There’s a four-day hole there that is built of some depressive malady, likely linked to the attachment disorder.

The snowy, windy, bonechill days of no solitude roll on. Very little happens.

For today’s signature accomplishment, I drove down to the frontage road of the interstate in my literal pickup truck, and I sat for an hour watching while the bigger louder trucks of the People’s Convoy rolled past, flags flying, honking furiously at their supporters gathered on the overpass above them, and above me.

Why would I do that? I don’t even know.

I never once blew my horn. I don’t even own a flag and I don’t want to own one.

I just observed, and now I am reporting. Why?

I don’t agree with most of what these people say. As a group they strike me as a couple of notches stupider than average, and I find it probable that many of them are badly broken people. Perhaps …

I am reacting with empathy because I am in analogous ways broken too.

Perhaps it’s just that I love protest for its own sake … no matter how misguided I think what they’re doing is, I consider it preferable to sucking up the lies of the oppressors and regurgitating them as a substitute for thinking, or forming lucid opinions. It is in most ways preferable to buckling down and performing stupid human tricks every day for the enrichment of the professional and managerial class, and the obscene excesses of their bosses above them.

So I sit and watch what passes for a Resistance, blathering inanely hour after hour on their YouTubes.

And when they bring their show to my town, I naturally attend the performance. It’s the postmodern equivalent of going to the fair or the carnival when it comes near–you can’t not go, can you?

I went. I sniffed dyspepticaly at the honking of the ferris wheel. I held myself above the insipid flagwaving of the midway and all its rigged carny games.

But I went, and I observed, and now I am reporting.

Perhaps I am human after all.