Back to the Future

Dawn has come to Millwood, the city where Richard Anderson lives—a city neither small nor large, simply a normal community where people live together, work together, and do things for each other. This is the story of one day in Millwood—just any day.

The story begins at daybreak. All is quiet in the Anderson home; everybody is asleep. It is still some time before Richard has to get up for breakfast, but while most people are still asleep, many are at work doing things for others—things which mean a great deal to the community, including Richard himself. While Richard sleeps, men at the dairy are filling bottles with fresh milk, and long before daybreak, Richard’s milkman picks up the milk and delivers it to the Anderson home in time for breakfast. All night long, the bakers have been baking bread for the day—bread which the delivery man now takes to stores and homes. Long before stores and schools open, trucks are bringing food for Richard’s dinner into town from nearby farms and distant places. From a refrigerated truck, the butcher is already unloading meat—some of which will be on Richard’s table today or tomorrow.

Richard’s community is always at work. All night in the telephone building, operators have been busy at the switchboards, putting through calls—perhaps to a doctor or fire station. In the city’s water plant, pumps run day and night to keep Millwood’s reservoirs filled, and men check gauges so that Richard and others always have water. At the power plant, engineers keep watch so there is electricity whenever it’s needed. At the post office, workers sort mail throughout the night so Richard’s mailman will have the letters ready in the morning. Meanwhile, at the newspaper office, men and women work to meet the deadline for Millwood’s morning paper. As getting-up time approaches, the newsboy is already on his route, delivering the paper to Richard’s home.

For Richard, the day is just beginning. On his way to school, he sees people in his community at work—like the linemen who keep the electric lines in good repair. Richard has never really stopped to think about how much people in his city depend on one another. His mother shops at the grocery store, and he often buys things there too, but he hasn’t thought about what the city would be like without stores—no groceries, no shoe stores, no furniture stores. The people who work in these places do important jobs for their neighbors. A community needs many kinds of workers—ways for people to get from one part of town to another. Some go by taxi, some walk, others use their own cars, and many use buses. Buses are slower than taxis but cost less and are easy to use. Bigger buses take people to many parts of the country, stopping in Millwood too. Trains come and go from the railroad station, carrying people and goods. Trucks carry mail from the station or from the helicopter field, which brings mail from nearby suburbs and towns. Helicopters need little space to land on, unlike airplanes, which require large airports on the city’s outskirts. Many people come and go by airplane daily.

Though Richard may not realize it, he has an important job too—going to school to learn the things that will help him become a good citizen, ready to take his place in the community. No matter what someone does for a living, many people depend on them—and they, in turn, depend on others. People who work in factories make goods for stores to sell; people in offices write letters and keep records. Some are craftsmen, some professionals like doctors and lawyers, some are storekeepers, and many are housewives who manage homes and care for children. Whatever a person does, it helps—whether in big or small ways—to make the community a better place.

In City Hall, people work for the city itself. The mayor, elected by citizens, runs the government and oversees departments like the police, who make the city safe and direct traffic. They enforce laws made by the people for their own safety. The fire department is also part of the city government, ready day and night to respond to fires before they spread. The city hires workers to build and repair bridges, streets, and sidewalks, and to maintain streetlights for safety. It also helps protect public health by monitoring the water supply and inspecting food-handling places. Another department collects garbage and burns it, while a city dump holds non-burnable waste, keeping Millwood clean. The city provides playgrounds for children, ball fields, jungle gyms, and benches for adults to rest on. Recreation also includes tennis courts, a recreation center for parties and games, and a public library with books, records, and films for all ages. Richard and his family go to church, and there are other churches for those who worship differently.

Millwood has a radio and TV station, where programs are created by many people—from actors to technicians—ensuring Richard gets the right show at the right time. He enjoys watching television and sometimes learns a great deal from it. The family often goes to the neighborhood movie theater, and Richard’s father enjoys bowling once a week with friends. At night, when Richard goes to bed, he may not think much about what his community has done for him or what he has done for it—but the work of the community never stops. Bread is baked, milk is processed, newspapers are printed, electricity is generated, water is pumped and purified, and phone calls are connected—day and night. The work of the community goes on, with people helping and depending on one another, all partners in making Millwood a better place to live.

Before my time, but time-adjacent enough to recognize that the video is not exactly raging propaganda. No one is talking about running roughshod over the whole world or anything. Little Richard isn’t being brought up to be much of an ideologue, although a stretch in college in the 1960s should take care of that deficiency.

At any rate, a lot of America was just like that back in the day. The parts that weren’t, weren’t. They refused, or were unable to act the way the people in the video were acting. The suburbs and exurbs served the same purpose as the frontier once did. When cities became corrupted, people reassembled themselves out in the landscape and started over. A republic, if you can keep it, over and over. It has as many obligations as benefits, and anyplace with benefits eventually attracts people who want them without toting the knapsack of obligations that everyone else is carrying. Eventually the free riders get a quorum, and a new frontier is necessary. Lord knows where we’ll find one now. Perhaps the bombed out numerous remains of Free Rider City will be the new frontiers, after the locusts move on.

People like to point to traditionally minded people, with horrified looks on their nose-ringed faces, and screech that trads want to take us back to the 1950s. I can assure you that I’m fairly conversant in all sorts of history, and that the 1950s you fear and trads want isn’t reachable by putting the Caddy with the big fins in reverse. It was way, way more sophisticated, challenging, and complex than life is today, and it would take a lot of work to achieve it. Going to other planets would look easy compared to assembling the modern version of Millwood again, and making it at least common, because people being people, universal is not possible.

This sentence punched me in the face:

In City Hall, people work for the city itself.

Pull the other one. It has bells on.

The Sixties Never Happened

Hear me out: The sixties never happened.

No, really. The idea that generational shifts happen in neat, tectonic fashion, bang-on the first day of each decade, is useless for encapsulating eras. So I’m gonna fix it. Well, at least the years between 1952 and 1982. Those thirty years were split into two parts, not three: The Fixties, and The Endless Bummer. The thing everyone calls The Sixties never happened.

The hinge point was 1966, or thereabouts. The no-mans land that opened up between the two eras was brought into stark relief in about 1965, when you could go to the cinema and see the last gasp of the Fixties, The Sound of Music, an honest to god musical, then go back in the evening and see the dawning of the Endless Bummer in Help!, an entertaining but disjointed and irreverent slapdash affair. When you went home to your split-level ranch in the suburbs, mom and dad put Sinatra’s  It Was a Very Good Year on the living room credenza record player.

But now the days are short, I’m in the autumn of my years

Indeed. Meanwhile, the kids went down in the basement rumpus room and used the portable hi-fi to play the Rolling Stones doing Satisfaction.

When I’m driving in my car
And a man talks on the radio
He’s telling me more and more
About some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination

It was a baton pass, and the baton wasn’t just dropped, it was thrown into the shrubs. We went from everything’s Technicolor to everything sucks, and barely noticed the change. All of a sudden it’s the Endless Bummer, one that lasted until about 1982.

I wasn’t alive or anything interesting like that, but I have a library card and relatives: The Fixties were the greatest time in the history of the United States, so probably the greatest time in the history of the world. You can fight me on this if you’d like, but I’ll be showing up to the debate in a giant two-tone convertible with more horsepower than a B-25, spangled with enough chrome to reflect Telstar signals back into space, with Technicolor Marilyn Monroe on the bench seat next to me, and a trunk full of penicillin. That beats everything that came before, easily, and everything after, even if you do favor FM radio over AM.

The real Fifties didn’t start in 1950 anyway. Truman was still president in 1950, and I can’t think of a less Fifties-ish person than Harry. He was pure Roosevelt hangover. He looked and acted more like Woodrow Wilson’s haberdasher than a modern person. He stumbled into the Korean War because he missed World War II. It was all he knew. Harry had olive drab hemoglobin.

Harry was so brain-dead that he offered to run as Eisenhower’s vice-president after the big war. It’s a testament to Ike’s probity that Harry had no idea he was a Republican, or even a normal human being. Ike was an American first, a concept that a machine politician like Truman couldn’t understand, never mind get behind. It suited the coming Fixties. It’s useful to remember that the political yings and yangs of Joseph McCarthy and JFK were both considered staunch anti-communists.

And JFK had nothing to do with the traditional take on the 1960s. Flower power would have no appeal for a lace-curtain Bostonian Irishman like him. Ike was an old general, but presided over a young, civilian boomtime. JFK was the hood ornament on Ike’s era. It hit a big pothole in Dealey Plaza, but the vibe allowed it to coast for a few years before Johnson was able to drive the car all the way into the fiscal, moral, and military ditch. Then it rolled downhill pretty fast, and right into the lake where Jimmy Carter was trying to beat a bunny to death with a paddle. So The Endless Bummer started out with the Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, and ended up with another sort of Kool-Aid test in Guyana. They cheaped out and used Flavor Aid, of course, but they didn’t skimp on the cyanide.

Now, the Fixties are often maligned as a cultural wasteland, mostly by people with rings in their intellectual noses. Well, the Fixties gave us Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, and the atypical Dave Brubeck’s Take Five in the same year. Wes Montgomery was inventing smooth jazz right in front of your eyes. There was the birth of bossa nova. Broadway theaters were heaving with musicals. And they didn’t call it the Golden Age of movies for nothing. The industry had to compete with the television all of a sudden, and managed it just fine by giving much more to look at. There was something for everybody, too. From ’52 on, you could sit with your feet stuck to the floor and your eyes glued to the screen in a big, gaudy movie house and see The Quiet Man, Shane, Roman Holiday, The Big Country, and watch the most exciting twenty minutes in movies, ever — the chariot race in Ben-Hur.

They made thoughtful movies about regular people back then. I mean regular regular people. How about Ernest Borgnine as Marty? David Lean reeled off the greatest string of movies ever: The Bridge on the River Kwai, Lawrence of Arabia, and Doctor Zhivago.  You could even take a girl to that last one, and she’d like it. Frank Lloyd Wright was building Usonian houses while Royal Barry Wills held down the trad suburban fort with his elegant colonials and Capes in New England while Googie style spangled the west coast and Midcentury Modern filled in everywhere else. Women wore Dior and pencil dresses and pillbox hats.

In the late sixties, the studio system fell apart, and the Hollywood New Wave took over. For a while, Warner Brothers was owned by a casket manufacturer that had a sideline of parking lots. That had predictable results on the output. Eventually auteurs got the upper hand, and they made a bunch of popular movies that made big money. But do you notice anything about this list of the top ten American New Wave classics?

  • Bonnie and Clyde (1967)

  • The Graduate (1967)

  • Easy Rider (1969)

  • Midnight Cowboy (1969)

  • Five Easy Pieces (1970)

  • The Last Picture Show (1971)

  • Taxi Driver (1976)

  • Chinatown (1974)

  • Nashville (1975)

  • Apocalypse Now (1979)

Yep. Great cinema. But. Uniformly bleak, ambiguous, cynical, mostly violent and nasty. It’s what happens when nihilism takes over from the sunny optimism of the Fixties. You get the Endless Bummer. Throw in The Godfather, and you’ve got the entire zeitgeist encapsulated: Why bother trying? Everything is crooked.

Let’s take a look at a tale of two cities, as it were: Anne Bancroft.

Anne seems pleasant enough, so I won’t be ragging on her personally, just using her to point out how the worm turned just from 1962 to 1967. First, she won an Oscar for The Miracle Worker. She played Anne Sullivan, who through dint of perseverance and affection teaches a deaf, dumb, and blind Helen Keller to interact with the world. It’s typical of movies from the Before Times. It’s based on real, important things, tough sledding emotionally, perhaps, but uplifting and inspirational in its final effect.

Then 1967 rolls around and Anne is Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. Whoah, there’s a tectonic shift. No one is going to help a disabled girl in that one. Benjamin Braddock is maybe the Ur-self-absorbed college grad. Dustin Hoffman played the shrimp that launched a thousand Lloyd Doblers, guys who don’t know what they’re for, only that they’re against everything on offer. Middle-aged Anne slept with her neighbor’s kid, and then turned into a bunny boiler when he started dating her daughter. It was supposed to be an evisceration of suburban life, but it’s closer to what people who rub elbows with Woody Allen think the suburbs is like. The heavy fog of disillusionment, generational enmity, unexplained ennui, and a full Peter Pan outlook on life was the Long March Through the Endless Bummer in a nutshell. The movie is funny in its satirical way, but for the life of me I’ve never understood the idea that it’s romantic. I guess I have to quote myself here:

Now, many people think Romeo and Juliet is a love story, instead of a cautionary tale about teen infatuation that ends up with everyone dead. These same people also think The Graduate is a sweet love story, and that it has a happy ending. Not hardly, if you’re paying attention. Here’s the final scene of the movie: Link to video.  In the back of the bus, it finally dawns on Benjamin Braddock that he has no idea why he was trying to woo fair maid. It was forbidden, so he wanted it. He’s already ambivalent about her. She looks at him and maybe wonders what she saw in him in the first place.

“It was forbidden so he wanted it.” If there’s a better encapsulation of the imbecile impetus behind the Endless Bummer, and the death of the Fixties, I haven’t seen it. And I had to write it myself.

The High-Risk, High-Reward Milieu

This video might be interesting to any number of people from most any walk of like. It’s like catnip to anyone who ever constructed a commercial building. I think it’s the greatest example of construction, ever. You can build things taller, or wider, or goofier (I’m looking at you, Gehry), or more expensive, or more elaborate, but you can’t ever surpass what was accomplished by so few men in so short a time, resulting in a more iconic building. The Empire State Building in New York City is the greatest office building in the world, and has been since the day it opened.

The lady out in the harbor with the lantern jaw, wearing a bathrobe, holding an ice cream cone, and beckoning every country on Earth to use America as their recycling bin has nothing on the Empire State Building. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the population think the Empire State is named after the building, not the other way around. The only structure as iconic as the Empire State Building might be the Eiffel Tower, and that’s nothing but a radio antenna, when you really look at it. Big deal.

The Empire State was completed during the Depression. They didn’t have trouble finding people willing to take risks to earn a living just then. So you’d be forgiven if you assumed that they’d look at workers as kind of expendable. You assumed wrong, however. Up to 3,500 people worked on the building at any one time. Four people died during construction. That’s 3,500 people working two shifts, day and night, to complete the tallest building in the world in one year and 45 days. Four deaths.

Let’s compare that to the World Trade Center Project in 2001. One World Trade Center, which is as ugly as a home-made suit, took 8 years to build. It had somewhere between 4,000 to 5,000 workers, and depending on who you ask, had 5 worker deaths. If you do the math, the fatality rate per worker is essentially identical to the Empire State Building. Other big buildings like the Burj Khalifa and the Shanghai tower claim lower fatality rates, but I don’t trust stats about worker safety from closed societies, thank you very much.

So you can see the guys in the video working on the Empire, hanging all over it like King Kong would a few years later. They didn’t fall off much. They didn’t have OSHA, or any number of other safety foofaraws that are in place today. So how did they manage to stay in one piece while working four times as hard as people would in the future?

It’s simple, really. They were smarter than people are now. Not the kind of smarter that’s in vogue nowadays. None of them was plucked from any Ivy League admission offices. They were predominately Irish and Italian immigrants, at least from what I’ve read. They had nerve. They had skills. Mad skills, by the look of it. They had experience building things like railroads, mining ore, or erecting steelwork, even if it was a little closer to mother earth. Many were craftsmen, with prodigious hand skills developed by long experience. They were used to working around heavy machinery and keeping their fingers out of the gears.

By comparison, modern workers are skilled at avoiding risk, instead of managing it. They’re more conversant with technology-driven tasks. They crave automation, standardized working conditions, and lunchtime. They’re not really skilled in navigating dangerous situations in the way their predecessors were. But they died at the same rate, because building great big things is inherently dangerous, and having little experience with true danger make them vulnerable to brain farts, as we used to call them.

The Empire State Building was constructed in a truly high-risk, high-reward milieu. Men with a high tolerance for risk, or whose desperation for work overrode their tolerances, needed mental toughness, and relied on their experience in risky environments to stay safe. Modern workers rely on a rulebook that only the shop steward has read. The investors, who didn’t stick one spud into a rivet hole, were also working in a high-risk, high-reward mode. The building didn’t start to turn a profit until the 1950s.

We could use a few guys like the men who financed and built the Empire State Building just now. God knows where we’re going to find them.

Littel Known Facts

I once arranged a Hendrix song for a klezmer band,  and called it: The Wind Cries Murray.

I have an extra organ. It allows me to stand unaided.

A circus once ran away to join me.

It is illegal to sell olive oil marked “extra virgin.” Sorry.

I declined the premiership of Costaguana. I wasn’t going for any of that shite.

When I was born, my dad gave Bill Clinton a cigar. You know the rest.

One of my harsh looks once left a DNA sample on a passing motorist.

I joined the London Philharmonic because it needed more cowbell.

The three fastest-growing lost tribes worship me as the god of infertility.

I’m five-foot-fourteen.

I was banned from America’s Cup yacht racing for playing defense.

I’ve shot four holes in one. Guy.

I once sold an encyclopedia salesman a vacuum cleaner.

Growing up, I was acknowledged as the toughest kid in my neighborhood until those boys moved in.

I invented the spork. I don’t get any royalties because I insisted on calling it the foon.

I had a full-sized tattoo of myself applied.

I killed the deputy.

I’m so handsome I was sued for alienation of affection by a narcissist.

I hold the patent for Wite-Out for websites.

All told, six women have committed suicide over me, so I now carry a really strong umbrella.

The Second Great Male Renunciation

Lord Foppington, I presume.

Towards the end of the 1700s, men wised up a little. Driven by style leaders like Beau Brummell, they stopped dressing like Mardi Gras floats and snuff-guzzling fops, and started dressing like they might be good for something other than playing cards with Louis XIV. They didn’t want to look beautiful anymore. They wanted to look masculine. It was the adumbration of what we call The Suit. It was a major milepost in the history of clothing, and other things. It was called the Great Male Renunciation.

Suits are of course tumbling out of favor. Hardly anyone wears one properly, if they wear one at all anymore. People, important people even, wear remnants of one, even to important gatherings. A business suit worn without a tie is an incongruity. A business suit jacket worn over jeans is an abomination.

People claim, loudly, that it was comfort, simplicity, individualism, and egalitarianism that killed the suit for daily men’s wear, and good riddance. They’re full of merde. One of the original names for a suit of clothes was a lounge suit. A well-made suit is comfortable to wear, and motility isn’t constricted much. You’re protected from the elements in your wool carapace, and you can take the jacket on and off in private settings to regulate your temperature, too. There’s a great deal of variation in suits as well. A workman could wear a durable tweed suit jacket with a flat hat and be comfortable while doing even heavy labor.

As far as simplicity goes, modern suits have always lent simplicity to dressing yourself for brain work. You could choose your shirt from very few in the closet, your tie for a splash of color, with more subdued hues for more staid occasions. Just make sure your socks match, and you’d be done.

People think their current regimen of a dishevelish mishmash of clothes is simpler than a suit, but they’re lying to themselves, and everyone else that has to lay eyes on them. A while back, I  worked in an office that required “business casual” clothes. That’s a collared, long-sleeve shirt, a tie, slacks, and shoes. Customers occasionally visited our cubicle empire, and we didn’t want to look like mendicants if they did. The management eventually bowed to Lumbergh trends in the zeitgeist, and instituted the completely misnamed casual Fridays.

Once the memo went out, everyone (else) dressed like ragamuffins on Fridays. The men dressed garden variety badly, and the women dressed like Marseilles taproom wenches. I wore the same thing I wore the other four days of the week. This elicited complaints from my peers. They wanted me to be forced to dress badly along with them. They never understood that they were spending an inordinate amount of time wondering what to wear on casual Friday. I was spending zero. And a shirt, tie, and slacks is a perfectly comfortable way to dress. And I don’t know how to break it to you, but jeans are not even supposed to be comfortable. They were made from coarse, durable cloth that could stand up to much heavier work than the friction from an Aeron chair. Eventually I was put in charge of everybody, and I made sure casual Friday went the way of powdered wigs.

The egalitarianism I mentioned is strictly of the Animal Farm variety. The modern tech CEO wanders out on to the TED Talk stage wearing moon boot sneakers, expensive ripped jeans, a T-shirt with an incongruous slogan on it, all topped off with a suit jacket. He’s got Argentine president hair, or his head is shaved like a death row inmate. All this is supposed to make him look as casual and accessible as any clerk in his javascript empire. It’s a sad joke. He might as well be sporting a justacorps and a Restoration wig. He’ll disdainfully refer to everyone who his company owes money to as “the suits,” but that’s because he wants to act like Elaine with Mr. Peterman’s gold card, but they won’t let him. And the entire audience is dressed the same way as the CEO. So much for individualism.

The force driving the Great Male Renunciation was the desire to leave irrational, emotional, and frivolous modes of dress, comportment, and social interactions to women. Toughen up, Van Buren. Lord knows who first said, “Clothes make the man,” but he may have been standing next to a guillotine, shoving some ancien regime dude in silk hose and high heels into the Jacobin Cuisinart hole. Perhaps the quote has been truncated from, “Clothes might make the man, but we can make him shorter.”

Suits aren’t fussy garments. Cary Grant, who might have worn the most famous suit, ever, didn’t really worry much about his clothes. Suits simplify things, and project the right image for a put-together man. And they work pretty well, too, whether you’re thinking about stuff at the Plaza Hotel or running away from a cropduster.

Here’s Cary on how to dress well:

No, it isn’t only money that determines how well a man dresses—it’s personal taste. Because of the demands of my work, I’ve purchased dozens of suits over the years and they all have one attribute in common: they are in the middle of fashion. By that I mean they’re not self-consciously fashionable or far out, nor are they overly conservative or dated. In other words, the lapels are neither too wide nor too narrow, the trousers neither too tight nor too loose, the coats neither too short nor too long. I’ve worn clothes of extreme style, but only in order to dress appropriately for the type of character I played in particular films. Otherwise, simplicity, to me, has always been the essence of good taste.

Suits communicate more than seriousness to people you encounter. They’re a form of good manners. In a business suit, you are what you is, to mangle a saying while getting the meaning right. Dressing like you’re sleeping behind a dumpster while pulling in seven figures is pretty close to Marie Antoinette, Hameau de la Reine mendacity.

Cary’s style of dress made it well into the 1960s without any challengers. Until about the Beatle arrivals, men’s clothing and hairstyles were heavily influenced by the military. Makes sense. A whole generation had recently been in the military. In order to attract a mate, men wanted to look overtly masculine. A suit was just a civilian version of an officer’s uniform. Men kept their hair close cropped and neat. They were clean-shaven, and shined their shoes. If you wanted to look healthy, you’d get a suntan, a hat tip to people who did robust things outdoors.

Then came the Peacock Revolution. Men started dressing like dandies again. The British Invasion told men that they could look shaggy and still pull chicks. They started dressing like rock stars, and rock stars started dressing like women. Or more to the point, like homosexual men:

Mostly based around men incorporating feminine fashion elements such as floral prints, bright colours and complex patterns, the movement also saw the embracing of elements of fashions from Africa, Asia, the late 18th century and the queer community. The movement began around the late 1950s when John Stephen began opening boutiques on Carnaby Street, London, which advertised flamboyant and queer fashions to the mod subculture.

The denouement of this movement crashed and burned into a late seventies heap of leisure suits, fondue pots, shag carpeting, and harvest gold appliances. Luckily, in the following decade, Gordon Gekko instructed everyone to buy a decent suit, and we had an interregnum of half-decent clothing for men.

Women still dressed like clowns, wearing dresses with the hanger still in the shoulders and too much rouge, but woman basically always dress like clowns. Men should leave them to it, and worry about their own appearance.

Once the last preppie was hunted to extinction, Grunge pretty much drove a stake through the twitching corpse of men’s fashion. It’s been a long, slow degradation since then. Women are driving the bus now, because they’ve totally taken over the internet. Even though they’re still sleeping with same bad boys from down the block on the sly, they’re demanding that their significant others display the most feminine version of anything that has to do with masculinity. I’m not sure how they’re managing it, but guys have feminine beards these days. Their manbuns make them look like a tween girl at a makeup mirror. Their clothes are too tight, and instead of accentuating their physique with the cut, it makes them look like oversized toddlers. Their outfits are Slovenly Chic™. Football jerseys with the names of the men who are sleeping with their girlfriends on the back, shower shoes, sweatpants too tight to sweat in, wispy beards, tattoos that make them look like a walking Go Fish deck of cards — it’s all a disaster.

So I require… Check that! I demand a Second Great Male Renunciation! Refuse to set foot in an Abercrombie and Fitch until they’re selling shotguns, canoes, and tents again, and start equipping safaris and antarctic expeditions. Start dressing like Ernest Hemingway instead of Mariel. Wear sweatclothes to hit a heavy bag, instead of on dates. And I know this last one is going to be difficult for you to understand, but you can stop shading your eyes with the palm of your hand, and turn your baseball cap around with the bill in the front.

Do it for your self-respect. Do it for your country. Do it for the children. You know, the ones you’ll never have — if you don’t.

Tag: history

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