And You Wonder Why You Can’t Have Nice Things

Death of Justice (AI-generated image, note the scale has three trays, not two…)

Well, hello there. Long time no see. Here I am fresh from my “vacation” (staying at home, not doing stuff, and not making money, instead of staying at home, doing stuff, and not making money), and please excuse the thin layer of coffee-colored mud covering ninety-five percent of my body.

At my slummy holiday camp in the sky, I’ve been obsessed with readying myself for The End: mine (70th birthday approaches) and democracy’s (not sure it ever truly got born, but let’s assume). In fact, I’ve been rehearsing digging my own grave, then throwing myself into it.

Not totally the barrel of fun, or indeed, as easy, as it sounds — for one thing, the thirty pounds of topsoil on the second-best drawing room carpet kind of detracts from my “minimalist” vibe — but one or another version of self grave-digging, preferably with an illegal firearm at your temple, is de rigueur for any totalitarian takeover, especially for useless old folx like me. I’m determined that, in case my one, pretty obvious, prophecy is correct (gay men in camps in my lifetime), I’ll be a credit to my identity politics.

While we’re on the subject of capital punishment fashion, what do you think, for the burial? This grey, organic linen peasant tunic, à la Cultural Revolution? Or I could go full birthday suit and streak off this mortal coil (always was a bit…