It's not like I was gone long. Nor was it likely I'd be missed. (My ego's at the opposite end of the spectrum from Trump's, say. You know, down in the deep dark blues of reality, not the riotously bright, day-glow flamingo pink champagne shades of all the little Bushes and Palins and Romneys.)
But, it had been done. I had hung up my keyboard. I was all done.
I had decided to do something less painful with my time than offering curmudgeonly commentaries in my stubbed-toe, schadenfreude-rich, Freudian-packed missives on the woe-packed state of the universe.
I thought about taking up something more comfy, like firewalking, maybe, or bungee jumping (with the bungee tied around my neck), or simply sitting on the sofa, pounding sticks of string cheese into my ears with little rubber mallets while humming "I've been working on the railroad..."
Pretty much anything is a fabulous time, filled with wonder and awe, compared with checking out the day's news. Compared with news headlines of what we humans have done now -- well, even the exciting, rewarding world of home sump pump repair can seem irresistible.
On Monday, August 6, 1945, after six months of intense firebombing of 67 other Japanese cities,...
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