And then you get a letter from the IRS.

It WAS Monday, after all.

(But it was a genuinely good day up until that point.)

Feeling like Clark W. Griswold right now.

You know what I want for Xmas.

(We’ll try again tomorrow.)

PS: Boss should be implied as President, sitting member of Congress, naturally. I work for excellent people.

Outside it’s America…

And it’s broke, yo.

Today I feel like I should have a gun in the house. To protect my family.

But I don’t want a fucking gun in my house.

I don’t live in tribal Afghanistan.

I don’t live in Somalia.

I live in a quiet suburb surrounded by elementary schools, where kids still play in the street, unsupervised until the sun goes down. Where we all smile and wave at each other and keep an eye out—even if we don’t know each other’s’ names. Where we still leave our doors unlocked.

I grew up believing I lived in the greatest country on Earth. I played by the rules. I did everything they said I should do. And last night, my new neighbor was shot and killed in the driveway across the street.

I didn’t hear the gunshots, but if I’d been out in the garage working on the podcast, I’d have either been an eye witness—or another victim.

I don’t want a fucking gun in my house. This is America, damnit. It’s supposed to be the greatest country on Earth, where life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are supposed to be unalienable.

I want to live in a civilized society that does ANYTHING AT ALL to keep guns away from the crazy degenerates who draw them on other people.

My country is fast becoming one of the war-torn shitholes we’ve spent 20 years fighting.

And the NRA keeps peeling off those dollar bills, slappin’ em down.

One hundred.

Two hundred.

Outside it’s America…
Outside it’s America…


Everything changes…

This is the post for Sunday, February 18th, 2018. I wrote it on Tuesday, the 20th.

I skipped it to run the “Outside it’s America” post Monday. Knowing your neighbor was shot and killed in his driveway—and you slept right through it—takes a toll on your thought processes.

Everything changes.

Primal instincts roar to life. You notice—and investigate—everything that goes bump in the night. You realize just how much you took your safety for granted as you double check the deadbolt on the front door.

Looking back at this empty placeholder for 2/18, I felt like it represented a sort of lost innocence; a blank page left unwritten because “I’ll get to it tomorrow”—but tomorrow may not come.

It didn’t come for Allen Saka, who’s Chevy Avalanche is still sitting exactly where he parked it in his driveway Sunday afternoon, with a smashed rear window, covered in fingerprinting dust.

In a perfect world, we could all up and quit our jobs and live happily ever after.

But this isn’t a perfect world. And rash, uninformed decisions only make it less so.

Same as it ever was.