like that. I thought politics could fix things. Then I worked for a campaign.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “I realized voters don’t want honesty. They want stories. We tried to talk policy — they wanted prophecy. We wanted dialogue — they wanted someone to shout for them.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full of the things neither could fix.

Jeeny: “So what do you do now?”

Jack: “I watch the circus,” he said. “And sometimes, I sell the popcorn.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s experience.”

Host: Her eyes softened then, sadness flickering behind the fire.

Jeeny: “Maybe the real problem,” she said, “is that we treat cynicism like wisdom. We confuse disappointment with depth.”

Jack: “And we confuse hope with naivety.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re both wrong — and both necessary.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, leaving the streetlights reflected in long, trembling puddles. Somewhere, a taxi horn blared. The city breathed again.

Jack: “You know, Cowen’s quote — it’s funny. He wasn’t describing a fantasy politician. He was describing a sane one. We’ve made sanity impossible.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe sanity needs rebels too.”

Jack: “You think pragmatism can be revolutionary?”

Jeeny: “If it’s honest, yes. In a world addicted to extremes, reason is rebellion.”

Host: The words seemed to hang in the air, glowing faintly like the last smoke of a match before it dies.

Jack: “You know what the real empty set is?” he said finally. “It’s not the candidate. It’s us — voters who say we want reason but reward rage.”

Jeeny: “Then the first vote we cast should be against our own hypocrisy.”

Host: Jack stared at her — long, quiet, thoughtful. The hum of the fan, the soft laughter from another table, the slow drip of rain outside — everything seemed to pause.

Jack: “You might be right,” he said at last. “Maybe politics won’t change until the people do.”

Jeeny: “It never has,” she said gently. “Revolutions don’t start in governments. They start at tables like this.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the two of them still at their booth, the candle flickering low, their glasses half-full, half-empty, depending on the viewer.

Outside, the city hummed with a thousand contradictions — greed and grace, noise and thought, despair and defiance — the eternal debate between what is and what could be.

As the scene faded, their voices became indistinct under the rain’s returning whisper, but one truth lingered like the aftertaste of whiskey:

That the empty set Tyler Cowen spoke of wasn’t just a problem of politics.
It was the reflection of a people still searching for the courage to choose reason over rage, and principle over performance —
in a world that had forgotten how to vote for its own sanity.