Inasmuch as one wonderful thing leads to its exact rotten opposite, November 8, 2016 was to blame. It was a gem of an autumn day. Cool air, brilliant sunshine, full fall-fabulous foliage. A friend and I decided to drive to Rochester and visit the grave of Susan B. Anthony. And so did several hundred others. The line to the grave was two hours long, but nobody seemed to mind. People smiling ear to ear, hugging, taking pictures. It was a sacred pilgrimage. We had all just voted for the first woman president, and that was going to change everything. EVERYTHING! It was the dawning of a common sense world. A practical, no-nonsense, kinder, gentler, America. And the rescue of democracy from the threat of …
Well, you know what happened. The shock of it. The say-it-isn’t-so of it. The Women’s March of it. The Allen-Town-Hall-in-a-mud-puddle of it. The DON’T-LOOK-AWAY-NOT-FOR-ONE-MOMENT of it. It’s that right there.
I get this way in an airplane. As soon as the movie’s over, I start. Gotta pay attention to every sound, every little bump and sway; strangle the armrests, keep an eye on the ground, and sweat. How else is this plane ever gonna land safely?
That’s me, since November 8, 2016. Well, People, you’re on your own now. I quit. I yield back my time. Check it out: I don’t know what You-Know-Who tweeted while we were sleeping. Joe Scarborough can rant until the cows come home, but I won’t hear him; I’d rather hang with the cows. I will miss Ms. Maddow and long for Ari Melber, but something had to be done. I knew it when my partner said I needed an intervention. He’s a resourceful man, and there’s no telling what he was up to. But when he said, “think of all the things you could be doing with your time,” well, I did. And by “time,” I believe he was taking the longer view. Not just this morning or this day, but this life. There’s only so much time, full stop.
So you’ll have to go on without me. Our cat has taken my place on the couch, and there’s no arguing with Sluggo. I am painting. Re-reading To Kill A Mockingbird. Playing the piano. Messing with words again. Walking in the woods. Cleaning the refrigerator. And making phone calls for the Mitrano campaign, so yes. I have some responsibility as a passenger on this plane. But I don’t have to land it. I yield back my time. To me!
Oh, by the way, I have concocted a plan that would kneecap racism and save our democracy. If you’re interested, write to me.
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