Journal

Watching this administration barge their way through the days, weeks, months! is taking a toll on my nervous system. I strive for equanimity, but it’s like someone brought their toddler into the air traffic control tower and then went out for a pack of smokes. For those of you born after the seventies, that is code for never came back. And smokes are the things we all used to inhale before vaping came along. I feel like Lloyd Bridges’ character in Airplane, “Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.”
But instead of taking up smoking or huffing, I’ve been calling my senators and representatives regularly concerning the state of our union. Boy, there sure are a lot of cowards for a Congress this size. I mean, we are going to try to remain the United States of America, right? Because if not, I’ll stop wasting my time and just go about my merry way on the obvious path to tyranny and empty grocery store shelves.
I really hope that somewhere, in a closed-door room with no social media, (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, Pete Hegseth) there are some brave Congress members sitting around a table with some high-ranking military officers who take their oath seriously to protect this country from terrorists both foreign and domestic, all plotting the course for survival of these united states. And I really hope they will feel the need to act before Trump marches us into a world war.
I know that Big War is our #1 industry— smirking at Big Oil & Gas and Big Pharma as it slowly tank-rolls its ginormous girth towards the finish line, but if Big War wins, won’t we all lose? And forgive my ignorance, but do we really want a draft dodger leading the charge? Which begs another question, why wasn’t Trump on the Signal chat to start bombing Yemen? Is it because he has dementia?
He’s like a Chatty Cathy doll with a low battery, just standing where they tell him and spewing fraudulent nonsense. I’ll admit, it is interesting to watch the nuances of dementia play out on a malignant narcissist. Someone should study Trump’s brain as the ultimate example of a Glamour Don’t for living your best life. But it does make me wonder, who is actually running this shitshow?
Let’s take a peek at the top three contenders: Steven Miller, Peter Thiel, and Pete Hegseth— Ha! Totally kidding. That guy’s having the ride of his life.
“When Pete Hegseth sobers up he’ll be surprised to learn he was defense secretary.” -jasonselvig
Stephen Miller is such an American same-old-story that it’s hard to find anything significant. Descended from emigrating ancestors, who were fleeing persecution and striving for a better life, he grew up to be a person who takes that opportunity away from countless others. The kind of boring bigoted arrogance that usually stems from self-loathing— and not the zany Hunter S. Thompson kind.
Peter Thiel, an immigrant himself, is an innovative thinker with a mathematical brain and a Dungeons and Dragons childhood (I know, say no more) who has apparently embraced the Dark Side, emulating a Sith Lord by hiding in the shadows to accomplish his goals. He is less known by the public, but with a corporal punishment upbringing and friends like Ann Coulter, we can assume an ominous lack of self-love there.
These guys are like gingerbread men if the gingerbread was made of prejudice and hate. The world can be a harsh place, and these boys grew up to treat others as they were treated, instead of breaking the cycle to treat everyone equally. Self-awareness often leads to a very good place of acceptance and forgiveness, but some get lost and end up stuck in a mirrored funhouse of distrust and retribution.
It’s entirely possible someone in that diabolical chat group caught a glimpse of their inner-Jedi and added a journalist to the thread so that the world would know what these chuckleheads are up to. Either that, or they just really are incompetent. Either way, it’s time to call their parents because these emotional toddlers are running amok in the control tower of our country.

With all the talk about gangs of criminals at the southern U.S. border, I wanted to see for myself what was going on. Trumpublicans claim to be securing the border, but what they’ve actually done is beef-up border patrol and cancel all appointments for legal asylum seekers. As a middle-aged woman, I already know we can’t believe a word these chuckleheads say, but the older I get the more I realize why women my age choose to stay home and knit.
Luckily, becoming invisible has its advantages— like moving more freely through this youth-obsessed culture. I recently met my future self, wearing a fashionable muumuu like Parker Posey’s character in White Lotus (season three), going into Walgreen’s to pick up some more sunscreen and vodka. Nobody asks or cares where we’re going or why at this age and frankly, it’s kind of freeing to be so underestimated. I think this is where bobble-heads run into trouble; they’re afraid to embrace their natural anonymity. Instead, they go chasing after an illusion of eternal youth through plastic surgery and end up looking like a muppet. Most unfortunate.
One day, in the middle of laugh/cry/screaming at their scary surprised faces on social media, I came across Humane Borders: a non-profit with the mission to create a just and humane environment in the borderlands. I immediately signed up to volunteer, excited to meet these do-gooders who simply go into the desert to check on water stations. Water stations are 55-gallon barrels of potable water secured in remote areas of southern Arizona, each with a blue flag flying thirty feet in the air. Water for all.
Since the militarized closure of urban immigration portals like Tijuana and El Paso in the 1990s, more humans fleeing impoverished and corrupt countries, seeking the opportunity to live a safe and productive life, have been funneled into crossing the Sonoran Desert on foot. This journey is dangerous and deadly, especially because it is impossible to carry enough water to make it through. Humane Borders maintains and replaces water barrels in places so dry and desolate they can literally mean the difference between life and death.
For my first water run, I set my alarm to meet up at Humane Borders on Saturday morning before sunrise. Loading up our gear, snacks, and water bottles, everyone looked bright-eyed and crisp as we headed out in large 4wheel drive trucks with water tanks on the back. Our first stop was on a pecan farm with the sun rising through the perfectly aligned rows of trees. A family of deer ran diagonally through the farm, followed a minute later by a coyote, casually trotting along. We poured some of the water into a cup for testing and tasting, checked the water level and barrel for damage or leaks, looked around the area for signs of use and then got back in the truck.
The day warmed up quickly, each stop hotter than the last, as we peeled off our extra layers of clothing and rolled down the truck windows for a breeze. By mid-morning we were pulling out apples and granola bars. I drained the last drops from my water bottle before reaching into my bag for extra water. As I looked out my window at the indifference of the desert and the heat mirages that looked like pools of water in the distance, but weren’t, I felt invisible in a whole new way. And lonely, even though I was in a truck with three other people.
We came over the top of a steep hill and suddenly there were R.O.U.S.s (Rodents Of Unusual Size) in all sizes running across the road. Javelinas!
After countless gates with rancher-style wire closures and deep bounces through hardened mud ruts in the dirt backroads, we were back on the highway with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning turned on. Everyone was quiet, in their own thoughts. I looked out my window at the vast expanse of empty land where thousands of people have each lost their life, just for trying to make it better. I felt sad, tired, lucky, and a little burnt.
Trump hasn’t secured the U.S. border, but he has increased the odds of death from dehydration and exposure.

First, I want to say thank you to Donald Trump. No, seriously, I want to thank him for taking the time to come back and kill our pretense of a democracy. While we were all limping around, our bleeding hearts liberally coloring the snow red, Trump came back with an old rusty hammer and sickle to finish the job. Oh, and he brought his oddball sidekick: an amateur assassin with a ketamine addiction and another fragile ego.
By the time the DOGE dust settles, and congress gets around to orders of impeachment, there may not be enough government even left for triage… Entire departments are starting to look like a Valentine’s day box of chocolates this time of year, mostly empty with a few odd nutty ones left in the bottom second layer.
But the good news is that we can— and we will— rebuild this country. America will not be destroyed and sold for parts. We are a melting pot of brutal work ethics, extensive opportunity, and an earnest joie de vivre; a country full of myriad talents: farmers, mechanics, scientists, and paramedics, to name a few. We’re like one of those museum paintings that look so good from a distance you wish you could teleport there, to actually be in the picture, but when you get up close you see we’re just millions of different colored dots.
So, if it’s going to be a straight-up barnfire and we’re willing to torch everything so we can rebuild from scratch, then we’ll be the ones to pour the gasoline and light the match, thank you very much. Not some wacked-out wannabe who brings a chainsaw to a blowtorch fight. The lunacy of the first six weeks of this administration was apparently just what Dr Pepper ordered: a familiar flavor with enough caffeine to wake us from our slumber.
The last time I had a Dr. Pepper was probably 1987, while sitting on the bleachers watching the American Legion softball team play the VJ/VS* All-Stars. Those innocent memories are what all the politicians are trying to sell: a sunny summer day, good clean fun in the grass and dirt, a little healthy competition between friends. America at its best. In the 1980s you could easily find Republicans and Democrats playing on the same team, but nowadays? Not likely.
We are a nation divided, and not by the important issues, if you ask me. For the most part, we all want the same things out of life: healthy family, good food and shelter, a ball game of some kind to cheer for. Is it maddening to watch our neighbors come home from work with groceries for their kids? No, it’s the little things that really get under our skin and make us hate each other. Things like whether or not a transgender athlete can compete in women’s sports. Seriously? This is why we’re going to burn it all down?
Okay, but I think I have a solution. What if we just add a category to sports, complete with its own separate restroom? For instance, we’ll have a medal for men’s curling, one for women’s curling, and one for any/everyone who wants to curl against any/everyone else. We could even name it for Andy Kaufman, don’t ya think? Anyone who wants to compete is welcome, and the winner will be the Inter-Gender Wrestling Champion of the World. I don’t mean to sound patronizing about this— okay, maybe a little bit I do, but c’mon! Enough is enough with pointing out our differences to each other as we all starve out in the cold. The richest guys in the world have taken our beer and hot dogs into their clubhouse and completely locked us out. It’s time to light it up and warm our hands on the flames.
If we all call Congressional members out and protest the actions of this administration, we can come back from the brink. And this time, while building our barn of democracy, we will have the experience to make the government actually work for us, instead of billionaires and their pet CEOs.

Barn’s burnt down–
now
I can see the moon. -Mizuta Masahide

*Valley Journal/Village Smithy

Did you read Roger Marolt’s column in the Aspen Daily News last month about his breakup with Aspen? It’s very good, and relatable for anyone who has lived and loved in our favorite local ski town. I can understand how hard it is to watch the place you love invaded by day trippers; America was just hijacked by billionaires, and we all watched it happen.
We watched Trump and Musk dance around to the Village People while Melania (disguised as The Hamburglar) covered her eyes. It was like watching a six-skier pile-up, and most of us couldn’t look away. Now it’s time to clean it up: someone signal the Ski Patrol to get a few toboggans out here, and kick some snow over those blood stains… The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to contain this crash site of an administration.
Government isn’t supposed to be glamorous. It’s like skiers in the rain— bureaucrats in polyester making sure we have access to schools and hospitals on roads that are safe to drive. (BTW, Tesla trucks weigh too much to be stopped by a typical guard rail. So, slow your roll, Little E.) Government that looks like the TJ Maxx of Russian royalty is not gonna work for average Americans. Sure, we love a good drama with outrageous characters in ridiculous costumes, who doesn’t? But at the end of the day, Americans care about equality and fair working conditions. We’d rather have safety standards and a little overtime than watch our 4+trillion in tax dollars go to building some spoiled brat’s Barbie dreamhouse in space.
Speaking of governmental waste, whenever I see the acronym DOGE I think of how the Kens stole their houses from the Barbies and renamed them Mojo Dojo Casa Houses. That is exactly where we are right now: watching the Kens’ song and dance sequence, hoping they come to their senses soon and feel shame.
“…the shameless couldn’t care less. And their audacious behaviour pays dividends in our modern mediacracies, because the news spotlights the abnormal and the absurd.
In this type of world, it’s not the friendliest and most empathic leaders who rise to the top, but their opposites. In this world, it’s survival of the shameless.” -Rutger Bregman
What are we supposed to do with a shameless president, wait around in the cold until he gets up to speed?
That must be how my ski-school instructors felt. When I was learning to ski in Aspen in the 1970s it was about as glamorous as a kid in a hand-me-down down parka eating carrot sticks on the tailgate can be. My dad was ski patrol, so that meant catching a ride with him: leaving the house in the dark; all bundled up to no avail because the cold always found its way in; skiing from one patrol shack to another, breaking only to eat pb & j and carrots while sitting on a cold metal picnic table or the back of the pickup.
My dad took it seriously, rescuing locals and visitors alike. All the fancy-pants (literally) who like to hit the slopes to show off their moves would just be standing around in the cold like the rest of us without the patrollers (and lifties!) It taught me that money doesn’t make you anything but rich. The people who make this country great are the ones who work hard, not the one sitting on a golden throne of broken promises and bankruptcies, and definitely not the one dancing around like a tween buzzed on wine coolers apres-ski.
You know what’s classy? Truth and justice and looking out for those who are less fortunate. Aspen —and America— may be sidetracked by the granny in leopard-print leggings and sports bra, dancing on the table, but we can still bring it back to homemade casseroles and wool socks. We’ll be fine as long as we look out for all skiers— natives and those who are new to the sport.
After all, America’s just a bunch of immigrants sliding down a groomed run because someone else got up early. So, eat your carrots, and in the words of the ADN: ‘If you don’t want it printed, don’t let it happen.’

We are living a truth stranger than fiction. I didn’t even question it when I saw a man dressed like Ignatius J. Reilly crossing Hwy 82 the other day, complete with matching plaid pants and jacket and hunting cap— earflaps down. He carried himself with an ignorant level of confidence, crossing as the signal indicated but never once looking at the traffic.
Speaking of ignorance, our coxcomb-elect is on a tear lately. Trump’s promises and/or threats (either way— lies) are coming fast and furious these days. Suspension of disbelief, to say the least… and while I feel myself caring less and less, (just like ol’ Ignatius) I do think we’re nearing the finale. You can feel the tempo increasing, and historically when society gets this top-heavy it’s time for the pitchforks to come out. Of course, nowadays it’s a lone shooter with a 3D-printed gun instead of an angry mob carrying farming tools.
Meanwhile, the scripted media is busy reminding us that murder is wrong. But we, the people, already know that. We’ve been living our lives according to the rules of polite society, playing the game fair and square and losing ground anyway. We are not the ones conducting ourselves in a disgusting manner of unaccountability and greed. A manner that puts on gross display the two tiers of American life: those who are punished for their crimes and those who are not.
If Brian Thompson had been held accountable for his insider trading deals, he would’ve been safe and sound, locked up in jail. Instead, he was shot and killed on the street in New York and the police arrested Luigi Mangione, using excessive resources and charging him with terrorism. I do feel for the NYPD. I’m sure the pressure to lock someone—anyone— up was intense, but how many people are shot in New York City annually? Why was this case held in the spotlight like no other? Because from down here it looks like an amped up judicial system for the Gotham elite and the same old slack for the rest of us.
Most Americans are just trying to live our best legal life, but as more and more of us fall through the cracks of a system that is completely rigged for profit, and with guns being so readily accessible, the good life seems surreal. And if Trump is never held accountable for his words or actions, what will happen to the rule of law? How far will these folks follow their naked emperor, all the while shaking their money-makers.
You know what makes a lot of money in America? Jail. There are more people in prison in this country than any other, and Trump’s pending white house re-entry has caused the US prison industry to boom on the stock market.
“…shares of multibillion-dollar private prison companies CoreCivic and Geo Group—which are Immigration and Customs Enforcement contractors—are up 76% and 75% since Election Day, respectively.”
Recipe for a criminal: lack of opportunity, desperation, poverty; all the elements Trumpublicans foster. They urgently care about unborn souls, but not so much after birth. They try to prevent education and acceptance whenever it relates to individuality because those are sure-fire ways to build self-esteem. They cut programs that could prevent average people’s suffering, meanwhile feeding our tax dollars to the very CEOs who cause our ailments. Trumpublicans are so busy hustling for his favor— ignoring people’s basic needs for shareholders’ sake, while creating financial insecurity with every law that takes away personal freedom— that they’ve forgotten we outnumber them. And not by a little.
So, it’s only a matter of time before desperation brings the pitchforks out. I have no doubt this story will contain a revolutionary ending. Trump’s plan to make mad money at the expense of everyday Americans will fizzle and smoke, just like all his other failed ventures. America does not suffer fools for long because no one is above the law in this land of the free and home of the brave where a person’s worth is defined by their actions, not their bank account.
“Nature has sometimes made a fool; but a coxcomb is always of man’s own making.”—Addison

A lot of people are losing the plot right now. Personally, I’m ready to smash something— here, hand me that patriarchy. Astrologically though, I feel pretty good. Apparently, the last time Pluto went through Aquarius (our favorite relegated planet began its journey on November 19th) we had a little thing called the American Revolution, as well as the French Revolution, Haitian Revolution, beginning of the Industrial Revolution… Basically we, the people, are on the precipice of a big change and personally, I think it’s about time.

When I was a kid, Elitch Gardens in Denver had a ride called the SeaDragon. It was like a giant Viking ship with several rows of seats, each side facing the other from the middle all the way back to the narrow ends where only a few people could fit, wedged in together on the bench and holding onto the bar. (This was the 1970s when safety was often sacrificed for a good time.) As the SeaDragon swung back and forth, it picked up speed and swung higher and higher up into the air. If you sat in the middle, you had a wild ride with the wind in your hair; like sitting on a huge swing set with your friends, smiling and laughing in the sun. But if you sat at the back, you went much, much higher, gasping big air as your stomach stayed above while the rest of you plummeted back towards the earth, screaming. I think about this ride a lot lately.

As you all know, I have a tendency to Chicken Little my way along in life, but lately I’ve been trying to remind myself to hum and dance as I sidestep the pieces of sky that are actively falling all around us. Look on the bright side, I tell myself, not everyone gets to live through such a transformative time. We are coming up on an about-face, that point when the SeaDragon stalls and switches direction, and I believe we are headed for a more empathetic and generous future. It’s been a long time coming, when I look around at our current state of Me First and the Gimme Gimmes— the name of a great punk cover band started by Fat Mike from NOFX.

Punk rock is the perfect music for times ahead. We’ll have to let go of the old ways we’ve all become accustomed to. Things like air quality regulations, public schooling, fresh food on the grocery store shelves… These amenities will go by the wayside as our current systems are abandoned. Trump is beholden to Putin and now, so are we. It’s ironic that the Grand Ole Party is the leadership to hand our government over to what they themselves referred to as “the enemy.” I’m old enough to remember Reagan-era-Republicans like my grandfather, and boy, would he be shocked to see the cabinet choices Trump is making. It’s like watching a game show in Hell: Say Johnny, who’ve we got for Secretary of Labor…? Why, it’s Kid Rock! C’mon down.

Picking people loyal to his every whim, seemingly without a care for qualification or experience, Trump obviously wants to be the ringleader of this freakshow. But how will it work? Fascism doesn’t mix well with the fact that we worship at the altar of the almighty greenback. Capitalism, i.e., money and the pursuit of it, is priority #1 in this country and so I’m confused as to how he’ll control all the media, social and otherwise, but still be willing to sell airtime to any idea that gains financial traction.
I’m sure there’s a plan though, right? Trump will probably mandate crypto currency, then it’ll crash and devalue like the rest of the stuff he puts his name on. I bet that’s been Putin’s plan the whole time; he’s itching to watch the American dollar fail as the world standard.

Whatever. I’m focusing on self-care: remembering to get plenty of rest, drink water, eat something green once in a while, sit in the sun with my friends and laugh. Revolution is in the air on this SeaDragon we call American life, and we are headed back down towards the middle. What a ride!

https://www.thecut.com/2024/01/pluto-moving-into-aquarius-2024-meaning.html

I’ve been listening to a lot of John Cougar Mellencamp lately. In jr. high school he was one of my all-time favorites and so the memories are flooding back… Seems like just yesterday, but it was over four decades ago when I was sitting on a school bus listening to Jack and Diane on my walkman. And all this reminiscing about my youth has given me the inspiration to write a letter to my future self.

Dear Jeannie,
Try to slow down and appreciate the little things along this amazingly crazy journey we call life. Go for more gratitude, less anxiety. I can only assume you are still running around, terribly busy, and for what? Just so you can buy more Little House on the Prairie dresses? Please tell me that by now, the fad of pioneer-woman-tiny-floral pattern covering neck to wrist to ankle and billowing with heavy, bunchy fabric like Aunt Dot’s drapes has passed. Ugh, I am not a fan of this old-fashioned garb. If fashions must cycle back, let’s see some faded Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles and high-top Reebok sneakers!
That’s what I was wearing while listening to Little Pink Houses, when life seemed endless. I can vividly remember sitting at my desk in school, looking up at the large industrial clock on the wall which actually appeared to tick back one second before continuing on its usual, mind-numbingly slow passage. As they say, “the days may drag on, but the years fly by.”
Jeannie, now that you are in the second semester of your life, it’s time to steer clear of anything/one who tries to suck up your time with negativity and doubt. I’m not saying don’t help out, but time becomes more valuable when there is less of it, and as John says, “…there’s less days in front of the horse than riding in the back of this cart.”
I have the feeling that death will come suddenly (at the very end.) It’ll be like when you’re on the phone with someone and you’re both saying your goodbyes and then you think of one last thing you want to say— but they’ve already hung up. That’s what I think death is like, but who knows? The beauty of the whole thing is that no one here knows, and we have that in common with everyone who has ever lived.
As far as I can tell, humans have always concentrated more on our differences than our similarities. Maybe because we all have the innate desire to be noticed and appreciated; to stand out in a crowd. That’s natural, but when it turns into an Us and Them situation, pretty soon it leads to war and strife. I wonder, does it amplify with age? Or is it all our exposure to shareholders who capitalize on conflict? Fear, lust, greed; the lower chakras are big money makers.
I recently saw a talk show with David Hogg, and I was impressed with how calm, cool, and collected he was for his age. (Jeannie, in case you’ve forgotten watching the interview, David was a student in the Parkland shooting who works as a gun control activist. Just for the record, I’m doing my best to stave off the dementia.) David’s on a mission to kill the big money that we, as a society, are unable— unwilling? to stop from killing our kids. He’s inspiring to watch, as the younger generations keep fighting to bring about the change they want to see in this world.
Whatever happens, don’t give up.

Sincerely,
Younger version of yourself

p.s. It looks like the powers that be are giving the go-ahead to a full access four-way intersection at Dolores and Hwy 133, so slow down and be careful. There is a two-story restaurant going up across the highway and when everyone is turning left to go home to RVR after dinner (in the dark winter months) it will be chaos and collisions with all the traffic turning onto Dolores. Relax, put on some John Cougar Mellencamp, and take your time getting home so that you don’t end up a needless casualty thanks to the indifference of the Town of Carbondale and CDOT.

Have you heard of project 2025? (No, that’s not the name of Aspen’s new airport plan.) Remember Trump’s first term? Specifically, when he showed up at the White House with his troupe of misfit carnies, asking where the coffee maker was… Government desks and departments left empty for months— even years, as the narcissist took more interest in his Twitter POTUS sign-on than anything actually presidential.

Well, this time his minions are busy recruiting newly minted bureaucrats who want to run away and join the circus. The government workers who would normally remain in their position throughout different administrations to ensure expertise and consistency, will all be replaced with blindly loyal, ham-fisted clowns. Project 2025 is an open call for positions with organizations like NOAA or NASA: No experience necessary! Because Trump wants to control time and space by using a sharpie on the constitution.

I use a sharpie for my job. As a greeter at the Aspen airport, I stand alongside the fancy hotel employees with their ipads displaying the name of the passenger for pickup, while holding a clipboard with the name (usually an alias) written in sharpie on old-school white copy paper. Hey, it works, and part of the charm of flying into Aspen is that it looks like it has my whole life.

One of the best things about the town where I was born was the way it remained true to itself through all the boom-and-bust storms that blew through. From silver prospectors to ranchers, bikers to cokehead skiers, Aspen welcomed everyone who found their way to this little picturesque town in the Rocky Mountains. And in the beginning of the end, it was still a great place to go to get away from the celebrity looky-loos. Stars could pull up a bar stool and have an anonymously good time like the rest of us. Aspen was a great equalizer, just like the TSA today.

Boy, those gals do not care where you’re from or how much you brought to the party, they will pat you down like a repeat offender in county jail. Over the years, I’ve greeted rock stars to generals, Hollywood royalty to middle eastern heirs, and they all seem perfectly content with our smalltown airport vibe. Of course, my greets fly commercial. I can’t speak for the other half (83%??) flying private down the road at ABO.

These days private jets flock to Sardy Field like pigeons on a croissant. I get it; the rich can’t help but wealth-appropriate the customs and rituals of Roaring Fork locals. After all, they come and look around at the rest of us having a good time, it makes sense they want some of that… Unfortunately, they end up running the fun right out of town by upping the cost of everything, and that’s how a town loses its luster.

But don’t feel bad for the billionaires. They have it pretty good in this country where the rich get richer, while the poor get taxed. Using taxpayer money for a new runway, sure, but adjusting to accommodate larger private jets leaves a taste in the mouth of petit fours. And the bigger issue with increasing private plane traffic is the lack of workforce. Who is going to land and service all these VIPs? Maybe Pitkin County can adopt a Willy Wonka system where they insert golden tickets into protein bars and if you’re the lucky finder, then you get to report to work at 5:00am in the dark winter mornings.

“Wake up and smell the coffee, Mrs. Bueller. It’s a fool’s paradise. He is just leading you down the primrose path.” -Edward R Rooney.

Speaking of fools, I would really like for the media to stop normalizing a felon running for office. Trump has done nothing but lie, cheat, and steal to get his paradise, built on the backs of all the working-class Joes he swindled. He has no qualifications, and no civil motivations on his wannabe-a-billionaire ticket. He will be the first president to be convicted of felony charges, the first one to be openly cancelling votes, and I’m sure, the first to land Air Force One on our tax-funded tarmac.

Reject Project 2025.