So, here I sit at my kitchen table in the middle of the night, typing on my laptop because my usual spot, laughingly called an office, is currently occupied by my wife’s brother and his wife, with whom we were hoping to celebrate the results of the election. Instead, a pall has descended as it appears the great orange pumpkin man will soon be rising from his garbage patch.
Yep, four more years and whoever knows for how much longer, America will be in the tiny hands of the hate monger in chief.
I am no stranger to autocracy, having endured three long years at Brigham Young University, from which I emerged clinically depressed. Why? Because there’s just no way I could thrive there. I was constantly being “pinched back” by an institution that values and rewards conformity above all else. What is called art is in fact kitsch. What is called literature is just propaganda. Luckily, I was a liberal arts major and had at least one ally in the person of a creative writing teacher who was grooming me to be his replacement. “A Mormon Mark Twain,” as he put it–an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Or, should I say, an “oxymormon?”
Instead of accepting a teaching fellowship, I opted to become a lifeguard at a mountain resort, which turned out to be the best job ever. I traded in my 50cc Honda Cub for a Honda 305cc Super Hawk, my best purchase ever. The more I rode that bike, the happier I became. It had the same power plant as the bike Robert Pirsig rides in Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance.
These photos aren’t properly sized because for some reason Word Press makes that difficult and I regret that my computer skills are limited.
While roaming through Texas in 1969 I ran across a pretty young woman who, like me, had been dismissed from a Peace Corps training camp in Puerto Rico due to “excessive idealism.” We’ve been together ever since.
Annie is Jewish. Her Polish parents miraculously managed to survive World War II, although none of their relatives were as fortunate. Following the war, they were relocated to Dallas and thereafter proudly displayed the American flag at every opportunity. I’m glad they didn’t live to see Donald Trump molesting the same at every disjointed stage performance he makes before a crowd of slavering imbeciles.
What to do now? Flee the country? We’ve thought about it, but for now I suppose we will stay put and keep a relatively low profile–same as I did when I lived in Provo lest the thought police come after me. By writing this post I may be taking a chance, but then I seriously doubt anyone reads it. No matter, I’ll try to keep you posted. Take care, y’all.