TACO TIME!

Thank Dog he folded. Now, may he die a death of a thousand cuts.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love ya, tomorrow,” sang Annie at her Broadway debut in 1977, accompanied by my 8-year-old daughter in her off-key voice, a genetic gift from her father.

I loved that song. And I loved my kid’s dissonant support. It was a song of inspiration, and she was my inspiration, the nicest thing I have ever half contributed to the world.

Yesterday, I feared tomorrows were no more. Not that the sun would fail to rise. The sun has a few years left. But that our country, as we’ve known it, would stop being. If Trump followed through on his hideous threats, we would lose our collective soul.

Because of that, I hate the man with such venom, such vitriol, that I do not recognize myself.

I have said to friends in the past that I would like to see him gone. I wrote about his health HERE. The arguments often came back, “But then we get Vance, and he might be much worse…blah, blah, blah.”

Don’t care anymore. Not playing politics anymore. Playing young dad turned into an old man who wants to see a person punished with every fury the Old Testament can dredge up. I want fire and brimstone and the deepest hole in Dante’s Inferno.

The sack of shit is of my generation. I don’t dwell on my legacy, but I would like to think that all the people I have known, from kindergarten through college and the Army, might be remembered decently.

I have known many good people. The ones I have tracked became doctors and lawyers and generally decent folk. One, a very close friend, just died, and I think of all the great things he did, and I mourn. He fought for his country in Vietnam. He raised a couple of kids, now middle-aged women. He led a decent life.

And this son-of-a-bith has tainted his memory. That is unforgivable.

You want stream of consciousness, you’ve got it:

I live in a semi-cloistered, gated community built around a golf course with walls—to keep others out or to keep us in, I have not yet decided. The setting brings the worst out in people: legacy hires to sausage companies believe they are Masters of the Universe and strut their fat asses around on tiny feet, feeling omnipotent and issuing edicts. Management is just as bad. Yes Mastah. But we learn to cope and ignore.

I have many friends among the people who work here. They are nice, real, grounded, humble, bright, and…nice.

One of my best friends is on the maintenance staff. He is from Chile. He speaks two languages. He is a very accomplished artist. He is a very fine man.

He helps me with my Spanish, which is almost nonexistent. Just yesterday, he taught me a great phrase that sounds like a hideous, obscene curse:

“Sacapuntas!”

It means “pencil sharpener,” But if you yell it loudly and gesticulate, it sounds great.

He told me today, in a voice filled with anger, that the husband of the nice lady who cleans the gym was picked up by ICE. This is in a bullshit town in southern Utah. Those masked chickenshits are running his record to see if he is a criminal. I know his wife. I would wager he has nothing more than a traffic violation. I would post bail. You want a criminal, look around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

That really annoyed me.

Then I go into the gym and check in with my ladies, Rose and Kendra. They are both 20. They are my pals, mainly because they show me such respect.

I am four times older than they are, and we are bonded. (If your mind goes to Epstein, I will crush your fucking skull.) Great pals. And you do not mess with my pals.

I am discussing with Kendra her recent change in hairstyle, which I know nothing about. And this lard-ass 20-something comes along, obviously the son or grandson of a member (Spring break it is), and says in a voice tinged with privilege, “Where is the water?”

Not, “Excuse me, where might I fill my water bottle?”

Kenda politely points him to the fountain. (Sidebar: the gym is being remodeled. Things are disrupted.)

“That’s all there is for water?” He says. And huffs off.

I say to him, “Drink out of the toilet. My dog loves it.”

And now the connection:

Manners are gone. Power, swagger, and privilege are in ascendance. The bond of humanity is broken. Much because of this putrid, evil, megalomaniac.

I am done. I have killed people for my country. I have bled for my country. I have watched people die for our country. I am old. What more can I do? I want old school revenge.

My friend Dan Barkuff wrote a meaningful Substack today.

On Shame

I am a generation older than he. I have seen that and much more: Hiding under school desks during the escalation of the Cold War in the 50s. The protests of the 60s. JFK. RFK. MLK. The Tet Offensive (the day before I arrived in Vietnam). Enough.

I want him dead.

Fight the Fight!