“It’s like he’s assembling the crew for a pirate ship.”

— Actor John Cleese on Donald Trump’s Cabinet

This is what happened: Just as I was contemplating a major career move, I fell into a deep sleep caused by my doctor’s insistence on my switching from my beloved Advil to arthritis Tylenol.

So far the result isn’t promising. As for relief, it’s like eating nine M&Ms. I miss Advil.

My dalliance with Advil and switch to Tylenol is sort of like having had a romance with a girl who was a great kisser, and then being forced to watch “Song of Bernadette” with a girl about to enter the convent.

But now I’m awake, and after having spent two hours on eBay trying to buy an authentic Pink Pussy Hat from someone who was actually at the Women’s March on Washington, I am up here in the attic, sorting through my collection of political posters.

Over the years and through many elections, I’ve tried to maintain this collection. I had the great ones, like President Barack Obama’s “Hope,” framed and hung with my paintings in various locations around the house. But She, who is usually supportive of my collections, has suddenly lost patience with them.

So here I have them lined up against one wall, like so many Spanish Republican leftists about to be shot by Franco’s firing squads. Sad.

It’s the Republican images I look at today with a degree of wistfulness and ennui. It’s kind of like viewing the carnage on Omaha Beach in 1945, and feeling nostalgic for the Inquisition.

Here is my musty pile of old magazines, mostly Life, with pictures of some of the challengers. There’s Richard Nixon; I have several shots of Richard here and there and a drawer full of Nixon memorabilia, plus an autographed copy of his memoirs, left to me by my late brother-in-law, state Sen. Cyril Joly, who actually worked for Tricky Dick.

Here’s an autographed shot of Cyril with then-President Gerald R. Ford, and another with Nixon.

Somewhere up here, I have old newspapers with pictures of Nixon’s gang: John Dean and ex-cons Charles Colson, John Ehrlichman and H.R. Haldeman. Missing them is like missing the Spanish flu.

I’m reminded of a fun, true story. One night, H.R., who was our neighbor in Hancock Park in Los Angeles, and I stood nearby one another in the back of a small movie theater, watching “All The President’s Men.” That’s a story for another day.

Here’s an autograph to my brother-in-law from Pat Buchanan, the most famous senior adviser to Nixon. I miss the quaint quasi-Jesuit madness of Pat, and I can’t imagine why D.T. didn’t include him in his group.

Oh, fun: There’s crazy John Mitchell, Nixon’s attorney general (1969-72). I’m amused at the frenzy the Democrats are suffering now with the approach of little Jefferson Beauregard Sessions. Clearly they’ve forgotten W.’s shifty Alberto Gonzales. We were “nervous” then, which, I suppose, is better than paranoid and terrified with night sweats.

This one brings a tear: It’s an old magazine photo of Franklin Delano Roosevelt my mother cut out and pasted in my scrapbook. FDR was elected for the first time two months after my birth, and the night he died, I was selling newspapers from a corner box. I made a pile of money that night. I should have kept that box.

I have three of little George W., the “Compassionate Conservative.” With George we got Karl Rove, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz and “Scooter” Libby. We were alarmed at that grouping then, which is better than terrified with fear and loathing and suicidal thoughts.

I had one Time magazine picture of George H.W. Bush, but I misplaced it. I actually voted for H.W. He seemed to be a calm, dignified gentleman.

I forgot the Lucky Strike cigarette magazine ad that featured yet-to-be president Ronald Reagan. Ronnie was my president before he was yours, when he was president of the Screen Actor’s Guild. I miss Ronnie.

She just called up; there’s a black SUV in the driveway with four men in it. Burn this after reading.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.