I don’t share the general political worldview of Kyle Rittenhouse.

I doubt I’d like him, or Jacob Angeli either, in that ‘over a beer’ way.

But like them, I am working class and angry at what this alleged experiment in democracy has become.

I rage, that things are this bad and absolutely destined to get worse, because enough good people do nothing or worse, over and over again, and so the worst people keep winning.

If there’s any justice, it’s only once in a while by accident.

I have no use at all for the well-coiffed millionaires of Fox or MSNBC. They’re getting rich by propping up a rotten status quo, and pretending that somebody else is the problem.

Tucker Carlson doesn’t care about freedom.

Rachel Maddow doesn’t care about democracy.

They’ve got theirs, and fuck you. Your role is to behave and cooperate with the System that privileges them. They’ll use their superfine brains night and day to keep it just so.

There is zero difference between “MAGA” and “Blue No Matter Who”.

In the underlying essentials, Trump and Biden are blood brothers and fraternal twins.

Robbing and oppressing the domestic and global underclass is their collective life’s work. Clinton. Bush. Obama. Bobbleheads. Pawns of Goldman Sachs. Friends of Jeffrey Epstein, until they had to have him put down to protect themselves.

If we could melt them all down in a radioactive cooking pot nothing would change. The system would just grow new ones.

Old boss, new boss, somebody will still be willing to sell their soul to Satan. Here’s looking at you, Sinema. Jayapal. Mister Ro Khanna.

The total cost of housing every homeless person in the country would be about 20 billion dollars.

The system doesn’t want them sheltered. The pittance of dollars is irrelevant. You need to be kept in line and show up at your job on time, and if there was a safety net, you might think twice about that shitty deal.

If you end up sleeping in the park or in your car, it’s because of the flaws in your character.

That’s what they’ll do anything to keep you believing.

It’s the start of the weekend. At the start of the week, thanksgiving week, I’ll be testdriving another truck. Unexpectedly, it’s a Chevy this time, from 1999, 286K on the odometer, and if there’s no rust I’ll be buying it, because $4500 passes for a really good deal right now.

A new engine is about 6K installed. A new tranny, 2K. All the other pieces, a lot cheaper than that. So no matter how bad it gets, I could have a new old truck for less than the price of a shiny new piece of Kia or Spark or whatever the low end of the vehicle food chain is these days.

And then one of these pop-up campers for the bed.

Because whether sleeping in my car is a product of my character flaws or a rigged system, I intend to do it in elegant retro style from now and forever after.

Yes Boss. The government handshake
Yes Boss. The crusher of language
Yes Boss. Mr. Stillwater,
The face at the edge of the banquet

Song dogs barking at the break of dawn
Lightning pushes the edge of a thunderstorm
And these old hopes and fears
Still at my side