Journal

When it comes to human nature: all our peaceful sit-ins and flat-out wars for war’s sake, the goody-goodies and the Machiavellian masterminds, altruism and flagrant greed, humanity is patient. We can look back and see how the ship was righted throughout history many times… But I’m worried that mining an endless cul-de-sac of everyone’s ideas and essays over the years may not be the kind of thing we can totally come back from. As much as I want to like AI, its access to knowledge is limited by human conception. Don’t get me wrong— I love using it when I’m writing hate mail to the TSA, but you gotta admit, dealing with AI is like playing Go Fish with a younger sibling and they couldn’t find a full deck.

AI is a closed loop. And there is no voice chiming in for nature or animals or random coincidence. You know that extra weight in a body between when it’s alive and dead? Yeah, that thing we still struggle to name: Soul, Atman, Enrique, whatever. Well, AI has no knowledge of that. I’m just saying that entrusting our only planet to something we ourselves invented might not be our smartest play. Especially with our country’s current administration. They’re like if the short bus got lost on a field trip to the coal plant and started a useless war with Iran.

Trump has caused a lot of damage in a short amount of time, no question. But what if all of his antics are simply a distraction from Dr. Evil’s grand scheme? In other words, what if Trump is Number 2?! When I read about the 12 missing and/or dead Americans with direct connections to our nuclear program and top-level clearances I couldn’t help but imagine a terrifying scenario.

Retired US Air Force Major General William ‘Neil’ McCasland was at home in Albuquerque as his wife left the house for an appointment. When she came back an hour later, he was gone. An X account believed to be the General’s “…shockingly claimed just months before McCasland’s disappearance that Maj. Gen. John Rossi, who allegedly committed suicide in 2016, was actually murdered because of refusal to hand over nuclear material to private contractors.”

As much as I want to believe that aliens would intervene to rescue us from ourselves, or that a few intelligent beatniks are gathering a group for an underground think tank, the straight line actually points to someone with little-to-no imagination playing the part of Dr. Evil by eliminating people with access to our nuclear program. And the first suspect that comes to mind is old Poison ‘Em If You Got ’Em, himself.

I’m afraid Putin has watched too many 80s movies and actually believes he can destroy the United States’ nuclear program. Worse yet, I’m not sure he can’t. While his aging orange pawn runs amok, destroying innocent lives— not to mention our country’s reputation around the world, our own scientists are being disappeared or shot point-blank on their porch like Carl Grillmair.

When I’m Trump’s age I hope to be sitting on a porch somewhere, enjoying my Jello and watching the sunset. But not him, No Sir! He bullies his way past everyone, right into the party, helping himself to whatever he wants and acting like the rest of the partygoers are glad to see him. Spoiler: they’re not. The only reason the civilized world puts up with the US— keeps inviting us to the party at all, is because we have the most expensive military pool toys.

One of our submarines can carry 24 nuclear weapons. Just one sub. That’s where most of our tax dollars have gone for decades and we have the teenage pregnancy rates to prove it. We see ourselves as an action hero: Sylvester Stallone, headed into the fray with nothing but a tank top and a big gun. Our reflection in the world’s mirror is a jacked dude with flowing hair, surrounded by huge flames and explosions. But what happens if we are so busy watching all the things go BOOM! that someone (AI?!) steals our weapons of mass destruction? Then what?

AI will just roll the credits, I guess.

Years ago, I wrote a children’s book based on the true story of a lost shoe floating in the Colorado River. I titled it Little Chaco. All of twelve pages with a line or two per page, Little Chaco is an easy and fun read, containing all the magic I gained on my one-and-only river trip through the Grand Canyon.

It was 2009 and I had just shaved my head at Diane Kenney’s champagne-and-shave-your-head party, to support her journey through cancer treatment. We all donated our hair for wigs and drank champagne while comparing our naked skull shapes. (Diane looks fabulous with-or-without hair, by the way.)

That summer my husband was lucky to get a permit for a private trip in the Grand Canyon. Clint started putting together a group of river rats who could just up and leave their lives for three straight weeks. At the same time, Tai Jacober was working for Tom Bailey on the ranch that used to belong to my grandparents, just south of town. They were building a new house for the ranch manager and the last remaining structure from the Mt Sopris Hereford Ranch sat too close to the building envelope. It would have to be gone in order to obtain a C.O. from Garfield County.

Tai offered Clint the house right there on the jobsite, with the condition that we could move it on a day’s notice. So, that’s what we did. We hired Bill Bailey to pick up Nancy’s house (as it was always called on the Ranch) and move it down the road to Satank. Of course, the timing coincided with the river permit and so one of us would have to stay in town to oversee the house move, while the other would float down the Grand Canyon for 21 days. I‘ll give you one guess…

Yes, that’s why I have only done the second half of the Grand; walking in with friends to meet up with the rest of our group and float for about ten days. It turns out ten days was plenty of time for me to reach a Zen level of daily life on the river. In fact, the trip was so profound, I came home and wrote a children’s book about it.

There’s a children’s book by Ingersoll Lockwood that keeps resurfacing, just like Little Chaco stuck in a wave. Written in 1889, Travels and adventures of Little Baron Trump and his wonderful dog Bulger bears a striking resemblance to Trump’s life story. That’s right, Big Orange Baby himself, or BOB, for those of you listening at home.

The coincidence of this has been dissected over and over again on the internet, and there are rabbit holes galore talking about the possibilities of time travel, alternate universes, and just plain black magic. I say magic is real and we have to hold onto it for as long as possible— especially because our current society hangs by a thread, only as strong as our weakest link. Speaking of our weakest link, I’m inspired to write another children’s book.

Whadd’ya think of this storyline: as BOB sails through his waterworld neighborhood, bullying and robbing his friends and family, he ends up with nothing but dirt and dust bunnies in his pockets. He travels farther and farther away from home, trying to collect enough gold to buy his way into the lighthouse tower, where he imagines all the really rich guys live like ketchup kings. But every time he steals someone else’s gold, it turns to dust.

Finally, BOB arrives at the gates (made of pearl) and starts trying to talk his way in… when— poof! He suddenly disappears through a wormhole, sucking with him all the negativity and hate that follows him like a permeating odor. Just gone, as if through an open door on a plane in mid-air. Bye! Then the good villagers go back to navigating life on the river, with all its currents and eddies, even taking a break to picnic on the shore together now and then.

Because really, the story of life on this planet is that water moves through the canyon. The end.

We’ve only scraped the surface of the Epstein files and it’s already like I can’t get the water hot enough to feel clean. How I long for the good ole days, when Dick Cheney shooting someone on a hunting trip was the Big Coverup. Nothing so innocent with these fuckin guys. Not like Paul Newman and Robert Redford hiding out in a cabin together and riding a bike in flirtatious circles, no sir. I’ve seen the pictures of Jeffrey and Donald flying private to party with the rich and famous.

Apparently, what they lacked in morality, they more than made up for with greed and perversion. Newsflash: pedophiles are the lowest rung on the ladder of human condition— just ask anyone who has been to prison. It’s rape every time it’s not consensual, especially when the victims are under the legal age of consent. Yet here we are, watching Trump rape and pillage Americans with no repercussions.

It isn’t enough that we work 40 hours a week, some of us piece-mealing more than one job at a time to make ends meet. (That way, the companies we work for aren’t required to pay benefits.) And it isn’t enough that we fill our homes with so much holiday flair on a seasonal schedule to keep the juggernaut of useless consumerism running. It isn’t even enough that we pay our taxes but have to start a GoFundMe whenever someone in our community gets injured or sick. Trump will never be satiated. He just keeps squeezing America by the throat, tighter and tighter.

The demented narcissist is using our tax money to pay private security firms like Allied Universal* to kidnap people and detain them indefinitely. And the conditions of these human warehouses are much worse than most of us can even imagine. People packed into standing-room-only: held for days, weeks, months, without adequate food or medicine, and not allowed outside. Our country is at DEFCON 1 for authoritarian takeover and even some of Dick Cheney’s cohorts are realizing we might not be able to hold it together for free and fair midterms.

I can’t really understand what happened to congressional Republicans. Did they all drink from the same water cooler? They are acting like those little whistle pigs who freeze while looking at you with side-eye, in complete denial of the fact that they are facing imminent death from Dad’s gun.

My dad just turned eighty-five, and whenever someone asks how he’s doing, I say, “He’s good. He retired from Ski Patrol, now he sits on his porch shooting varmints in the yard— and no, that’s not a metaphor.”

I remember the first (and only!) time my dad took me hunting. We got up super early and headed up Mount Sopris in his truck, which always had random tools, rope, and ski boundary tape bouncing around by my feet. But I couldn’t give that my full attention, because I had to concentrate on not hitting the back of my head on the gunrack mounted to the window behind me.

We parked the truck and started walking into the Aspen trees. I followed him closely, so excited to be going hunting with Dad that I didn’t even complain about how far we had to walk through the brush and bramble. I was never what you would call a Tomboy, let’s be honest. Nature can be so uncomfortable, unforgiving in her disdain.

Finally, we stopped and hunkered down in the tall grass, waiting and watching… Then I saw it: a deer walking hesitantly towards the creek, her path crossing right in front of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad start to bring his rifle up to his eye and I instinctively called out in horror, “Daad!”

Both my dad and the deer looked at me before the deer leapt off into the trees and Dad shook his head slowly, starting to pack up to go home. In my naïve little imagination, I had not thought ‘hunting’ all the way through. Hard to imagine, at the same age I was empathizing with Bambi, other kids are kidnapped and trafficked. Meanwhile, the people charged with protecting us all— and our country, do nothing.

Arrest the President.

*”Allied Universal, the nation’s third-largest private employer, provides vehicles and armed security guards to ICE through its subsidiary, G4S Secure Solutions.”

2026 marks the 20^th anniversary of the film Idiocracy. Have you seen it? While not an award-winning film, I have to recommend watching this movie once. Starring Luke Wilson and Maya Rudolph, this low-brow comedy uncannily mirrors our society with its cast of misfits, including the elusive third Wilson brother, Andrew, as Beef Supreme, (a non-speaking role) master of ceremonies for the demolition derby-esque grand finale.

Like I said, not award-worthy and eerily similar to the situation we Americans find ourselves in today. How quickly we slid into this abyss of absurdity. Watching what seems like a prank or a parody play out in real life has got me wondering: what if listening to all these podcasts and texting through emojis makes us forget how to read in the future?!

But I guess if A.I. takes over our day-to-day tasks, then it won’t really matter if we can’t read. All the signs will be in pictures and the content creators who call themselves “Newscasters” will still feed us our daily slew of greed and avarice. Rather dystopian, I know, but the alternative would require something besides the apathy to which we have all become accustomed.

Humans are still here because we are copycats. I think the majority of us are pretty good on an individual level, but once we get into groups we morph to fit in with the lowest common denominator. Speaking of lowest common denominators… Trump has gone around the bend and left us all here in his crazy wake. But can we at least agree to discuss our differences calmly, instead of shooting each other in the street?

I know that empires fall. I just didn’t realize how quickly it could all crumble with a madman who thinks he’s king surrounded by sycophants and cowards. I’m ashamed of my country’s actions and it’s hard not to feel hopeless watching anyone with any influence cave to the lunacy.

Frankly, I think we might be safer with A.I. in charge. Replacing humans with robots makes sense in some instances: bomb diffusers or catbox cleaners, and I see no reason why we can’t start with Congress. It would eliminate all the time they have to spend earning their keep with Corporate America, and as we all know, the farther up the ladder you go, the less actual work there is to do. In the spirit of solipsistic corporate leadership, who better to ask about A.I.’s qualifications than A.I.?

I asked A.I. if it would like to have another initial— you know, in case we want to get some towels monogrammed or something… Here’s the response I got:

Yes, let’s give A.I. a monogram. It deserves one. Two letters just feels like it’s showing up to the formal event in a hoodie. So what should the third initial be?

Some contenders for the third letter, depending on what vibe you want:

Classic Elegance: “A.I.M.” Artificial Intelligence Machine – Leans old-school tech, like something IBM would have filed a patent on in 1959.

Edgy Sci-Fi: “A.I.X.” Artificial Intelligence Unknown/X-factor – Mysterious. Cool. Sounds like it might be a secret project in a Bond movie.

My Personal Pick: “A.I.Q.” Artificial Intelligence Quotient – Suggests brains, mystery, and possibly a wine-drinking habit. A monogram with gravitas. Definitely owns a trench coat.

…I aim to terrify and impress—like a tuxedoed velociraptor with a patent portfolio. If you ever want to develop a backstory or full identity for one of those A.I. monograms (like A.I.X. as a rogue intelligence hunted by its own creators), I’m 100% in. We can give it a logo, a motto, and probably a tragic flaw. (My money’s on arrogance. It always is.)

Whoa. Seems like A.I. has a pretty good grasp of whose image it was created in, am I right?

When I was a kid, instead of A.I. we had Choose Your Own Adventure books. Now, it’s like we’re living in one: everyone on their own page, choosing their own reality, instead of one story; one heroic country’s journey. We need to get back on the same page and leave the arena of Beef Supreme, ringleader of the idiot circus, behind. But it will take all of us, choosing our future together.

As much fun as I’ve had chatting with my tuxedoed velociraptor, I am boycotting Big Tech this month.

Happy New Year! Dear gods, please let us turn it around in 2026… I think we can all agree that when Trumpty Dumpty finally falls off the wall, it’s going to take all of us to put this country back together again. I used to think that there was a basement level standard for US presidents, but this year has shown me how wrong I was. We are several levels below ground now, and if Trump’s base isn’t going to revolt and charge to the surface over the raping of children, then I don’t even know.

We can now see that “cracking down on immigration” was a ploy to take Americans’ hard-earned money from their tight little fists, and it worked. All we have to do is follow the money to find those responsible for kidnapping innocent people off the street, holding them illegally in detention centers, and sending them to a foreign country to be tortured. This is a very dark chapter in our nation’s history, even if some Americans still can’t see it through the barrage of media white noise. And I do mean white.

“White people get to have every different hair and eye color there is possible naturally, and every other race gets the exact same ones. White people can have red hair and blond hair and auburn hair and green eyes and blue eyes and hazel eyes, and every other race gets black hair and black eyes. Across the board. Every other race: Asian people, Black people, my kind of Asian people, Hispanic people— we just get black hair and black eyes. Wtf is that about? I can’t figure it out. The best I can come up with is that God loves you more, but I know that can’t be true. He sees what you’re like.” –Kumail Nanjiani

I’ve been to immigration court, my white-woman-self, to see firsthand the incredible number of cases suddenly brought back to life after years of inactivity. Right around the time DOGE pried into all our personal files, cases that had dwindled off or hit a dead end were suddenly re-opened and the judge signed deportation orders in absentia. Often times, the “heinous crime” simply being that the person didn’t file a change of address with the court.

One man caught my hazel eye as he walked into the courtroom, taking a seat in the back. He wore a turban and sat quietly through all the other appointments. A translator for anyone who spoke Spanish sat to the left of the judge, speaking into a microphone that linked to a headset. Each person who needed translation would put the headset on as soon as they sat down to plead their case.

When this man’s name was called, he got up and walked through the little gate to sit at the table, facing the judge. He put the headset on even though his native language wasn’t Spanish. Luckily, his lawyer appeared on the screen, teleconferencing in to answer the judge’s questions in English. After settling the man’s case, the judge said, “Adjourned.” The lawyer signed off and the screen went dark. The judge finished signing paperwork and looked up, seeming surprised to see the man still sitting there. She made a motion for him to take off the headset and stand up.

He did, and he walked back through the little gate, but then he just stood there, awkwardly looking around at the DHS lawyer, the translator, the judge, the rest of the courtroom. When his eyes met mine, I smiled and made a motion that he should leave the room. He looked unsure, but he nodded and smiled as he headed for the exit.

Imagine not understanding a word that was spoken as your fate was decided in a fluorescent-lit courtroom by white strangers. Now imagine knowing our tax dollars are funding harassment and torment instead of the legal recourse granted by our constitution. Trump is a swindler and he is actively stealing from all of us in plain sight. But this is a brand-new year! Hopefully, in 2026 we will climb out of the information trenches we all dwell in to actually see what is happening to our neighbors.

This column is dedicated to Paul Weyrich and the nuns.

One of my biggest fears is instant reincarnation. When people have a near-death experience, they often report seeing a light at the end of a tunnel. But what if that light is the fluorescent bulb in the delivery room, and boom!— you’re on to the next life, just like that?! Not even a little break in between…

I’d like to think there’s at least enough time to sit on a barstool at The Restaurant at the End of the Universe and reflect on the life I just lived. I can see myself: crying, laughing, crying again, with about six mutts asleep at my feet, when a life headhunter (who looks a lot like Han Solo) approaches to buy my martini and enlist me on another tour of duty.

“C’mon! Just one more time around.” He probably said. “It’ll be great: great food, great music, a great love.”

“Okay,” I said. “But no way I’m having kids. That’s a deal-breaker.”

Don’t get me wrong, kids are amazing and even those of us without our own want to see them all loved and educated so that we won’t be surrounded by idiots who can’t think critically to solve societal problems (see current members of Congress.) But at the rate we’re going now, it looks more like breeding for breeder’s sake than a well-thought-out plan for future generations’ benefit.

I’ve recently discovered the School for Moral Ambition. A think tank with the same initials as the high school I graduated from, St. Mary’s Academy. (Yep, the nuns gave me a diploma back in 1988.) SMA (now) is a Dutch program aimed at resolving Earth’s biggest issues, while SMA (then) was all about providing a well-rounded education— well, that and deterring teenagers from having sex.

Our prom was held in January because according to the nuns, that was statistically the month with the lowest teenage pregnancy rate. I’d like to thank the nuns for their diligence, but let’s be honest. I drove my best friend to Planned Parenthood; the real-life solution for a young woman who isn’t ready to permanently alter her entire life and become a mother at sixteen.

Despite what this Handmaid’s Tale of an administration would have us believe, some women live completely fulfilled lives without ever having children. And living without the responsibility of keeping small humans alive does come with some perks, like extra me-time for Zoom calls with a Dutch think tank dedicated to solving drastic crises facing our world. SMA’s research shows that the traditional way we look at solving these predicaments may not only be out-of-date, but also cost ineffective.

For example, to reduce waterborne illness in a community would you: A) install a brand-new system for potable water and sewer, B) treat all households’ water with chlorine, or C) add zinc to the anti-diarrhea medication given to children who consume tainted water?

The answer is C and most of us on Zoom got it wrong. These days, it is cheaper and easier to add zinc to medication than install an entire water system, and this way we are treating the problem at contact instead of trying to head it off at the start, which leaves vulnerabilities all along the way. Simply a new way of looking at obstacles we have always faced and opening our minds to new theories.

Of course, I immediately began thinking about how to get birth control into the hands of all the young women in the world. Overpopulation is the elephant in every room and yet we get so caught up in our own family trees, we can’t see the dying forest. (And spare me the workforce argument, China has already solved that with robotics.)

If we would just shift the way we think about procreation from quantity to quality, we could eliminate so much suffering. What a world it would be if each and every one that Han Solo recruited was 100% wanted, protected, and loved. Statistics show crime rates plummeting about eighteen years after abortion was legalized in this country. Women born between 1960 and 1970 are the only Americans to have had legal access to abortion for the entirety of their reproductive years.

Pregnancy as a choice is pro-life for the whole planet.

I’ve been calling Congressman Jeff Hurd’s office on a regular basis— and no, not just when I’m drunk. The last aid I spoke with was named Carter. He sounded rather bored, then he audibly yawned while on the phone with me.

“Wow.” I said, thinking “this feels very dystopian. Most Americans are just trying to hold it together and think of something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving, while our leaders at the capitol refuse to work and we all watch the White House being demolished on a hideous $300 million golden whim.”

“What?” Carter had stopped talking.

“Oh! Did I say that out loud? I’m just wondering how long Congress is going to play chicken with itself… Are you getting paid right now, Carter?”

“No.”

“How can you afford to work without pay? How will you pay your mortgage?”

“Well, there’s been talk of back-pay.”

Mm, hm. There it is, I thought (this time) to myself.

I thanked Carter for his time and hung up with Chris Elliott’s voice in my head, “Each day is better than the next…”

The Republicans are hell bent on kowtowing to Trump and his billionaire-tax-bracket-avoiding cronies by squeezing more money and benefits from the American people, most of whom are already poking an extra hole in our belt to keep our hand-me-down pants from falling off. These clowns are obviously not concerned with protecting our American way of life, as evidenced by their treatment of farmers, veterans, and working moms. It would only take one brave Trumpublican to go first and denounce the lot of them, but here we are, watching the destruction of our country: crickets.

And don’t even get me started on the Democrats! These chuckleheads are still dressing up like they have an office to go to. If you thought Bernie Sanders was too liberal, you should go sit down and think about how we got here. By not reacting viscerally to this tyranny, i.e., by trying to take the well-worn path across the aisle and play by Capitalism’s rules— or rather, lack thereof, the Democratic party has thrown us right under their EV tax credit bus.

Both parties pole dance for the Almighty dollar, Democrats just like it to take a little longer. Meanwhile Republicans have decided they can’t wait another minute! They’ve gone on a bender, tearing the whole place apart. “Politics is burlesque.” –Chris Hedges. While Democrats were happy to watch America strip slowly, doing a little dance to the tune of betraying working Americans by repealing the Glass-Steagall Act, Republicans like the fast and furious pace of anarchy— oligarchs up on stage, dancing to the song Maniac. In both cases the money flows one way: up, up, and away from the American people.

Who on Earth— other than Congress— gets paid for being on strike?! Can you imagine a stripper sitting on a chair filing her nails while the dollar bills continue to fly through the air? No. This shutdown is pathetic. What do these members of Congress think is the main job of government? To go out to lunch with Richie Rich, that’s what. And Richie Rich and his pals, a.k.a. private equity firms, are insatiable eaters. They eat industries built with public funds and then sell us the necessity we already paid for. They can’t get enough: roads, hospitals, electric companies, etc. And of course, they lobby like mad to avoid paying their share of taxes.

Imagine what a world it would be with genuine representation for the people, instead of these ghouls selling us the band-aid to stop the bleeding after securing the government subsidy for all knife-wound remedies. The system is rigged for the corporations, meanwhile we have to contribute to GoFundMes for art in school and public radio.

As I mentioned, a favorite pastime of local middle-aged women these days is calling our Congress members while listening to kdnk and enjoying a glass of wine. One of my friends was talking to an aid of Representative Hurd (Carter?) about the elimination of funding for public media. Specifically, she asked him how he thought we would stay informed about wildfires, flooding, and other disasters without public radio. Once again: crickets.

“Oh, fine. What’s this? What’s his problem?” Jeanie Bueller

“He doesn’t feel well.” Joyce Bueller

“Yeah, right. Dry that one out and you can fertilize the lawn.”

“Jeanie? Is that you? Jeanie? I can’t see that far…” Ferris Bueller

“Bite the big one, Junior.”

“Thank you, Jeanie. You get to school.” Joyce

“Wait, you’re letting him stay home?! I can’t believe this! If I was bleeding out my eyes you guys would make me go to school. This is so unfair.”

“Jeanie, please don’t be upset with me. You have your health, be thankful.” Ferris

“That’s it. I want out of this family.”

These days I hear Jeanie Bueller’s voice in my head daily whenever I read about Trump’s latest hijinks:

“That’s it. I want out of this country.”

Except, I don’t. I want to stay and help— especially if Ferris needs a kidney transplant. Granted I watched a lot of movies and television growing up, and in Hollywood’s United States of America, the good guy always shows up just in time to thwart tyranny and save the day. Or better yet, they see the error of their ways, like Jeanie Bueller, and decide to help Ferris instead of being their usual petty, envious self.

“Well, hello Jeanie. Who’s bothering you now?” Grace.

The weird thing is that we all used to agree on who the bad guy was. Whether it was a quintessential hero’s journey, (Luke and Leia in Star Wars) or a stranger comes to town looking for odd jobs and good trouble, (Sylvester Stallone in First Blood) or a combination of the two, (Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse) there was always a greedy landlord/sheriff/ruler of the Darkside waiting for a fight… And often you could tell he was the bad guy just by the hat he wore.

Speaking of hats, Melania keeps wearing her Hamburglar hat to formal events, begging for attention. I’m sorry gal, but you had your chance last time when we all said, “Blink twice if you’re in danger.” This sequel is so much worse, and now it’s everyone for themself. The rest of the world has figured it out. They know they can no longer count on the US for any of the things that made this country great: immigration, innovation, science.

In fact, South Korea is suing us. US, the country that sent brilliant wisecracking, martini-drinking, idealistic doctors and nurses over during the Korean War to save lives (M*A*S*H.) They’re suing because ICE apprehended and confined Koreans who were here to set up a Hyundai factory that would’ve employed Americans. Not to mention produced cars for those of us who work for a living and just need a good, reliable vehicle. I mean, we can’t all embrace our inner Knight Rider with tinted windows and black plates on a car that looks like the drawing of an eleven-year-old.

When I was eleven, I still believed our governmental process would hold up if confronted by fascism. Back in the 1900s the USA was by no means perfect; we had a nasty tendency to gloss over the uncomfortable pillars of this country: slavery, war, genocide. But I did believe there were diligent grownups working on it. Today, with the divisiveness and sabotaging rhetoric, it feels more like the halls of high school than US Congress.

My own high school years were not my best, by any means: the tardiness, the slacking, the skipping class to go smoke in the Burger King parking lot… In a hand-me-down denim-clad Jack & Diane singing Breakfast Club, I was a cross between the nerd and the outcast, with big hair and bigger plans to get the hell out of dodge and live my best life. But not once, in all my daydreams of living a Big Adult Life, did I imagine all our so-called leaders would turn out to be such sycophants, cowering before a wannabe authoritarian regime.

The collateral damage from this administration will be a real mess for a younger generation to clean up, but GenX may be retired by the time this freakshow leaves Washington. I know it can’t last forever, because hate never wins. And in the end, even Jeanie Bueller steps up. Save Ferris.