The fact remains. This is a horrible place.

By This Horrible Place, I mean the brave new techno-world we build at our goodly Jobs every day, and in particular this lovely fake D/democratic pluralism to which we pledge our allegiance each day in our hearts.

I mean Allegiance to this flag, and to the assassinations by which it stands, large and epic, daily and small.

Diversity of the acceptable kind; a native man in a neat ponytail and a business suit trying to beat the oppressor at his own game, opening a casino of his own. That’s fine, because it threatens the systemic capitalist Order not at all.

If he were actually free, oh yes, no mistake, he would be a threat.

So the government Of The People paid mercenaries to sell poxed blankets, and paid them again to exterminate the buffalo by the millions for no reason, except for the brutal rationale which knew that poor pacified and domesticated red cattle ranchers on reservations could not threaten the Order, in the way that the mere existence of nomadic tribal hunters surely could have.

“They drove their pickup trucks out into the desert
Into a ditch along the side of the road
and acted like they were drunk
all the time.”

The truck radios tuned to the faint static of a country music station as the green bottle is passed around in mock tribal solidarity.

No threat, to the Imperium.

This is a horrible place.

Besides alcohol in the ditch, or peddling the gospel of Recovery, what is there to do about it?

Well, we could Lead, like the ponytail casino Indian running for the legislature, or a brave blimp captain.

We could Follow, by driving around big trucks full of raw McDonald’s french fries, or better yet, writing an app that facilitates their purchase, because that pays a lot better, and fosters idle globetrotting.

Or, scripture tells us with a sneer, we could get the hell out of the way.

Whatever that means, out beyond being a hunter with nothing left to hunt, and no way left to feed our families, and provide, like men.

How am I?

How indeed. This is a horrible place.

I feed the strays as best I can. I feed myself, as best I can.

“Just like every other swinging dick in this place–day by motherfucking day.”

I am old, though I refuse to let them make me feel old.

I am useless, except for the fact that I can pull all this together, and tell it to you in a way that maybe helps you see what I see.

For whatever that’s worth.

Which is currently a couple hundred a month in charitable Patreon donations

It will have to do.