Whitehouse Ave., Whitehouse Station, New Jersey
This morning, I made my third attempt at watching the RNC proceedings. My first was a minute-long foray into Kimberly Guilfoyle’s speech, which ended when I found it impossible to listen to a speech that described Puerto Ricans as immigrants. My second was an attempt to listen to Donald Trump, Jr., aborted about 30 seconds in, after he described a bunch of hapless virus-carrying bats as members of the Chinese Communist Party. This morning, I managed to make it all the way through Mike Pompeo’s speech from Jerusalem–a bittersweet event for me, because as an “ordinary citizen,” like Mike, I too had planned to go to Jerusalem this summer, but couldn’t, when I was mysteriously “struck” by unemployment in the best economy (with the best employment rate) the world has ever seen. Continue reading
I decided this morning, from the motive of civic duty, to watch a bit of the RNC from last night. I got as far as Kimberly Guilfoyle’s describing her mother as a Puerto Rican immigrant, and I’m like, “OK, that’s enough. ” I’m pretty sure that civic duties are imperfect.
“An unforeseen future nestled somewhere in time.” If only we weren’t heading into it.
With Biden’s choice of Kamala Harris as running mate, the choice we face this November is now crystal clear. On the one hand, we face Trump-Pence: mass suicide. On the other, Biden-Harris: mass self-degradation. In other words, either we die or we live to take a crap on ourselves another day.
Come on America, this is not a tough choice. Biden-Harris 2020.
Some half-forgotten material to inspire you. Continue reading
I went to the doctor yesterday, and had a prostate exam. It’s a really uncomfortable procedure, bordering on painful. You lie there, ass to the doctor. He puts on gloves, then plunges his finger up your ass and twists and turns a bit. Finding nothing in my case, he pronounced me “good to go,” leaving me with a dull ache where, I guess, my prostate is supposed to be.
The blessing about prostate exams is that you only do them once a year, but I’m cursed with having another one scheduled very soon–November 3rd, otherwise known as Election Day. I don’t mean that I have a doctor’s appointment on Election Day. I mean that with Joseph Biden’s selection of Kamala Harris as running mate, Election Day has now become the functional equivalent of a prostate exam. Yes, I will vote for Biden-Harris. Yes, they will probably win. And once I commit this act of self-violation, I’ll be “good to go”. The problem is, I’ll be left with a dull ache where, I guess, my soul is supposed to be. Continue reading