Journal

Well, here we are, three years since the start of the pandemic to beat all pandemics (at least in our lifetime.) What a ride it has been!

We did it. We survived our first rodeo. I don’t know about you, but I embraced the hermit cycle: get up, go to the dog park, go to work in my uncle’s garage, go home and go to bed. No need to get dressed up— or even wear real pants. It felt like that movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, and it hardly mattered what I wore as the days blurred together into weeks, months, years… Forget about the days when we dressed to fly, now we don’t even change out of our pajamas to board the plane.

Trying to stay engaged and lighthearted in these viral times was challenging. I believe we are generally a happy species with an inclination to help each other, even we middle-agers who can barely understand the virtual social language at this point. We gave it our best shot during covid with apps like House Party; pretty much like a real house party in that you can see your friends, you can sometimes even hear them over the background noise, and you can lock the room if you don’t want Chachi’s girlfriend to barge in on you (when we went to actual house parties Joanie still loved Chachi.)

“Is this what the future looks like?” We wondered, enjoying our cocktails while hanging out with video versions of our friends, all without actually leaving the house. The best part was when we were ready to leave the party, we just said goodbye; no waiting for an uber on the street, or taking a late-night bus ride, because we were already home. Of course, the most often-heard phrase on House Party from the 45-55 age bracket was, “how do you end this thing?”

Virtual house parties weren’t the only advantages to humans staying indoors. Pollution was less and wildlife free to roam the empty parks. Water was cleaner and clearer, and people were spending less of their quality time in their cars. Hey, if this is what it takes to stop mass shootings, maybe we’d better give permanent stay-at-home orders some consideration, amiright? But we are seeing real social consequences of not bumping into each other for all that time.

Without physical interaction, it seems we lost the ability to put ourselves in another’s boots. We are hugging on the sidewalk less and fighting at the dog park more. The dog park on a crowded afternoon is to dogs what happy hour was to us pre-pandemic. Remember when everyone was so excited to see each other that we never wanted to leave? And getting the gang together on zoom is not the same. The energy can’t move and shift through the screen, plus there is no way to sense (smell) the mood in the air. Maybe we should take a cue from our canine friends and realize that we too need actual interaction to stay connected.

I think we humans get carried away sometimes, and with the best of intentions we alienate ourselves and each other. By crossing the street to give everyone six feet of personal space and masking up in public, we’ve created a lot of isolation and fear, and often now our conversations begin with anger and distrust.

“Do you think it’s the hat? …A lot of people hate this hat. It angers a lot of people, just the sight of it.” -Uncle Buck.

So, what can we take from this viral lesson? We’ve been there, done that, survived the worst. Now what? As I look around at our post-pandemic world, I see Hunger Games in Congress, and war balloons for profit, billionaires with no more imagination than club level seats and an obvious lack of empathy. We’ve returned to our regularly scheduled program of road rage, school lock downs, and prescription drug (vaccination) commercials for days. Our immune systems are inundated, our stresses trigger-happy, we’re booted and spurred and ready to kick some ass at the dog park— even though our dogs get along. Surely there is more to this human story. Stay tuned…

Here’s what I know for sure: water is life, life is fragile, and we are lucky ducks to live on this little frickin miracle of existence— the SS Earth.

I had a dream recently where I was traveling across the ocean on a steamer when I realized that I was tied to a horse who was about to fall off the ship. As the horse’s footing failed, he jumped into the cold water and I was yanked through the air, yelling, “Cut the line! Cut the line!” to anyone and no one in particular. I was dragged through the dark, choppy water, trying to get my head up for a breath of air, until we finally landed on the shore.

“Phew.” I thought, as I lay on the packed sand, waterlogged and coughing. Then I realized the horse was about to start running and I would be dragged on the ground, which would be way worse than through the water. I started yelling again, “Cut the line! Cut the line!” Then I woke up.

I chalk up dreams like this to the family in which I was born. Samuel Perry, by all accounts, was a very capable man who did not suffer fools, and he would not have had much patience with a great-great granddaughter who almost drowned while tied to a horse in the Atlantic. Sam was likely the kind of guy who could climb the rope underwater and ride the horse onto shore like The Man from Snowy River.

Sam Perry moved to Denver in 1887 and became heavily involved in railroads and the mining industry. He was an avid horseman and hunter, but I don’t know if he ever experienced the magic that this planet hosts. He was a land penetrating bear hunter, so who knows if he had a mystical belief in his bones… Generational karma is absolutely a thing, and while I appreciate coming from such sturdy stock, I’m more of a tread-lightly-so-that-others-may-tread-at-all type. I still rescue bugs from the empty fate of the bathtub, for Pete’s sake, and every time I find myself in a cosmic jam, I sarcastically thank Sam for leaving his karmic tab unpaid. Personally, I would rather pay it forward. I honestly believe we can still pull it together, and eliminate our greedy corruption, so that there’s enough food, water, and shelter for all— including the animals.

I became a vegetarian in college because of my Philosophy 101 professor who simply asked, what is the philosophical difference between man and animal? An added bonus was the shock value this created with my cattle-ranching grandparents, because as a teenager it is your job to disrupt familial norms. My vegetarianism morphed over the decades of my life and became more about the treatment of the animal I was to eat. The best example of this shift in my perception was at my sister’s wedding in Senegal. I worked for the airline then, so I flew non-rev to represent the family, and while staying with her future in-laws, I would go up to the roof for smoke breaks. There was a goat tied up there and we bonded over a few sunsets and too many Camel lights. When I realized he was the main course on the Big Day, I felt saddened at first but then appreciative of the ultimate sacrifice for my sister’s future health and prosperity.

It’s not that we humans shouldn’t eat meat, it’s the way we do it that is causing real damage— both to ourselves and our planet. We’ve lost our cosmic map to navigate this world. We don’t grow/raise our food sustainably or seasonally, and we don’t appreciate the food as nourishment, hence we don’t feel full or connected to any other thing, including the source. We just eat our fast food while driving as fast as we can to the next stop. We are oh-so busy and yet, instead of investing in our own home, we treat the Earth like an Airbnb, and our animal neighbors are paying the price. As we all travel through this crazy crowded world, let’s stay connected and pay it forward for those who are still hoping to catch a ride.

On Christmas day, my brother-in-law saw the Grinch getting arrested. He lives in a city much bigger than our Whoville-sized Carbondale, and he said a crowd watched as the police handcuffed and loaded the Grinch into a patrol car.

“And you didn’t get a picture?!” I exclaimed when I heard about such holiday shenanigans. “What a great Christmas card that would make…”

Incidentally, guess how old the Grinch was when he stole Christmas? Fifty-three. Yep, I’d say fifty-three years is just about how long it takes for the sparkle of the season to start to tarnish. I’ll be fifty-three this year and I am working harder than ever to stay positive and see the good in people. I am also fighting like mad to stop my body from taking on the actual shape of the Grinch’s: spindly arms and legs with sloped shoulders and a bulging belly. Super attractive— all I need now is some Manic Panic Electric Lizard hair dye.

This year we went to dinner with friends on December 25^th and as we sat around the table with everyone answering the questions from our wee crackers— fun holiday party favors that pop when you open them to reveal a paper crown and a random question, the best present was spending time with friends, laughing out loud. When asked what we would do, if we could do anything risk free, the answers were varied and highly entertaining: rob a bank, free solo climb, go into space, mess around with Jim… the sky was the limit because dangerous consequences were not a factor— kind of like that mob at the capitol a couple of years ago.

No, we are not going to let it slide, because lack of accountability is a slippery slope, ending at the bottom of one of those Dr. Seuss-sized mountains. The Grinch may steal our presents, our ribbons and bows, even our roast beast, but there is one thing we can’t let him take— okay, two things: our joy sure, but also our rule of law. The rest of the stuff can be replaced (if it was even necessary in the first place) but without integrity, this country will not be the same. Even the Grinch can find his way back, by remembering that integrity doesn’t mean always being right, it means righting our wrongs once we realize what we’ve done.

I have this wonderful fantasy that Trump has done everything he can think of to bring the GOP to its knees; that his whole presidency was a farce, and his true intention is to bring about “Big Changes, the Best Changes.” I picture him sitting at Mar-a-Lago, wearing a Santa hat and no pants, exasperated by the responses to his attempted treason, and thinking to himself, “What will it take for these guys to cut me loose?!” Whether intentional or not, Trump has changed the Republican party irreversibly and if they don’t make a sharp turn, they will find themselves going over the edge of the snow-covered cliff.

In these first fresh days of the year, I am focused on remembering to step out of the curmudgeonly routine and daydream about trying something new. Instead of resolutions, I am looking for meaningful motivations to bring me back to my inner child; singing and dancing around Woody Creek in the 1970s (talk about growing up in Whoville.)

So far, I think I’m doing pretty well with my Life Goals List. I have already found true love, been skydiving, and swum with a penguin. I haven’t been to Antarctica or seen the Northern Lights, but just entering my fifties, it feels like I still have some time. A bucket list full of joy and adventure is the perfect way to start this January, and whether it’s jumping out of a plane or jumping out of a cake to serve someone a subpoena (I really hope this is how they’ll get him), the beauty is in the imagination. For my grand finale goal of 2023, I will find a Grinch costume that fits a 6’3” man and convince my brother-in-law to jaywalk in front of a cop— watch for the consequences on next year’s Christmas card!

This December I want to give a little appreciation for our local flare here in Carbondalay, Bonedale, C-town (just kidding, no one calls it that— yet!) As the holidays approach, it’s a good time to take stock of all that we have and look for ways to share with our neighbors. Personally, I feel extremely lucky to live here, surrounded by cowboys and artists, in a house we moved from the Ranch to the unorganized territory of Satank, and I’m grateful for my little candid opinion column in this, our own town’s weekly newspaper. So, here to the theme of The Twelve Days of Christmas, are some local spots to show a little love this holiday.

On the twelfth day of C- wait, the twelfth day? Is that as in twelve days counting down to Christmas? Or are we celebrating Christmas for twelve whole days like the pagans did… and is it backwards? Oh well, whatever. Here we go.

On the twelfth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building. We are lucky to have the Habitat for Humanity ReStore chock full of billionaires’ hand-me-downs, and while Pitkin County landfill will be full in a few years, we can still focus our talents on reducing, reusing, and recycling our building materials.

On the eleventh day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters potting (okay, throwing, actually.) The Carbondale Clay Center celebrates twenty-five years of clay this year.

On the tenth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking at the Legion. You guessed it, I’m one of those hundredaires who shows up regularly once Shake-A-Day climbs above four digit$.

On the ninth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing. Let’s hear it for the Sopris Sun’s success with informing, inspiring, and building (up!) this community.

On the eighth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating. Carbondale Arts supports a full spectrum of artists who color in our beautiful valley.

On the seventh day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing at Spring Gulch. We have world-class bluebird-sky cross-country skiing right in our backyard, thanks to the Mount Sopris Nordic Council.

On the sixth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying— what’s better than fresh eggs from happy dames? Shop at Mana.

On the fifth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: Five grass-fed burgers. One of the best things about this town is that wherever you order it, chances are you are eating delicious locally raised beef.

On the fourth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs; KDNK plays all my favorite country punk songs.

On the third day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods for Lift-Up. “When we have more than we need, we build a longer table.” – Jesus.

On the second day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods, two feature films. Crystal theatre gift cards make the best stocking stuffers!

On the first day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods, two feature films, and a happy, healthy 2023.

This November, as I cast my ballot, I can’t help but think of the women who came before me and how hard they fought to be regarded as equal: equal in the eyes of men, equal under the law, an equal part of society… While progress has been made, women still sit shotgun in a lot of ways. We are not promoted or paid equally in most fields, and we all face harassment at some point in our lives. Why? Because of a little thing (not so little) called the clit. Yep, I said it. Born with a clit, in today’s world, makes you a second-class citizen from the start.

Did you know they still don’t really study the clitoris in medical school?

“Even in fields like urology, where male sexual pleasure and orgasm are considered integral, women’s sexual health “is seen as hysteria, Pandora’s box, all psychosocial, not real medicine,” Dr. Rachel Rubin.*

Pardon my French, but how do we have the cojones to claim we are a civilized, developed culture when we don’t even understand the sexual anatomy of half our population? What a ridiculous lack of professionalism.

Which reminds me, I’m actually kind of thankful for the Trump Years. Looking back on our history, I think we will see him as the ultimate mess that warranted such a deep-cleaning shop vac for the carpet of our country. He brought a lot of filth and negativity to the surface, forcing us to face our bias blind spots, and when he goes to white-collar prison, he will be setting the crucial example that no one is above the law. (Trump may want back in the white house, but the only place he’s going is the big house.)

This November is a great time to start cleaning our House. We can scrub the old stains with Woolite all day long and we still won’t have the pristine past we like to tell ourselves, but we can change the way we do things now, so eventually we will live a cleaner, clearer future. And while we’re at it, we can start educating urologists about the other half of us.

“Still, it will take more than passionate “penis doctors,” Rubin said, to give the vulva its due; there must be a concerted movement, one that transcends medicine’s traditionally siloed specialties, to understand and map this anatomy. And for that to happen, other fields need to recognize female sexual pleasure as essential and worth preserving.

“I truly believe we are just several decades behind on the female side,” Rubin said. “But we have to do the work. And we have to have people interested in doing the work.”

Luckily, we are a capitalistic culture, and the one thing that transcends our misogyny is our longing for a magic pill. All we need to do is convince the pharmaceutical companies that there is an untapped market for female orgasm, and they shouldn’t be so scared of the research. Women may be mysterious, but c’mon guys— it’s not rocket surgery. Just undiscovered anatomy. It really does make me wonder, after all these years of medical advancement, why was the clit ignored? Fear of Virginia Woolf? A climactic oversight? Or was it simply because the boys don’t have one.

When I was a kid on the ranch, (In our family ‘the ranch’ was always my grandparents’ place, just south of Carbondale. Even though everyone else also lived on a ranch, whenever we referred to ‘the ranch’ it meant Bob and Ditty’s cattle ranch.) supper meant beef, potatoes, and the girl cousins were expected to serve/clear the table, while our boy cousins just sat there. This not only felt seriously unfair, but it did not teach us that men were smarter, or better, or more entitled to have someone wait on them. If anything, it backfired, and my female cousins are some of the strongest and least subservient people I know.

Which is why we will not be voting (against our own betterment) in support of an old, tired patriarchy that does not value its constituents equally. This November we will cast a vote for the world we want to live in. A vote for the clits.

*https://www.yahoo.com/news/half-world-clitoris-why-dont-182449061.html

I told my sister that NASA was planning to fire a missile at an asteroid coming close to Earth— not because there was any danger of the asteroid hitting Earth, just to test our math (and I suspect, to appease a bit of the Bruce Willisness in all Americans.) I worried that my upcoming trip to Ireland would coincide with the end of the world, or at least a self-inflicted tsunami, but my sister set me straight.

“What are you talking about?! Ireland is exactly the place you want to be for the end of days. They’ll know how to do it right!” Good point, I thought.

First, I went to visit cousins in London. While I freely admit I don’t really understand the relationship between the royal family and their subjects, I have a lot of time for historical sightseeing, the perfect humidity for my complexion, and gin + tonics in a can. And even as an outsider, I realize we are witnessing the end of the ultimate fairy tale. As shocking as Bruce Willis selling his digital twin rights, many traditions are now simply the old way of doing things (the younger generation calls antiques ‘brown furniture’) and I wonder if King Charles (yawn) will keep our attention for as long as it takes to switch out the paper money. His face makes me sleepy, and I think he could be the end of imperialism, colonialism, quite a few isms actually, which is a very good thing for very many people who do not live in an insulated bubble of privilege and wealth. Besides, it’s time to give the diamonds back to India…

Speaking of privilege, tooling around London in a double decker bus with a can of gin + tonic is a great way to kill an afternoon. I met another tourist from Quebec, and as we climbed the stairs to take our seats in the open air, she explained that the tour varied depending on the tour company, as some recordings went into greater detail than others. When we discovered a real live tour guide with a microphone at the top, we exchanged grins.

“Game changer.” She said in Frenglish.

Our tour guide had a very dry sense of humor and now and then he would recite Churchill or break into song with his deep baritone. It was a highly entertaining bus ride around an incredibly rich city, and while I could appreciate the unqualified resilience of Londoners, I still couldn’t wrap my head around the disparity between them and their king. When will the royal family hock one of their crowns to build food banks? Or sell some real estate to erect homes for the homeless? From my perspective, all they do is ride through town in old black cars to attend fancy events or play polo and walk through the countryside with their dogs… nice work if you can get it! Strangely the people of England seem to regard them with reverence, not resentment, and the longer they reigned, the more they are revered. Similar, I suppose, to the way our elected officials don’t have term limits, so they stay and stay, well beyond their productive years, meandering through the hallways lost in daydreams of the past… I gave up and went to Ireland: the land of a hundred thousand welcomes.

Ireland gained its independence 100 years ago, and when I asked the taxi driver why they weren’t celebrating in the streets, he said, “we celebrate every day. Eventually, the bills need to get paid…” These seem like words to live by. Ireland is the ultimate working-class fairy tale: lush green forests, vast green fields, and fun folklore to fool the green Americans. Their front doors are painted different colors in defiance of Royal decree and there is a lighthearted, meet-each-day-as-it-comes feeling (though that could be due to the steady stream of Guinness in every pub.) The only castle we saw was a hotel full of Australians, Canadians, and Americans kicking back in the Irish countryside (Kinnitty Castle outside Tullamore. Ask for the Geraldine suite if you want the haunted room!)

Turns out my sister was right, and whether it’s the end of a monarchy or the A.I. Bruce Willis launching into orbit, Ireland is a welcome place to be.

Do you ever think life is like a treasure hunt? Kind of like a cosmic bingo game and as we gain experiences, the squares on our board fill up until we yell, “Bingo!” For instance, in my life I have sung karaoke a handful of times— not well mind you, but every time I belted out Don’t Stop Believing by Journey, I checked off another square on the experience game board of life. Singing along to the 80s, wading through the weeds to catch a whiff of rose, rescuing bugs from an empty existence in the barren wasteland of the bathtub, these are the things that count, day after day.

“Any idiot can face a crisis. It’s the day-to-day living that wears you out.” -Anton Chekhov

It feels like humans are always facing a crisis. Every generation lives through plague or famine or war, and yet we’re never able to change the plot. Sure, we like to think we’re making progress, that life will be easier for the next generation because of our daily struggle, but then something— or someone— comes along to launch a grenade, hoard grain or gold, infect the planet, and we’re right back in triage.

The next major catastrophe will probably involve water, or rather lack thereof. I used to think that only the very rich would eat cheeseburgers in the future because beef production is an expensive process that requires hard work, great parcels of open land, and fresh water. I imagined the rest of us eating crickets for protein as the price of hamburger climbed to unattainable rates, but now I think the real delicacy will be salad. The majority of water in the Colorado River is used for farm and field, and as water levels plunge, we’ll see the price of lettuce soar, not to mention real suckers like cucumber and avocado…

Opposite the cliché of the fat king sitting on his throne eating a huge drumstick, surrounded by cakes and sweetbreads, today’s uber wealthy seem to be satiated by medium-rare portobello on a bed of arugula and seltzer water flavored with natural essence of citrus. And here in Carbondale, if we continue to build unaffordable housing and restaurant/retail space at our current pace, we will certainly lose the folks who ranch, cook, and serve our cheeseburgers, as they’ll leave town to seek their fortune elsewhere. When I was young there was one fancy restaurant in Carbondale, the Ship of Fools. Back then, eating out meant a celebration of some kind, a birthday or an anniversary. Granted, that was a long time ago, “back when the road was dirt.” -JH

Sometimes I feel like Earth is just a galactic ship of fools hurtling through space, every captain of industry more concerned with the amount of booty he has accumulated than the journey’s path or the condition of the crew. Instead of looking for ways to improve the ship, or fostering kindness and acceptance, we are pitted against each other through greed and envy as we row for forty hours a week just to keep the whole thing afloat.

Honestly, I wonder if the best thing for our planet right now wouldn’t be a massive solar flare; kind of a world-wide ctrl+alt+delete. Sure, it would mean utter chaos at first, but then oh, so quiet. As people relearn how to catch a fish or grow a potato, the planet would thrive without all the machines that we created to make our lives easier. Not to mention all the plastic and artificial spray we buy in an effort to bring the essence of the outdoors into our living room (instead of just going outside.)

Basically, we all want the same things out of life: a sense of accomplishment, health and happiness for ourselves, our friends, our family, and a little reward, e.g., a cheeseburger at the end of the day. While drastic, a solar flare would wipe out power plants, bitcoin banks, and suburban irrigation, allowing the planet’s water to flow freely, and eliminating the monetization of this essential fluid. Then the emperors of the world would have to put down their new suits and join the rest of us in our treasure hunt for life’s necessities.

Picture this: Cookie Monster sitting on a park bench looking out at the horizon and the thought bubble over his head reads, “Without my cookies, I’m just a monster.”

That meme is exactly how I would describe politicians like Lauren Boebert; politicians who want to take away certain inalienable rights from their own constituents. I call them RAWR: Republicans Against Women’s Rights. And I have a word of caution for these ‘pro-lifers’ who are packing in public: tread carefully when it comes to government interference in the rights of the individual. The other end of the spectrum is just as terrifying as women bleeding to death while trying to abort with a coat hanger— it is dystopian to the nth degree. Imagine if the government, in an effort to solve our biggest issue (overpopulation for those of you playing along at home), decided to mandate abortion after one child per family.

Sounds barbaric?! Well, that is how the RAWR sound to me when they try to relate bible verses with real life healthcare issues— not to mention, an issue that is none of their business; the autonomy to decide what is best for our individual bodies. We won’t let emergency room doctors take organs out of a dead body in order to save a life (without consent), but now the Supreme Court will force a woman to risk her own life for an unknown outcome. It is hypocritical, to say the least, and not pro-life so much as anti-liberty.

Why should a group of elderly misogynists (some of whom can’t even get pregnant) be deciding our future? They are no longer in their prime and obviously out of touch with the needs of our country. I would like to live in a society that values and trusts its individuals. A society that doesn’t thwart our own self-care. A society that walks the talk and protects everyone’s freedom. So, I have a plan to get these old guys to retire. I think the secret service should fake Joe Biden’s death. Whether of covid, or a rock-star-style plane crash, or choking on a cookie, it doesn’t matter, if they think Joe has gone to Valhalla, maybe they will take stock of their own lives and go sit on the porch to reminisce with a cold glass of lemonade.

I don’t mean to blame all the Baby Boomers for the state of our lives (our planet) right now, but if the implant fits… Joe is our fifth Boomer president and I, for one, would like to see someone under 70 apply for the job. I can’t remember another era where the spotlight followed one generation throughout their entire lives. It seems like the baton was usually passed on by now, but at this rate it looks like we’ll go right from Boomers to Millennials. Which is fine, because as I’ve said before, GenXers are okay with not being in the limelight. We’re used to being ignored, sometimes even preferring the privacy it affords.

And trust me, it won’t be hard to coerce GenXers into retirement. First of all, we will each have our own wing in the assisted living center because of the rate at which we are now building them for the Boomers. Plus, by then the Millennials will have dialed in virtual reality headsets enough to keep a GenXer entertained for days on end. All they will need to do, in order for us to wholeheartedly embrace the artificial intelligence staff, is to make them look like muppets. Which reminds me of my original point; live and let live and try not to be a monster. As a society, we all make concessions to coexist in peace. For example, I agree not to take LSD and follow Lauren Boebert around with a cowbell, ringing it loudly every time she opens her mouth, and in return, I expect her to actually read the constitution before proselytizing her fanatical fantasies about church and state. Because if we are going to be a country based on personal liberty and freedom, then we can’t cede control of our own selves to a bunch of old women-haters who will not protect our sovereignty.

#AbortTheCourt