I’m on vacation in an undisclosed third world country, and I’m conquering my liberal guilt over the divide between rich and poor here by drinking. Imagine a hispanic, male Peggy Noonan with gin instead of vodka, and, after the nausea passes, you’ll have me pegged.
So, let’s talk guilt. If you accept that the world is a vampire, then America is the Eric Northman or Bill Compton of that fucked-up analogy. Those of us with souls–which leaves out people who think that the way to keep up attendance at the ballet or opera is to imprison any person of color caught with a joint–at times ponder the fate and justice of those who we push into the muck on our ascent to the exalted position of top turd on this shitpile. When we think of the vast majority of the world whose annual income is far exceeded by, say, my bar tab, many of us come up with some reason why we’re here and not packaging happy meal toys in a factory outside Shenzen.
At this point, and maybe it’s just the gin talking, I’d say that a lot of our political discussion is dominated by one group fixated on rationalizing and justifying our position in the world. The group that requires the most fervent and heartfelt rationalizations forms the current rump of the Republican party. And, really, there’s no rationalization, reason or rhyme why my major concern at the moment is a spotty WiFi connection rather than how I’m going to pay for my next meal. So any attempt to attach your position in the world to some ideology is going to end up being even more senseless than my Tom Collins-inspired blithering on a blog containing umpteen dozen pictures of a Maine Coon and the writings of an imaginary (though hilarious) 90-year-old woman.