So I could bury you all with pics from the counties of Salem and Cumberland New Jersey. Went to school with the Virginia and Massachusetts snobs who thought they had it all going. They’re not all that. We, in fact, are. Why I’m leaving out everything but a very particular subset of New Jersey architecture hard to find anywhere else.

Why is it important? In every case a family statement, an assertion of individuality such as we are losing now. Memorialized in 18th century architecture, which, for you millennials, is considerably older than Bernie Sanders. It’s called patterned brick houses. Herewith a rotogravure printed in Jersey’s finest medium, bricks.

Ain’t life sweet?

Yeah. Personal history involved. I tried to expose a scandal about the Hancock House. The People’s Republic of NJ was already too strong. I got slapped down with sanctions. They covered the 18th century bloodstains of a British massacre of Quakers with an air-conditioning unit and lied about it. I exposed it and got fired.

One reason I hate governments in general. Next, why I hate our government in particular.

They hate the idea that people could make their homes an embodiment of person individuality and identity by means of enormous effort and pride. Old white people shit. Isn’t that what you call it?

Called patterned brick. Imagine it in your McMansion land, DC clowns.

First Tartan. Wasn’t ratified in Scotland till 1782. Kilts optional depending on local greenhead population. Why pants got so popular here.

R life are belong to us.

Outlanders destroyed my home. My father made it beautiful. Now it looks like a London Council flat.

My parents made it beautiful. Now it looks like a nouveau riche piece of crap.

My dad was right. Ask me about what and why. And I will tell you he died long ago, lips sealed. Though his last words to me were these. “Everything I fought for in the war is gone. Not my problem anymore. Yours now.”

Now for the poetic irony, unless it is poetic justice. I gave my father a Mercersburg pewter cup with this poem inside it at a time he was particularly unhappy with me in my youth. He thought I’d written it because he didn’t know who ee cummings was. I had to tell him I hadn’t written it.

We both went there. He insisted I be a gentleman.

MY FATHER MOVED THROUGH DOOMS OF LOVE

ee cummings

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

Septembering arms of year extend
Yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
Than he to foolish and to wise
Offered immeasurable is

Proudly and(by octobering flame
Beckoned)as earth will downward climb
So naked for immortal work
His shoulders marched against the dark

His sorrow was as true as bread:
No liar looked him in the head;
If every friend became his foe
He’d laugh and build a world with snow

My father moved through theys of we
Singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
Danced when she heard my father sing)

Then let men kill which cannot share
Let blood and flesh be mud and mire
Scheming imagine,passion willed
Freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

Giving to steal and cruel kind
A heart to fear,to doubt a mind
To differ a disease of same
Conform the pinnacle of am

Though dull were all we taste as bright
Bitter all utterly things sweet
Maggoty minus and dumb death
All we inherit,all bequeath

And nothing quite so least as truth
–i say though hate were why men breathe–
Because my Father lived his soul
Love is the whole and more than all

He never knew I could write better than that. A lot better and more to the point.

You passed beyond me. I was cold.
2 We had not spoken, I was cold.
3 Grey ladies came to make you old,
4 And I was angry you grew old.
5 But that was never what we do or did,
6 We never cared for what they did.
7 Our hatred and our love were not their ken,
8 Only seething awful fire of kin.
9 You died on me, last punch at love.
10 But die you couldn’t really, frightful love.
11 God eternal, beyond my sin.
12 My god, the truth, beyond my ken.
13 I hated you, you hated me.
14 You walked away, and I did too.

I walked away and you did too. You listening, Dad? They’re trying to subjugate us, Dad. We were always fighting the same fight. Please lend me your heart.

That Moby is a genius, huh. Something he stole hook, line, and sinker. Does it bother any of you? No.

Commented on this back in 2013.

Happy are the millennials. They think writing is copying from Wikipedia. They think music is something involving tits and ass and reedy androgynous voices and hoarse macho homos from the hood. Long may they wave.

But music is forever. Stealing it isn’t the sin. Pretending you wrote it is.

I’m sure Herman Melville would be proud of you, Moby.

Thinking right now of another descendant of a great seafaring man, a descendant who had no honor or dignity about him at all. If the shoe fits, wear it.

Yup. You are. The end.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=xiSIfgGvh0k
I love Iowa. I think I’ll buy a farm there, you treacherous, ungrateful, ignorant, unprintable losers. Then we’ll find out which animals are more equal than others.

So Trump lost. Muhammed Ali lost to Joe Frazier in their first fight. Which clearly ended Ali’s career.

Everybody thinks they know what it means. But even Rush was tap dancing like Bill “Bojangles” Robinson today. Like everybody else in all the media.

Truth is, nobody knows what will happen next. The only fun to be found in the whole rock and roll proceeding. One basic scenario can be played out in any number of ways.

Who knows how they’ll dance in the week and months to come?

Wasn’t really ever going to happen for Trump in Iowa though. Conservatives don’t seem fond of this kind of goings on sponsored by an old roué.

Miss Iowa, USA pageant.

Especially not with Cruz’s newfound born again evangelical Roman Catholicism. Which is, uh, what exactly? Playing with congressional rattlesnakes in the apse of a cathedral?

Think this plays better outside of Iowa? I don’t know. If you think you do, you must be a paid pundit of The Greater Media (TGM). Yeah, I am taking this opportunity to lump the MSM in with the ACM (Alternative Conservative Media), all of whom hate Trump. We’ll see now, won’t we?

My money’s on Rodney Dangerfield as Trump and Sam Kinison as the soul of the American electorate.