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8 August 2021


It sure is a virtue.

I have been waiting for the entire political house of cards in California to fall for decades, even while it was being sleazily constructed!

As an informed voter, I do my best to do my part as a citizen, but I also strive vigilantly to live outside of the freak show known as The Election. I attempt to protect my rather sensitive self from the gargantuan grossness of the Politician, the professional prostitute clad in a suit or a pantsuit or a spandex dress or, for the compassionate photo-op, in ath-leisure garb.

The Fall of Rome was a lengthy, drawn-out mess, but it certainly was not vulgarly distorted, or “reported”, hour-by-hour, 24/7, with absolutely no facts or information tossed into the inept mix. Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour presented far more professionalism than do the moronic minions of the media, and their overseers — the obtuse and low-IQ bureaucrats, fonctionnaires, and elected stooges and perverts of the Political Class.

I find it all appallingly hideous, the wealth of a nation being plundered by taxpayer-sponsored traitors and dopey liars. Placing current events into the historical perspective, going back to the Ancients, has not helped me much to endow my passionate nature with patience.

It’s a struggle, a true struggle for me to master the art of thinking in terms of geologic time. I, the canary in the coal mine, the first kettle to boil, the leading indicator, I do indeed have a hard time with people having a hard time putting an end to their hard times.

Haven’t They had enough yet?!

How bad does it have to get for those people to wake up? Are they capable of cognizance? Or does the formula of a sleeping citizenry have to start to endanger the crooks at the Public Till until we, The People, finally get a chance at having a say?

My mind persists in thinking that the abominably stupid con artist — of any political party — who is up for election to any office, will be found out before the Election. Consequently, that creep won’t be in a political perch to endanger the whole lot of us.

I’ve a quaint notion about the duly elected representatives of this Republic:

The Election is about We, The People — The Citizens. The Election is not about who gets to skim the most money off of the top of the lobbyists’ pot. And now that “pot” is included in the pot, I feel at times that the nation has gone to pot.

I then realize that it is time for me to focus on my world, and to re-build the wall, that emotional barricade which separates a sane me from the crazy world outside.

Tomorrow, or the next day, the smoke from the Dixie Fire will clear from around my new home, my Larkhaven. I will be able to create more than I’d believed I’d could. The road to tomorrow will be lined, not with gold, but with love and laughter.

The Timekeeper in the sky is keeping track of the criminals and their hours and minutes behind their closed doors where all is seen and remembered by That Someone the frauds didn’t count on even existing.

I shall read aloud the next chapter in Volume II of Le Comte de Monte Cristo, as I yearn toward tomorrow with the aspirations that brought me to today.

I shall view once more Episode Three of The Rifleman, “The End of a Young Gun”. I’ll gain insights and inspiration from the fascinating details and heart-warming performances of a seasoned Chuck Connors, a very young Michael Landon, and an even younger Johnny Crawford.

There was a time in the Old West of America when a man fought his own battles, and a woman gutted out her own turmoils. They seized hold of their own triumphs. The beastly, power-drunk boss of a small town carved out his own power base there, in that small town. His even more power-drunk henchmen intimidated anyone who threatened that tacky turf of the glutton who ruled through hiring gunslingers to do his bidding. The sheriff either looked the other way, or he died, getting shot while looking the venal varmint straight in the eye, or he became the faster finger on a very fast trigger.

Those law-abiding Westerners used patience when it was to their advantage, and when it wasn’t, their fuse was short, very short and justice was swift, very swift.

I guess having patience is knowing when to lengthen a short fuse that will, inevitably, need the flame of igniting, for taking action when it is most needed, most vital, most effective.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire” is not just a childhood phrase anymore. It’s being burned into the consciousness of California, maybe even into the national psyche.